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LotS/The Story/Assault on the Zenith/Occulus

2012-10-31T10:15:36Z

Raptor00:

'''Occulus''' 
The flight to Occulus passes without incident, and you approach the moon as just one ship amongst countless vessels conveying tech-worshippers to the heart of their religion.
 
The Princess enters the flight cabin as the ship descends towards the moon. She’s no longer wearing one of the dresses she was provided with on Capek. Instead she’s clad in combat attire. It seems an unusual costume for a diplomatic mission, but you assume that she has some purpose in mind. Perhaps she wishes to demonstrate to the Cybertollahs that her empire is at war.
 
A signal comes through, granting you permission to land beside the Cybertollahs’ palace. Few people are permitted into the presence of the Cybertollahs. In spite of their disdain for interstellar politics, it appears that they recognize the magnitude of the events which are being set in motion, and the importance of your request for aid.
 
“Worshipping technology,” grunts Ragnar, as the ship lands. “Pretty stupid if you ask me. Tech is great, but only if someone like me’s there to use it. It’s like I always say: ‘Tech doesn’t kill people. I kill people.’”
 
Not for the first time, you wonder why exactly Princess Illaria invited a man like Ragnar on this undertaking. You’ve seen explosions that were more diplomatic than the Niflung warrior.
 
When the ship lands, Telemachus stomps out of the cargo hold inside his mech. You’re about to remonstrate with him, when the Princess expresses her approval. You shrug. Perhaps she thinks the Cybertollahs will appreciate the tech it incorporates.
 
Bowing acolytes wearing white robes, the material decorated with equations and circuit diagrams picked out in gold thread, meet you at the landing pad. They usher you into a huge building with twelve square towers rising from its silver mass. You’re led along corridors lined with holographic displays, showing technology from countless worlds and eras. Some of the things you glimpse amongst the shifting holograms are indecipherable, complex shapes which seem to hold no particular meaning.
 
The acolytes lead you into a dark, lofty room. Then they leave, the door closing behind them. After a moment, lights begin to glow around the chamber’s walls. A large section of the floor in front of you, dominating the middle of the room, also lights up.
 
“It’s like a trashy dance club,” Talia mutters in your ear.
 
“Welcome, Princess of the Sian Empire,” comes a voice from above.
 
On a shadowy balcony overlooking the room stand two tall figures in robes, one red, the other blue. The hoods on those garments conceal their faces, and combined with the distance it makes them seem like anonymous, amorphous blobs of color. The Princess gazes up at them and bows.
 
“We’re honored to be in the presence of the Supreme Cybertollahs,” she says. “We have heard much of-”
 
“You have come here for our technology,” one of them says. Their bodies are both motionless, making it impossible to tell which of them spoke.
 
“Yes,” replies the Princess. You sense her momentary irritation at having her flow of diplomatic eloquence interrupted. Such ill manners would be unthinkable at the Sian court. But she conceals the emotion with practiced ease.
 
“And what makes you think you’re worthy of our creations?” one of the Supreme Cybertollahs asks.
 
“The enemy we fight is a threat to all-”
 
“We did not ask about your foes,” one of the Supreme Cybertollahs says. “There are many just causes across the galaxy, but we do not furnish them with our gifts. Only the worthy can be permitted to use our technology.”
 
“And words will never persuade you of our worth, will they?” the Princess asks.
 
“You are correct,” one of the Supreme Cybertollahs replies. “Fine words do not make electrons flow.”
 
“Then let’s not waste any more time,” she says. “My companions and I ask for the Trial of the Twelve.”
 
Trial of the Twelve? That doesn’t sound good…
 
Up on the balcony, the robed figures are silent. Then they give a simultaneous nod.
 
“Very well,” one of them says. “The trial shall begin.”
 
Energy barriers flicker into being around the square of illuminated floor, their surfaces adorned with shifting green symbols.
 
Princess Illaria turns to you.
 
“I talked about the customs of the Cybertollahs with Orben,” she says. “I thought it might come to this.”
 
“What’s the Trial of the Twelve?” you ask.
 
“Trial by combat,” she replies.
 
“Ha!” laughs Ragnar. “Was wondering why you brought me along to this techno-dump. Sounds like my kind of trial.”
 
“And that’s why you told me to get in my mech,” says Telemachus.
 
“Shooting things until you get what you want sounds like the kind of diplomacy I can get behind,” says Talia, twirling her pistols.
 
'''One on One''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z3_a1_q1.jpg|none]]
The green symbols on the energy field turn red, like freshly spilled blood. At the far side of the glowing floor a black-robed figure appears. He moves through the barrier, which shimmers in his wake, and strides into the middle of what must be the combat area. Green symbols dance on the surface of his robe, their designs resembling those on the barriers around him.
 
“The sequence must be observed,” says one of the Supreme Cybertollahs. “The numbers govern all. Send in your first.”
 
'''Battle Royale''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z3_a1_q2.jpg|none]]
The Cybertollah collapses, and your companions raise a cheer from either side. He lies groaning on the ground, the sound accompanied by a strange whirring noise from under his robes. You realize that it’s being made by a damaged cybernetic system. The symbols on the Cybertollah’s robes flash once more, before flickering out of existence, leaving only black cloth in their wake.
 
Two acolytes in white robes appear from the dark recesses of the room, and run onto the glowing floor, the green barrier parting before them. The field closes in their wake.
 
The acolytes bow to you. Then one grabs the fallen Cybertollah under his armpits, the other takes hold of him by his feet, and they whisk him away. As they reach the barrier with their burden, the field opens once more. As they pass through, it closes behind them again.
 
Two more figures in similar attire to the defeated Cybertollah emerge from a doorway, and take up positions opposite you, just outside the barrier. The symbols turn red, and they slip inside. On your right, Princess Illaria does the same. The moment she passes through, they’re green once more – barring entry to the others.
 
“Two and two,” say both Cybertollahs, their voices creating a strange, almost electronic harmony. “The sequence must be observed.”
 
One of them advances on the Princess, the other towards you. Just before you join battle, you see her leaping through the air, her boot catching her opponent square in the face.
 
'''Tripple Threat''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z3_a1_q3.jpg|none]]
The Cybertollah in front of you falls onto his knees, revealing Princess Illaria behind him. She gives him one more kick for good measure, catching him in the side of the head. He hits the floor with a noise containing both the thump of meat and the clank of metal, and lies motionless. She nods with satisfaction.
 
“The education of a Sian princess,” she says with a smile. “It has its uses.”
 
Four acolytes scurry onto the glowing floor. They give a synchronized bow, grab up the fallen Cybertollahs, and carry them away.
 
Three more robed figures appear outside the barrier.
 
“I’m next! Me!” yells Telemachus, as the barrier turns red and the fresh Cybertollahs enter. “I… Hey!”
 
“Sorry, kid,” grunts Ragnar, as the barrier turns green behind him. “But look on the bright side – you have a whole lifetime ahead of you to smash things in.”
 
“Three and three,” say the Cybertollahs. “The sequence must-”
 
Their litany is interrupted as Ragnar rushes into them. You wince as you hear a crunch, the sound of bones breaking against his surgically enhanced body. Then you wade into the melee.
 
'''Techno Brawl''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z3_a1_q3.jpg|none]]
Six acolytes run through the barrier to clear the combat area. One bumps into Ragnar from behind, and in the blink of an eye the Niflung warrior spins round and levels him with a punch.
 
“Sorry,” he grunts, as he gazes down at the unconscious acolyte. “Force of habit.”
 
Three more acolytes run from the shadows. Two carry off their downed comrade, casting a wary glance at Ragnar as they do so. The other helps remove the remaining Cybertollah.
 
Given the way things have gone up till now, you’re not surprised when four robed figures assemble outside the barrier. It turns red, and they enter.
 
“Hey! That’s not fair!”
 
You look over, and see Talia slipping through the barrier. The field turns green just as Telemachus’ mech steps into it, and it reverberates – the unexpected force causing the mech to stagger backwards and fall onto its butt. Telemachus gives an angry yelp of protest.
 
“Smooth, Tel,” says Talia. “Real smooth.”
 
“Four and four,” chorus the Cybertollahs. “The sequence must be observed.”
 
'''Supreme Cybertollahs''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z3_a1.jpg|none]]
“So…” says Talia, as eight acolytes begin to clear away the defeated Cybertollahs. “First there was one. Then two. Then three. Then four. That makes ten. Which means…”
 
Your gaze follows hers, up to the balcony. It’s empty.
 
“Yes,” says the Princess. “The Supreme Cybertollahs will be our final opponents.”
 
“Good,” says Ragnar. “The small ones didn’t put up much of a fight.”
 
A door slides open a short distance away from the glowing floor, and two large robed figures approach, one in blue, one in red. Now that they’re so close, in light rather than shadow, you see just how unnatural they are. The red one is absurdly thin, his movements almost snake-like. The blue one is stocky, but the strange shifting under his robe is far removed from the movement of normal human muscles. And their faces… The Cybertollahs worship technology, and it appears that they’ve sacrificed much of their humanity in its pursuit.
 
The barrier turns red, and they both step through it.
 
“All right!” says Telemachus, as his mech does the same. “Finally!”
 
“Two and all,” says one of the Supreme Cybertollahs. The voice seems as if it could have come from either of them. Even now that they’re right in front of you, you still can’t tell which of them is speaking. “The sequence must be observed.”
 
Then their hands begin to glow…
 
----
 
The Supreme Cybertollahs twitch on the ground, exposed cybernetic systems sparking and hissing. Telemachus stands above the blue-robed one, his laser-edged chainsaw whirring, and moves as if to drive it into the supine body.
 
“No!” cries the Princess. “We need them to help us, remember?”
 
“Oh, yeah!” says Telemachus. He presses a button inside his cockpit, and the chainsaw blade deactivates. “Sorry. Forgot.”
 
The red one manages to struggle up into a sitting position.
 
“Our technology was defeated. You are worthy,” he says. Then his torso slumps to the ground again.
 
Over a dozen acolytes approach the barrier, which disappears entirely now. They lift the Supreme Cybertollahs, their movements slow and reverent this time, and carry them off. One of the acolytes doesn’t share the burden. Instead he remains, and bows to your group.
 
“The object you desired will be delivered to a place of your choosing. May technology illuminate your path.”
 
----
 
When you return to Capek, along with a transport containing the Cybertollahs’ device, you’re greeted by the sight of a fleet of ships emblazoned with the TALOS emblem. The forces have been assembled, and now stand prepared for the attack.
 
There are mighty cruisers amongst the host, looming above the smaller craft like great leviathans. Squadrons of fighter ships hold orbit around them, like shoals of minnows keeping pace with whales. As you approach the planet you catch sight of transport ships, each one harboring squads of robots ready to storm the Zenith.
 
It’s going to be one hell of a battle…

LotS/The Story/Legions of Steel/Streets of Capek Major

2012-10-31T10:13:39Z

Raptor00:

'''Streets of Capek Major''' 
The Princess has been groomed since childhood to one day rule the Sian Empire – which would place her in command of all its armed forces. Thus she understands the ways of war. When she looks at the holographic display of Capek Major, she sees it as you do, visualizing the lines of attack, anticipating strengths and weaknesses based on what you see and what you’ve learned from the Chief Assembler.
 
Fabricatrix Vespasia’s troops are thinly spread, since she’s relying on a relatively small force to secure an entire city. That’s likely why she was so keen to press the attack – hoping to keep the defenders off-balance and prevent them from organizing a proper counterattack. Most of her forces are guarding the main approach to the command center.
 
Together you devise an attack on two fronts. Wilex’s battle bots will assault the command center directly, attempting to fight their way to the front door. This should provide an adequate distraction. Meanwhile the Princess will lead a small group through the city streets, and attempt to enter the building from the opposite side. The Chief Assembler warns you that Vespasia has stationed snipers on the rooftops you’ll be moving beneath, as well as packs of battle bots patrolling the streets.
 
You raise your concerns about the Princess putting herself in harm’s way, but it’s a mere formality. She overrules you, as you knew she would. Telemachus also refuses to be left behind, once he learns of your plans. You are far from happy at the thought of taking a mere child into combat. But short of destroying his mech, dragging him from the cockpit, and locking him in a room somewhere, there’s little you can do to stop him. He tells you that if you leave him behind, he’ll just join the robots in their frontal assault. At least if he’s with you you’ll be able to keep an eye on him.
 
Ragnar exchanges some words with the Chief Assembler out of your hearing, and informs you that he’ll be coming. Either he’s been offered a lot of credits, or is simply unwilling to pass up an opportunity for slaughter. But whatever the reason, his violence should prove useful.
 
You make your final arrangements, and wait for the gold and silver robots to begin their attack. Then you move out.
 
'''Bait & Blast''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a3_q1.jpg|none]]
A robot sniper covers the streets you intend to pass through with its rifle, ready to send a deadly beam into the heart or head of anyone attempting to make their way towards the command center.
 
As arranged, your companions begin to open fire on a group of patrolling robots, keeping a corner of a building between them and the sniper, but drawing its attention. Meanwhile you make your way onto the rooftops, relying on stealth and the distraction they provide.
 
Once you’re in place, the riskier part of the plan is put in motion. Talia emerges from cover, ensuring that the sniper will go for her and not detect your approach from behind. You have to destroy the robot, before it takes her out.
 
'''The Deadliest Soldier...''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a3_q2.jpg|none]]
The robot sniper collapses, a hole blown through its head. You seize its weapon. From up here on the rooftops you can cover your allies, and protect them as they fight their way through the streets.
 
You look through the rifle’s scope, and see a robot moving to attack the Princess. You place your finger on the trigger…
 
'''...Is The One You Never See''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a3_q3.jpg|none]]
You move along the rooftops, keeping the others in sight. Whenever a target presents itself, you drop to one knee, take aim, and fire. Then you’re in motion again, trying to destroy some of the black and red robots in their path, and even the odds as much as you can.
 
Ahead of you, robot snipers are running across the rooftops, taking up firing positions. You raise your rifle, to pick them off before they can take their shots.
 
'''Path of Least Resistance''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a3_q4.jpg|none]]
At last your companions reach their goal, and come to the square in which the command center stands. You climb down from the building to join them on the ground. You can see the rear entrance of the command center, and from the other side of the square you hear the sound of heavy fighting as your robot allies assault it from the front.
 
“Just a few of them,” says the Princess. “This shouldn’t be too difficult...”
 
You, Talia, and Ragnar issue a collective groan. Illaria and Telemachus look at the three of you in confusion. The Princess may understand much of the arts of war, but she lacks your combat experience.
 
“Never say things will be easy when you’re about to go into a battle,” growls Ragnar. “That’s just asking for trouble.”
 
“Well, it’s said now,” sighs Talia. “Let’s just get going.”
 
And so the five of you move out from cover, and attack the robots that stand guard at the rear entrance to the command center.
 
'''Carnifex Prime''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z2_a3.jpg|none]]
The last robot falls in a clattering, sparking heap. But even as it hits the ground, the doors to the command center are opening, and you know that worse is yet to come.
 
A massive robot comes from within the building, the ground trembling beneath its four metal feet. It’s even bigger than the Carnus 9000 you fought earlier. As it passes through the doorway, a crackling energy barrier appears behind it, spanning the width and height of the entrance. It seems there’s no chance of evading the gargantuan machine, and trying to get inside.
 
“This is why we don’t tempt fate,” says Ragnar, “and say things are going to be easy.”
 
“Oh…” replies the Princess.
 
The blue light on the robot’s face, where a human’s eyes would be, turns to regard Princess Illaria. An ominous glow is building within it…
 
You dive at the Princess, knocking her aside as an energy beam blasts the spot where she was standing a moment ago, sending shards of stone into the air. As the two of you hit the ground, you look up to see the eye glowing once more, gazing right at you.
 
But a blast from Telemachus’ mech hits it square in the face, and the glow subsides for a moment – long enough for you to drag the Princess to her feet, and get moving. The others are already opening up on the robot for all they’re worth, their fire scouring its metal plates.
 
----
 
The robot freezes, its arms and legs locking into place in mid-movement, becoming as motionless as a statue. The weapons that bristle across its frame are silent. The blue lights on its body flicker for a moment. Then the blue is replaced with bright red. That’s never a good sign.
 
The others are equally perturbed, and a second later all five of you are running back out of the square, seeking cover amongst the buildings. A long moment passes as you take shelter behind a solid-looking structure.
 
“Maybe it’s not going to explode,” Talia suggests. “Just because something flashes red-”
 
Then comes the explosion.
 
You return to the square, which is now covered in bits and pieces of robot. Some of the wreckage is flaming, other fragments sparking. Ahead of you, past the billows of smoke which rise from the broken heap lying before it, the entrance to the command centre is now uncovered. Perhaps the barrier was overloaded by the force of the blast, or else the force-field was linked to the robot. Either way, your path is now clear.

LotS/The Story/Legions of Steel/Jungle

2012-10-31T10:12:39Z

Raptor00:

'''Jungle''' 
Your eyes open to see Princess Illaria standing over your bunk. The worried expression on her face instantly dispels the lingering traces of sleep.
 
“We’ve reached Capek,” she says. “But something’s wrong. We tried contacting the surface, and no one answered.”
 
You sit up, your senses becoming alert. Her concern is justified. Capek isn’t a backwater planet with a minor colony on its surface, where someone might trip over a cable and disable the communications station. It’s a major production planet for TALOS, home to the most important factories in this part of their territory. There should be countless people ready to receive and respond to a communication from an incoming vessel.
 
You get to your feet, and follow her into the flight cabin. Talia’s sitting at the controls, Telemachus beside her. The planet dominates the view through the window.
 
“Still nothing,” says Talia. “I can’t make contact with the surface. It’s like the entire communication network is down.”
 
“Take her in slowly,” you say.
 
Talia nods, and the ship moves towards the planet’s atmosphere. A moment later a pleasant-sounding voice comes over the communicator.
 
“Your presence here is unauthorized. Leave our atmosphere or be destroyed. Thank you.”
 
“This is Princess Illaria of the Sian Empire. I wish to-”
 
“Your presence here is unauthorized. Leave our atmosphere or-”
 
“Automated message,” you say. “Take her up.”
 
Talia guides the ship upwards, allowing it to hold a geostationary position once it’s at a safe distance.
 
“So,” she says, “what now?”
 
“I know the planet’s administrator. He’ll be in Capek Major, the capital city,” says the Princess. “Can you get us down there safely? I have to see him, and find out what’s happening.”
 
“That might not be wise,” you say.
 
“We’ve come here to ask for TALOS’ help,” she replies. “So we can hardly deny them help in return. If they’re experiencing problems on the surface, I wish to aid them.”
 
You glance at the scanner and map displays.
 
“Yes…” You point at the planetary map which has appeared on one of the monitors. “This jungle, over here. We should be able to land far enough away from the capital city to avoid triggering its defenses, but close enough to get there on foot.”
 
“Do it,” the Princess says.
 
'''Welcome to the Jungle''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a1_q1.jpg|none]]
The jungle rises towards you. In the distance dawn is breaking, but for now this part of the planet is shrouded in shadows, and the ship descends into darkness. It touches down on an expanse of grass near the tree line.
 
“Stay on the ship,” Princess Illaria tells Telemachus.
 
“But-” he begins. The rest of his words are lost, as the flight cabin door shuts behind you, the Princess, and Talia.
 
“This jungle is a nature reserve,” says the Princess. “I was here once before. There are predators, but they’re kept in enclosures – behind force-fields.”
 
“The kind of force-fields that fail if the systems malfunction?” you ask.
 
“Yes…” she replies.
 
The three of you grab your weapons, and exit the ship. Outside the jungle is silent. But the silence seems ominous instead of tranquil. Shouldn’t there be animal sounds in a jungle? The foliage at the base of the trees begins to rustle. Something’s in there, watching you...
 
Then there’s a clanging noise from the ship, loud and startling. You look over, and see Telemachus’ mech lumbering towards you.
 
“Where did that thing come from?” asks Talia, her gaze still fastened on the tree line.
 
“I made the servants put it in the cargo hold when they loaded the ship,” he replies.
 
The mech comes to a halt alongside the Princess and Talia, its torso swiveling as Telemachus inspects his surroundings. You decide against trying to order the boy back onto the ship. It isn’t the time for an argument, and the mech’s armored form is somehow reassuring.
 
Now that the mech’s stopped moving, the rustling in the bushes is audible once more. As you listen, it intensifies. Then the foliage parts to reveal vicious, predatory mouths. All around you the air is filled with something between a growl and a hiss, and the creatures attack.
 
'''Red in Tooth and Claw''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a1_q2.jpg|none]]
Each blast from your weapons claims another of the savage creatures, but more keep bounding through the trees. They hurl themselves at you, their snapping jaws chomping at your throats. Even Telemachus’ hulking mech doesn’t intimidate them – the creatures scramble over it, their mouths scratching at its metal as they try to find something they can sink their teeth into.
 
One of the beasts leaps at Princess Illaria from behind, and you bring your weapon up to pick it off.
 
'''The Brute''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a1_q3.jpg|none]]
“I hate nature,” Talia says, as she untangles a piece of charred flesh from her hair.
 
The ground is littered with corpses. Some of them are twitching, as if their dead jaws still yearn to bite into your flesh.
 
“Listen…” says the Princess.
 
She’s looking off into the trees. A second later you hear what alerted her. The sound of gunfire, faint in the distance, reaches your ears.
 
“Someone needs help,” she says. “Come on!”
 
You follow her into the trees, into whatever dangers lurk amongst the vines and branches. Talia moves beside you, her agile step darting over the entangling roots which threaten to trip you. Telemachus crashes through the undergrowth behind you, tearing through plants and splintering small trees.
 
The gunfire becomes louder and louder, the unmistakable rattle of a large, bullet-firing weapon. Bestial shrieks and a roaring human voice accompany it.
 
You reach the edge of a clearing, and gaze at the scene before you.
 
A man stands in the middle of the clearing, his bare chest rippling with muscles. In one hand he holds a machinegun, bullets spitting from its flaming muzzle and shells flying from its body. The man’s arm shakes with the recoil, but somehow keeps the weapon level. Scores of dead beasts are strewn around the clearing, and more are being torn apart by his gunfire. As you look on, he swings an axe in his other hand, dispatching another of the creatures.
 
The warrior is ferocious, and for a moment all four of you just stand there, watching him deal death with awed expressions on your faces. But more of the animals are moving towards him now, from all directions. No matter how well he fights, he’ll be overwhelmed soon.
 
You meet the Princess’ gaze, and she nods. You charge into the fray to support the brutish stranger.
 
'''Rumble in the Jungle''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a1_q4.jpg|none]]
The man gives a satisfied grunt as you approach, perhaps by way of expressing his appreciation, and uses the momentary respite to stick a fresh clip in his weapon. Then he commences roaring and firing once more.
 
Talia moves to cover his right-hand side, the Princess beside her, and begins firing her pistols at everything that moves in that direction – picking creatures out of the air in mid-leap. Telemachus has no experience in battle tactics, and simply fires at whatever captures his attention in any direction. But the heavy firepower from his mech and the raw enthusiasm with which he brings it to bear make up for his lack of martial science.
 
You stand at the man’s other shoulder, and shoot at the creatures massing in that direction to flank your group.
 
'''Garlax Ragebeasts''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z2_a1.jpg|none]]
The clearing has become a slaughterhouse. Corpses are piled high, where the creatures fell in droves – each one fearless, charging or leaping even as it saw those before it cut down. Their animal stench fills the air, and you see Princess Illaria’s nose wrinkling as it assaults her nostrils.
 
A few wounded survivors twist and turn on the ground, their wails and slowly flailing limbs pitiable despite their monstrous appearances. You and Talia begin to put them out of their misery, dispatching each one with a well placed laser shot.
 
The man grunts, grabs one of them by its neck before you can euthanize it, and yanks it up into the air. It makes a feeble effort to bite him as it dangles there, its jaws twitching and snapping, but it can’t break his powerful grip. Then he pulls it towards him, and sinks his teeth into its throat. The beast thrashes and screeches, before falling silent. The man hurls it aside, and turns to face you, part of the creature’s flesh still protruding from his mouth. He gulps, and it disappears down his throat, leaving blood and gore smeared around his lips to mark its passage. He brings a hand up to his face, and rubs it across his mouth – successfully transferring most of the mess.
 
The four of you stand and watch him in disgust. He grins as he sees the expressions on your faces, then pats his abdomen.
 
“Cybernetic guts,” he explains. “I could eat my gun if I wanted to. Except I need that for killing. Name’s Ragnar. Thanks for the help.”
 
“We… we were glad to be of assistance,” says Princess Illaria, her diplomatic skills allowing her to submerge her disgust. She’s used to dealing with foreigners and aliens, and being exposed to their dining habits.
 
Ragnar stares at her, his face first betraying curiosity, and then recognition.
 
“I know you,” he says, spitting out bloody saliva in his excitement. “You’re the Queen of the Sian Empire!”
 
“Princess,” she replies.
 
“Ha! One time I did a job for a Sian colony, and they paid me in hard credits. Systems screwed up or something. They had your face on it. Wow, a real live princess!”
 
Ragnar extends his hand to Princess Illaria. She grimaces as she gazes at the blood on it, but quickly disguises the emotion. She meets his gaze, and bows. This thankfully prompts him to withdraw his hand, and he makes a clumsy bow of his own instead.
 
“What are you doing here?” asks Talia.
 
“Did a job for TALOS,” Ragnar replies, turning to her. His gaze roams across her figure as he talks. “Came to Capek to collect my pay. They wouldn’t answer my hails, or let me land in the city. So I came down here.”
 
“And you ran into those things?” Telemachus asks.
 
“Huh. Kid in a mech. In the fighting, thought you were some kind of robot.” Ragnar casts what appears to be an admiring glance at the mech. “Nice chainsaw… Nah, I ran into something else. I was running away from them when I crashed into a pack of these things, and had to start killing ‘em.”
 
A great monstrous roar bellows through the air, coming from beyond the trees.
 
“Is that the ‘something else’ you were running from?” you ask.
 
“Yeah…” Ragnar replies.
 
The ground rumbles, and you raise your weapon as you await whatever new danger is about to emerge.
 
----
 
“Woah!” gasps Telemachus. “I can’t believe we killed those things!”
 
“Eh,” says Ragnar, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve killed bigger. Just about everything dies if you shoot it enough times.”
 
“Which idiot thought it would be a good idea to put things like that in this nature reserve?” asks Talia.
 
“Damn fauna-huggers,” says Ragnar. “Some things need to be wiped out.”
 
“We should head towards the city,” you say. “Before we run into anything worse.”
 
“Yes,” agrees the Princess. “Capek Major is this way.”
 
With one final glance at the gigantic carcasses, the five of you head off into the trees.

LotS/The Story/Legions of Steel/Command Center

2012-10-31T10:08:53Z

Raptor00:

'''Command Center''' 
The five of you head towards the stairs leading up to the doorway. On the other side of the building, a fierce battle still rages between the two robot forces. But if you can carry out your mission within, it should soon be over.
 
You ascend the stairs, and pick your way over the wreckage, through the smoke, to reach the entrance. Inside the building, you find yourself in a long, high-ceilinged lobby. The smoke outside the entrance obscures the daylight, and the only illumination in the chamber is a soft blue glow from the lights embedded in the walls and ceiling.
 
At the opposite end of the lobby is a door, which begins to slide open.
 
'''Charge''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a4_q1.jpg|none]]
Black and red robots pour through the doorway, spreading out into firing positions with mechanical efficiency. Red lasers flash towards you.
 
There’s no cover in the corridor, and little space to evade so much gunfire.
 
But Telemachus charges, and as he moves in front the body of his mech intercepts much of the fire. A moment later you’re all running after him, shooting from behind the cover he provides.
 
'''Hacking The System''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a4_q2.jpg|none]]
Telemachus closes the distance, and his laser-edged chainsaw flashes as he carves his way through the remaining robots. Ragnar is only a moment behind him, cleaving another robot open with a swing from his axe. The lobby is yours. So far, so good.
 
You go through the door, and find yourself in a smaller room, with corridors leading off in three directions. For the moment no enemies are in sight, but you can hear the thudding of robotic footsteps coming from nearby.
 
“It’s this way,” says the Princess, gesturing to the corridor on the left.
 
You run into that passage, cutting down the two robots at the far end with a hail of fire as you sprint. You reach the arched door they were guarding, a thick metal barrier which looks like it could withstand a great deal of punishment. Princess Illaria’s fingers dart across the keys of the security panel next to the door. The sounds of pursuit are close behind you, coming from just out of sight beyond the mouth of the corridor.
 
“It’s not working!” she cries. “The code Wilex gave me isn’t working!”
 
Robots appear at the far end of the corridor, and once again red laser fire flies at you.
 
“Keep them busy!” yells Ragnar. “I’ll open the door!”
 
You’re dubious that a brute like Ragnar could circumvent a TALOS security system, but he seems insistent. So the rest of you form up around the door, and start blasting away at the robots.
 
From behind you there’s a horrendous clanging noise. You steal a glance over your shoulder, and see that Ragnar is hacking the security panel… with his axe.
 
'''Manual Override''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a4_q3.jpg|none]]
“Bashing things always works,” Ragnar gloats, as the security door slides open. Then he turns round, and opens fire with his machinegun to help you finish off the last robots.
 
You enter the room beyond, and press the button to seal the door behind you. No interruptions. Telemachus pops open the cover to his cockpit, and leaps down from his mech. He’ll need hands for what he’s about to do, not a cannon or chainsaw.
 
The middle of the room is dominated by a large chair. Displays and terminals cover the walls. Directly in front of the chair, a big screen shows a video feed from outside the building, looking down on the fighting taking place in front of it. The gold and silver robots are hard-pressed, taking heavy fire from the black and red robots arrayed before them, and from huge laser blasts that seem to come from the screen itself.
 
Princess Illaria runs to one of the terminals. In her hand she brandishes a data stick Wilex gave her. She thrusts it into a slot in front of her. You hope it works better than his code did. Talia moves over to another terminal, and does the same.
 
A yellow holographic grid appears to your right, high on the wall. Red lines and dots blink on its surface.
 
“There it is!” says Telemachus. He runs towards the grid, but it’s far beyond his reach. “Why would they put it so high?” he whines.
 
“I’ve got you,” says Ragnar. He grabs the boy, lifts him up, and sits him on his shoulders.
 
Telemachus’ little fingers dance across the display. You sit down in the large chair in the center of the room, and move your hands to the control panel in front of it. Red lights, like those on the yellow grid, blink there. But a moment later there’s a cry of joy from Telemachus, and they turn green.
 
The turrets at the front of the building are under manual control now. Your control. It’s time to even the odds out there…
 
'''Metal Storm''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a4_q4.jpg|none]]
Laser blasts ravage the ranks of the black and red robots on the screen before you. The gold and silver robots surge forwards, destroying those that are left, making for the front entrance.
 
“Well done,” says the Princess. “All of you.”
 
“Now for the bitch who did all this,” grunts Ragnar, a look of grim anticipation on his face as he swings his axe to and fro in the air.
 
Telemachus is already scrambling into his mech and closing the cockpit, perhaps before you have a chance to grab him and force him to stay behind. But you’re not sure you would have tried to stop him anyway. He’s proven very useful, and you don’t have the luxury of stopping to ponder the ethics of taking a child into battle.
 
The door to the turret control room slides open. The five of you move back down the corridor, and into another passage. It’s unguarded. The other robots must have gone to the front entrance, to repel those who are now storming the building.
 
You ascend a staircase, and come out on a gallery overlooking the front lobby. A little further along it is the stairway leading up to the main control room. Below you a horde of black and red robots is trading fire with the gold and silver bots surging through the entrance.
 
You and your companions shoot down from your vantage point as the robots clash.
 
'''Fabricatrix Vespaisa''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z2_a4.jpg|none]]
The gold and silver robots pour in from below, now in complete control of the lobby. They fan out, moving to secure the rest of the building.
 
“We could let them deal with things from here,” you say. But the Princess is already moving towards the stairs to the main control room.
 
At the top of the stairs is another security door. Next to it is a control panel similar to the one which was outside the turret control room. Once again Ragnar puts his axe to work, and the door slides open. Seems like quite a significant design flaw…
 
The control room is a lofty round chamber, with blue display screens circling the walls. In the middle, at the foot of a circular platform, are more black and red robots, these ones somehow more menacing in appearance than the ones you fought before. Atop that platform stands a woman in black and red robes, a vicious sneer on her face. At first glance it looks as if she has tentacles, like some kind of alien creature. Then you realize that they’re cables, extending from her back into slots on the walls. Some kind of interface.
 
“That’s a Fabricatrix’s uniform?” asks Talia. “Seriously?”
 
Her costume does indeed seem rather revealing for the uniform of a high-ranking official… Then the woman and her robots attack, and you have no more time to ponder the matter.
 
----
 
Fabricatrix Vespasia topples over, falling off her platform and tumbling to the floor below. She sprawls there in a rather inelegant fashion. Most of the cables attached to the device on her back are now detached from the sockets on the walls. They twitch and flail like dying serpents.
 
She gives an unintelligible curse, then flops over onto her back, and raises her weapon. One of Talia’s pistols flashes, and the weapon flies from Vespasia’s hand, along with two of her fingers. She gasps in pain, her lungs unable to muster a scream.
 
“What were you doing here?” asks the Princess, desperate to learn all she can before death claims the Fabricatrix. “Why did you seize the planet?”
 
Vespasia spits, and remains silent. Then Ragnar stomps down on her damaged hand. This time she does manage to shriek, and blood erupts from her mouth with the effort it costs her.
 
“The Centurians!” she screams, as Ragnar grinds his boot into her hand. “They promised me… promised… me…”
 
A final rasping breath comes from her throat, along with droplets of blood. Then her eyes glaze over and her head slumps to the floor.
 
----
 
With the communications system back under the Chief Assembler’s control, a message is sent out across TALOS space. Fleets soon converge on the planet, and a meeting of leading officials is called. As a result of her role in the liberation of Capek, Princess Illaria is permitted to join them in the council chamber, and no one raises an objection when you enter alongside her. In their eyes you’re not merely her bodyguard, but her advisor. And under the circumstances, you suppose that’s true.
 
The news that Fabricatrix Vespasia was acting on behalf of the Centurian Collective shocks them. But the holographic recorders in the commander center’s control room captured her dying words, and upon viewing the images even the most incredulous official accepts the truth. It seems that the Centurians have greater designs than even the conquest of the Sian Empire. They wished to gain a foothold in TALOS space, and it would have been a powerful one given the many robot factories on Capek, which could have been used to turn out legions of the Fabricatrix’s bots.
 
Around the table there are angry calls for war, for vengeance against the Centurians. Other voices suggest that the Centurians be denounced at the UHW Assembly instead, and sanctions proposed against them. The Princess listens to all this, and you see her sharpened political senses absorbing every word, every mannerism as she assesses each person in the room as surely as you would assess the movement of fighter ships in a space battle.
 
At last it’s her turn. She stands, all eyes upon her, and when she speaks it’s with all the skill of one born to lead. Eloquent words flow from her lips, and in their echo, in the determined, passionate expression on her beautiful face, you see the empress she’s destined to become. Heads nod around the table, and you sense the flow of her will enveloping every man and woman there. Some of them require no urging, already keen on a military response. And the others are caught up in the raging tide of her oratory, of the arguments she presents. Even before the decision is made, you know what the result will be. TALOS is going to war.
 
Then Princess Illaria tells them of the strange technologies the Centurians possessed when they attacked the Child of Heaven, of the capabilities they demonstrated beyond those which should have been within their grasp.
 
The leaders of TALOS are perturbed by this knowledge, at the thought that the Centurians might have secrets which could give them an edge in the coming conflict. They declare that the truth must be known, and the Princess nods her agreement. And then she poses her stratagem, which you believe was in her mind from the very start – all the discussions leading up to this one suggestion.
 
She calls for a surprise attack on a Centurian fleet, made without a declaration of war – a violation of the Union of Human Worlds’ laws. Her plan is to capture a Centurian leader, and extract the truth. Thus you will learn the source of their mysterious new technologies.

LotS/The Story/Legions of Steel/Capek Major

2012-10-31T10:07:09Z

Raptor00:

'''Capek Major''' 
Curious animals stare at you from the branches of trees or gaps in the undergrowth as you proceed through the jungle. But all vanish when you draw near to them. No more predators emerge to hurl themselves at you. The sun now casts its rays down through the canopy, illuminating your path and warming your skin. Were it not for the potential troubles which await you at your destination, the journey would be almost pleasant.
 
Then there’s a rumbling, and you sigh. Perhaps you spoke too soon…
 
More huge reptilian creatures appear ahead of you as you move through the trees, and find yourselves in a glade. Ragnar raises his machinegun.
 
“No!” says Talia. She grabs Ragnar’s thickly muscled arm, as if trying to drag his weapon down. But the limb barely moves an inch.
 
“Can feel my bicep any time you want,” he says. “But you can’t shift me. Best surgical enhancements credits can buy.”
 
“Talia, what’s wrong?” asks the Princess.
 
“Those things are rackalax,” the gunslinger replies. “They’re herbivores. They won’t attack us. Besides…”
 
You see the twinkle in her eye, and can’t help but feel that she’s about to suggest something insane.
 
“…we can ride them.”
 
'''Wrangling the Rackalax''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a2_q1.jpg|none]]
“You want us to ride those monsters?” Ragnar asks. But his tone bespeaks admiration rather than incredulity. “You’re crazy. I like crazy.”
 
“I’m serious,” Talia replies. “On my home planet we used to wrangle them all the time. It’s easy – they don’t even need to be trained. As soon as you get on their backs, you can steer them just like a vehicle.”
 
“I’m not sure this is wise…” says the Princess.
 
“Trust me,” says Talia. “It’ll work. And it’ll let us get to the city much quicker.”
 
“I’m up for it,” says Ragnar.
 
You and the Princess look at each other. Her expression is dubious, and yours is no doubt similar. But Talia is already issuing instructions, telling Telemachus and Ragnar to tear down some thick vines for use as ropes.
 
“You planning on standing there, captain?” she asks, as the three of them begin to move towards the creatures, who are now regarding your group with mild curiosity. “Or are you going to help?”
 
You move to join them. What’s the worst that could happen?
 
'''Rackalax Rodeo''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a2_q2.jpg|none]]
Somehow the four of you manage to wrestle the rackalax into submission. Talia leaps up onto one’s back, and stands atop it. Ragnar yanks its head down using the vines they’ve put around it, and jumps up to join her.
 
Telemachus pulls the other one down by its head, exerting the strength of his mech, and calls for you and the Princess to get on its back. You go first, making sure the beast is properly subdued before clasping her hand and helping her up.
 
“Don’t think I can ride it in my mech,” says Telemachus. “But my boosters will let me keep up.”
 
“Remember, when it gets started, just steer it like a vehicle,” yells Talia. Then she drags on her makeshift reins, and her rackalax plunges through the forest.
 
Telemachus lets go of your rackalax’s neck, and steps aside. You copy Talia’s gesture, and the creature beings to move…
 
A moment later you’re hurtling over the grassy plain which separates the jungle from the city, Princess Illaria’s arms wrapped around you as she holds on for dear life. Talia and Ragnar’s cries of exhilaration come back to you on the rushing wind. They’re actually enjoying this…
 
The rackalax under you keeps twisting and turning, as if attempting to head back to the jungle. You struggle at the reins. Have to keep it pointed towards the city…
 
'''Robot War''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a2_q3.jpg|none]]
You maintain control of the charging rackalax, and head towards the city at breakneck speed. And as you draw nearer to the settlement, you see flashes of laser fire.
 
“Someone’s fighting!” Princess Illaria yells, pressing her mouth against your ear to stop the words being lost in the wind or drowned out by the thundering tread of the rackalax.
 
From the number of flashes, it looks like a raging battle…
 
You yank at the reins of the rackalax in an effort to slow it down. If there’s combat going on, it would be sensible to approach more cautiously. But the beast doesn’t respond. It occurs to you that you have no idea how to stop it.
 
The city’s buildings loom up before you, and your trained gaze analyzes the situation. Two forces of robots are battling each other. One is painted in gold and silver, the other in black and red. Laser beams dart between the clashing robots, filling the air with flashes of red and green.
 
“What should we do?” you yell over your shoulder.
 
Then some of the black and red robots turn towards you as you approach, and begin firing in your direction. That makes things simple. Talia and Ragnar are already returning fire, the gunslinger standing atop the charging beast and somehow able to keep her footing whilst firing with both her pistols.
 
The Princess clasps one arm around you in a tight embrace, freeing her other hand for her weapon. You do likewise, clutching the reins with one hand to keep yourself in place, and firing your weapon at the black and red robots with the other.
 
'''How Do You Stop This Thing?''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z2_a2_q4.jpg|none]]
In a moment you’ll be in the midst of the battle, and still the rackalax charges onwards without pause. Ahead of you, Ragnar and Talia are leaping from their mount, allowing it to plough into the black and red robots. You should to do the same, but you can’t jump while Princess Illaria is still on its back.
 
Telemachus appears beside the beast, using his boosters to match its pace, and reaches for the Princess with his mech’s right arm. You might have time to pass her to him, and then leap to safety…
 
'''Carnus 9000''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z2_a2.jpg|none]]
The thundering rackalax smash through the black and red robots, scattering them like toys, stomping them into the street. The beasts continue their charge, and become lost to sight behind some of the buildings. You hope they don’t cause too much damage.
 
You turn, and see Telemachus lowering the Princess to the ground.
 
“I’m okay,” she says, though she staggers a little.
 
Ragnar and Talia are exchanging fire with the remaining black and red robots. The gold and silver bots are directing their fire at them as well, and show no signs of aggression towards you. Telemachus wades into the combat, sparks flying as his chainsaw cuts into one of the enemy robots.
 
“The gold and silver ones are the planet’s troops,” says Illaria. “Not seen those other ones before. We need to find-”
 
She breaks off, as a rumbling sound fills the air. A large mechanical form trundles from behind a nearby building, a hulking black and red robot sitting atop three huge wheels – a war machine far more imposing than the humanoid ones you scattered with your rackalax. Huge laser cannons at the end of each of its arms open up, firing thick beams of gleaming energy at groups of the gold and silver robots. The blasts blow some of them into chunks of smoldering scrap metal, and launch others through the air, their arms and legs flailing.
 
Your companions fall back towards you as the killer robot rolls through the street, laser fire from the gold and silver battle bots striking it from all directions.
 
“What the hell is that thing?” yells Talia, over the sound of the explosions.
 
“It’s a Carnus 9000!” says Telemachus, with awe in his voice. “That’s what I wanted to get to guard our palace on Gallea! The Fabricatrix who designed it says it’s invincible!”
 
“Don’t worry,” you say. “Technology never works quite as well as the manufacturers say it does.”
 
You utter quick instructions to your companions, and the five of you move out to attack.
 
----
 
Sparks and crackling electricity fly from dozens of points on the robot’s body, spewed out by ruptured systems. One of its wheels locks in place, no longer turning, and scrapes against the ground as it tries to move. There’s an explosion, and another wheel rolls free from its body, tumbling along the street before hitting a building and flopping onto its side.
 
The robot remains upright, its central wheel managing to support its weight. But it’s in its death throes. Its torso pivots this way and that, firing its weapons, but its shots go wide – its targeting systems ruined.
 
Laser fire, along with torrents of bullets from Ragnar’s gun, rip across its surface. Soon its arms fall to its sides, and the red light on its head flickers out as its systems fail.
 
The gold and silver robots take up firing positions in the street, apparently intending to hold the area against further attack. Their movements and mannerisms are incredibly life-like, and remind you why so many humans find robots creepy. You’re on the verge of attempting to communicate with one of them in search of answers, when a door in a nearby building opens. You raise your weapon, but lower it when you see the people who emerge from the structure. Several of the men and women are wearing the same gold and silver as the robots you fought alongside, and it seems clear from their bedraggled appearances and nervous expressions that they were seeking refuge from the black and red robots’ attack.
 
Princess Illaria approaches them, and the rest of you follow her lead.
 
“Chief Assembler Wilex!” she says.
 
She directs the words to a tall, grey-haired man whose clothing is decorated in gold and silver cogs. His clothes are torn in places, and there’s a gash on his head. You know a little about TALOS ranks and titles, and believe that a Chief Assembler is a planetary administrator, the name a cultural relic rather than a literal description of his role. He’s no doubt the man the Princess spoke of earlier.
 
“When I saw you on the monitor, Highness, I believed I must have hit my head harder than I thought,” he says.
 
“With all that’s happened lately,” she replies, “I feel the same way.”
 
“Hey!” Ragnar strides over, and stands before Wilex. “You owe me credits. I killed those space pirates, and blew up their hideout. Figured you were trying to rip me off when you wouldn’t let me land.”
 
“You’ll be paid!” the Chief Assembler promises, the words coming in rapid succession as he retreats a couple of steps before the brutish mercenary. “And… and I’ll throw in a bonus for your help here today!”
 
“That’s okay then,” says Ragnar. He gives a satisfied grunt, and walks off to where Telemachus is examining what’s left of the Carnus 9000.
 
“I think some explanations are in order,” says Wilex. He beckons for the Princess to enter the building, and you follow in her wake.
 
----
 
In what appears to be some kind of council chamber, two tales are exchanged. The Princess tells of the Centurian Collective’s attack on the Sian Empire, and the Chief Assembler expresses his outrage.
 
Most human factions are wary of TALOS, and the Sian Empire is no exception. Mankind’s suspicion of advanced robots, those capable of thinking and fighting for themselves, is centuries old. During your schooling, you read a theory that it stems from the depiction of robots in old human fiction, who would often go berserk and attempt to overthrow their human masters. And matters weren’t helped by a few high profile disasters which occurred in more recent times, such as the robot fleet which ended up bombing a friendly colony due to a syntax error.
 
But though the Emperor himself has done nothing to alter the empire’s frosty relations with TALOS, Princess Illaria has made great efforts to improve matters. Thus she has many friends amongst the TALOS leadership. Moreover, the Centurians have often been directly opposed to TALOS’ interests in the UHW Assembly. Thus Wilex’s sympathies are entirely on the Princess’ side. And he seems particularly interested when she refers to the how the Centurians demonstrated advanced technologies in their attacks, well beyond those they were known to possess.
 
For his part, Chief Assembler Wilex explains the situation on Capek.
 
He tells you that Fabricatrix Vespasia, one of the highest ranking TALOS officials, came to Capek claiming that she had been authorized to conduct a surprise inspection of its robot factories and planetary defenses. Such inspections being far from unheard of, Wilex took her at her word and gave her access to the command center in Capek Major in accordance with standard procedure. Vespasia then proceeded to shut down the communications grid, seize control of the planetary defenses, and land large numbers of her robot troops. The Chief Assembler and his people had been determining what to do about the situation when Vespasia’s robots attacked.
 
“So we both find ourselves in the midst of our own crises,” muses the Princess.
 
“It would appear so,” says the Chief Assembler.
 
“What do you intend to do?” you ask him.
 
“We have to take back the command center,” he replies. “I don’t know what her plan is, but we have to seize control of the communication systems, so we can alert our fleets and our other planets.”
 
Your gaze meets that of the Princess, and you know what she’s about to say even before she says it.
 
“We’ll do whatever we can to aid you,” she says.

LotS/The Story/Princess Illaria's Escape/Space Combat

2012-10-31T10:03:33Z

Raptor00:

'''Space Combat''' 
You glance at the ship’s scanner, each blip of information contributing to the tapestry which forms your mind. Green blips show Sian vessels leaving from other hangars around the Child of Heaven, entrusting themselves to the cold void. But red blips are converging on them like pack animals after their prey, Centurian fighter ships moving to intercept. Whatever stealth systems they used to board the cruiser, they’re visible enough now to your ship’s electronic eyes. 
 
You wince as you see the green dots flicker out of existence one by one. But the Centurian ships are on the other side of the cruiser. You have a chance to escape… 
 
All that flows across your thoughts in a second, your trained pilot’s mind assimilating the data and analyzing the situation. Then you take another quick glance, this one at the display showing the readings of the hyperspace engine. 
 
“Need to get some breathing room,” you say, one of your hands already moving to plot the course. “Then we can jump for Sian.” 
 
“No!” says the Princess. “Sian’s under attack.” 
 
“What? The Centurians couldn’t get past the Golden Armada. They don’t have a fleet powerful enough-” 
 
But the Princess’ grim silence quietens you in turn. 
 
“Plot a course for TALOS space,” she says after a moment. “They’ll give us sanctuary.” 
 
You do as she instructs, then focus your attention on your surroundings once more. First you need to get away from your pursuers, so you have enough time to make your jump…
 
 
'''That Blast Came From The...''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a2_q1.jpg|none]]
A huge blast of laser energy flashes by, piercing the blackness, illuminating the cockpit with its glow. No fighter has a weapon that large... 
 
“The Child of Heaven!” yells one of the guardsmen. “It’s firing at us!” 
 
You curse. How could the Centurians have broken through the security systems on the forward weapons that fast? But there’s no time to think about it. 
 
Another blast lances towards you, and you dart the ship aside to avoid it. You have to get clear of those cannons… 
 
'''Cosmic Ballet''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a2_q2.jpg|none]]
You manage to avoid the forward guns. Those weapons are designed to be used against large cruiser targets, and are no match for your skill as a pilot. But avoiding them has cost valuable time. 
 
Streams of smaller laser fire come from behind. Centurian fighter ships are on your tail, trying to thwart your escape. The ship hurtles through space at your expert touch, as you plunge, soar, spin, and swerve in an effort to avoid their fire.
 
 
'''Rocks Fly, Everybody Dies''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a2_q3.jpg|none]]
“Too many of them,” you mutter. 
 
On the scanner, more and more red blips are moving towards you. But something else catches your eye. 
 
“An asteroid field,” you say. 
 
“Do it,” Princess Illaria replies, understanding your intention. Her hand clasps your shoulder. 
 
The Sian Guardsmen gasp as you fly towards the whirling asteroids. A thousand deaths await you on those rocks. But it’s death for the Centurians as well, if they follow you. If you can make it through the field, you might be able to lose them…
 
 
'''Dogfight''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a2_q4.jpg|none]]
Several explosions sound out from your aural implant, each one representing a Centurian fighter exploding against an asteroid – silent deaths given voice by the device. 
 
You emerge from the field, and see that only a handful of red dots are left. And there’s something else… A green dot, weaving between the asteroids at reckless speed. Someone else made it clear of the cruiser. 
 
“That has to be you, captain.” The female voice comes over the Sian communication channel, full of an exhilaration that seems so out of place in the grim circumstances. “No one else could fly like that. And if you’re here, she’s with you.”
 
 
“Talia!” says the Princess.
 
 
“I knew it!” A joyful laugh comes through the communicator. “I knew the captain wouldn’t leave without you.”
 
 
A musical laugh from the Princess echoes that of the gunslinger, one born of both happiness and adrenaline-fueled mania. Life or death space combat is new to her.
 
 
You look at the scanner once more. The remaining red blips are still converging on you, relentless in their pursuit. But there are only five of them now. And you’ve faced worse odds than this.
 
 
“Take the two on my left,” you say. “The other three are mine.”
 
 
“Got it,” Talia replies.
 
 
Then you arc the ship through the air, looping round to engage the Centurian fighters. Now it’s your turn.
 
 
'''Centurian Void Killer''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z1_a2.jpg|none]]
The last ship explodes, and the cheers of your companions fill the cockpit. But your voice doesn’t join them. You’ve seen the red blip on the scanner, this one bigger than the others, and know that the worst is yet to come.
 
 
“Oh…” comes Talia’s voice. She’s seen it too. “That’s not a fighter…”
 
 
A large grey craft looms up through space, blue energy crackling across panels on its surface. A stream of small silver objects pours from its side, and from this distance it looks as if its hull is flaking away. Then the ‘flakes’ start firing red lasers.
 
 
“What is that thing?” asks the Princess.
 
 
“It’s a Void Killer,” you reply. “The Centurians use them to take out fighter ships. Those things it’s launching are drones.”
 
 
“We don’t have enough torpedoes to take them all out,” says Talia.
 
 
“Have to destroy the Void Killer,” you say. “The drones can’t function without it.”
 
 
You fly towards the grey vessel, weaving through a rain of laser fire. Countless drones explode as you fire back, but more keep pouring from its hull. If you don’t take out that ship, you’ll be overwhelmed…
 
 
----
 
Weapons fire rakes your ship as the drones swarm around you like insects devouring a dying animal’s flesh. Warning lights flash around the cockpit, and alarm sounds blare.
 
 
“Talia! Engines!” you blurt out. Two words, but they’re enough. She understands.
 
 
Her ship moves into position, as does yours – ignoring the niggling fire from the drones as it picks away at your armor. The Void Killer’s engines are unprotected, its shields worn away by repeated fire, its plating damaged…
 
 
You swoop down towards it like two birds of prey descending for the same morsel. Your weapons rake across the engines, piercing its armor. Then both of you soar upwards, as if fleeing the scene of a crime. A moment later a huge explosion fills the void.
 
 
For a second there’s silence in the cockpit. The Princess and guardsmen aren’t pilots. They don’t have aural implants. It’s only when they look at the scanner that they see the conspicuous absence of the red blip. Then the cheer comes.
 
 
“It worked!” laughs Talia. “Those drones are just floating around like space trash. “We-”
 
 
An alarm blares out, a boisterous cacophony far removed from the polite warning sounds you heard before. The cheering stops. It looks as if your ship was damaged worse than you thought…

LotS/The Story/Princess Illaria's Escape/Gallea2

2012-10-31T10:02:42Z

Raptor00:

'''Gallea(2)''' 
“My father’s palace is just over there,” says Telemachus, pointing a stubby finger towards a nearby rise. “Follow me!”
 
 
He scrambles back into his mech, and the cockpit closes after him. Lurching from side to side, he manages to stand up.
 
 
“Good,” he says. “Backup system’s kicked in. Come on!”
 
 
He begins to run, and the three of you follow.
 
 
'''Through Smoke & Fire''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a4_q1.jpg|none]]
Fire rakes the ground behind you as the Centurian ships descend. You need some kind of cover…
 
 
As if thinking the same thing, Prince Telemachus begins to throw cylindrical objects over his shoulder. Each one emits a billow of smoke as it hits the ground, and soon the air is filled with it.
 
 
“Keep running!” he yells. “They won’t be able to hit us through the smoke!”
 
 
You grab the Princess’ arm, making sure she doesn’t fall behind, and sprint for all you’re worth.
 
 
'''Broken Toys''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a4_q2.jpg|none]]
The palace appears ahead of you, like a beacon of salvation. Troopers wearing what must be the local uniform are already scrambling around it, some climbing into the tall turret towers that stand there. Those which have already been manned begin to fire at the Centurian ships.
 
 
There’s a scream of anger as a laser blast from overhead hits Telemachus’ mech, blowing its right leg off, sending the severed limb clattering across the ground. The mech falls with a crash.
 
 
You and Talia dash over to it, and yank the cockpit cover open. Princess Illaria grabs the prince by the hand, ignoring his screams of protest, and pulls him out. Then you’re running once more, the Princess dragging Telemachus along by his arm as he thrashes around and reaches back as if for his mech.
 
 
Just a little further left to run…
 
 
'''Bringing Down the Sky''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a4_q3.jpg|none]]
The Princess runs into the palace, still dragging the whining child with her. But you come to a stop. Talia glances at you.
 
 
“Turret?” she asks.
 
 
“Turret,” you agree. “Stay with the Princess.”
 
 
You sprint to one of the unmanned turrets, and climb up its ladder. A palace guard yells something at you, but by that time you’re already in the seat, and it’s too late for anyone to stop you.
 
 
The controls seem simple enough. You aim up at the nearest Centurian ship, and open fire.
 
 
'''Holding the Palace''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a4_q4.jpg|none]]
The ships didn’t stand a chance against the anti-air defenses. Each one litters the ground in flaming chunks of metal. But as you climb down from the turret, you see that Centurian ground forces are approaching, dozens and dozens of troopers.
 
 
The guards are pulling back into the palace, a more defensible position. You drop down from the ladder, and follow them.
 
 
Inside a vast hallway people are running to and fro, readying weapons and taking cover. A man wearing lavish robes and a crown stands in the middle of all this, yelling instructions. He must be the king.
 
 
You find the Princess and Talia, who are standing alongside the defenders. Telemachus towers over them, in what appears to be a new mech.
 
 
“Had a spare,” he says as he catches your gaze.
 
 
You begin to wonder what kind of father would let his son run around in such a contraption. Then the shooting starts, and you thrust the thought aside.
 
 
'''Colonel Ironside''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z1_a4.jpg|none]]
In the midst of the Centurian forces floats a hoverchair, containing what appears to be a legless man. His uniform marks him out as a colonel. Strange mechanical devices are attached to his back, containing some kind of green fluid.
 
 
The colonel gestures with his hand, and a chunk of fallen masonry flies through the air as if of its own accord, smashing one of the palace guards. He repeats the gesture with his other hand, as if conducting a symphony. A fallen flagpole rises up, trembles, then launches itself across the hall to impale another guard. The air around the colonel ripples where laser fire strikes it. It seems different from the field that protected the commander aboard the cruiser. A telekinetic barrier?
 
 
His red eyes gleam as he sees the Princess, and he begins to float towards you.
 
 
----
 
The colonel crawls along the ground, dragging himself out of his wrecked hoverchair. The devices on his back are smashed, the spilled green fluid staining his shirt. He looks around as if for assistance, but the remaining Centurian soldiers are being gunned down one by one.
 
 
He looks up at the Princess, his face drawn back in an almost lupine snarl.
 
 
“Bitch…” he hisses. “Won’t get… away…”
 
 
Then you fire, and he lies still.
 
 
----
 
After the battle, King Salastro approaches you, his guards alongside him, and demands an explanation. He seems displeased, and you can hardly blame him. Fortunately he knows the Princess, having met her countless times at diplomatic functions. Though an independent world, Gallea has cultural ties and trading relationships with the Sian Empire. So he hears her out. Much of what she tells him is news to you as well.
 
 
It seems that after your imprisonment the Centurian Collective demanded both you and the Princess be handed over to them, so that they could try you for your supposed crimes. For she was in command of the cruiser, and thus responsible for your actions. The Emperor refused, and the Centurians used that as a pretext for war – claiming that they had been subjected to unprovoked violence, and then denied justice. Their fleets attacked across Sian space, assaulting Sian itself at the same moment they stormed the Child of Heaven.
 
 
Prince Telemachus proves to be an unexpected ally. He explains to his father that he found the Centurians trespassing on their planet, and attacked them. He seems proud of his accomplishment, not noticing the horrified expression which crosses the king’s face as he hears the tale. When the prince finishes, King Salastro sends him away with one of the servants, to have his bumps and bruises tended to. Then he turns to the Princess.
 
 
“He attacked Centurian soldiers!” he moans, his voice sounding almost decrepit. “They won’t forgive him for that, no matter what I offer them. They’ve gone to war for less.”
 
 
“I’m sorry we brought them to your doorstop…” says the Princess. But the king doesn’t seem to hear her.
 
 
“They’ll come for him, and our defenses won’t hold out forever…” Then he appears to notice the Princess once more. “Princess Illaria… Where will you go?”
 
 
“To TALOS space,” she replies. “We’ll be safe enough there. And we can plan our next move.”
 
 
The king’s eyes light up. “TALOS… They could keep Telemachus safe. The Centurians wouldn’t think to look for him there…”
 
 
You and Talia share a meaningful look. You don’t like where this is going…
 
 
“Princess Illaria, I’ve known your father my entire life. The word of the imperial family of the Sian Empire is worth more than platinum… Promise me that you’ll take my son with you, and protect him until he reaches TALOS space. Give me your word, and I’ll give you and your companions an unmarked ship. And when the Centurians come, I’ll tell them that you’re all still here. They’ll attack, but my son will be safe.”
 
 
And so when Prince Telemachus returns, he’s told that he’ll be accompanying you to TALOS space. The boy’s face lights up. His mech was made by TALOS, and he’s excited to see the factory where it was built. He asks his father if he can have a new mech made while he’s there. The king smiles, hugs him close to conceal the tear which rolls down his cheek, and tells him that he can. The sight is enough to make you pity the young prince, and you vow that you’ll do your best to tolerate him.
 
 
King Salastro hands the Princess a sealed letter to be delivered to the TALOS officials, offering them a vast fortune in exchange for protecting his son. Then the four of you are taken to your new ship.

LotS/The Story/Princess Illaria's Escape/Gallea1

2012-10-31T10:00:13Z

Raptor00:

'''Gallea(1)''' 
“That noise,” says Talia. “Is that…?”
 
 
“Yes. We took too much damage. Can’t go much further.”
 
 
The Princess leans towards you to get a better look at the map, her hair brushing your cheek. She points a slender finger towards a planet marked on its display.
 
 
“That’s Gallea,” she says. “Can we make it there?”
 
 
Words of assurance rise up your throat, but you swallow them. You can’t lie to her.
 
 
“Maybe,” you reply.
 
 
She nods, and buckles herself into her seat. Her hand clasps your arm. It’s trembling.
 
 
The ship’s systems scream in protest as you direct the dying machine towards the planet. Soon Gallea looms up ahead of you, and you hear a gasp of relief from the Princess. But she isn’t a pilot. She doesn’t realize that the hard bit is yet to come…
 
 
“I’ll follow you down,” says Talia, unaccustomed solemnity in her voice. “Good luck, captain.”
 
 
'''Crash Landing''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a3_q1.jpg|none]]
The ship slices through the atmosphere, shrouded in flame as the air burns around you. Again and again the warning lights flash and alarms blare, like obnoxious heralds of doom.
 
 
The controls struggle in your grasp, as if the ship itself is fighting you, betraying you. The Princess’ grip tightens on your arm. If you can just land...
 
 
'''From The Wreckage''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a3_q2.jpg|none]]
Your mind whirls. Everything’s spinning. You say something, but the words seem slow, like they’re moving through water.
 
 
There are sparks around you… Little fairy lights twinkling in the haze…
 
 
Then your vision begins to clear, focusing on the white mass next to you until it becomes Princess Illaria. For a second she’s motionless, lifeless. Then she gives a faint groan, and the breath returns to your throat. The ship screeches around you as it dies, bleeding sparks and fire.
 
 
In the back, one of the guardsmen is still, a spur of metal through his neck. The other is spluttering, droplets of blood flying from his mouth to punctuate his coughs. He’s dragging at one of his legs, trying to free it from a twisted mass of metal.
 
 
He looks up, and his eyes meet yours.
 
 
“Take… Princess… go… Go!”
 
 
You grab hold of the Princess, pulling her limp form out of the seat. You have to get her to safety...
 
 
'''No Rest From The Wicked''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a3_q3.jpg|none]]
You sprint across the hard ground, the Princess in your arms. Each step jolts your battered body, but you force yourself on. There are large rocks ahead of you. They should provide some cover…
 
 
You clamber over the rocks, laying Princess Illaria down behind them. You lie beside her as the explosion fills the air, and watch as a shard of metal flies overhead, landing with a clatter a few yards away.
 
 
There’s movement nearby, and you reach for your weapon. But it’s Talia, her bright eyes gleaming in the glow.
 
 
“You made it,” she laughs.
 
 
“We made it,” you agree, with a deep sigh.
 
 
“Made it…” mumbles the Princess, as she moves into a sitting position, one hand pressed against her head.
 
 
“My ship’s right over there,” says Talia. “We can-”
 
 
There’s roar from overhead. You get to your feet, and look over the rocks to see the big, bloated body of a Centurian troop carrier as it descends towards the ground, near Talia’s ship. Soldiers are already leaping from its deployment hatch. One of them spots you, and begins firing in your direction. A moment later the others follow suit.
 
 
You raise your weapon, and return fire.
 
 
'''Get Off My Planet!''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a3_q4.jpg|none]]
The Princess gets to her feet, leans against the rock, and opens fire. Talia blasts away with a pistol in each hand, and every shot – wild as they seem – finds its mark. Centurian soldiers collapse on the rocky ground, but more keep pouring out of the transport ship.
 
 
A deep, slightly robotic voice rings out across the battlefield, loud enough to be heard over the shouts, screams, and laser fire.
 
 
“Hey! You think you can come to my planet and start shooting up the place?” it says.
 
 
A large robot appears from the left, emerging into the dawning light. Lightning flashes from a weapon mounted on its arm, and strikes a Centurian soldier – sending him flying through the air. Then it charges towards the other Centurians, slashing at them with what appears to be a big, laser-edged chainsaw. Several of the soldiers turn to fire at the robot, their lasers pattering against its armor.
 
 
“A battle bot?” asks Talia. “I thought only TALOS had those?”
 
 
“Worry about that later,” you reply. “Just pick off the Centurians, while they’re distracted.”
 
 
'''Telemachus''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z1_a3.jpg|none]]
The robot raises its arms in the air as the last Centurian falls. Then its legs begin to hop up and down. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was engaged in some kind of victory dance… Again that deep, computerized voice sounds from speakers which must be mounted on it somewhere.
 
 
“See what you get? See what you get for invading my planet?”
 
 
Then the robot stops in mid dance, its arms and raised leg freezing in place as it catches sight of you.
 
 
“More trespassers!”
 
 
The robot begins lumbering towards you.
 
 
“That’s not good…” you mutter.
 
 
“He called it ‘his planet’,” says the Princess. “He must be King Salastro’s robot. If we can just reason with him, ask him to take us to the king…”
 
 
“Sure… let’s reason with the killer robot,” says Talia. She twirls her pistols. “I’ll put forward my two best arguments.”
 
 
The ‘robot’ draws closer, and in the growing light you see that it’s not a robot at all. There’s a small cockpit on top, and inside it there’s… a small boy?
 
 
“It’s just a kid!” laughs Talia.
 
 
“Hey! Don’t call me-” This time the voice is the high-pitched whine of a child. The boy frowns, and presses a button. When he continues, his voice is deep and robotic once more. “-a kid! I’m ten!”
 
 
Under the circumstances, you just can’t help yourself. Despite the seriousness of the situation, in spite of all the dangers you’ve faced and have yet to face, you and Talia burst out laughing at the incredulity of it all. The boy scowls.
 
 
“That’s it!” he yells, again forgetting to use his voice modulator. “I’m gonna… gonna…” Words seem to fail him in his rage. Instead he charges, swinging his laser-edged chainsaw.
 
 
“Wait,” the Princess shouts. “I know who that is! It’s-”
 
 
But it’s too late. He’s already on you, and you have to fight.
 
 
----
 
The kid’s mech collapses, falling onto its butt. The movement is so like that of a child falling whilst taking his first steps that you can’t help but laugh once more. The boy hammers away at the controls, but the mech doesn’t respond. Its arms lie motionless. His look of frustration brings a fresh torrent of laughter from you and Talia. The Princess frowns, and punches you in the arm – a remarkable breach of imperial protocol. But you just can’t help it…
 
 
The mech’s cockpit flies open, and the kid leaps down to the ground. He runs over to you, and begins to kick your shin. You lift your leg to kick him back, but the Princess intervenes.
 
 
“Stop it! I know you – you’re Prince Telemachus.”
 
 
The boy stops kicking you, and looks over to her, curiosity now eclipsing his anger.
 
 
“Yeah, that’s right.” He stares at her intently. Then recognition dawns in his eyes. “Hey, you’re the Sian Princess! I’ve seen you on t
 
“He’s King Salastro’s boy,” she says, turning to you and Talia. “I haven’t seen him since he was a baby.”
 
 
“So that would be what, last week?” asks Talia.
 
 
Telemachus looks as if he’s about to leap at her, but Princess Illaria intervenes once more.
 
 
“We crashed here,” she tells him. “But we can leave now. We…”
 
 
She trails off as large shapes appear in the sky. More Centurian ships, coming down towards you.
 
 
“We have to get away from here,” you say.

LotS/The Story/Princess Illaria's Escape/Child of Heaven

2012-10-31T09:57:23Z

Raptor00:

'''Child of Heaven''' 
You did what you had to.
 
 
You try to cling to that thought as you gaze around the bare walls of your cell, at the blue energy barrier stretching beyond its slender bars. It provides little comfort.
 
 
Again and again the scene plays across your mind. You feel your thumb pressing the red button at the end of the control stick, see the Centurian ship exploding – a flash of brilliant fire against the black of the void. The sound of its destruction, spawned within your aural implant, rages in your ears like an accusation.
 
 
And here you sit, imprisoned at the command of the Sian Emperor himself. When the cruiser reaches its destination, bringing you back to your homeworld, you will stand trial. Emissaries from the Centurian Collective will speak out against you, demanding your execution.
 
 
You lie back and close your eyes, knowing that sleep will never come but trying to delude yourself that it might. Then your eyes flick open, as the world shakes. You leap to your feet, and another tremor rumbles through the cell. Something’s wrong… A collision? You call out for the guard, but no one answers. Whatever’s happening, it’s called him away from his station at the end of the corridor.
 
 
Long minutes crawl by as you wait, gripping the bars with white knuckles. Then you hear screams of pain and terror in the distance, punctuated by the unmistakable hiss of laser fire. An attack!
 
 
Your mind whirls. No enemy could get aboard the Child of Heaven, past its countless lines of defense. And there was no warning alarm. It makes no sense… But the sounds of combat continue, louder now. The ship’s under attack, and only one thought fills your mind: Princess Illaria… she’s in danger!
 
 
You yank at the bars of the cell, screaming in frustration. Then you fall silent, as you hear footsteps sounding along the corridor. Someone’s coming...
 
 
'''Jailbreak''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a1_q1.jpg|none|Jailbreak]]
The blue energy barrier in front of your cell flickers out of existence. Only someone with the authorization code could have deactivated it… Hope surges within you. Has the guard come back to let you out?
 
 
Then she appears beyond the bars, her beautiful face marred by anxiety.
 
 
“Princess!” you gasp.
 
 
Her eyes light up as they meet yours.
 
 
“Quickly, take it!” she says, pressing a laser rifle against the bars. “I couldn’t find the key. Shoot the bars.”
 
 
A million questions spring to your lips. But you take the weapon, turning it so you can pull it into the cell. Illaria flits aside, clearing your line of fire.
 
 
'''Engaging the Enemy''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a1_q2.jpg|none|Engaging the Enemy]]
You step out of the cell, knocking the damaged bars aside.
 
 
“What happened? Who-”
 
 
“It’s the Centurians,” she replies. She’s already moving down the corridor, her laser pistol raised. She gestures for you to follow, and you move to match her pace.
 
 
“How did they get on the ship?” you ask.
 
 
“I don’t know. They… they just appeared. The sensors didn’t detect them.”
 
 
“But-”
 
 
You fall silent as the two of you near the doors which lead out of the prison, into the atrium beyond. The sounds of combat are close now. Questions dance across your mind, attempting to penetrate the confusion. But now isn’t the time.
 
 
Centurian soldiers are outside, their backs to the prison as they fire at targets out of your line of vision. You signal for the Princess to stay back, but she’s already pressing herself against one of the prison doors, her weapon at the ready as she prepares to attack. You nod, and follow her lead.
 
 
'''Guarding the Guards''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a1_q3.jpg|none|Guarding the Guards]]
In the atrium a group of Sian Guardsmen are exchanging fire with more Centurian soldiers. They’re outnumbered, and several of them already lie dead. But the survivors are holding their ground, fighting on.
 
 
“We have to help them,” says the Princess, already moving and firing.
 
 
A cry goes up from the guards as they see the Princess in their midst. They throw themselves into the combat with renewed vigor, desperate to protect her. You do the same, firing at the advancing Centurians.
 
 
'''Sacrifice''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z1_a1_q4.jpg|none|Sacrifice]]
A ragged cheer goes up as the last Centurian falls. For a moment there’s calm, though the noise of distant weapons fire shows that you’re simply in the eye of the storm. All around your fragile bubble of safety, chaos still rages.
 
 
You turn to Sergeant Tarik, the highest ranking guardsman there.
 
 
“What’s our status?” you ask.
 
 
He shakes his head, his expression grim.
 
 
“The ship’s lost, captain. They’ve got the bridge.”
 
 
“We have to take it back,” says Princess Illaria.
 
 
“There’s too many of them, Highness,” replies the sergeant. “We need to get you to the nearest hangar. There’s still time to get you out.”
 
 
“I won’t surrender the Child of Heaven,” she says.
 
 
Sergeant Tarik turns to you, a look of appeal in his eyes. It’s mirrored on the faces of the other guards. None of them can bring himself to contradict the Princess of the Sian Empire, but you read the thought on all their minds.
 
 
“We’ll all die for you, Highness,” you say, gesturing at the bodies of the fallen. “But don’t let us die in vain. If you escape the Centurians, these men and women will have fallen doing their duty.”
 
 
She opens her mouth as if to make a retort, then closes it. You know her well enough to read the subtle emotions which play across her face, bespeaking the flow of her thoughts. Her sense of discipline, of duty to her empire, overrides her passion. She nods.
 
 
“Form up around Her Highness and the captain,” says the sergeant. Then he adds, before you can protest, “If we get to the hangar, you’ll need to fly her out.”
 
 
He’s right. You’re the only pilot there. In that moment you realize just how bitter it must be for Princess Illaria, knowing that others are dying so you may live.
 
 
Together you round the corner and charge along the atrium, towards the hangar at the far end. Centurian soldiers stand at the entrance, and their crimson lasers rip into your formation as you run. Sergeant Tarik collapses beside you, dead before he can even cry out. You fire towards the soldiers, hoping you can pick them off before they can cut you all down.
 
 
'''Commander Rautha''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z1_a1.jpg|none|Commander Rautha]]
Somehow you survive the barrage of lasers, and pour into the hangar. The entrance platform is covered with corpses, both Centurian and Sian. They fought hard for control of the hangar, the Centurians to prevent their prey from escaping, the Sian Guardsmen so that their people might reach safety.
 
 
Standing amongst the dead is a man wearing a Centurian commander’s uniform. A malicious grin crosses his face as he sees Princess Illaria approach.
 
 
“Nice try, Princess. But you’re not getting off this ship. Not till General Rahn’s cruiser comes for you.”
 
 
Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, you, the Princess, and the remaining guardsmen open fire. Laser beams fly at him, but each one stops a few inches in front of his body – the air shimmering as it makes contact with an invisible field.
 
 
He’s not carrying a pack… there’s nothing on him big enough to be a shield generator…
 
 
The commander laughs at your confusion. Then he makes a sudden, predatory movement, grabbing hold of the nearest Sian Guardsman and yanking him over by his arm. You dart towards them, but before you can intervene there’s a sickening snap, and the guardsman is hurled aside – his neck broken.
 
 
“Who’s next?” asks the commander.
 
 
----
 
The commander staggers back against the railing, gasping for breath, and falls to one knee. The arrogant smile is gone, his face now twisted in hatred.
 
 
“I don’t have time for this,” he rasps. “If Rahn wants the bitch, he can gather up the pieces!”
 
 
With a quick movement he snatches a grenade from a fallen Centurian soldier’s belt. As he stands back up, the lights on its surface flash, a blinking red to herald the destruction that will come. But before he can throw it, you’re on him. One of your hands clasps his, pressing his fingers down, preventing him from dropping the grenade. Your other arm comes round in an arc, your elbow smashing him in the mouth. He splutters as his teeth fly down his throat. Then he topples over the railing, disappearing from sight. A second later there’s an explosion from down below the platform.
 
 
“They’re coming!” yells one of the guardsmen from behind you.
 
 
As if to punctuate his words, you hear weapons fire from outside the hangar. A few of the guardsmen head out into the atrium, one of them yelling over his shoulder:
 
 
“Go! We’ll hold them!”
 
 
You descend to the floor of the hangar, and make for one of the long-range fighter ships. You bark out a command word, and the canopy opens as the ship’s computer recognizes your voice. You boost the Princess into the cockpit, and clamber up after her – the guardsmen aiding you from below. You reach back down to help them up in turn. Then the canopy descends, and the ship’s engine roars to life.
 
 
The fighter moves forward, turning towards the energy barrier separating you from the darkness of space. To your right Centurian soldiers rush onto the hangar’s entrance platform, having at last fought their way through the guards who remained to stall them. They open fire as the ship rises, their crimson lasers flashing out towards you. But their small arms fire has little effect, and a moment later you’re through the energy barrier.

LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Zone Intro

2012-10-31T09:49:12Z

Raptor00:

'''Zone Intro''' 
"Get lost, kid!" the man in blue said. He jabbed his index finger into the boy's chest.
 
"Yeah!" his black-garbed associate added. "This is private property!"
 
"Oh?" the boy replied. He glanced at the sealed doorway behind them. "And what kind of property is it?"
 
"It's a secret ninj-"
 
"Pet store!" the blue one interjected. "A secret pet store!"
 
"It sounded like he was about to say nin-" the boy began.
 
"Nine-banded armadillo! That's right! We're a pet store that sells nine-banded armadillos."
 
"Can I buy one?"
 
"No. We told you -- it's a private pet store. Go away."
 
"Fine. But I want to know something first..."
 
"Yeah?"
 
"If you guys work in a pet store, why are you both wearing ninja costumes?"
 
Their eyes narrowed within the slits of their masks.
 
"Kid..." the black ninja snarled, "I'm going to give you one more chance to get lost. If you don't, I'll throw a shuriken at you!"
 
"Oh, sure..." The blue one sighed. "You always have to rub it in..."
 
"Hey, it's not my fault you failed the shuriken safety course and got stuck wearing that stupid blue uniform. Yeah, bright blue -- real stealthy!"
 
"Shut up!"
 
The two ninja glared at one another, until the boy's voice drew their eyes back to him.
 
"A man asked me a question this morning. I think he was a Secret Service agent or something, because he had sunglasses on."
 
"Makes sense." The blue ninja nodded.
 
"He asked me if I was a bad enough dude to save the president. You know what I said?"
 
"What?"
 
"I said yes."
 
The ninja tried to move out of the way. They weren't fast enough. When the boy leapt towards them, stuck one of his short legs out, and span around in the air -- swinging the extended limb like a helicopter's blade, they each took its full force to the jaw.
 
Telemachus landed, looked down at their sprawling blue and black bodies, and grunted.
 
"Ninja... Such losers. Most of them go down with one hit."
 
He stepped over them and pushed the door open, revealing a metal-paneled corridor... And a host of blue, black, and red ninja.
 
"I'm bad!" he yelled. He punched a boyish fist up into the air, as though beating that sentiment into the universe.
 
Then he charged towards the oncoming ninja. The president had to be in there somewhere, and Telemachus was going to save him!
 
----
 
"Where is he?"
 
"Ma'am, the palace is closed. If you had an appointment here, you'll have to-"
 
"Where's Telemachus? I need to see him!"
 
"His Highness Prince Telemachus," the guardsman said, emphasizing the title, "doesn't see uninvited visitors. You-"
 
"Cut the crap! I know he's hurt bad. Take me to him. Now."
 
"Ma'am, I don't know where you heard that, but the prince is perfectly-"
 
"I'm going to count to five. Then if you're still in my way, I'll shoot your legs out from under you. And the same goes for your friends there. One."
 
Bermund Pelar, the seneschal of Gallea's royal palace, heard the exchange as he came down the broad marble staircase. And though his years and manner of living had left him with a pleasantly plump physique to which athletic exertion was anathema, the desperate anger in the woman's voice caused him to run. He descended the remaining stairs with near-disastrous haste -- only avoiding a perhaps bone-cracking tumble thanks to a fortunate clutch at the bannister -- and dashed across the great hallway.
 
The scene at the doors justified his dangerous and unseemly swiftness.
 
Five guards stood in a row, their weapons raised -- like the firing squad at an execution, poised and awaiting the signal that would bring death. Five long barrels were trained on the woman standing at the entrance. As for her... Pelar's eyes fastened on the woman for what seemed like an age. There was something indescribably captivating about her as she stood there.
 
She wore a black jumpsuit, unzipped almost to the waist -- disclosing a top the color of pure snow beneath. That white within blackness, the ebon hue surrounded in turn by the brilliance of the sunlight that framed her in the doorway, made the tableau into a sumptuous painting. Even the pistols in her hands, steady and unshaking, only enhanced the artistry it evoked in the seneschal's mind. It had been years since he'd picked up a brush. Yet now, in spite of the gravity of the situation and the terrible events of which it was but the latest episode, part of him yearned to paint her. That conviction, absurd but insistent, became even more powerful when he dwelled on her face and the emotions which flowed and froze across it. Anger and determination were there, the warrior's unflinching willingness to bring destruction upon those who stood against her. But both were tempered by sorrow, anguish, frantic worry. Tears glimmered in the corners of her eyes, transforming her into a wrathful and mournful heroine, a goddess of war and sadness. It was a face worthy of a masterpiece, one that deserved to be immortalized.
 
Her eyes shifted, focusing on Pelar and meeting his -- assessing the new arrival and perhaps marking the seneschal as another target for her guns to deal with. The force of her gaze pierced his artistic reverie.
 
"You're Talia Ryx," Bermund Pelar said.
 
"Yes."
 
"I've seen pictures of the two of you together." He stepped forward and placed his hand on a guardsman's shoulder. "Stand down, sergeant. She's one of the prince's closest friends. I'll take her to see him."
 
The five rifles were lowered. Talia's pistols slipped back into their holsters. There was sympathy on the guardsmen's faces now, replacing the impassive rigidness of their profession. It only seemed to heighten her anxiety.
 
"Come with me," Pelar said.
 
The gunslinger darted to him and matched his stride as he made his way back across the hall.
 
"We didn't expect any of you to arrive so soon," the seneschal said.
 
"I was already in the system. Wu Tenchu sent us here to make an appearance at a charity thing on Calypso. The Dragons, I mean."
 
Bermund Pelar nodded, though the name 'Dragons' meant nothing to him.
 
"I was going to visit Tel afterwards," she continued. "Then I got Wu's message..."
 
The seneschal gave a small, awkward cough as they began to ascend the stairs.
 
"I... I trust that you..."
 
"I didn't tell anyone," she replied.
 
"Thank you. The people of Gallea have been through so much -- the Centurian invasion, the death of their king. I didn't want to cause them further grief. Not while we..."
 
"While you don't know if he'll make it?" There was a tremor in her voice.
 
Pelar could only nod.
 
"No one outside the palace knows," he said after a long moment of silence. "Except your prime minister and the people he told. I had to reach out to Wu Tenchu for help, and he asked permission to inform the prince's dearest friends."
 
From the hall at the top of the stairs, the seneschal led her down a long corridor. When they reached the door he paused for a moment, as though bracing himself. Then he pressed the button. It slid open to reveal Telemachus' bedroom. The chamber was large, and had once been elegant. But its original ambiance, the royal splendor it had been decorated to display, had long since been buried beneath holographic posters, images of the prince's mech, pictures of his companions, racks of assorted weapons, and a number of archaic videogame systems connected to modern screens via dubious tangles of cable.
 
The sight made Talia smile. But only for a moment. Then she stepped into the room, turned, and it slipped away -- unraveled by a soft intake of breath.
 
Telemachus was on the bed, eyes closed, face expressionless. His body was still, save for the rise and fall of his bare chest and the almost imperceptible fluttering behind his eyelids. An array of machines formed a semi-circle around the upper half of the bed, bristling with a plethora of holographic screens and images. Slender tubes ran from the devices to bands around his arms and forehead, to pads on his soft, boyish chest. Some pulsed with colored light, as though drawing arcane substances from his body or else pumping them into his flesh. Others were dull and lifeless, their deeds concealed beneath segmented metal or black plastic.
 
There the Prince of Gallea lay, a cybernetic spider in the middle of an electronic web.
 
Two people shared the machines' vigil around Telemachus' bed. The first was a girl, sat cross-legged on a chair, holding his right hand with her left. She was in her early teens from the look of her. Not much older than the boy. But the sheer concentration on her face, almost painful in its intensity, made her seem much older at first glance. Her eyes were closed, like his.
 
The second was a short man in a white and red medic's uniform. He was standing in front of one of the devices, his back to Talia and Bermund Pelar, examining the three-dimensional simulacra of organs it projected.
 
"I'm Yien, the palace physician," he said, without looking round.
 
The gunslinger sat down, pulling her chair close to the bed. She reached out, paused, and glanced at the seneschal. When he nodded, she grasped the prince's left hand in both of hers. Then she looked to the physician.
 
"How bad is he, doc?" Talia asked.
 
"He's as well as I can make him." Yien sighed, and turned away from the display -- revealing gaunt and haggard features. "But that doesn't mean anything. Not when we're dealing with a psychic attack. Arla here's doing more than I can."
 
Pelar knelt beside the girl and stroked her auburn curls, moving a lock of hair away from her face. He looked at Talia and gave a faint smile.
 
"My daughter," he said. "She was off-world when the Centurians attacked, training to use her powers for healing."
 
"Arla's psionic," Yien added. "We're lucky she was in the palace. I don't know of any other psychic healers left on Gallea."
 
"Can't she wake him up?" Talia asked.
 
"She doesn't have the strength. But as best as I can tell, she's keeping him stable. Even that's more than I expected from someone her age."
 
"It's why I went to Wu Tenchu," Pelar said. "I knew that he'd be able to help us. He said you and Jian Rhapsody helped the Sian Empire make many psychic allies during the war. Men and women we could trust. Until they arrive, we can only wait -- and hope the prince's mind is strong enough to endure."
 
----
 
"You're too late!" the Scarlet Harlot laughed. "The president is mine!"
 
The red-skinned ninja leader stood on the helicopter's landing skid as the craft rose, shunning the safety and comfort of interior seating for the pleasure of taunting her young foe as he battled her dogs below.
 
Telemachus kicked one of the snarling canines aside, punched another square on the nose, and glared up at her. He couldn't let the Scarlet Harlot escape with the president!
 
"Yeah?" he shouted. "Too bad I've killed all your ninja! How're you going to carry out your evil schemes without them?"
 
The scandalously dressed villain gestured towards the pilot's window. The helicopter stopped climbing.
 
"I'll hire new ninja!" she said. "Better ones!"
 
"Good luck with that! There are plenty of other bosses out there snapping up wannabe ninja as fast as they can throw uniforms on them. And what about all the dogs?" He emphasized the point by dodging another set of snapping jaws and punting the creature across the hangar. "You'll have to get a whole bunch of new ones, and put up with your next base stinking of dog crap until they're housetrained! Face it -- you've got the president, but you're screwed!"
 
"You little bastard!" she shouted. Her eyes flashed like daggers. "I'll teach you to mess with me!"
 
The Scarlet Harlot reached into her bodice, pulled something out, and hurled it at him. But the little object landed wide. When it exploded in a small plume of flame, it only succeeded in singeing one of the dogs -- who ran off yelping.
 
"Great bomb!" The boy laughed. "Maybe if you didn't dress like such a slut you'd be able to carry bigger ones!"
 
"Take us lower!" the Scarlet Harlot screamed, making frantic gestures at the pilot. "Take us down so I can blow him up!"
 
The helicopter descended until it was only six feet from the ground. She pulled another bomb out of her bodice and took aim. From that distance she would have been able to hit him. But she never had the chance.
 
Telemachus jumped upwards, landed in front of her on the skid, and knocked the explosive out of her hand. The bomb landed on one of the dogs. Then bits of that dog landed on the others, sending the entire pack scurrying.
 
"You bosses fall for it every time!" Telemachus said. "You guys need to learn to quit while you're ahead!"
 
"And you need to learn to die!" the Scarlet Harlot hissed.
 
She lashed out with one of her black boots, aiming for the boy's head. He parried it aside with his forearm. The red-skinned woman howled as the momentum almost sent her off the skid, and grabbed for a firmer handhold.
 
An elderly face appeared at the helicopter's window, pressed up against the glass near Telemachus.
 
"Win one for the Gipper!" the president cried.
 
"Huh?" the boy asked.
 
"Never mind! Just kick that red bitch's ass!"
 
"Sure thing!"
 
The Scarlet Harlot crouched and kicked, trying to sweep his legs out from under him. He jumped, twisted in mid-air, and answered with a kick of his own. It caught her in the side of the face as she rose from the crouch. Her head thudded against the helicopter's reinforced window.
 
She groaned, and stared at Telemachus through dazed, groggy eyes.
 
"You're good..." she murmured.
 
"No," Telemachus replied. "I'm bad."
 
Another jump, another spinning kick. This one sent her tumbling off the skid. She hit the hangar floor headfirst.
 
"Better take her down, son," the president yelled inside the chopper, "if you know what's good for you!"
 
The pilot evidently did, because the helicopter descended until it touched down next to the Scarlet Harlot's corpse -- scattering the dogs who'd gathered round to lick up their former mistress' brains.
 
Telemachus pulled its door open.
 
"Nice work, kid," the president said. "But I don't suppose I've got much future in politics after this. The other side were already saying I was too soft on rampant ninja-related crime. They're going to have a field day with this. Oh, well. Hey, you want to go for a burger?"
 
"Make it a deep-fried pizza, Mr. President, and you've got a deal."

LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Deranged Dwelling

2012-10-31T09:48:43Z

Raptor00:

'''Deranged Dwelling''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z12_a1_q3.jpg|none|Deranged Dwelling]]
The mansion loomed against the night sky. Yes... loomed. It looked much like any other large house of its period, yet while its counterparts elsewhere might have been content to merely stand, this one was different. The cold and foreboding structure was the only one for miles around, overseeing nothing but green hills and fields from its gloomy eyes. It was almost like it was lurking. Lurking and looming...
 
Telemachus knew the stories. Professor Sarah Squiller was once a brilliant scientist and a respected academic. But after almost dying in a lab explosion, she relinquished her post and became a recluse -- withdrawing to the Squillers' isolated family home. Depending on which rumors one believed, she either carried out secret government research within its walls or else murdered trick-or-treaters. The best rumors went so far as to combine the two, though Telemachus found that unlikely. If the government wanted to kill trick-or-treaters, they could just put razor blades in the candy again...
 
In any event, if she really orchestrated Grislak's rampage, he intended to find out why. That meant going inside the sinister mansion...
 
----
 
"Six of you, and you still can't wake him up?" Talia sighed.
 
"It's not a matter of brute force," one of the Piscarians said. "The psionic attack he's suffering from is complicated. If we're not careful, we could damage his brain."
 
Talia said nothing. She knew her frustration was futile. But she couldn't help it. With each passing hour the space around Telemachus' bed became more crowded with the psychic healers Wu Tenchu had enlisted. And yet the prince still slept his unnatural sleep.
 
"If you were here," she whispered to a picture on the wall, "I'd even try getting you to kiss him. That's how you wake sleeping princes, right?"
 
But the portrait of Illaria just smiled in beautiful serenity.
 
Talia sighed again. Standing around and waiting, helpless and useless, went against every fiber of her being. But she had little choice. So while the psionics did their work -- even young Arla returning to the fray, insisting that she be allowed to play her part -- and Doctor Yien busied himself inspecting reading after reading on his machines, Talia merely looked on. Every so often her eyes met Bermund Pelar's, and read similar sentiments there. But the seneschal was sat next to his daughter, his arm around her, offering the strength and comfort of family as she exerted her mind to save the prince. The gunslinger couldn't even do that much.
 
She looked at the inert projector on the floor. They'd deactivated it after it had played through all of Rhapsody's Twisted Steel matches. Not for the first time, she wished the others were there. But if Wu's message had reached them, they hadn't made it to Gallea yet. She was still alone.
 
So she went back to walking among Telemachus' childish treasures, her gaze roaming across the things that brought him joy.
 
----
 
Telemachus ascended the few steps that led up to the porch. A bristly doormat crunched underfoot -- the noise seemed impossibly loud in the nocturnal quiet. There was a doorbell. But he wasn't inclined to press it. If Sarah Squiller was an evil, scheming villain, he felt that he should play the role of an intruder and possible assassin rather than that of a polite caller. So he reached for the doorknob instead. It didn't turn in his hand. That was annoying. He much preferred neighborhoods where the locals didn't lock their doors, and often didn't even seem to mind if random visitors helped themselves to the contents of their dressers and treasure chests.
 
He inspected the door, and gave it an experimental tap. There was metal under the wood. Smashing it down would be difficult, and far from stealthy. He moved to one of the windows that opened onto the porch, wondering if the time-honored entry point of vampires and burglars would serve any better. But it was locked, and the glass was thick. The same proved true of the other window.
 
Telemachus furrowed his brow. Perhaps he'd find a suitable entrance around the back... He strode back along the porch, intending to give it a try. Then the doormat crunched under his shoes again...
 
A reclusive scientist, possibly an evil mastermind, with reinforced doors and windows which she kept locked. No, there couldn't possibly be...
 
The boy crouched down. In doing so, he noticed the message inscribed on the mat: "Go away!". He pulled the charming sentiment aside. And something shone in the gloom. He picked it up, stood, slipped it into the lock on the front door, and turned it. There was a click. This time the knob turned in his grasp. The door opened into a drab hallway.
 
He took a moment to revel in the unexpected ease of his entry. Then he gazed around the room, wondering which of the doors might most likely separate mundane household from abominable villainy. None of them appeared to offer a clue, so he settled for trying the nearest one. It revealed a kitchen.
 
Telemachus spent a few moments opening cupboards and the fridge in search of clues, but he found nothing more evil than diet soda. There was also a chainsaw, hanging next to the knives. He conceded that this might be considered evil in certain circles. But under the circumstances he didn't feel entitled to judge. He took the weapon down, grunted upon discovering that it was battery operated and devoid of those necessary articles, and decided he might as well take it with him anyway. It could still come in useful.
 
There was another door at the opposite end of the kitchen. Telemachus headed towards it, resolving to continue his search for evil by learning what was on the other side. He was three strides away from the portal when it flew open.
 
"All germs in the dining room have been destroyed. It is now cleansed. I-"
 
The voice was sultry and feminine. So was the speaker, who occupied the doorway in a state of dress that might charitably be deemed risqué, and less charitably be called indecent (perhaps with the word 'exposure' appended, if one were feeling particularly ungenerous). The outfit in question had the distinct air of the hospital about it, albeit expertly blended with that of the strip club. Telemachus realized that it was a close approximation of a nurse's uniform, albeit a thrifty version which had no doubt saved money by only employing half the usual material. The voluptuous body it adorned didn't so much fill it out as push it to the limits of tensile strength. Furthermore, that body was made of metal.
 
"New life form detected!" the robot woman said. "Engaging disinfection mode!"
 
"What... Hey!"
 
Each of the android's hands drew a bottle of cleaning product from some inner recess with the speed and precision of a master gunfighter. She fired them just as fast. Telemachus spluttered and clamped his mouth shut as their lemon-scented spray washed over him. A potent blast of the stuff ignited his tongue, as though a citric bomb had detonated there. After a few seconds, enough time for the robot to douse him head to toe on all sides, she gave a contented sigh.
 
"Cleansing operation completed. The new life form has been disinfected externally. Considering the possibility of internal disinfection. Negative. The subject is organic. Internal bacteria and other uncleanliness must unfortunately be tolerated."
 
"What the hell!" the boy exclaimed. "You just-"
 
"Further scans indicate that the life form is a human male. Consulting archived protocols. Appropriate response detected. Initiating ravishment mode."
 
"Huh?"
 
"Come here, my love!"
 
She advanced on him, arms outstretched. Her metal breasts undulated in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic fashion -- producing a faint whirring noise. Telemachus backpedaled.
 
"Wait! Stop!"
 
"Subject expresses a lack of consent. Databanks indicate that this implies the affirmative, coupled with a desire for mild to moderate sensual violence."
 
"You crazy metal bitch!"
 
"Subject enjoys foul language. Subject is a dirty little boy."
 
"Get back!" He brandished his chainsaw. "Get back or I'll... I'll..."
 
'Scratch you a bit' seemed inadequate, so he let the threat hang in the air. When the robot continued to advance and undulate, he started swinging. Batteries or not, it was better than nothing...
 
His first blow clanged and scraped against a metal bosom without causing any damage.
 
"Subject expresses a preference for sadomasochism. Violence settings increased."
 
Telemachus made another wild, desperate swing as he leapt backwards. It missed the robot. Instead it smashed a vase on the worktop, sending water splashing across the granite and onto the floor.
 
The robot halted.
 
"Standing water detected. Potential for the breeding of germs. Disinfection mode activated."
 
She pivoted on her heels, drew her sprays, and bombarded the offending liquid with its antibacterial cousin.
 
"Disinfection completed. Returning to ravishment mode."
 
She pivoted once more, and continued her amorous advance.
 
Something large and white appeared in the corner of Telemachus' vision as he backed away. The fridge... It was worth a try.
 
He lunged towards it, threw the door open, shoved the chainsaw inside, and swung the weapon. Cheese, chicken wings, jars of indiscernible condiments, and numerous other foodstuffs cascaded across the room, smearing and shattering on the floor.
 
"Food products! Bacteria! Potential for germs and odors: catastrophic! Initiating emergency disinfection mode!"
 
This time she reached over her shoulder with her right hand. There was a series of hissing, clicking noises. Then her arm returned -- clutching an enormous shotgun-like spraying device. She whirled towards the nearest offending article, leveled the weapon, and commenced blasting.
 
Telemachus slipped back into the hallway, closed the door behind him, and breathed a sigh of relief.
 
He glanced at the other doors. Perhaps he'd try the stairs instead this time...
 
----
 
Talia flicked through the holo-vid menu. She stopped when one particular title caught her eye. Mega Chainsaw Slaughter II: Brains on the Chains. She glanced at the information blurb, and discovered with minimal surprise that it was one of the prince's home movies -- filmed during battle via his mech's cameras. Kids these days... The gunslinger kept browsing.
 
Carnage gave way to comedy, after a long selection of vids in which the two seemed to blend together. Then she came to his cartoon collection. From the looks of their cover images, many of them were inclusive of the previous two categories. But she found others as well, which might be more suitable for playing in front of the present audience.
 
Talia picked up a projection device, set it down near the foot of the prince's bed where she'd placed the Twisted Steel one earlier, and pressed the play button. An anime movie about bright, colorful, robot death machines came into existence.
 
Bermund Pelar smiled at her. It somehow seemed appropriate. It was very... Telemachus.
 
----
 
"Oh..." Telemachus said.
 
"Who're you then?"
 
"I'm... Well... I'm..."
 
"What? Don't know your own name? Bloody stupid, that is."
 
"You're a tentacle! A talking tentacle!"
 
"Oh, my mistake. You're not stupid. You're a regular genius. It must be nice, being able to spot the bloody obvious so you can tell everyone else about it. I mean, if you hadn't come along I'd never have known that I was a tentacle. Or that I could talk. Idiot."
 
Telemachus felt the weight of the chainsaw in his hands. But he still hadn't found any batteries, so carving the disagreeable creature into quivering chunks was out of the question. Instead he groped for a suitable verbal riposte.
 
Upon ascending the staircase, he'd arrived in the upper hallway. He'd expected this, due to the customs and traditions of architecture. But he hadn't expected the hall's occupant, who vied with the kitchen's mysophobic, nymphomaniac, robotic nurse for bizarreness. That occupant was, as he had astutely but perhaps superfluously declared, a tentacle. A blue, walking, talking tentacle with one eye set at its upper end -- beneath an expressive eyebrow -- and two rows of large suckers along the rest of its front. It also had little arms sticking out of its sides, along with other appendages which Telemachus might have referred to as tentacles were it not for the dubiousness of speaking of a tentacle with tentacles.
 
"You're a jerk," the boy said at last.
 
"Ooh, I'm wounded! Help me someone!" He placed one of his arms against his brow. "I fear I might perish from such a cutting barb."
 
"Well, at least get out of my way."
 
"No!"
 
The boy stepped to the left. The tentacle moved to block him. The boy stepped to his right. Again the tentacle half-shuffled, half-bounded in front.
 
"You know, I could just beat you up!"
 
"Ever tried to beat up a bloody tentacle, mate? It's not as easy as you'd think. Not that I imagine you do much thinking."
 
"I want to get past!"
 
"Oh, you do, do you? We all want things, sunshine. But we don't always get what we want. I wanted to be an actor. And I would have been great at it too." He cleared his throat. "If not, I'll use the advantage of my power and lay the summer's dust with showers of blood rain'd from the wounds of slaughter'd Englishmen!"
 
"You're pretty good."
 
"Pretty good? I'm bloody marvelous! But my talent's doomed to go to waste. I've called every agent in the country... None of them want a tentacle as a client! And God knows what the professor's going to do when she sees the phone bill..."
 
"Well, I'd like to help you, but..." He paused. A notion popped into his mind. "Hey, have you thought about acting in Japan?"
 
"Japan? I heard they chop up tentacles there and eat them!"
 
"Maybe... But I've heard they put others in hentai."
 
"Hentai?"
 
"They're special movies, with schoolgirls and tentacles."
 
"Schoolgirls? Ah, I would like to work with young, impressionable actors -- and give them the benefit of my thespian excellence! What did you say they were called? Hentai?"
 
"Yeah."
 
"Then I'm off to learn more about them! Thanks, kid!"
 
The tentacle bounded away down the stairs. Telemachus shrugged, and continued to explore. This time, when he pushed a door open and stepped inside the room beyond, he was ready for any manner of strangeness.
 
But he found himself in a disappointingly ordinary bedroom. Perhaps slightly too pink for his tastes, but still ordinary.
 
"Can I help you?"
 
The girl who sat on the bed, her back against the headboard, also seemed...
 
"You're normal."
 
"Thanks... I think."
 
"Everyone else in this place is crazy!"
 
"Tell me about it..."
 
"I met this robot woman who... She wanted to... I mean..."
 
The girl sighed.
 
"That's Nurse Ratchet. My dad had her built. He was a pervert. Now he's dead. Yay!"
 
"And there was a talking tentacle..."
 
"Blue? He's harmless."
 
"But you're normal!"
 
"Well, not quite..."
 
She leaned forward. Six metal appendages rose from behind her like snakes, shifting and swaying in the air above. Each ended with a little snapping mouth.
 
"I do have these. My mother made me get them."
 
"Still normal, compared to the others."
 
"I suppose. Who are you, anyway?"
 
"Telemachus."
 
"And what're you doing here? I mean, it's nice to talk to someone that isn't insane for a change, but why would anyone want to come to this lunatic asylum?"
 
"I'm looking for Professor Squiller."
 
"Oh, my mom." The girl sighed. "Another minion come to work for her, I guess?"
 
"Er... Actually... If she's done what I think she's done, I'm going to kill her."
 
The girl smiled.
 
"Really?"
 
"Yeah."
 
"Great!"
 
"But first I need to get some information out of her."
 
"She's a supervillain! Just look at her the right way and she'll blurt out her evil plan. Then you can kill her. I'm Samantha, by the way."
 
"Oh... Okay. But I'll need some batteries for this thing." He brandished the chainsaw.
 
The girl slid open a drawer in her bedside table, rummaged around inside, and pulled out a hand clutching a couple of big, fat, black and gold cylinders.
 
"Try these."
 
Telemachus popped open the chainsaw's battery compartment, dropped them inside, closed the flap, and pressed the button. The blade came to life with a shriek of metal that gave way to a whirr.
 
"Come on," Samantha said. "I'll take you to her."
 
The younger Squiller led Telemachus along corridor after corridor, through a thick steel security door, and down a couple of hidden passages. When the odyssey ended, it had brought them to a secret underground laboratory -- at least according to the sign on the door. And from the strange machinery lying around the place, combined with the lack of any windows, those advertised designations seemed accurate. Moreover, it was tenanted by the woman he'd been searching for. Professor Sarah Squiller.
 
The family resemblance was obvious. She and Samantha both possessed the same distinctive nose and cheekbones. They shared the same black hair, though the professor's was cut much shorter. Their jumpsuits might have been -- and probably were -- purchased at the same store. And the sextet of mechanical tentacles that emerged from each of their backs was something of a giveaway. Nevertheless, the boy felt obliged to make sure.
 
"Professor Squiller?"
 
"No," the woman replied.
 
"Oh..."
 
"Sarah Squiller is no more. Now there's only... Professor Squid! Muahahahahaha!"
 
"Ah. So does that mean 'yes'?"
 
"Yes," Samantha said. She rolled her eyes. "Mom, this kid here wants to know about your secret evil plans."
 
"Foolish child! Do you think I'd reveal my-"
 
"See, I told you she was too stupid to be part of an evil scheme. She's always been a loser."
 
"You little brat! For your information, I'm working for Colonel Ironside -- one of the most powerful differently abled criminals in the world! I ordered King Mega to unleash Grislak, so the stupid ape could distract Telemachus while Ironside put his plan into action. He's going to take over Murder City!"
 
"No way!" Telemachus exclaimed. "The mayor there's an ex-street-fighter. He won't give in to Ironside!"
 
"Oh, he will... If he ever wants to see his beloved Jess again! Muahaha-"
 
"There, you've heard her stupid scheme," Samantha said. "Can you kill her now?"
 
"Sure."
 
"Great. I'll help."
 
"Muahahahahaha..." Professor Squid stopped laughing and frowned. "Wait, what?"
 
"This is for running all my birthday parties!"
 
Samantha's tentacles pushed off against the floor, launching her into the air -- straight at the professor.
 
"What kind of mother serves poisoned cake to children?" she added.
 
"An evil one!"
 
The two Squillers collided. Six pairs of mechanical tentacles thrashed and clawed, creating a great tangle. It was like watching a dish of cybernetic noodles trying to eat itself.
 
"Ungrateful brat!"
 
"Delusional bitch! You're not even a real professor! You cheated in the exam by writing all the answers on your tentacles!"
 
Their human arms joined the fray, scratching at each other's faces and tugging at one another's hair.
 
Telemachus decided that he should put a stop to it. So he pressed the battery-operated chainsaw's button. It came to life as he ran into the fray.
 
"Now, Telemachus!" Samantha called. "Now!"
 
She twisted aside, pulling her mother's tentacles away with her own -- exposing the professor's torso.
 
The chainsaw flashed and whirred. Her costume and flesh opened. Ropes of intestines poured out.
 
"Told you... I was... evil... villain!" she moaned. "Only... evil... villain... deaths... have... so... many... ellipses..."
 
She took a step, slipped in her own guts, and fell with a thud.
 
"She's dead!" Samantha punched the air with all eight of her arms. "She's dead! She's really dead! Hey, there's a whole bunch of other people I'd really love to kill. Think you could help me?"
 
"Sorry," Telemachus replied. "I need to get to Murder City!"

LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Count of Monte Fisto

2012-10-31T09:47:39Z

Raptor00:

'''Count of Monte Fisto''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z12_a1_q2.jpg|none|Count of Monte Fisto]]
"Hey, are you Glass Rautha?" Telemachus asked.
 
"Who's asking?" the boxer replied. He looked the boy up and down with a sneer.
 
"I am."
 
"Yeah, I'm Rautha. But after tonight no one's going to be calling me 'Glass'. I'll be Iron Rautha... Steel Rautha... Diamond Rautha!" He raised his gloved fists in the air, stared up at the heavens -- or at least the damp, stained ceiling of the jobber's dressing room -- and closed his eyes. "I can already hear them chanting. Die-mond Row-tha! Die-mond Row-tha!"
 
"That's great... But I need to-"
 
"Die-mond Row-tha! Die-mond Row-tha!" The boxer opened his eyes, frowned, lowered his arms, and looked down at Telemachus. "What're you doing in here anyway? You're not on tonight's fight card."
 
"Not yet... But I want to be. Step down, and let me fight King Mega instead."
 
"What? You want me to give up my big break, my chance at the big time, my one shot at-"
 
Telemachus didn't have time for this. He sprang up and nailed Rautha with a right cross on the tip of his prominent chin. The glass-jawed boxer hit the ground before the boy landed.
 
The door to the locker room opened. Telemachus turned towards the newcomer, fist clenched and ready to mete out more of the same. But it wasn't another boxer. It was the portly referee who stood there in his black slacks, white shirt, and bright red cap. Telemachus was no veteran of the squared circle, but even he knew that beating up the referee would be inadvisable.
 
"Mamma mia!" the ref exclaimed. "What-a happened to Rautha?"
 
"He..." Telemachus began. "He knocked himself out shaving!"
 
The referee sighed and stroked the end of his prodigious moustache.
 
"Again? Madonna! But he's a-supposed to be fighting King Mega tonight! And who do you think the promoters are a-going to blame-a? It's a-me! Minchia!"
 
"Hey, why don't I just take his place?"
 
"You? You're just a bambino! King Mega will-a kill you!"
 
"Hey, yesterday I saved the president from ninja. This morning I killed a big monkey monster. I think I can handle a boxing match."
 
The referee shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands in the air.
 
"Madonna! You want-a to get-a yourself killed? You be-a my guest!"
 
----
 
"How long have you known the prince?" Arla asked.
 
"It feels like forever," Talia said.
 
They were milling around a corner of Telemachus' bedroom, running idle hands and eyes over some of the inexhaustible supply of knickknacks which seemed to fill the chamber and turn it into a cross between a museum and a scrapyard. Their places at the prince's bedside had been usurped by the latest psionic healers to arrive and lend their minds.
 
"Has he really killed people?"
 
"One or two..."
 
The girl glanced into the gunslinger's eyes.
 
"Okay, maybe it was one or two thousand," Talia amended. "It's hard to keep track. Things happen pretty fast when you're fighting."
 
"That's... terrible."
 
"They all deserved it though."
 
Arla frowned. Talia decided to change the subject.
 
"Hey, check this out!"
 
She picked up a small disc that was nestled between stacks of assorted toy robots, set it down on the floor, and pressed a button on its side. A large holographic screen popped into being -- taller than either of the two women, and twice as wide as it was tall. Its expanse was dominated by the near life-size images of two people in battlesuits punching each other. Behind the bellicose pair, thousands of spectators were screaming their approval or lack thereof.
 
"This is from when the captain was in Twisted Steel. Tel loved watching her fight."
 
"The captain?"
 
"Rhapsody. You know, the Jian. Back on the Child of Heaven, we had a whole bunch of captains. But when we said 'the captain', everyone knew who we meant. That's how great she is."
 
"We should take this over to the prince."
 
"Reckon it might do some good?"
 
"Yes, if it reminds him of happy times and good friends."
 
----
 
"Phage drek, chummer!"
 
King Mega yelled out the serving suggestion. But in the absence of any available 'drek', he fed Telemachus his fist instead. It proved an unenjoyable repast.
 
The boy flew across the ring and slammed spine-first into the turnbuckle. He slumped against the corner, his arms stretched out on either side -- draped across the ropes like he was being crucified. And from the way his face felt, his groggy mind doubted crucifixion would hurt any more. His dazed vision roamed across the ring, searching for the chunks of brain matter he was sure had been knocked out of his skull.
 
"Go on, scav! You phobed? Baino over here and get wrecked!"
 
King Mega beckoned him over with both fists.
 
Telemachus pulled his arms off the ropes, took a step out of the corner, and fell on his butt. The podgy referee bustled over like a waiter preparing to serve his last meal.
 
"A-one! A-two! A-three!"
 
The boy flopped over and dragged himself towards the ropes -- those dear sweet friends he had been a fool to abandon.
 
"A-four! A-five!"
 
He grabbed hold of them and tried pulling himself up. His legs were like rubber underneath him.
 
"A-six! A-seven!"
 
But somehow he made it to his feet. The count stopped. And the beating continued.
 
King Mega's fists knocked his feeble guard aside and thundered against his ribs, his skull, his brain. His whole body shook with every impact. His spine had just burst out and landed in the crowd... He was sure of it.
 
"Call this a rumble?" King Mega asked. "Kauf tickets for this drek? Find me someone with proper fighting meat on their bones!"
 
A sweeping left hook battered Telemachus' head. He felt something under his back. There was blackness in front of him. Blackness and distant lights. Distant, twinkling lights.
 
"A-one!"
 
It was peaceful here.
 
"A-two!"
 
A good place to rest.
 
"A-three!"
 
To sleep.
 
"A-four!"
 
Yes... Sleep.
 
"A-five!"
 
Sleep forever.
 
"A-six!"
 
"Tel!" The voice... a woman's voice... drifted in front of him like a black bird. No... A dancing dragon.
 
"A-seven!"
 
"Tel! Get up!"
 
"Eight!"
 
"Are you going to let this fat sack of crap beat you?"
 
The darkness parted. The lights blazed above him.
 
"A-nine!"
 
The universe shifted around him, reality tumbling and turning like it'd taken a big hook of its own. When it righted itself, he was on his feet. And no one was counting.
 
Telemachus raised his guard. He wasn't done. Not yet. Not ever.
 
Across the ring, King Mega lowered his arms. His eyes widened. The boy was up... That kind of beating, and the boy was up.
 
The bell rang. And they both breathed a sigh of relief.
 
Telemachus staggered over to his corner and dropped onto the stool. A face appeared next to his, between the ropes.
 
"You can win this, Tel."
 
"Rhapsody? What're you doing here?"
 
"Saving your butt, as usual."
 
"He hurt me bad, Rhapsody."
 
"You're still alive, aren't you?"
 
"I think so..."
 
"Then he hasn't hurt you enough to win. The next round. Just one round, and the fight's yours. One more round."
 
"Think it's going to take more than that..."
 
"No. Not if you fight smart. Think, Tel. Think. Look how much he loves to open that big mouth of his. He leaves himself open. When he does that, pop him there. Then work the body. He's got big muscles on his arms, but I bet that flabby gut of his is weak."
 
"Okay! I'll do it!"
 
The bell rang. The boy got to his feet.
 
"Tel! Don't forget the most important thing..."
 
"What's that?" he asked, turning back.
 
"I believe in you."
 
Telemachus looked across the ring at King Mega.
 
"You're about to get rumpled, scav! I'll knock the noosing meat right out of you!"
 
"Keep talking," the boy murmured, as he stepped forward to meet him.
 
Some of King Mega's punches missed. Telemachus was focused now. He dodged and weaved, letting them slip by his small body. Others hit him hard. But this time he took them without so much as flinching. Pain didn't matter. Broken ribs didn't matter. Only the right moment mattered. He didn't launch any punches of his own. Let King Mega think he had nothing left to throw at him. Let him get cocky. All that mattered was the opening. And there it was...
 
"Time to get rumpled, chummer!" The burly boxer raised one arm in the air.
 
Telemachus struck. Blood and teeth rained on the canvas.
 
"Should have worn a mouthguard, 'chummer'," the boy said.
 
King Mega groaned. His gloves rose to his injured maw. His flabby gut was wide open... So the boy punched. His little arms moved like pistons, throwing out a flurry of powerful blows. Each one thudded into soft flesh, pounding it like they were trying to tenderize a great slab of meat.
 
The fat boxer reeled. He staggered backwards with each fresh blow. It was time to finish him...
 
"I believe in you."
 
Telemachus' fists glowed.
 
"Kasan!"
 
He punched, a tremendous uppercut straight to the abused abdomen. King Mega's guts exploded.
 
Pixelated blood, gore, and excrement spewed out in all directions. King Mega looked down.
 
"Drek!" he groaned.
 
Then he fell.
 
"Tell me why you unleashed Grislak!" Telemachus said, gazing down at his dying foe. "Tell me!"
 
"Wreck off..."
 
The boy stomped down in the middle of King Mega's churned up guts. The boxer screamed.
 
"Professor Squiller! She told me to! Professor Squiller!"
 
Telemachus walked towards the ropes. Behind him the referee scurried over to the dying pugilist.
 
"A-one! A-two..."
 
Telemachus stepped between the ropes, walked down the stairs, and headed up the aisle. Professor Squiller, he mused. Interesting...

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Gut-Phager

2012-10-30T22:43:50Z

Raptor00:

'''Gut-Phager''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z11_a1.jpg|none|Gut-Phager]]
So there I was, with the ball in my hand and two psychos coming to break me in half. I know you've been in situations like that, Rhapsody -- times when you have to think fast and act fast to survive.
 
"She's thrown the ball, Bob!"
 
"It's a bad throw, Jesse! Look how high it's going! She's not getting enough distance! It won't reach any of the other Dragons!"
 
"It doesn't have to, Bob! Look!"
 
Stupid Megas... I threw the ball, and they looked up at it instead of at me.
 
"Unbelievable, Jesse! Ryx is running like a madwoman, and she's... Yes! She's caught up with the ball! It's dropping right to her!"
 
"She threw the ball to herself! I've never seen anything like it! Some of the Megas are trying to break away and stop her, but the Dragons are on them!"
 
"Guan just planted two of them into the pitch at the same time! Jackson's taken down Gressa! They aren't letting anyone through!"
 
"Talia's speeding down the pitch. But wait! Gut-Phager's knocked Kai Wung spinning! Wung's down! And there's no one else there to tackle him! He's between Talia and the end zone!"
 
"Look at Gut-Phager taunting! He's going to make damn sure Ryx has to go through him if she wants to score!"
 
"Time's running out, Bob! She has to make her move!"
 
"She's tossed the ball right up in the air!"
 
"But Gut-Phager isn't as dumb as he looks, Jesse! He isn't looking up. He's going for Talia instead!"
 
"She went to the well once too often with that trick, and she might pay for it now!"
 
"Nice dodge! Ryx can move! That punch went right by her. And... Yes! She just tore Gut-Phager's mask off!"
 
"That's bad news for Gut-Phager, Bob! Most of his skull's metal-plated, but his jaw isn't!"
 
"This is what he gets for being too cocky to wear a helmet! Oh! Flying knee! Ryx just put her knee through his unprotected jaw!"
 
"Maybe she was listening to me, Bob!"
 
"Maybe! But that means Gut-Phager's going to be pissed off at you after the match, Jesse! I might need a new broadcast colleague when he's finished with you!"
 
"Oh, hell..."
 
"Ryx didn't even land after that knee! She just jumped off his shoulder! She's in the air! Gut-Phager's falling, and... Yes! She has it! She caught the ball!"
 
"She's hit the ground, she's rolling, and..."
 
"Touchdown!"
 
"Touchdown!"
 
"Touchdown! She's done it! The Sian Dragons have won the match! The crowd's going wild!"
 
"But look over at the away fans section, Jesse! They aren't happy!"
 
"Uh oh... The Blood Alley Gang are storming the pitch! Looks like they're going to take care of the Dragons themselves!"
 
"Wait a minute, Jesse! They're not going for the Dragons! They're after the Megas! If the grapevine's telling the truth, the Megas just cost them a fortune -- and they're taking it out of their hides! Look at them stomping on Gut-Phager!"
 
"This something you just hate to see, Bob. The Drekchester Megas did their best!"
 
"Yeah? Try telling that to the Blood Alley Gang!"
 
"No thank you, Bob. I don't know what 'rumpled' means, but I'm sure I don't want it to happen to me!"
 
"Look! Talia Ryx just pulled one of them off Gut-Phager, and headbutted him! A thugby helmet against an unprotected face? That's going to leave a mark!"
 
"And here come the rest of the Dragons! They're helping the Megas, and beating the hell out of the Blood Alley Gang! What a great show of sportsmanship!"
 
Yeah... Security was taking way too long to get there, and I wasn't going to let the Bloody Alley Gang get away with that. So I stepped in, and started kicking butt. Guess those losers hadn't counted on that. Or they were too stupid to care. But they cared by the time we were done. Pretty sure every player, on both teams, ended up stomping our boot-prints into them.
 
So, all's well that ends well. Wu Tenchu was happy, and so were the fans. Even the Drekchester Megas were cool about it, after we saved their butts. They came out drinking with us that night. Gut-Phager actually apologized to Jacob Chang for practically powerbombing him through the pitch. But Chang wouldn't hear it -- said it was just part of the game. And no one complained when Screaming Barracuda decided to play at the victory party.
 
After that, it all became kind of a blur. Maybe it was the liquor. But I like to think it was the Music Montage Theory...

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Scum Scrum

2012-10-30T22:43:27Z

Raptor00:

'''Scum Scrum''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z11_a1_q3.jpg|none|Scum Scrum]]
Time flies. Maybe it was all the montages... But before we knew it, we were running out onto a pitch that was lit up with floodlights, and there were thousands of people shouting in the stands. Some of the kung fu students kept looking around like they couldn't believe it. I probably should have trained them for that too, but a girl can't think of everything. I was okay -- after you've been in a few battles, a screaming crowd isn't a big deal. Besides, I was there when you were in Twisted Steel. It was pretty much the same thing.
 
And it was a home crowd. Mostly people from Sian who'd come to cheer the Dragons on. That helped everyone who was nervous. There's nothing quite like hearing an army chanting your name, or seeing your team logo painted on girls' breasts (it was a cold night as well -- hope none of them caught a chill).
 
Wu Tenchu had set aside part of the stadium for the away team though. It was full of people from Drekchester, so it looked kind of like a riot that hadn't got started yet. The Blood Alley Gang were there in the front row. Virgil said they'd bet a ton of credits on the match. And word was that they'd offered a big bonus to any Mega who killed me in the match. Jerks! We should have let Ragnar cut that big one's leg off...
 
Those two guys who do the commentary for all the big thugby matches were there as well, linked to the stadium's sound system so everyone could hear them.
 
"I'm Jesse Shark, here with Bob 'Blam' Boser, broadcasting from Sian's Eternal Dragon Stadium! Did you ever think we'd be back here, Bob?"
 
"No I didn't, Jesse. When the Centurians took over, I thought this place would be closed down for good."
 
"That's right, Bob -- thugby was banned all across Collective space, including in the conquered Sian Empire. A sad day for liberty and sport!"
 
"Yeah! Makes me glad Rhapsody genocided them!"
 
"Wow! Controversial words, Bob!"
 
"Not to this crowd! Just listen to them cheer, Jesse!"
 
"Well, a lot of people think we're going to be witnessing another genocide here tonight."
 
"Nice segue, Jesse! Yeah, most gamblers aren't betting on whether the Dragons will win the match -- they're betting on how many of them will survive!"
 
"Talia Ryx, the captain of the newly rebuilt Sian Dragons, has been landed with the most dangerous job in thugby. She has to be regretting that decision right about now!"
 
"Ha! See that, Jesse?"
 
"It looks like Miss Ryx is making an obscene gesture in our direction."
 
"You're just lucky that's all she's doing! The girl's a great shot with those guns of hers. We've all seen the footage of her shooting camera drones out of the air and datapads out of journalists' hands."
 
"We sure have, Bob. Those reporters should have learned what 'no comment' means!"
 
"Here come the Megas! Just listen to the home fans boo!"
 
We'd all watched holo-vids of the Megas. You have to be prepared, right? But they looked even bigger and nastier in person. Remember what the walls looked like in Drekchester? It was like they'd been cut right out of them. Their armor was covered in graffiti. Some of it was even done in glowing neon. It actually looked pretty cool. I might get a black dress with that stuff on it for nights out.
 
The biggest of them all was their captain, Gut-Phager. I spotted him right away, because he was a few inches taller than everyone else and just wore a mask instead of a helmet (he didn't need one -- his skull got cracked open in a match, so he had metal plates put in). His name was spray-painted on his chest. In case he got lost, I guess. And below it was a picture of a mouth with some long, ropey things hanging out.
 
He walked up and stared into my eyes, like he was trying to psyche me out. Guess he didn't know I'd met way scarier people than him...
 
"You ready to get rumpled, chummer?"
 
At least I think that's what he said... Even my aural implant couldn't really understand his accent through that mask.
 
"Huh? Take those turds out of your mouth before you talk to me." I pointed at the picture on his chest.
 
"Those are guts, prosser! I'm Gut-Phager! I phage guts!"
 
"Yeah, sure they are... Crap-Phager."
 
Okay, if you were there you'd probably have come up with something cleverer. But hey, it worked. He was pissed. He would have gone for me right there, if the refs hadn't separated us and made both our teams line up.
 
There was a minute's silence for the original Sian Dragons. Everyone honored it -- even the Megas and their fans. If someone had spat, you would have heard it hit the ground. The dead players' pictures appeared on the stadium's screens. First there were some from the matches they played. Then there were more, showing them just having fun with their friends and families. I never knew any of them, but I still got a bit choked up.
 
When it was over, there was a round of applause. Then the Sian anthem played. Oh, yeah... I forgot to say. That was Screaming Barracuda's deal. She played for us when we trained, and in return she got to sing the anthem on the night. I didn't tell Wu Tenchu about that. He might have sent an assassin after me...
 
And it worked out great. Barra has a pretty nice voice under all that screaming she usually does. She probably knew she couldn't get away with screwing up our anthem. Not if she wanted to get off Sian alive. I think it was the first time people have ever cheered at the end of one of her songs because it was good, instead of cheering because she'd finally shut up.
 
Did you know Drekchester has an anthem? I didn't. But after the crowd was done cheering, it started up. The Megas were given mics, and they sang it themselves -- with all the away fans joining in.
 
"So you noose you're mega, 
You noose you're some hot drek, 
You baino into Drekchester looking for some creds.
 
You noose that we'll all phobe you, 
You noose that we'll back down, 
Well, chummer, you'll get rumpled right into the ground!
 
You're mega back where you bio, 
They noose you're some hot drek, 
But on our streets you're just a prosser who's going to get wrecked!
 
Drekchester! Drekchester! We'll rumple you for fun! 
Drekchester! Drekchester! Then we'll wreck your mum!
 
We'll twock out all your organs, and kauf them in the slums, 
Kauf them to some street-scavs who need to fill their tums! 
Then we'll get some chems and snuff them up the schnoz, 
And leggie how we taught this scav just what mega was!"
 
It was kind of catchy...
 
After it was over, the refs made us take up positions. It was time to start. That meant it was time for the scrum.
 
A bunch of our guys and a bunch of theirs, all locked together like it was one giant wrestling match -- fighting for the ball that a ref tossed into the mix. Those things are crazy. And I'm glad I wasn't in there with them. I was standing outside, waiting for the ball to pop out so I could grab it and run.
 
"The Dragons are holding their own, Bob!"
 
"They sure are, Jesse. I hear that 'Great Wall' Guan ate a cow and a shark before the match, to keep his weight up -- a little surf and turf training."
 
"I don't know about that, Bob, but he's certainly standing his ground with all that bulk. Still, we should take a moment to remind our younger viewers that overeating can lead to a number of serious health issues!"
 
"Ha! So can thugby!"
 
"Good point, Bob. Good point."
 
"According to my monitor, that's Virgil Jackson in there with him. Didn't you used to play with him in college, Jesse?"
 
"I did! And let me tell you, Bob, those Megas have their work cut out for them. We used to say that Jackson was worth two or three guys in a scrum."
 
"And now the punches are flying! You've gotta love it!"
 
"The Drekchester Megas are good at throwing those hooks that work so well in scrums, Bob. And... Holy crap! Did you see that?"
 
"I sure did, Jesse. That Mega flew out of the scrum like she'd been hit by a truck! Let's bring up the slow-motion replay!"
 
I hadn't seen what happened, because it was on the opposite side. So I looked up at the big screens along with everyone else who wasn't in the scrum.
 
"That looks like the handiwork of Kai Wung, a Dragon whose player profile states he's an expert in over a dozen forms of kung fu. But he barely seemed to touch 'Grunge' Gressa! How did he hit her so hard? The referees might need to examine Wung's suit for illegal strength-enhancing actuators."
 
"I don't think so, Jesse. That move's the one-inch punch -- a strike made famous back in the twentieth century by the legendary Bruce Lee."
 
"I'm impressed by your knowledge of the martial arts, Bob! It's... Wait a second! There's the ball! It's bounced out of the scrum, right into the hands of Zippy Lazlo of the Megas!"
 
"Zippy was on the ball in more ways than one! While everyone else was gawking at the screens, he waited for his opportunity and he grabbed it. Now he's running down the field like he's on fire!"
 
"Lazlo used to be a chem courier. He's used to running for his life and dodging weapons fire at the same time. Talia Ryx is going after him, but with that lead he has, she has no chance of catching him."
 
"Lucia the Cobra's on defense. She's heading across the pitch to intercept him. That girl's fast!"
 
"Zippy's looking round. He sees her coming, and he's putting on a burst of speed! He knows she's the only one who can keep him from the end zone now!"
 
"Lucia's gaining on him! She's right behind him, and-"
 
"Is she...?"
 
"Yes, Jesse! Lucia's garroting him!"
 
"The Megas' coaches are screaming on the sidelines, Bob! They're complaining that she's using a foreign object -- an illegal weapon! And there's the whistle! One of the refs is going over to investigate."
 
"A load of Dragons and Megas are gathering around as well. This could turn ugly!"
 
"The ref's examining Lucia's garrote. Let's put his mic over the sound system, so the fans can hear what he's saying."
 
"...legal! Miss... Uh... Miss Cobra's garrote is attached to her gauntlet. That makes it a legitimate part of her armor, just like her spikes! I repeat, it's not an illegal weapon. Let play continue!"
 
"The Megas don't look happy with that call, Bob. But just listen to the crowd cheer!"
 
"Zippy Lazlo is the unhappiest of them all, Jesse. The ref's telling him to let Lucia put her garrote back around his neck!"
 
"And there's the whistle! The match continues! The garroting continues! The... Wait a second, Bob -- Lazlo doesn't have the ball anymore!"
 
"One of the Megas is running over to the end zone. It's Gut-Phager! And he has the ball! Gut-Phager's got the ball! Lazlo must have passed it off to him while everyone was arguing! There's the whistle!"
 
"Touchdown!"
 
"Touchdown!"
 
"Touchdown! Apologies to all the fans who've sent us complaints about Neo-Americanisms in our commentary. But call it a try, call it a touchdown, it all means the same thing: the Megas have scored! The Dragons' fans are booing! Team captain Talia Ryx is grabbing one of the referees by his shirt and yelling in his face. But the call stands! The referees are allowing it! It's a touchdown! One-nil to the Drekchester Megas!"

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Team Building

2012-10-30T22:42:59Z

Raptor00:

'''Team Building''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z11_a1_q1.jpg|none|Team Building]]
So there I was. Me -- a captain. Pretty weird, huh? I knew the first time someone called me that, I'd turn around and expect to see you there. But I guess we're both captains now, captain.
 
There was just one little problem... I didn't have a team. That's kind of the first thing you need when you want to play thugby. Well, maybe the ball. But after you have the ball, it's the next thing. Did you hear what happened to the Sian Dragons? The old ones, I mean. The rest of us only found out after we got Sian back, and I don't know how much you've been watching the news networks.
 
When the Centurians attacked, the Dragons put on their armor and went out to fight them. They were gunned down in front of the stadium, trying to protect people who'd taken shelter inside. Every last one of them. There's a statue of them there now. Wu had it put up, even though he's always hated thugby players.
 
So, I needed to find some new recruits. And since I didn't really know any athletes, I figured I'd have to improvise...
 
----
 
"I thought an assassin would be hard to sneak up on."
 
"I'm not an assassin." She turned around, pulling the guy she was garroting round with her -- so he ended up between us. His tongue was hanging out like a happy dog's. The rest of him didn't look so happy though. "I'm just a concerned citizen. And you didn't sneak up on me. I recognized your footsteps and knew you weren't a threat."
 
"I'm kind of insulted... My superior officers always used to say I was a threat to the rest of the squadron whenever I got in the cockpit."
 
"Did Wu Tenchu tell you I was here?"
 
'Here' was an abandoned toy factory. The Centurians closed it down back when they took over. Guess the jerks didn't like stuffed bears.
 
"Yeah, he said you were taking care of something for him. What did this guy do?" I pointed at the man she was choking. He reached out, like he wanted me to help him. But if Wu Tenchu wanted him dead, I figured he'd done something to deserve it...
 
"He informed for the Centurian Collective during the occupation."
 
"I think they have trials to handle that kind of thing..."
 
"He covered his tracks too well for that. Besides, my way's quicker. What do you want, Talia?"
 
Typical Lucia the Cobra. No small talk, no asking how I'd been. I could see why Wu hired her to help clean things up. She was his kind of woman.
 
"You're pretty fast, right? And good at fighting."
 
"Yes. Your point?"
 
She dropped the guy. He fell face-first into a pile of Happy Lucky Bears. I used to love those things as a kid...
 
"How would you like to play thugby?"
 
"What?"
 
"It's this sport where-"
 
"I know what thugby is."
 
"Great! Then you're already qualified! I-"
 
"Wu Tenchu sent you here to ask me that?"
 
"I told him I wanted you for my team. I'm captain of the Sian Dragons now."
 
"Since when does he care about thugby?"
 
"Since we got challenged by the Drekchester Megas."
 
Oh, yeah... Sorry, Rhapsody. I probably should have mentioned that earlier. What can I say? I suck at storytelling.
 
"The Megas? Don't those idiots know the whole team got slaughtered?"
 
"Pretty sure that's why they challenged us. The Dragons beat them in the last three matches. They want a chance to get their own back, and probably don't think whatever team we throw together will stand a chance."
 
"Wu should just tell them to go to hell. Or send me to Drekchester to shut them up..."
 
"That's what I said, but he said the match would 'show the galaxy that the newly liberated Sian Empire is ready to resume its place in the interstellar community'."
 
"That sounds like something he'd say."
 
"Personally, I think he just didn't want to lose face in front of the Megas. Anyway, he said it would be great PR to have a hero of the liberation as team captain."
 
"And you got stuck with the job."
 
"Yeah. So, how about it? Want to join up? We have fancy uniforms and everything!"
 
----
 
Then I went clubbing.
 
The Galloping Galaxy was holding its big reopening. You should see the place now -- they rebuilt the whole thing twice as high as it was before, and added a new low gravity room. I knew the guy I wanted to see was going to be there.
 
I wore something slutty, had a few Tygers (hey, I like the stripes!), and went onto the main dance floor to do my thing. Didn't take long for someone to grope me. Just what I was waiting for. I turned round and punched him out. That got Virgil's attention.
 
You remember Virgil, right? He used to be a doorman on Cythera. He stuck around on Sian, and ended up becoming Galloping Galaxy's head of security. I'd tried to get in touch with him, but he was busy sorting stuff out for the reopening. So I got creative, and ended up in his office (the guy I floored got thrown out -- sucks to be him!). It was pretty cool in there. He had these big screens all over the walls, ceiling, and even the floor. They showed everything in the club. It was like having x-ray vision or something.
 
"Tonight of all nights?" he said. He had this frown on. Maybe it was the Tyger, Tyger, but I thought it made him look all cute and serious. "You had to cause trouble while all those media people are here covering our reopening?"
 
"Hey, most of the reporters were too wasted to see anything..." I pointed at one of the screens on the floor. That woman from Channel 509 was in a hallway, pressing this young guy against the wall and pretty much sucking his face off. "Besides, you'll get great publicity out of it. Don't mean to brag, but I'm hot stuff at the moment."
 
"You have a point..."
 
"Anyway, I needed to talk to you. And you weren't returning my calls."
 
"I've been busy."
 
"Me too. That's why I'm here. I'm putting a thugby team together, and you'd be perfect for it."
 
"Huh? You think every big black guy just happens to be good at thugby?"
 
"No. But the ones who went to university on a thugby scholarship? Probably."
 
"You know about that?"
 
"Hey, I'm not just a pretty face and a pair of guns!"
 
He glanced down.
 
"Not those ones! The ones I shoot people with!"
 
"Oh..."
 
"Anyway, I checked to see if I knew anyone who used to be an athlete, and I came up with you. So, want to play for the Dragons?"
 
"No chance. My thugby days are behind me."
 
"We're playing the Drekchester Megas."
 
"Then count me in."
 
"Heh. Yeah, I figured you'd say that. When I was reading up on your bio, I saw your blog. Not a fan of Drekchester, huh?"
 
"Have you heard the way they talk there? It's like they took ancient Greek and fed her chems until she became a drugged-up slut! As a classics major, it pisses me off." He got that look on his face, the one he gets when he's about to say something fancy that no one else understands. "It fills me with anger equal to the wrath of Achilles -- the direful spring of woes unnumbered!"
 
"Yeah... If you say so."
 
----
 
Things were going pretty well. I may not be as great as you are when it comes to recruiting people, or like Illaria was, but I can get the job done. Plus I got lucky. I found out that a bunch of Niflung thugby players were stranded on Sian. They came for the battle, helped us fight the Centurians, then started drinking to celebrate. A couple of months later they were still drinking, and ended up selling their ship for beer money. Niflungs...
 
I got Wu Tenchu to settle their tab and give them a new ship if they agreed to play. But they probably would have done it for free anyway. When their team didn't hear back from them, they thought they'd died in the battle -- and had them replaced. So playing the Drekchester Megas was a way for them to get back into the game. Maybe even impress some of the Niflung teams they wanted to play for.
 
I hit up some kwoons as well, to fill out the team with kung fu experts. If you can kick someone's head off, you can kick a ball, right? Most of them told me to get lost. The masters said stuff about how thugby killed the soul and diminished your chi. Pretty lame, huh? But I went to one of those modern kwoons, the kind of place where the cybered-up kung fu guys train. They were up for it, so I picked out the ones who didn't have too many implants.
 
After that, I just wanted one more player. We needed more beef in the team, someone big and heavy to help out in the scrum. And I knew where to find him. I just had to follow the sound of crying restaurant owners.
 
I don't think you ever met Guan Chao. He used to compete in Twisted Steel as 'Great Wall' Guan. They called him that because he's big, and he beat up the Mongol Horde (a stable of fighters, not the real Mongol horde -- I think the Mongolians stopped having hordes a while back). He went out and helped fight in the streets when we needed that distraction. And in the last battle, while you and me were fighting in front of the palace, he took out a whole Storm squad single-handed. Just charged into them and beat them to death with his bare hands. Well, okay... He was wearing a battlesuit. So not exactly 'bare' hands. Still damn good though.
 
He was given a medal for that, just like the ones the rest of us got. And pretty much every restaurant on the planet said they'd give free meals for life to any customer who had one...
 
I found him sitting at a table, covered with plates and plates of dim sum (the table, I mean -- not Guan). He was using two pairs of chopsticks, and demolishing everything -- shoving food into his mouth as fast as his hands could move. The owner and his wife were arguing in the kitchen. She wanted to throw Guan out before they went broke.
 
"Hey, Guan... How'd you feel about playing thugby?"
 
He didn't answer. Pretty sure he heard me, but he didn't want to stop eating long enough to talk. I waited for him to finish, but the owner won the argument -- and waiters kept bringing out more dim sum. So Guan just kept on eating. Until I pulled my pistol out and blew the ends off his chopsticks.
 
The waiters started yelling, and some of the customers ducked for cover. But the owner's wife gave me a round of applause.
 
"As I was saying... Would you like to play thugby?"
 
"Fine! Fine! Whatever! Just bring me more chopsticks!"

LotS/The Story/Because I'm the Wanderer/Everyone's a Superhero

2012-10-28T23:27:20Z

Raptor00:

'''Everyone's a Superhero''' 
"What'll it be?"
 
 
"Whisky."
 
 
"What kind?"
 
 
"Anything without an 'e' in the word."
 
 
The barmaid's brow furrows. She turns round, revealing the slogan that dances across the back of her t-shirt in glowing letters ("Look, Love, But Don't Touch Unless You Tip Real Good!" -- accompanied by a downwards arrow), and inspects the rows of bottles arrayed along the length of the wall like a battalion of mismatched soldiers. Perhaps she's new to the job, or else used to serving nothing but cheap malt liquor. Either way, she seems lost as she tries to locate your desired beverage. But she's making an effort... She scrutinizes a collection of Neo-American bourbons, named after old states, long-dead presidents, or archaic firearms, and rejects each one in turn. They bear the insolent vowel that separates the Scottish product from those of other dominions.
 
 
"One shelf up, over on the left," you say.
 
 
Her eyes fall upon the dusty bottle. She gives a squeal of girlish satisfaction, perhaps delighted by the discovery that the fabled spelling does indeed exist, and celebrating this addition to her alcoholic understanding. Then she snatches it from the shelf and places it before you. There's a beaming smile across her face. She reminds you of a dog who's fetched something for her mistress and now wags her tail in anticipation of approval.
 
 
"Thanks."
 
 
Her smile widens. Your lips return it of their own accord, infected by a merriment that doesn't reach your eyes or mind. She reaches under the bar for a tumbler. You give the bottle an idle perusal while you wait.
 
 
According to the label, this Glenmorangie spent ten years acquiring and evolving its taste. Good old Scots... Still doing things the traditional way. An off-world distiller once moved to Scotland and set up a plant where they used artificial aging. He disappeared a week later. The rumor is that he was turned into haggis. You're not entirely certain what haggis is, but you can't imagine the process was pleasant.
 
 
From the look of the bottle, it may have spent twice as long gathering dust on the shelf as it did gathering flavor in the barrel. But it'll still work.
 
 
The bottom of the tumbler makes an unsatisfying tap against the faux wood surface of the bar. Soft glass. Designed to splat rather than shatter if you hit someone with it. This drinking hole must see a lot of fights. If one breaks out, you'll have to remember to use the bottle instead...
 
 
But if the glass is cheap, the measures aren't. The barmaid sloshes amber liquid into the tumbler until it's nearly full to the brim. Yeah, she's new all right. You make a mental note to tip high, to cover the real cost of the drink.
 
 
She trips away to serve someone at the other end of the bar, the clicking of her heels playing her off with their percussion -- leaving you alone with your scotch and your thoughts. The memory this reawakens isn't a welcome one. So you stare into the long mirror behind the bar for a distraction.
 
 
The first thing you see is a strange face. A woman, her gaze locked with yours. Only the reflection's position allows you to recognize the unfamiliar features as belonging to your own visage -- or at least the one you've adopted.
 
 
There are countless humans in the galaxy, trillions of distinct faces. Even the most famous or infamous should be able to slip into anonymity if they divorce themselves of the clothing and trappings for which they're known, and perhaps make a few minor changes -- a pair of cyberpunk goggles here, a splash of bubblegum pink hair dye there. But it's not a risk you're willing to take. There could be any number of people out hunting for you. So you're hiding behind a holographic disguise, staring into another countenance when you look in the mirror.
 
 
Maybe you should get something permanent done instead, have a surgeon slap a new identity on your skull. But first you'd have to find one you trusted well enough to let her put you to sleep and take lasers to your face.
 
 
You glug the sweet, oaky scotch. Your eyes remain fastened on your reflection's, as though challenging her to a drinking contest. Unsurprisingly, you both set an empty glass down at the exact same moment. The barmaid's heels click their way over. She flashes a smile in which sympathy, understanding, and amusement mingle, then refills the soft glass vessel with the same cornucopian generosity. You decide that you like her.
 
 
The rest of the dingy bar is spread out behind your dubious doppelganger. You focus your attention on its denizens as the second dose of whisky follows the first -- hoping to find entertainment in lieu of contemplation.
 
 
Two young women sit on either side of a small table, dressed in a way that would make prostitutes blush. The drinks before them -- one yellow, the other pink -- throb with a bright glow which brings to mind neon signs and toxic waste. Alcopops. Twice as strong as beer, as easy to drink as lemonade. Chemistry is the natural enemy of sobriety.
 
 
Judging by their laughter and high-pitched babble -- inane even by the standards of their demographic -- these aren't their first drinks of the night. The same thought has probably occurred to the two boys watching them from a nearby table, pondering whether to make their move now or wait until further inebriation will make them seem more handsome and charming.
 
 
Teenage courtship rituals... You direct your gaze elsewhere, leaving them to their future of drunken romance and hung-over regret.
 
 
You're just in time to see a man get out of a booth, leaving a weeping woman in his wake. His stride is firm and fast. Muscles ripple under his dark flesh. A weapon bulges beneath his shirt. He's a fighter -- primal strength and deadliness radiate from him, tens of thousands of years of evolution warning the universe at large to keep its distance. And yet there's moisture at the corners of his eyes.
 
 
The woman cries something out, but it's made unintelligible by the tears which lacerate her thick makeup -- turned into a banshee's wordless wail. Her face slumps onto the table, nestled in her arms, and she shudders with the force of her sobs.
 
 
He keeps walking. By the time he reaches the door, a single tear has rolled down his cheek, leaving a glistening wound. Wherever he's going, neither of them believes he's coming back.
 
 
You drain your glass. This time the barmaid's heels are silent -- muffled by your thoughts.
 
 
"You sure, honey?" She raises the bottle and her eyebrows.
 
 
You nod. The amber pours.
 
 
"Not seen you around here before. New in town?"
 
 
"Just passing through."
 
 
"Figures. We don't get a lot of visitors in New Culverton. Except wannabe vigilantes, or supervillains trying to get in on the action. And most of both end up dead in a couple of days. Where you heading?"
 
 
"Nowhere in particular. But my ship needed fuel, and I needed a stiff drink. This seemed as good a place as any."
 
 
The barmaid waits for a few seconds. When you don't offer any further conversation, she clicks away in search of drinks to replenish.
 
 
You take another glug. This Glenmorangie deserves to be treated as a sipping whisky. But you're in the mood for gulping. As the sweet burn works its way down your throat, you return to the looking glass -- seeking interest in the mirrored world beyond.
 
 
This time you find something more pleasant than the drunken teenagers (who're now sharing the same booth, kissing and fondling with the clumsiness of drink and desperation), or the crying woman.
 
 
There's a group of men sat around a collection of pushed-together tables, the surfaces of which are littered with drained glasses -- the debris of a drinking session that must have lasted for some hours, perhaps ever since they left work for the day. Their laughter and chatter are rough and rugged, sometimes spilling into indecency. When the barmaid comes near she has to field catcalls, propositions both matrimonial and sinful, and slap away groping hands. She does this all with a pleasant laugh and a winning smile that manages to encourage without exacerbating.
 
 
The easy camaraderie is enjoyable in spite of its churlishness. You find yourself drinking the spectacle as much as the scotch, taking in the jokes and banter with the sponge-like absorbency of the solitary drinker.
 
 
The tumbler is emptied twice, but slower than before. You're savoring instead of glugging, allowing human interaction -- albeit from the perspective of an onlooker rather than a participant -- to supplement the alcohol. Sobriety, or as near to it as a woman with a few scotches in her system can claim to be, is tolerable enough with such distractions.
 
 
You're so engrossed in your voyeurism that you don't fully notice the wave of silence washing through the bar until it submerges the men you're observing. First the words and laughs die in the throats of the ones facing towards the door. Their companions follow suit the moment they turn around to see what the first lot saw.
 
 
She appears in the mirror first. A young woman, no more than eighteen from the look of her, with a blonde hair and a low-cut top. Pretty, but not good-looking or voluptuous enough to have quietened an entire bar. Perhaps she's some sort of celebrity, a singer or an actress -- part of the vast swath of interstellar pop culture which exists beyond your knowledge or concern. No... There's anger on some of the faces in the mirror. Derision. Disgust.
 
 
When you study the woman in the flesh, glimpse the right side of her face instead of the reflection of the left, you understand. There's a semi-perm tattoo on her cheek -- the kind you heat up, slap on your skin, and have to remove with a special chem. From its cheap sheen and bright colors, it's new. Probably applied tonight. And it depicts the Centurian Collective's emblem.
 
 
Your fingers tighten around the tumbler, indenting its soft glass.
 
 
You saw newscasts about this kind of thing while you were aboard the Silver Shadow. Centurian Pride, they called it. After the Collective's defeat in the war, many of its citizens around the galaxy decided to start displaying their colors. Some of them were interviewed, either crying about the deaths of loved ones and talking about shared grief or else screaming about solidarity and justice.
 
 
There's a soft murmur that increases in volume and variety as conversations pick up again. People are returning their attention to drinks or friends. As far as they're concerned, the girl and her tattoo are only of passing interest. Varlec was a neutral world in the conflict -- a collection of autonomous settlements such as New Culverton that had neither the capacity to commit military forces nor the inclination to offer support. To most of the bar's patrons, the battles and the fate of the Centurians were just things viewed on a screen or read in a holo-paper, no different from soap operas, celebrity gossip, or the plight of some unpronounceable species of quadruped on an inconsequential backwater world.
 
 
You avert your gaze, throwing your attention back at the mirror. Just a stupid kid. Not worth starting anything over... You swallow a glassful of whisky. The flavors pass you by, leaving only a quick burn.
 
 
The group of reflected men, who provided such entertainment just a moment before, haven't returned to their light banter and merriment. One of them is glaring at the girl and muttering to the others in a low voice. Your aural implant relays a torrent of slurred vitriol from the movement of his lips.
 
 
"What'll it be, honey?" the barmaid asks.
 
 
Her eyes flick between the girl and the men. She's noticed it too. The sign of impending trouble.
 
 
"Tyger, Tyger." The Prider says the brand name as though it were a challenge. Her eyes are practically smoldering.
 
 
She seems disappointed when the barmaid sets a cylindrical bottle before her, containing a bright orange liquid marred by oily black stripes. Yes... She wanted to be refused service, so she could make a fuss. You've seen her type before. Young, stupid activist out looking for a reason to throw her cause in someone's face. The kind that keeps going until they get what they want or get punched in the face -- which sometimes amounts to the same thing.
 
 
The men are leaning in close to each other, their mannerisms reeking of collaboration and conspiracy. The ringleader's face is hidden by someone's shoulder now, concealing his words.
 
 
"Honey, you want to be careful-" the barmaid begins.
 
 
The Prider glares at her. If looks could kill, the ranks of bottles would be festooned with the barmaid's innards. She takes the hint, stops talking, and clicks away. The Prider takes a long drink of her Tyger, Tyger, as if in celebration of a victory or as a taunt. When she sets it back down, the sloshing black stripes reassert themselves into the 'fearful symmetry' proclaimed in the ads.
 
 
Her eyes meet yours in the mirror.
 
 
"What're you looking at?" she asks.
 
 
In your mind's eye you lunge over, grab her by her blonde hair, and smash her face against the bar until the tattoo is drowned in blood. In reality you look away, leaving her to take another celebratory drink at the thought that she's stared you down.
 
 
"Oi, Cent-bitch!"
 
 
The men are on their feet now. The dark-haired ringleader calls out again.
 
 
"Your lot killed my cousin!"
 
 
"Yeah? And both my parents were killed guarding Zhen Bao," she replies, without turning round. "Screw you."
 
 
The man's eyes blaze. Red lights flicker at his wrists and shoulders. You can't tell if they're genuine cybernetic implants or just fashion statements. But either way, the Prider's in for it now...
 
 
The men march towards the bar, knocking chairs out of their way, bumping against tables and sending glasses tumbling to the floor -- where they make a series of anticlimactic splats. The girl keeps drinking. As much as you hate her, you can't help admiring her guts.
 
 
But even if she's nonchalant about her impending homicide, the establishment isn't. Two big heaps of flesh lumber out from a darkened corner. They stop between the men and the Prider, their muscles undulating like boulders shifting through treacle. The bar's Snuuth bouncers.
 
 
"Time to go, boys," one of them says. His tone is friendly, but when he cracks his knuckles it sounds like a skull being smashed open. An inauspicious omen for anyone who's thinking of starting trouble.
 
 
There are only two bouncers. The men have them outnumbered three to one. But the Snuuth are big. And if this lot are regulars, they'll want to drink here again. So the ringleader raises his hands in a palms-out gesture of acquiescence.
 
 
"Fine! Don't wanna drink in the same bar as a Collective whore anyway!"
 
 
His friends echo that sentiment as they bustle towards the door. The bouncers bring up the rear, escorting them from the premises.
 
 
The girl finishes her drink with a sharp, flourishing upturn of the bottle. She gestures for another before the last drop has slipped into her mouth, the empty cylinder still extending straight up from her face as though she were performing a balancing trick.
 
 
A fresh Tyger, Tyger is placed in front of her. Your tumbler is refilled.
 
 
The two of you drink.
 
 
After a few gulps of her burning bright, symmetrical beverage, she scans the mirror -- taking in the entirety of the bar. From the snort she makes, it doesn't please her. Of course not... With those men gone, there's no one left to hassle her. No chance for her to play the aggrieved martyr, and take a kicking for her allegiance. No bruises to show off when she meets with other Priders.
 
 
"We may've lost the war," she says, her raised voice cutting through the conversations floating behind her, "but those Sian bastards don't have their Emperor anymore, do they? Or their damn Princess! Let 'em celebrate the win in hell!"
 
 
The tumbler crumples in your grasp. Whisky sloshes over your hand like spilled blood.
 
 
She gazes around, making eye contact with everyone who can be bothered looking in her direction. But none of them take the bait. No one's interested. So she snorts again, polishes off her drink, swipes her credits to settle her tab, and heads out the door.
 
 
You settle up as well. Then you make for the exit, fists clenched at your sides.
 
 
'''Your Enemy's Keeper''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a1_q1.jpg|none|Your Enemy's Keeper]]
The night air is an icy whisper across your face, after the warmth of the bar and the fire of the scotch. It slashes sobriety into your mind like the cut of a cold blade. But it doesn't cool your anger.
 
 
No sign of her on the street, in either direction. Where is she?
 
 
The universe answers with a scream. A girl's scream. Followed by jeers and laughter, all male.
 
 
They came from the alleyway that separates the bar from the neighboring pawn shop, dividing the place where the desperate gain their credits from the one they fritter them away in.
 
 
There, illuminated by the gaudy glow of purple and cyan lights... The men from the bar. And the Prider. Five of them are standing back, blocking the alley's mouth, cheering and hollering like the crowd at a Twisted Steel event. The sixth, their ringleader, has the girl by the throat. She's pressed up against the wall, her eyes wide and unblinking -- the frozen stare of prey looking upon a predator. Spluttered squeals slip from her mouth. Her hands press and claw at the wall behind her, as though hoping to find some form of escape there.
 
 
"This is for my cousin, Centi!" he hisses.
 
 
His free hand reaches down towards his belt.
 
 
You turn and walk away. The Prider was looking for trouble, and she found it. You'll leave her to her fate, and the men to their sport.
 
 
"Rhapsody!..."
 
 
The voice brings you to a halt.
 
 
"Rhapsody!! You can't let them do this!"
 
 
It's her voice. Stronger than soul, closer than conscience. The voice which commanded your obedience when it came from living lips, and still overpowers you even from memory and imagination.
 
 
"Rhapsody!!"
 
 
You turn back, towards the terrified girl, the leering onlookers, and the man struggling to work his belt buckle one-handed.
 
 
The people blocking the alley cry out in protest when you shove your way past. You ignore them and keep going, until you're close enough to see the spittle on the ringleader's lips.
 
 
"Get off her!"
 
 
There's fury in your words. It isn't just directed at him, loathsome as he is. You're angry at the Prider for causing all this trouble, enraged that you have to intervene to help a girl with a goddamn Centurian Collective tattoo stamped on her face. But he doesn't know that. So the anger will show him that you're serious, that he'd damn well better listen if he knows what's good for him...
 
 
He eyes you up and down.
 
 
"What's your problem? You some kind of Centi-lover?"
 
 
The other men are moving behind you, as subtle and stealthy as a gang of drunken rhinos.
 
 
"I hate the Centurians more than you could possibly imagine. But I'm not going to let you do that."
 
 
They're closer now, almost in striking distance.
 
 
"Piss off!" A blob of spittle punctuates his sentence. It splats against your cheek.
 
 
Well, you gave them a chance...
 
 
'''High-Kicking Heroine''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a1_q2.jpg|none|High-Kicking Heroine]]
A punch glances off the side of your face, powered by intoxicated enthusiasm but ruined by the lousy balance of tipsy legs. When you punch back, your feet and thighs lend force instead of stealing it. Knuckles hit the solar plexus. A drunken fool hits the ground.
 
 
Scotch is an unreliable ally in combat. But you could drink Scotland dry, along with the entire distillery world of Argyll III, and still be able to handle these punks.
 
 
You whirl round, intercepting a kicking leg with your elbow and sending the kicker spinning. Circular motion doesn't agree with him, or at least not with the contents of his stomach. When he falls onto his hands and knees, they make their colorful escape. You shuffle away from him, leaving him to puke a rainbow where he won't trip you up.
 
 
If you wanted to, you could have pulled your sidearm and put a shot in each of their heads. But you're not killing anyone for a Centurian. So you pick your blows as carefully as whisky and circumstance allow. You want them to walk away from this one.
 
 
The ringleader comes at you next. He's less drunk than the others. Either that, or he can handle his liquor better. He even has the presence of mind to feint with his left before throwing his right in a crisp, sharp cross. The man knows how to box. But the Sian Empire doesn't train its people to lose street fights.
 
 
Your forearm parry might have come out of a textbook. Even after all these years, hour upon hour of martial drills have left their imprint. Your arm rotates, hitting his with first one side and then the other -- distributing the impact between both of your bones. A rigid, stylized, traditional block. The kind taught more as a matter of form, as part of kata, than for its practicality. It should be ineffective against a decent boxer. But you're fast, your reflexes those of an ace pilot.
 
 
If the block came from a textbook, the riposte comes from the gutter -- a headbutt that sends the top of your skull crashing into the point of his jaw. He collapses forward. You shove him away, hooking his leg with yours as he goes. He falls on his butt, hard.
 
 
The others are already stumbling and staggering towards the mouth of the alley, like a pack of zombies chasing after a victim. They've had enough.
 
 
Their leader stares up at you, his hands pressed against his chin as though they're all that's keeping the mandible bone attached to the rest of his head. His eyes are sharp and shocked.
 
 
"You! Didn't know was you! Sorry! Sorry! Have her! Yours! All yours!"
 
 
He scrambles to his feet.
 
 
"All yours!" he repeats, with almost comic earnestness.
 
 
Then he runs after the others.
 
 
"You!" This time it's the Prider who fires the second-person pronoun at you. She's leaning against the wall, as though still pinned there by her assailant's grasp. Her eyes are just as wide as before. But the fear is gone. "You bitch!"
 
 
It's then that you tilt your gaze downwards. The shape of your nose is remarkably familiar. Not at all like the one you were wearing earlier tonight...
 
 
You sigh. Maybe it was the headbutt that messed up your holographic disguise.
 
 
"You bitch!" she shrieks. "You bitch!"
 
 
The woman's face twitches. It makes her seem like a malfunctioning robot, her computerized brain locked into a subroutine -- unable to do anything other than spit out the same words again and again.
 
 
Then something clicks. Her mind moves on, grasping its next thought. Her eyes flash.
 
 
She lunges at you, shrieking and clawing.
 
 
"I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"
 
 
The backhand you give her is light. Closer to a slap than a punch. But it takes her in the side of the face, right on the Centurian tattoo, and knocks her clean off her feet. She doesn't brace herself well for the fall. Her forehead thuds against the ground. A soft groan and a trickle of blood emerge from under a messy wave of blonde hair.
 
 
You sigh. Just a stupid kid... You need to make sure she's okay...
 
 
That thought hits you, and you crouch down beside her. Then something else hits you.
 
 
Sprawled on the ground. Not good. Moved out of instinct. Slipped some of the blow. Still hit hard. With what? Feels like a battering ram. Warm liquid in mouth. Blood. Great...
 
 
"Stay down, creep!"
 
 
A woman's voice... Familiar? Head throbbing, but still... Recognize it.
 
 
You slip into a roll. Another maneuver made natural by years of training. The smooth, instinctive motion gives you clearance, moving you further away from your attacker. And it helps you clear your head. When you rise in a fighting stance, arms ready to block and counterattack, your mind is focused once more.
 
 
"You!"
 
 
That pronoun, fired at you again. It's been one of those days...
 
 
The woman stands above the groaning Prider like a sentinel, her chestnut hair swaying in time with the movements of her lithe combat stance -- the weight shifting from leg to leg, threatening to throw her into a myriad different forms of attack or defense. There's a light blue glow around each of her boots. And you know they're not just a fashion statement. Nor is energy-discharging footwear the most dangerous element of those long legs...
 
 
For the third time tonight, you stare into eyes that gleam with recognition. But this time there's no shock. There's only steely resolve. Unflinching determination. Righteous anger.
 
 
"From interstellar war crimes to beating up young girls in alleyways?" she asks. "How the malevolent have fallen."
 
 
"Save the superhero babble, Mech-Leg. There aren't any cameras around, and I'm not in the mood."
 
 
"You're wanted for questioning by the Union of Human Worlds. Come quietly, and I won't give you the beating you deserve for what you did here."
 
 
"She started it..."
 
 
"Princess Illaria would be ashamed of what you've become."
 
 
"Damn it, Leg! I told you -- I'm not in the mood. Knock off the golden age crap! Take that girl to the hospital, or whatever stupid super-secret clubhouse you guys have, and stay out of my way. I've had enough of this town."
 
 
You storm off towards the street. But you don't get far.
 
 
Movement flashes at the corner of your eye, where she's standing. You don't look that way though. You know what this one can do, how she fights... Instead you look up.
 
 
There she is, at the apex of a jump that would be impossible for human muscle alone -- launched there by the power of her cybernetic legs -- slipping into a diving kick that looks as if it could take your head clean off.
 
 
'''The Leg and the Fist''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a1_q3.jpg|none|The Leg and the Fist]]
Her boots flash through the air, each deft kick so swift it seems as if a hundred trailing afterimages are burned into your vision -- a luminous chronicle of the entire fight, fading and evolving every second.
 
 
You don't try to block them. Her augmented legs are like metal bars. And now that she knows whom she's up against, Mech-Leg isn't holding anything back. She understands what you're capable of. If you put a forearm in front of one of those kicks, you might need a surgeon to stitch it back on again.
 
 
So you dodge, slipping away from the burning barrage -- wishing that you hadn't drunk so much.
 
 
A high kick arcs round at your face, threatening to scramble your features so badly that you'll never need a disguise again. You duck under it, throw your arms against the back of the leg. Classic jujitsu: use her momentum against her. Put her off balance. But they didn't have to deal with cybernetic enhancements in feudal Japan...
 
 
The leg she's standing on doesn't give way at all. It might as well belong to a steel sculpture. Instead the raised one sweeps round in a circle, thwarting your technique, and cleaves down at the top of your skull in an axe kick. You move aside to let her descending heel flash past you, ready to capitalize and slip a punch through her guard. It doesn't work out as planned.
 
 
Her heel stops at shoulder-height, making a mockery of momentum, and her left leg chooses this moment to relinquish its seemingly unbreakable hold on the ground. She twists in mid-air, and thrusts her left foot at your chest.
 
 
It isn't a powerful blow, relatively speaking. From that position, she can't throw her full force behind it. But that's cold comfort as you slam into the wall. Your ribs have been through a lot. They remind you of this with a burst of pain that seems to dredge up a host of unwelcome memories.
 
 
That's it... You didn't really want to hurt her, but...
 
 
As the resolution crystalizes in your mind, and you move away from the wall to engage Mech-Leg again, things go from bad to worse.
 
 
This time you're ready, at least. You knew he might show up. He doesn't get to blindside you like she did.
 
 
When Tech-Fist drops down from the pawn shop roof, his gauntleted fist drives into the ground where you were standing a split-second before. The crunch, and the network of little fractures that radiate across the concrete like messy wounds, give you ample reason to be glad of that.
 
 
The science-nerd-turned-vigilante rises, his armored hand apparently none the worse for having been shoved a couple of inches through the ground.
 
 
"You!"
 
 
"The next person who says that is getting shot in the face. Yes, it's me. @PLAYERNAME. Now, if you'll just explain to your wife here that-"
 
 
"I caught him attacking a young girl."
 
 
Tech-Fist's eyes narrow.
 
 
"For the last time, she..."
 
 
You gesture towards where the Prider lay. But there's only a little rivulet of blood there now. She can't have been that badly hurt after all.
 
 
"...started it."
 
 
"What happened to you, Rhapsody?" He jabs an accusing finger in your direction. The gesture would seem more impressive if you didn't know that he practices it in front of the mirror. "You were a hero! Children looked up to you! And now you're a fugitive from justice, a low-life criminal, a-"
 
 
His sentence ends with a spurt of blood. You've heard enough of this crap...
 
 
'''Over Tall Buildings...''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a1_q4.jpg|none|Over Tall Buildings...]]
Within five seconds, it's clear that you're in trouble.
 
 
Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg are used to fighting crime together. They complement one another perfectly, each creating openings for the other, neither interfering with their partner's lines of attack.
 
 
Her flashing kicks and his thunderous punches drive you around the alleyway in a ridiculous dance. You can't even muster a good counterattack. The moment one of them leaves themselves open, the other makes sure you can't take advantage.
 
 
You could draw your pistol... Go for non-lethal targets...
 
 
The thought of shooting at former friends is repulsive. But as you slip another punch that would have fractured your jaw, dart back from one more hook kick, it starts to seem more palatable...
 
 
A loud boom bellows through the night, echoing across the city like a peal of angry thunder. The ground shudders underfoot. It's as though the heavens are passing judgment on your thoughts.
 
 
The crime-fighting spouses pause in mid-strike -- her right leg raised and chambered, his computerized first drawn back for a punch.
 
 
"That was an expl-" you begin.
 
 
Tech-Fist raises his palm to silence you. He taps one of the buttons on his eponymous gauntlet. A holographic image pops into existence. It's a cartoon boxing glove, replete with big round eyes and a broad mouth.
 
 
"Fisto, what just happened?"
 
 
"Fisto?" you ask. "Really?"
 
 
"The New Culverton Bank is under attack!" the boxing glove exclaims, in a robotic voice that seems like it should belong to an archaic computer. "It appears to be the work of the Hat!"
 
 
"The Hat?" You roll your eyes. "Does anyone in this town have a grown-up name?"
 
 
The two vigilantes frown at you.
 
 
"The Hat's a dangerous criminal mastermind," Mech-Leg says.
 
 
"We don't have time to deal with you, Rhapsody," Tech-Fist says. "Consider yourself lucky."
 
 
The two of them run towards the wall of the pawn shop. She launches herself high into the air, touching down on its roof. He follows a moment later, firing some kind of grappling hook from his gauntlet that latches on and draws him up.
 
 
They disappear from sight.
 
 
Now would be a good time to get back to your ship. But if they're about to go into danger... Tech-Fist fought alongside you in the liberation of Sian. Even after this, you can't desert him.
 
 
You sigh, and look around for a fire escape.
 
 
By the time you get up there, the crime-fighting couple are some distance away. They're good at this. But you've had a little experience with rooftop parkour yourself...
 
 
'''Malevolent Millinery''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a1_q5.jpg|none|Malevolent Millinery]]
Superheroes and villains are onto something with their predilection for rooftop travel.
 
 
The buildings in this part of New Culverton might almost have been designed to give vigilantes, criminals, or traceurs a quick route across the city -- sparing them the monotony of walking the streets like a normal person.
 
 
Sprinting across roofs, leaping over narrow alleyways, you follow Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg as they work their way across the city they protect. She's no role model. With her augmented legs, she could easily take a route you'd never be able to follow. But the Fist's legs are no more adept at jumping than yours. Anywhere he can go, so can you.
 
 
Only a handful of gaps provide anything like a challenge, and give you that feeling of impending doom as your body passes over a stretch of distant concrete made impossibly vast and seemingly unconquerable by panicked perception. You handle them just fine in spite of your qualms, without plunging to an embarrassing death by misadventure and painting the ground with foolish brains. The thrill it sends through your body is exhilarating.
 
 
Even if the athletic figures of your former allies, and more recent adversaries, weren't ahead to guide you, the destination would be impossible to miss. A twisting plume of black smoke rises over the city, a monument to the audacious crime. Robbing a bank... These days most people prefer to hack into systems for that kind of thing -- to simply move credits around on holographic displays, if they possess the skill to work such electronic espionage with impunity. Who'd think it was a good idea to blow a vault open and try to escape with inconvenient piles of hard credits instead?
 
 
But this is New Culverton, where crime is as much a hobby and a form of art as it is a way of making a dishonest living.
 
 
As you near the billowing black pillar, hear the shouts and sirens that provide orchestral accompaniment to the business of bank robbery, the Leg and the Fist disappear -- dropping down into the street below. It's several moments before you reach the edge of that last building. When you do, the scene which greets you is... ridiculous.
 
 
Amid the flame and smoke that caper in destructive triumph around the bank's damaged wall, the two vigilantes are doing battle with the miscreants you assume must be responsible -- more of whom are pouring out of the building each moment. There are men and women, humans and assorted aliens, all wearing the same absurd outfit: long magenta coats and top hats. It reminds you more of a circus than a crime scene.
 
 
But the violence is serious enough. Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg are laying into the identically-dressed criminals with brutal punches and kicks, as the gang swarms around them like a pack of garish wolves.
 
 
You watch the raging combat as you clamber down the building, using its deep window recesses as stepping stones to the street. At least those stupid costumes will let you know which people to beat up.
 
 
'''The Hat''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z10_a1.jpg|none|The Hat]]
Your uppercut hits the woman so hard that she practically backflips before collapsing in the street -- a big purple puddle in her voluminous coat. And yet her hat remains in place on her unconscious head.
 
 
"What're you doing here?" Mech-Leg asks, glaring.
 
 
"Behind you," you say.
 
 
Her glare remains unbroken as her right leg swings upwards, the limb perfectly straight -- as though she intended to axe kick you again. Instead, the toe of her boot reaches over her shoulder and meets the face of the man who was coming up behind her. His nose explodes. He falls in the street. But once again, his hat stays on with laudable tenacity.
 
 
"This isn't your fight," Tech-Fist says.
 
 
He's holding one of the purple-hatted men in a headlock, throwing punches into the poor sap's face in time with his words.
 
 
"And freeing Sian wasn't yours. But you came anyway."
 
 
He frowns, and tosses the groaning criminal aside.
 
 
"If you're still here when we're done, I'm taking you in along with them."
 
 
With that, he turns round and charges at a hatted Snuuth -- throwing a shovel hook into his abdomen that seems to deflate the whole of the alien's flabby body.
 
 
Only half the gang are left standing. The rest are strewn around in various stages of injury and consciousness, writhing in pain or sleeping the sleep of the unjust. Fist and Leg can take it from here. These top-hatted jokers may keep them occupied for a while longer, but they don't seem like much of a threat now.
 
 
You should leave, before you have to go another round with the superheroes...
 
 
Something glimmers amid the smoke, drawing your eye and derailing your train of thought. The golden glimmer becomes stronger, supplemented by a hint of chrome and throbbing pinkness.
 
 
A hover pallet rises up, breaking free from the entangling darkness like a bird seeking freedom. It's laden down with a big pile of metal. So this is what happened to the loot...
 
 
The hard credits stop a dozen feet above the ground and float there, as though taunting those brawling in the street below -- a fabulous prize awaiting the victor of the struggle. No... It's not for them. It's for him.
 
 
A man emerges from the smoke, detaches himself from its grey-black folds as if he were part of it, his ashen coat and dark hat formed from the fruits of his devastation. Orange orbs glow from a purple mask so tight around his features that it resembles paint rather than fabric. A cane sways in his hand, conducting an invisible orchestra.
 
 
You're no expert on supervillainy. But unless the costume shop just ran out of purple coats and hats, you have a sneaking suspicion that this is the gang's leader. The so-called Hat.
 
 
The Hat's grin splits the lower half of his mask like a shark's maw. Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg are busy fighting his minions. They haven't even noticed him yet. He can walk away, escape with his haul. But he pauses, as though in contemplation. Then he angles his cane, aiming the knob towards the whirling melee. A bright blue light fills it, crackling like lightning.
 
 
You run. One of the purple goons staggers into your path, reeling from a gauntleted punch. Your shoulder hits him. He goes flying. You leap, arms outstretched.
 
 
"Hey!" Mech-Leg yells.
 
 
But your tackle comes from behind. She doesn't have a chance to lock her cybernetic legs and resist the impact. The two of you crash down in the street, at the same instant that a beam of bright azure energy sears overhead. It passes through the place where she was standing, strikes one of the goons in the chest, and blasts him across the street.
 
 
Mech-Leg shrugs you off and jumps to her feet. Or at least one foot -- the other lashes out before even touching down, and takes a gang member in the chest. You get up as well, grabbing a handful of purple lapel on your way and yanking its owner's face into an elbow smash.
 
 
"You'll have to forgive me," the Hat says. His voice is high, tittering. "That wasn't part of my ingenious scheme, but I simply couldn't resist. I've always thought that Mech-Leg would be better off without a head. And perhaps stuffed inside a refrigerator... Maybe that would finally pull the rod out of Tech-Fist's butt and spice things up around here!"
 
 
"I'd tell you that you're crazy," you reply, "but I don't think that's news to anyone who calls himself 'the Hat' and color-coordinates his henchmen."
 
 
"Guilty!" he trills. "Who's the new sidekick, Techy? I really must keep track of the people in your little crime-fighting circle, in case I ever want to arrange a death in the family!"
 
 
"She's not my sidekick!"
 
 
"I'm not his sidekick!"
 
 
The simultaneous statements become a chorus. The Hat giggles. Then he gazes at you with fresh intensity.
 
 
"Wait..." he says. His eyes widen, and his voice is different now -- deeper, stripped of its ridiculous flamboyance. "You!"
 
 
"Big mistake..." you reply.
 
 
You reach for your pistol.
 
 
-------------------------------------
 
Twin beams zap across the street, azure lances fired from the Hat's cane and his chunky blaster.
 
 
Mech-Leg jumps, letting the searing blasts pass below, and performs an elegant aerial flip that lands her right next to him. He turns. She kicks. His arm flies upwards, propelled by her boot. His blaster fires backwards over his shoulder as he stumbles, before it falls from his hand -- sending a blazing beam straight at the hover pallet.
 
 
There's a sharp fizz and crackle as electronic systems fry. The platform lurches and tilts, raining hard credits down to clink and clatter in the street below.
 
 
"Damn it!" the Hat cries. Again the camp accent is gone from his voice.
 
 
He brings his cane around, trying to shoot Mech-Leg at pointblank range. But you shoot first. The cane and a few fingers are scattered on the ground. He stares at the cauterized stumps on his hand as he screams.
 
 
Tech-Fist strides over to him. The villain cringes. But when the vigilante's gauntlet comes up, it isn't to punch. Instead it wags an admonishing finger.
 
 
"Who are you? You're not the Hat! Your voice is different."
 
 
"Screw you, man!"
 
 
"Wrong answer."
 
 
Some married couples finish each other's sentences. Others finish each other's happiness. As for Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg... Well, they finish each other's moves.
 
 
He punches. She drops, spins, and sweeps. Her boot hits the back of the Hat's leg at the exact same moment his computerized fist smashes into the villain's jaw. The criminal goes down fast and hard.
 
 
"Screw... Screw... You..."
 
 
His head slumps to the side.
 
 
Tech-Fist crouches and yanks at the man's mask. There's a soft, almost fleshy noise as it tears away. The eponymous hat stays in place, however.
 
 
You walk over, curious to see what he looks like unmasked. This time it's your turn to have your eyes widen in recognition. Beneath the villainous disguise is a dark face. It's the black man from the bar -- the one who left his girlfriend weeping on the table.
 
 
"This isn't the Hat," Tech-Fist says, glancing up at you. "The real Hat's white."
 
 
You shrug.
 
 
"If the hat fits..."
 
 
He and Mech-Leg frown. Apparently only superheroes and villains get to make cheesy comments around here...
 
 
The vigilante gets to his feet. His expression becomes somber as he stares into your eyes.
 
 
"I should take you down. But after this, we owe you."
 
 
"So...?"
 
 
"So get off my planet."
 
 
"Fair enough."
 
 
You turn and walk away.

LotS/The Story/Because I'm the Wanderer/The Butler Did It

2012-10-26T11:29:23Z

Raptor00:

'''The Butler Did It''' 
"The butler did it!"
 
You whirl round, slashing your arm through the air like the blade of a scythe and punctuating the sentence by transfixing the named individual with a pointing finger. You're somewhat taken aback when an ominous, dramatic musical score sounds at that exact instant -- underscoring your words with its 'dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn'. You sweep the room with your gaze, but there's no sign of its origin.
 
"You triggered the ship's ambiance systems," the robotic manservant explains. "It believed you were performing a denunciation."
 
"Oh..."
 
Your pointing finger remains frozen in place for several seconds, like an unsheathed weapon denied the tasting of blood and now left hovering in awkward indecision. The butler glances at it for a long moment. Then he meets your gaze, somehow managing to convey the full measure of his disapproval without marring his aspect of outward politeness.
 
You withdraw the offending digit.
 
"As I was saying... The butler did it." This time you refrain from flourishing gestures. "He's the one who invited me aboard."
 
A few of the lounge's dubiously dressed occupants frown. Others roll their eyes. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all...
 
----
 
"This is the Mysterious Murder, requesting aid from any nearby spacecraft. We've had an... unfortunate incident... and are in need of assistance. The matter would most properly be addressed by someone with a previous background in law enforcement."
 
That was the message that came over the Silver Shadow's communications system, floating on a suave and sophisticated accent that didn't quite manage to conceal the speaker's perturbation. It hadn't been directed at you in particular. You were invisible to the other vessel, as to anyone else who might have been nearby. Rather it was an eloquent and enigmatic cry for help, delivered as though to the galaxy at large.
 
It succeeded in capturing your attention, at any rate. You accepted the visual feed which accompanied the audio. A robot appeared on the screen, clad in an immaculate butler's outfit of the kind you'd seen on flesh and blood servants at Novocastrian functions.
 
"I'm sorry," you said, opening the channel at your end, "did I hear that right? Mysterious Murder?"
 
"Your hearing was indeed accurate, madam."
 
"That's the name of your ship?"
 
"Quite so. I must commend madam on grasping the obvious with such masterful aplomb." He gave a faint sigh before he continued, bespeaking the air of one who'd been forced to explain that curious matter of onomastics innumerable times in the past. "This vessel is what one might refer to as a... novelty ship. A place of entertainment. It hosts murder mystery events, in which guests are invited to play the roles of detectives and solve a simulated homicide."
 
"I see... So, what's the problem?"
 
"I fear that it's a rather delicate matter. May I ask to whom I'm speaking? The communication console appears unable to identify your spacecraft."
 
"That's a rather delicate matter as well."
 
"Ah..."
 
A few moments elapsed in silence, pregnant with the contemplations of two individuals pondering their secrets and the navigation of warring discretions.
 
"If you want someone in law enforcement, try one of the emergency channels," you said. "You'll have better luck that way."
 
"Regrettably, that course of action is unfeasible. I'm not at liberty to inform the duly constituted authorities. However, there's nothing to prevent me from seeking aid from a private individual who may happen to have a background in such a profession."
 
Things were becoming more curious by the minute. At that point, you just had to get involved.
 
"Your accent... Novocastrian, I believe?"
 
"Quite correct, madam. The Mysterious Murder is registered as a Novocastrian vessel, though of course my own possession of the accent is the result of technology rather than nurture."
 
"One moment..."
 
You closed the channel, and spent some minutes sending another transmission. It proved fruitful. A short time after that, you heard from the Mysterious Murder and its mechanical majordomo again.
 
"We've just received a communication from Lady Hollister, a figure for whom my late master had the utmost respect. Whilst the good lady was reticent about identifying you, madam, she assured me that you're an individual of both considerable talent and boundless irreproachability. In fact, she went on to apply numerous unflattering epithets to any hypothetical parties who might say anything to the contrary."
 
That made you smile. Lady Hollister had always been a loyal friend. According to unconfirmed reports from Novocastria -- political rumors regurgitated on broadcasts to fill tiny slivers of the perpetual news cycle -- she even went so far as to knock Edmund Rochester spinning when he traduced you in the parliamentary bar.
 
"Perhaps you would care to come aboard the Mysterious Murder, madam?"
 
A short while later, you stood in a lobby that might have been cut wholesale from a Novocastrian stately home. It was rendered in sumptuous decadence, emulating and imitating an architectural style from Earth which the butler told you was called 'Victorian'.
 
"Lord Ponsonby was a devotee of detective fiction from what he considered to be the heyday of the art," he explained. "A period of time encompassing portions of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. When he attained considerable success in his business dealings, he chose to use his newfound wealth to have the Mysterious Murder commissioned. The holo-tabloids said the most scandalous and derisory things when they learned of his desire, causing my late master to inflict bodily injury on several ill-bred journalists.
 
"For over thirty years, this ship was host to gatherings of the kind I described to you. Guests would arrive in the guise of their favorite sleuths from the portion of literary history favored by Lord Ponsonby, and proceed to match their wits against the various ingenious crimes he had us enact. Alas, his lordship passed away a few months ago. This is the first such event to take place without his august presence."
 
"If he's dead, who arranged all this?" you asked.
 
"I did, madam. His lordship was most explicit in his last will and testament. He instructed that murder mysteries continue to be held aboard this vessel, conducted according to the very rules he'd established, and that the costs be paid from the wealth of his estate."
 
You nodded. It seemed simple enough. Eccentric, perhaps -- but simple.
 
"So what went wrong?"
 
"There's been a murder, madam."
 
"Isn't that supposed to happen?"
 
"A real murder, madam. A genuine act of homicidal violence. One of the guests was found in his stateroom, slain. The gentleman had been stabbed through the heart."
 
"Has the killer been identified?"
 
"No, madam. But the list of suspects isn't extensive. All but four of the guests were in the main lounge when the crime appears to have taken place, enjoying a pleasant soiree. And all the servants have likewise been accounted for. Alibies are to be found in abundance."
 
"Four including the victim?"
 
"That's correct, madam."
 
"Could it have been suicide?"
 
"The weapon had been removed from the body. Though I confess to being no detective myself, I believe this happenstance indicates murder."
 
"So why not just call the authorities, and ask them to investigate?"
 
"While he lived, Lord Ponsonby was firm in his desire to avoid further embarrassment in the media. He therefore had all his guests sign legally binding documents in which they agreed that... to express it in colloquial terms... what happens on the Mysterious Murder stays on the Mysterious Murder. Even when two distinguished members of parliament came to blows in a stateroom following a drunken romantic tryst, the matter was never spoken of beyond this vessel."
 
"But Lord Ponsonby's dead..."
 
"Nevertheless, the terms of his will are abundantly clear. The rule must still be adhered to, and his posthumous reputation safeguarded. That was the source of my conundrum, which your presence here should solve. Given Lady Hollister's high opinion of your abilities, perhaps you'll be able to interview the three suspects and determine which of them carried out the crime."
 
"Wait... What about the other guests? If they're all amateur detectives, couldn't they solve the murder?"
 
"I did consider that possibility, madam, but it seemed... undesirable. The thought of a dozen budding sleuths fighting over clues, getting in one another's way, and clashing their -- if I may be so bold as to say -- immense egos together... Over the past decades I've seen what tends to result from such a state of affairs. I don't believe it would be most conducive to dealing with the problem at hand."
 
"I see. I don't suppose the ship's cameras..."
 
The butler gave a small cough.
 
"No cameras?"
 
"None, sir. Lord Ponsonby felt that such modern methods of crime-solving would be entirely out of place on a vessel such as the Mysterious Murder."
 
"And I suppose DNA testing of the crime scene..."
 
Another cough.
 
"Lord Ponsonby-"
 
"I think I get the picture," you replied.
 
"His lordship was most ardent that crimes be solved using methods of detection appropriate for the golden age of sleuthing of which he was so fond."
 
You sighed.
 
"Perhaps if I waterboarded the three suspects..."
 
The butler's gasp of horror reminded you that some of the methods you've employed in the service of the Sian Empire aren't necessarily suitable for every situation.
 
"Fine! I'll see what I can do."
 
"Thank you, sir! I assure you that I'm most grateful for your assistance."
 
"First, I need to see the crime scene."
 
"Actually, it would be advisable to see the other guests first. They're waiting for us in the lounge. When I announced that I was bringing in an 'outsider', some of them became rather... undignified in their remonstrance. I hope that by speaking with them you might put their minds at rest and prevent any unpleasantness which could interfere with the smooth running of your investigation."
 
"If you insist. Lead the way."
 
The butler paused for a long moment. His face was the product of splendid engineering. It displayed his sense of awkwardness with as much eloquence as any organic visage could have managed.
 
"Madam, I fear there's something you should know before meeting our guests. You may find them rather... Bizarre."
 
"Bizarre? Men and women who spend their leisure time dressing up as old-fashioned detectives so they can solve made-up crimes? Surely not..."
 
The butler's lips twitched in the faintest of smiles, as though appreciative of your sarcasm.
 
"I'm afraid that it goes well beyond that. You see, in accordance with Lord Ponsonby's edicts, and indeed a general sense of propriety, our guests spend the entire duration of their time on the vessel in-character. They behave as if they were the literary figures they portray."
 
"You're joking?"
 
"Alas, no. I assure you that under normal circumstances the effect is most gratifying, and adds a certain ambiance to the affair. However, it may prove... inconvenient... given the seriousness of the situation at hand."
 
"So I'm going to be talking to a bunch of Victorian detectives?"
 
"Well, that description wouldn't apply to all our guests. But, to a certain degree... Yes. With the exception of a few necessities, they will retain their adopted personas."
 
"Necessities?"
 
"A genuine lady or gentleman from the nineteenth century might be expected to express some shock at encountering a robot manservant, or one of our alien guests. Lord Ponsonby was content for such things to be glossed over."
 
"Alien guests?"
 
"Yes, madam. A few guests belonging to alien species have attended these murder mysteries over the years -- those who share his lordship's love of classic detective fiction in spite of their vastly different cultural backgrounds. In fact, one of the three suspects is a Snuuth."
 
Upon seeing that he'd given you enough to consider for the moment, the butler led you off to the lounge.
 
----
 
"Preposterous!"
 
"Unseemly!"
 
"Quite absurd!"
 
"An affront!"
 
"Who is this person, anyway? Some sort of ruffian from the look of her!"
 
These and several other expressions of disapproval, outrage, surprise, and disdain bombard you from all quarters. For a bunch of people dressed like fools, the Mysterious Murder's guests are very judgmental...
 
"Ladies and gentlemen," the butler says, "if I may request a modicum of calm..."
 
"Calm?" splutters a man in a yellow-brown jacket, sporting an iron-grey moustache. "Calm? A man lies dead, and a friend of mine is being dishonored by base suspicion. Dash it all, man -- does this sound like a time for calm?"
 
At this pronouncement, there's a general intake of breath -- which you interpret as a replenishing of oxygen supplies before a second volley of discontent. You wince, preparing to weather the storm. But the barrage doesn't come. Instead there's a soft, almost imperceptible cough. The impending torrent dies on their lips. All heads turn to regard a slim gentleman at the back of the room.
 
He was silent while the others shouted, content simply to stare at you with a steady and enigmatic gaze. Thus you now hear his voice for the first time, and when he speaks it's with soothing dignity enveloped in a French accent.
 
"My friends," he says, "I think this lady is more suited to the task than you might imagine."
 
"Monsieur Dupin," says the man in the yellow-brown jacket, "surely you're not willing to accept this upstart's presence here?"
 
But there's a hint of uncertainty in his voice now. And most of the others are studying you with newfound interest -- as though trying to see what this Dupin fellow saw in you.
 
"Have you ever dealt with a murderer before?" a young man asks.
 
The guests' scrutiny intensifies. Dozens of eyes scan your face. As many ears wait to hear what you'll say. Now that you have an opening, the right answer might forestall a fresh eruption of disgruntlement...
 
You glance at the butler, remembering what he said about things on the Mysterious Murder remaining aboard the Mysterious Murder. You hope he was right.
 
"I was the one who brought down Colonel Mustard," you say, your eyes drifting from face to face.
 
"What?" The man in the yellow-brown jacket jumps to his feet. "You most certainly did not! I-"
 
"She's talking about the infamous Sussurran murderer, dear," an elderly woman says.
 
"Oh... Yes. Of course. Splendid. Jolly good show." He sits back down, looking suitably abashed.
 
"And I'm the one who caught Nemo, the space pirate."
 
You can almost hear the thoughts clicking into place inside their heads.
 
"That means you're..." the old woman says. "Oh."
 
Noiselessness flits around the lounge.
 
"A woman fully aware of the scope of human evil," muses a short, stumpy gentleman in the attire of a Catholic priest. "You can think like a murderer. That gives you an advantage."
 
Similar sentiments are murmured from other lips. It seems that you're done here... So you excuse yourself, and ask the butler to take you to the crime scene.
 
----
 
"Who was he?" you ask.
 
"Our guests' identities are-" the robot begins.
 
"His character, I mean."
 
"Sexton Blake."
 
"Who?"
 
"A British detective who was a prominent figure on the literary stage for some decades."
 
"Oh."
 
Whoever he was, he's solved his last pseudo-mystery. The wound in his chest tells the story. No need for any hard detective work there. He was stabbed through the left side of his chest, the blade passing through the jacket and waistcoat of his dark three-piece suit at an angle that would have put it through his heart. And the murderer wasn't content to leave things there. His face lies ruined, slashed at least a dozen times by what you assume was the edge of the same weapon.
 
"These were done after he was killed," you observe. "You can tell by the blood."
 
The butler says nothing. You glance up at him.
 
"Forgive me, madam, but Lord Ponsonby instructed me to always play the role of the detached manservant rather than the fawning, overly-impressed companion."
 
No other signs of damage or injury. His sleeves and hands are unblemished.
 
The room -- a spacious lounge and dining chamber -- is similarly unmarred, save for the blood that's soaked into the rug beneath the corpse. Its door shows no sign of having been forced, nor has anything been knocked aside. Only the dead man himself, lying on his back in the middle of the floor, provides evidence of the violence which took place there.
 
As a matter of course you explore the rest of the suite, but it's just a formality. Those slashes to the face... This wasn't a robbery. Sure enough, the other rooms are just as neat. They haven't been ransacked.
 
"What's this?" you ask.
 
You spot it when you return to the main room. On the lip of the stone fireplace...
 
"It appears to be a pile of ash, madam. Part of the aesthetic effect."
 
The butler indicates the larger grey heap deeper within, where a fire would burn. But those ashes are different...
 
"A clue!"
 
Once more the butler seems underwhelmed by your discovery. So you content yourself with transferring the ash to a little bag he provides and sealing it within. That accomplished, you head out into the corridor.
 
"I think it's time I met these suspects of yours."
 
'''Elementary, My Dear Rhapsody''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a4_q1.jpg|none|Elementary, My Dear Rhapsody]]
"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to accompany you, madam?"
 
"Thanks, but I don't think I'll have much need for a detached manservant."
 
"Very good, madam."
 
The butler hands you the key, bows his head, turns around, and glides away in the appropriate manner of a trained (or in this case 'built') servant -- almost noiseless, just audible enough to prevent his employers from engaging in embarrassing indiscretions while he's nearby.
 
You pause outside the first of the doors he directed you to, hand raised in preparation for a knock. A simple matter of courtesy -- to announce your presence and make sure the man within is decent before you unlock the door and push it open. Then you remember that you're a detective, and that the door in front of you has a keyhole...
 
On a whim, you crouch down and put your eye to the small hole. It's purely an affectation. There are no tumblers and so forth in the wood around it. Instead the key's systems will trigger and disengage a series of electronic mechanisms. But the hole works just as well when it comes to prying into other people's affairs. And isn't that what being a detective's all about?
 
Based on this portion of its contents, the room beyond is a study. There's a desk across from the door, positioned beneath a large window. Sunlight pours through the glass, spilling over the dark wood and across the floor like a cascade of golden liquid. Holographic windows -- you saw them elsewhere on the ship. Designed to conceal the fact that you're on a spacecraft. These furnishings and a bookcase full of old-fashioned, leather-bound tomes are all that reward your spying. Probably not enough evidence to incriminate a man...
 
So you stand up and knock.
 
"One moment!"
 
The urgency in the voice, masked as it is by a veneer of friendly nonchalance, doesn't escape you. There's a sound of hurried footsteps from within. You drop back down to the keyhole. The suite's occupant, your suspect, is standing at the desk. He shoves something into one of its drawers, and closes it with a swift yet controlled motion -- careful not to let the wood make a telltale scraping noise. This accomplished, he tugs at his left shirt sleeve, neatening it and fastening it at the wrist. Then he moves across the room, out of sight once more.
 
"Do come in!" he says at last.
 
You put the key in the lock. It clicks open, issuing a counterfeit sound to match the archaic pretense.
 
When you open the door, the man is sitting in an armchair by the blazing fireplace, watching the dancing flames. He's wearing a long coat now, and a deerstalker hat -- a form of headwear made famous by the individual he's masquerading as, its name known to you purely because of the endless stream of movie and videogame adverts you've seen in which the renowned character sports it. His left hand holds a pipe in the corner of his mouth. A wisp of white smoke snakes upwards from its bowl.
 
He turns his head to face you, the gesture so casual it's hard to believe that he was darting across the room just a few moments before. If he feels any trepidation, even a hint of anxiety, it doesn't show in his intelligent, piercing eyes.
 
"I'm-" you begin.
 
He holds up his right hand, palm outward as though to bar the words that are about to tumble from your mouth.
 
"You're a skilled pilot, accustomed to being on military spacecraft for long periods of time. But you're also highly proficient in personal combat, well beyond the level to which it's customary to train a pilot. In particular, you're skilled in kung fu -- the Chinese form of fighting. This martial prowess was advantageous in your career as a bodyguard. You have my condolences. I see that the lady you were tasked with protecting is no longer with us. You cared about her a great deal."
 
Words freeze on your tongue and slip back down your throat. He's recognized you! That's the only explanation. You've been around enough psychics that you would have felt the warning signs if he'd tried to root around in your brain through psionic means. He knows who you are. But how?
 
You glance down at your nose.
 
"And you're wearing a holographic disguise," he adds.
 
You frown. You'd put it on so that your true identity wouldn't prove a distraction when it came to interviewing the suspects. For naught, it seems.
 
"Who told you?"
 
"No one. It was a matter of elementary deduction. Please..." He gestures at the armchair on the other side of the fire.
 
You sit down, mind reeling.
 
"You can tell a great deal about a woman from the manner in which she walks. And your stride is that of a longtime spacefarer. From the way you balance and distribute your weight, you're accustomed to navigating the corridors of a ship even in dangerous conditions -- when gravitational systems fail or the vessel is buffeted by enemy weapons fire. But the quick movements of your eyes are those of a pilot, not merely a crewman."
 
"Okay..." you reply, still dubious, "...but how did you know I was a bodyguard?"
 
"When you entered the room, you scanned it for threats in a way so natural and instinctive that it would have escaped the notice of most observers. But your instincts weren't for self-preservation. From the manner of your entry, you're used to placing yourself between a perceived threat and the person behind you. However, there are already the faintest signs of atrophy around this ingrained behavior. This leads me to conclude that your service in this capacity came to an end. And if you'll forgive me, your eyes betray a certain melancholy."
 
"How did you know she was a woman? That I..."
 
"Cared for her? Losing a woman always leaves a special mark."
 
He glances at a photograph on the mantelpiece. It shows an attractive girl in Victorian garb.
 
"And the kung fu?"
 
"That was perfectly evident." His gaze returns to meet yours. "During the aforementioned entry, your body was prepared to strike out at any hypothetical ambushers you might have encountered. In particular, your left arm was ready to drive against an enemy's solar plexus in the form of exaggerated straight left lunge, driven by the rear leg, more common in Chinese fighting systems. However, at the same time there was a slight motion in your right leg indicative of a potential kick should danger come from another direction instead. On its own, it may have belonged to any number of fighting arts -- such as savate. But when coupled with the nature of the punch..."
 
"That's amazing!"
 
"Watson often tells me much the same. But I fear that in the present investigation my role is that of a suspect rather than a consulting detective."
 
"Yes, I'm afraid so. I believe the butler has spoken to you about what happened?"
 
"He informed me that Sexton Blake had been murdered, and that I and two other individuals were regarded as suspects -- as the other guests had been in the main lounge for some considerable length of time when the crime was discovered."
 
"Exactly. Can you tell me what you were doing while the soiree was going on?"
 
A slight redness creeps into the detective's face, so subtle that you can't be sure it's not the effect of the fire. He glances at the photograph once more -- a gesture so swift that an ill-timed blink might have stolen it from you.
 
"I was working on my latest monograph." His voice betrays nothing. Perhaps you were imagining things... "It concerns the dropping of letters in a range of regional English accents from different social classes."
 
He leans towards the fireplace and upends his pipe, emptying out a little heap of ash. Most of it falls into the flame. But you track the descent of those ashes which go wide, falling onto the ironwork instead, with eager eyes.
 
"Would you like to examine it?" he asks.
 
"Excuse me?" you reply, wondering if he's discerned your train of thought.
 
"The monograph."
 
"No, that's quite all right."
 
A faint smile twitches his lips.
 
"Where are my manners? In the absence of my housekeeper or Watson, I suppose it falls on me to offer you a cup of tea."
 
"Thanks. Milk. Two sugars."
 
"I shan't be long."
 
He stands up and heads towards a doorway at the opposite end of the room. The moment he disappears from sight, you rise as well.
 
You make for the desk first, training and the thick, soft rug muffling your footsteps. A glimpse of Victorian London greets you through the window, of smoggy buildings and horse-drawn cabs. But you don't have a chance to drink it in at leisure. Your attention is directed elsewhere... From the movements you saw through the keyhole, he used the middle drawer -- the one above the leg space. You pull it open, taking as much care as he did when closing it. Your eyes widen.
 
The drawer is filled with small bottles, alongside a large leather case. You open the latter, tilting the lid up against the hinges on its upper length. It contains a fancy looking glass syringe. You close it, and grab one of the small bottles -- turning it to disclose the label. Cocaine. The great detective is a chem-abuser.
 
You return the bottle and close the drawer. The sound of clinking china comes from somewhere beyond the doorway. It isn't close. He's still making the tea, not bringing it in.
 
So you dart over to the fireplace, crouch down, and annex the spilled ash. Then you hold it up in the palm of one hand, letting it bask in the artificial sunlight, whilst pulling out the sample from the murder scene with the other.
 
To your intense disappointment, they don't match. Even to your untrained eye, it's clear from their color and texture that each came from a different type of tobacco. You tip your hand over the fire, disposing of the ashes from Holmes' pipe.
 
You're sat in the armchair when the detective returns with the tea tray, pretending to amuse yourself by gazing into the flames.
 
"Good tea," you say, after a sip. In truth your palate for English teas is no more refined than that of a Niflung berserker. But you felt obliged to say something complimentary.
 
"Brewing tea is an elementary matter of chemistry -- a field of scientific endeavor with which a man in my position has reason to be familiar."
 
For some time the two of you simply drink your tea and share meaningless banter. It's when you set your cup down empty on its saucer and Holmes does the same that you return to the investigation like two fighters leaving their corners at the ringing of the bell.
 
"What did you think of Sexton Blake?" you ask.
 
"His death represents a tremendous loss to our profession."
 
"He was good then? I hadn't heard of him before."
 
Holmes' eyes narrow.
 
"It's says very little to the credit of human civilization that one of the finest detectives in literary history has been forgotten so."
 
'''Psychological Detective''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a4_q2.jpg|none|Psychological Detective]]
"Come in, mon amie!"
 
You step into a new room and, apparently, a new century. It's a large, bright chamber -- furnished in a manner that you know is archaic, yet somehow manages to seem modern and stylish compared with Holmes' Victorian apartment. Everything is neat and trim, with an abundance of straight, orderly lines supplemented by only the most obedient of curves. The term 'art deco' appears in your mind. You forget where you might have come across it or what exactly it entails. Nevertheless, it somehow seems fitting.
 
In this world of straight lines, the person ensconced in a red leather armchair stands out quite considerably -- an island of roundness in the middle of precise linearity. So this is the Snuuth suspect the butler told you about... He's as rotund as many of his species, his belly an impressive, mountainous bulge. His clothing is immaculate, even if it does seem comprised of enough material to create a substantial tent. The black jacket and trousers, light grey waistcoat, white shirt, and red bowtie are all perfectly pressed, brushed, laundered, or whatever verbs and treatment might best be administered to the respective articles of a gentleman's attire. You don't think you've ever laid eyes upon such a fastidious Snuuth before.
 
A remarkable black moustache adorns his lip, waxed into fine, glistening points that look as if they could take someone's eyes out.
 
"Mr. Hercule Poirot, I believe? I'm here to investigate the murder of Sexton Blake."
 
"Of course. I wondered how long it would be before the estimable butler, he found a woman most suitable for this unpleasant task. Between you and me, I am relieved that he did not select another member of our... how you say... little detective gang. They are charming -- especially Mademoiselle Marple -- but some of them have the ideas most confused about our profession. They become obsessed with the details most trivial, when instead one must focus on understanding the psychology of a crime."
 
"Um... Yes..." you reply, taken aback. You've never heard a Snuuth with that kind of accent before. The effect is quite something.
 
"Please, be seated," he says, indicating an identical chair opposite him, on the other side of a square table. "May I offer you a crème de cassis before we begin?"
 
"No, thank you. I don't think the butler would like me to drink and detect."
 
"A coffee perhaps?"
 
"Sure. Thank you."
 
"Bon."
 
You don't particularly want the drink. But you do want to see him move...
 
When he does so, getting up from the chair and trotting off to the kitchen, it's with surprising grace for a person of his considerable girth. You've noticed this among Snuuth before. Some of them may seem to be walking piles of fat, but they have a great deal of muscular power underneath. He could have struck the fatal blow with ease.
 
You explore the room while awaiting his return, inspecting the various artworks and searching for anything which might be deemed a clue. You even examine the canes and umbrellas in the stand by the door -- wondering how useful an umbrella could possibly be on a spaceship -- but find that none of them contain a hidden blade. If the murder weapon is somewhere in this apartment, it's concealed better than that.
 
Poirot returns with two cups of coffee, and the two of you resume your seats.
 
"There're a lot of French detectives onboard, aren't there?" you say.
 
"You are right, mon amie. Messieurs Dupin and Rouletabille, par example. But I am not among them. I, Hercule Poirot, am Belgian."
 
Your mind scrambles to process that information, and associate it with a proper piece of historical or geographical knowledge. But it's some seconds before anything comes to mind.
 
"Like the waffles?"
 
Poirot frowns.
 
"Yes... Like the 'waffles'." He says the word in the same way a prudish person might say 'whores'.
 
But the good humor returns to his face as he reaches over to a little side table beside his armchair and picks up a colorful cardboard box. He places this between your coffee mugs in the exact center of the larger table, adjusting it ever so slightly until the edges of box and table are precisely parallel.
 
"And also like the chocolates."
 
He opens the box, disclosing two dozen or so delectable squares, circles, and diamonds. You take one of them between thumb and forefinger out of politeness, and transfer it to your mouth. Your teeth penetrate the chocolate shell, exposing an exquisite, flavorful creaminess within. Your eyes widen. It suddenly occurs to you that your lack of knowledge concerning Belgian matters is a deficit you should remedy at greater length later on.
 
But for the moment, there's the small matter of the crime...
 
"Where were you during the soiree?"
 
"I was here all evening, reading a mystery novel written by my good friend, Ariadne Oliver."
 
"Did you know the victim?"
 
"I was acquainted with him. One of the breed of detective most tiresome, who believe that cases should be solved with duels -- as if fisticuffs were a proper substitute for the little grey cells!"
 
"The what?"
 
"The little grey cells! If you are to find the killer, you must exercise them! It is about the psychology, the method, the mental processes by which we may arrive at the truth."
 
"I see..."
 
He reaches into his jacket and withdraws a silver case from an inner pocket, opening it to reveal a number of tiny cigarettes. You shake your head when tilts it towards you. He removes one. It's like a toothpick in his hand.
 
This suspect likes to talk, you muse as he lights his cigarette and retrieves an ashtray -- which he places on the table alongside his coffee cup. Perhaps you can use that to your advantage...
 
"So, you didn't care much for Blake's work?"
 
"I most certainly did not."
 
"Perhaps you were glad when you learned he'd been bumped off?"
 
"No, mademoiselle. I do not approve of murder!"
 
"I should hope not. But you have to admire the murderer's cunning."
 
"Cunning? To stab a man through the heart and mutilate the face of his corpse? There is no cunning here! The great Hercule Poirot, he has dealt with the murders most intelligent. This is not such a person. Do you know who was the greatest murderer of all? Iago!"
 
"The space pirate?"
 
Poirot sighs.
 
"You do not know the works of the most excellent Shakespeare? My friend Hastings would be distraught to hear the fruits of his countryman neglected! Iago was a murderer who manipulated others into committing his crimes. He whispered here and there, using his words to fill people with dangerous thoughts, and then had but to watch as his will was carried out. He was a genius, mon amie. A wicked man, but a genius. For his power was to murder from utter safety. Yet the killer of Monsieur Blake? Only wicked."
 
"Have you ever killed a man?"
 
"I have. But only in circumstances most necessary. And you?"
 
"More than I can count."
 
"Then I pity you, mon amie."
 
He taps his tiny cigarette, dislodging its burned debris to form a little mound in the middle of the ashtray.
 
They're exactly the same as the sample you took from Blake's room.
 
'''The Lady in Red''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a4_q3.jpg|none|The Lady in Red]]
You don't bother to knock before entering the third suspect's room. Whereas the other two were found in their quarters after the body was discovered, and locked within while the butler went to the communications room in hope of enlisting help, this one was located and detained in the library -- which fortunately has its own bathroom facilities and a bar. Apparently the ultra-wealthy never like to be far from places where they may consume and then dispose of alcohol.
 
The chamber disclosed beyond the opening door is stately and dull. Save for the space annexed by the window which shows a starry night sky, the broad fireplace and the large painting above it, and the doors, every wall has been consumed by floor-to-ceiling bookcases -- each stuffed with a plethora of ornately-bound volumes. It's a bibliophile's wet dream. Perhaps those detectives of a scholarly persuasion enjoy spending long hours in here, searching for information that'll help them crack one of their pseudo-cases. To you, the chamber only has one point of interest, one splash of brightness and color amid the drab, subdued colors of its ancient furniture and endless tomes: Miss Scarlett.
 
There are certain things you expect to find in a library. Books, for example. And librarians. But a gorgeous blonde woman wearing a red dress that seems to be retreating up from her legs and down from her chest in a determined effort to become a belt, on the other hand, seems somewhat out of place in such surroundings.
 
However, she appears content enough with the present state of affairs. From the dazzling smile on her face, sitting on a table and toying with a long brass candlestick might be a marvelous way to spend an evening.
 
"Miss Scarlett, I presume?"
 
"Please, call me Scarlett, darling."
 
"Your first name is the same as your surname?"
 
"It's... complicated."
 
"I'm here to investigate the death of Sexton Blake."
 
"Oh, how horrible! The butler told me that it was a murderer, in Sexton's apartment, with a dagger."
 
"A dagger? The murder weapon hasn't been identified. What makes you think it was a dagger?"
 
"How silly of me... Force of habit, I suppose." Her smile widens, flashing pearly white teeth and ruby red lips in all their priceless glory.
 
"You seem pretty cheerful for a woman who's suspected of murder."
 
"Oh, I'm always a suspect, darling. But I didn't kill Sexton. I must have been right here when it happened."
 
"What were you doing in a library while a soiree was going on?"
 
"I don't seem like a bookworm to you?" She giggles. "I came here for a little fun..."
 
Her left hand strokes its way along the length of the cylindrical column she's holding.
 
"Miss Scarlett, in the library, with the candlestick?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.
 
"What a dirty mind you have! But no... I was with Sherlock."
 
"He was here? What were the two of you doing?"
 
She laughs.
 
"Do I have to draw you a picture? If I did, it might make you blush."
 
"Why the library? You could have just gone to your quarters, or his."
 
"That was my idea. Part of a little game I like to play. First it was Professor Plum in the ballroom, then Mrs. Peacock in the lounge, then Dupin in the billiard room... I thought it would be fun to complete the set. Though there isn't a conservatory on the ship..."
 
"How long were you both here? If you spent the evening together..."
 
"Spent the evening? Ha! He was only here for a few minutes. Then he started crying."
 
"Crying? Why?"
 
"I think he has... issues. He said he had to go back to his rooms for a few minutes, and left."
 
"You stayed here?"
 
"I thought he just needed a little cocaine to help him perform. So I waited. But he never came back. I must have fallen asleep on the rug in front of the fire. The butler found me lying there, naked. He seemed very embarrassed."
 
"He... He didn't mention that."
 
"He's such a dear, isn't he? Very discrete. What every girl wants in a servant."
 
'''The Murderer''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z10_a4.jpg|none|The Murderer]]
"Is this a bad time?" you ask.
 
"I'm currently hanging upside-down above a floor laden with high-explosive mines, attempting to bypass one of the most complicated electronic security locks in human space before the hover-drones make their next patrol. Give me a few seconds."
 
Exactly four seconds later, Arthur Lupin's voice comes from the communications terminal again.
 
"All done, my dear."
 
"What did you steal?"
 
"Nothing."
 
"Really?"
 
"The jewels were rather tacky, so I simply opened the case and left a note next to them -- expressing my opinion of the lady's taste in unflattering terms. Now, what can I help you with?"
 
"It's a long story."
 
"Then I should return to the comfort of my ship before you start telling it, instead of perching on this roof like a common gargoyle."
 
You sit back and wait for him to make his undoubtedly daring escape from the scene of his dubious crime.
 
The butler was alarmed when he saw you heading towards the hangar. He thought you'd decided to give up the case. But you told him that you just needed to use the Silver Shadow's communications systems to open a secure channel.
 
"Fire away," Lupin says. This time video flashes into existence on the screen, showing the thief lounging in a spacecraft's flight cabin.
 
"Master Wu told me that your name was a literary reference."
 
"He was quite right. A composite of 'Arthur Raffles' and 'Arsène Lupin'. But if you've called to ask for my real name, I'm afraid-"
 
"I haven't. So, you know your way around nineteenth and twentieth century crime fiction?"
 
"Becoming a lover of literature?"
 
"Not exactly..."
 
Later, after an extensive conversation with the master thief has yielded its fruit, you return to the butler and ask him to convene the guests -- including the three suspects -- in the main lounge.
 
----
 
"We're gathered here because of a heinous crime," you say. "A man was brutally, viciously, nefariously-"
 
Disapproving faces stare at you from all sides. It seems that these sleuths don't want to hear a lengthy preamble from a novice, so to speak. You'd better get to the good stuff...
 
"Sexton Blake was murdered," you amend. "And one of these three people did it!"
 
This time you feel nothing but satisfaction when your sweeping arm and pointing finger evoke the dramatic score.
 
<nowiki>*</nowiki>Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn<nowiki>*</nowiki>
 
"Very good, madam," the butler says. "But I fear you're merely providing us with information with which we're all already acquainted."
 
"I'm summarizing. Butt out."
 
"Puns are the lowest form of wit, madam..."
 
"As I was saying... My task was to eliminate each innocent suspect in turn until I was left with the murderer."
 
"But, mon amie, there have been the cases most singular in which all the suspects were guilty."
 
"Perhaps... But not this time. First I eliminated Miss Scarlett. She may be a nymphomaniac, but that's a far cry from murder."
 
"Actually..." the man in the priest costume begins.
 
"Besides, if she were to commit murder I believe she would have chosen a more appropriate venue for the crime -- such as the ballroom, or the library."
 
"You know me so well, darling!" she laughs.
 
"That left me with two suspects, and I couldn't help but notice the evidence pointing towards Hercule Poirot. The man disliked Sexton Blake, saw him as a black mark on his respected profession. And the ash left at the crime scene came from the very same cigarettes that he smokes."
 
The gasps around the room are gratifying in the extreme. You're beginning to see why people attend these murder mystery events.
 
"But then I began to use my little grey cells..."
 
"Très bien!" The Snuuth sleuth nods his approval.
 
"A man as fastidious as Poirot would never have simply left ash lying around at a crime scene. It would have offended his sense of neatness and order. Furthermore, he wouldn't have struck the left side of his victim's body. Even in matters of life and death, his obsession with symmetry is well known."
 
"But in a violent struggle, even obsessions might have been neglected," a young Frenchman says.
 
"Perhaps. But from studying the scene of the crime, it's clear that the victim was taken by surprise. That's why he didn't protect himself and receive defensive wounds. The killer had ample opportunity to administer the fatal blow in a place of his choosing. So that left me with only one suspect... That man!"
 
Again your finger points. Once more the 'dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn' sounds. You could get used to that...
 
"After all, who would be more likely to use cigarette ash in the incrimination of an innocent man than someone who'd written an entire monograph on the subject?"
 
Murmurs of approval ripple through the assembled detectives. The face beneath the deerstalker hat is impassive, his emotions hidden, his sharp eyes fastened on you.
 
"When I discovered that Sherlock Holmes was a habitual cocaine user," you continue, "a theory began to form in my mind. What if he had been high on drugs, having injected himself with his chosen chem, and committed the murder whilst in a coked-up frenzy?"
 
"Holmes has been using cocaine for years," one of the American detectives drawls. A lump of black chewing tobacco emerges with his words, splatting on the floor and glistening with strings of saliva. "Why would he go crazy from it now?"
 
"Perhaps because he was in a state of emotional turmoil, after an embarrassing tryst with Miss Scarlett!"
 
"What?"
 
"Holmes?"
 
"A tryst?"
 
"Sex?"
 
"But he's..."
 
"Isn't he..."
 
"Does he even..."
 
The confused babble continues for several moments, and all the while Holmes retains his inscrutable gaze.
 
"It's true!" Miss Scarlett says. "Me, with Sherlock Holmes, in the library. A girl doesn't like to kiss and tell, but let's just say it was... inadequate. Then he ran off crying."
 
"Filled with embarrassment at his failure," you say, "and shame at his betrayal of the woman whose picture rests on his mantelpiece, Sherlock Holmes resorted to the cocaine bottle. And then-"
 
"It's true!" Holmes cries. "All true!"
 
<nowiki>*</nowiki>Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn<nowiki>*</nowiki>
 
The gasps almost overwhelm the sound effect.
 
"I'd always been jealous of Sexton Blake," Holmes continues. "He was the greater detective, and the greater man. So that evening, filled with anguish and cocaine, I went to his quarters and murdered him!"
 
<nowiki>*</nowiki>Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn<nowiki>*</nowiki>
 
Okay, now it's getting annoying... You gesture to the butler. He glides away to deactivate it.
 
"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen," you say. "Sherlock Holmes, emotionally and sexually disturbed, murdered Sexton Blake in a drug-fueled rage and tried to frame Hercule Poirot for the crime. That's what we were supposed to believe, anyway."
 
"What the devil do you mean, girl?" Colonel Mustard asks. "The man just confessed!"
 
"This man did," you say, walking over to the detective in the deerstalker hat. "But this man isn't Sherlock Holmes. He's none other than... Sexton Blake!"
 
He raises his hand to ward you off. But you're too quick. You snatch at his face, tearing away the false nose and other adornments which disguised Blake's features as those of Holmes.
 
There's no musical score this time. But you don't need one. The detectives' shouts and gasps more than suffice.
 
"So you mean that dead Sexton was a Sexton?" a young man dressed in rough clothing asks.
 
"What?" you reply, bemused by his accent as much as his incomprehensible words.
 
"Rhyming slang, guvnor. Sexton Blake -- fake."
 
"Oh. Exactly. The dead man was Sherlock Holmes. The mutilation to his face was aimed to conceal that fact. Blake lured him into his apartment, and murdered him."
 
"So it was Blake in the library?" Miss Scarlett asks.
 
"Yes. Pretending to be Holmes, as part of his scheme."
 
"How did you know?" Blake asks, his voice low and guttural.
 
"Elementary, my dear Blake. The farce with the cocaine? Obvious misdirection. The man I met in Sherlock Holmes' quarters showed no signs of recent cocaine use. And the cigarette ash? The furtive glance at Irene Adler's photograph? Far too obvious. You overplayed your hand. Besides, Sherlock Holmes would never have surrendered even to Miss Scarlett's temptations. It would have been a tremendous breach of character -- no less egregious than your act of murder."
 
"But why did he do it, madam?" the butler asks.
 
"Why?" Blake hisses. "Why? Because everyone knows Sherlock Holmes, and no one knows Sexton Blake! I solved more crimes than he ever did, hundreds and hundreds of cases! I was the greatest, most celebrated detective in the world! And for what? So people could forget my name, like I was no better than a Ferrers Locke or a Lord Peter Wimsey?"
 
Two men, presumably those named, cry out in anger.
 
"That's why you plotted to not only kill Sherlock Holmes, but to ruin his name aboard the Mysterious Murder," you say, "knowing that after the scandal no one would ever take it up again."
 
"Ladies and gentlemen," the butler says, "I believe the case is solved."
 
There are murmurs of approval. Even a few outspoken words of praise hurled in your direction. But most faces are grim, their eyes fixed on Blake.
 
"But what do we do with him?" Miss Scarlett asks. "We can't hand him over to the police, can we?"
 
"Most certainly not, madam," the butler declares.
 
"That's easily fixed," you reply. "I hear you like to duel, Sexton."
 
His eyes glint.
 
"I do."
 
"Then duel with me. To the death."
 
"Challenge accepted. If you people will be so good as to escort me to the chambers I usurped, I'll retrieve my weapons."
 
----
 
Sexton Blake knew how to fight. But he was no Rhapsody.
 
That's why he's lying on the floor, his weapons and gadgets scattered around him, a hole in his head.
 
"Très bien, mon amie," Poirot says. "Under these most difficult of circumstances, what has been done is right and proper. It was, as my friend Hastings would say, playing the game."
 
"Jolly good show," Colonel Mustard says. "Fair and sporting, and the bastard still got what he deserved."
 
Sundry similar sentiments rain down on you.
 
"Madam," the butler says, "I feel you really must be rewarded for the invaluable assistance you've rendered us."
 
"That's very generous-" you begin, wondering how many credits he's going to throw at you.
 
"So I propose that chambers be set aside for you in perpetuity aboard the Mysterious Murder, that you may take part in all our future events!"
 
You open your mouth to decline with thanks. But Miss Scarlett chooses that moment to throw her arms around you, and plant her lips on yours. Thus you can only splutter while the others cheer. By the time she releases you from the kiss, it's far too late. So you simply smile and accept your fate.

LotS/The Story/Because I'm the Wanderer/Crush (1)

2012-10-26T11:06:12Z

Raptor00:

'''Crush (1)''' 
Existence rushes by. Each little piece of creation flashes from future to present before disappearing into history, gone from sight and mind unless you deign to gaze upon its diminishing form in the rearview mirror.
 
A twist of the throttle. The engine roars -- a demon raging in hell, bellowing defiance at the deity that damned him, promising eternal rebellion and unending war on heaven. The din is utterly superfluous, an unnecessary affectation that could be shut down with the touch of a button. Utterly superfluous, but completely glorious.
 
Your right hand slips away from the handlebar. The bike veers to the left before you correct it. On a busy road, that might be the first step towards an unpleasant crash or the mowing down of a pedestrian. But here, on the sun-kissed plain, you'd have to go out of your way to find something to hit. Save for the birds gliding far overhead, little black shapes against the soft blueness of the sky, you could almost imagine you had the entire planet to yourself.
 
The hand celebrates its newfound freedom by passing the wealth on. It taps the button on the right side of your helmet before returning to its duties and spurring the engine to another hellish cacophony. A series of gentle mechanical clicks and clacks fills the space around your head as the helmet gives way. It pulls back from your face first, like a receding tide, before collapsing away from the sides of your head in turn. Tessellating squares of hard armor and softer shock absorbent material withdraw in a waves of geometric precision, retreating and folding in on themselves until they form a collar around your neck. An almost imperceptible bleep signals its new state of readiness. In the event of a crash, it'll reassert itself.
 
Gusts of wind kiss and caress your exposed face, run their fingers through your hair like ardent lovers celebrating your speed and mastery.
 
"Come on, captain! You ride like an old woman!"
 
The voice spirals its way through your memories, its joy undiluted by the years.
 
You twist the throttle. The bike zooms forward like the magnificent beast it is, turning the environment into a beautiful blur. Talia's remembered laugh expresses its approval.
 
Last time you were here, you were riding a military issue cycle. A good enough bike, though an obsolete hunk of junk compared with the exquisite vehicle that thrums with power beneath you now.
 
It was Talia's idea. Something to celebrate your elevation to captain of Princess Illaria's bodyguard -- one of the most prestigious positions in the Sian military. With that promotion came a period of leave. Ostensibly an opportunity for the honored warrior to meditate and contemplate the nature of her new duties. In reality it was seen as a chance to enjoy a little fun before assuming the role.
 
The gunslinger first suggested an interstellar pub crawl, a drinking binge that would likely have painted several systems with your combined vomit. You declined, however. If word (or worse yet, holo-vids) got out that a person elevated to so lofty and respected a station was reveling like an unruly teenager... The repercussions would have been undesirable, to say the least. Talia rolled her eyes when you told her that. Then she suggested a bike ride.
 
"Race you!" she yells.
 
"Where to?"
 
"Until something gets in the way!"
 
You're racing the same path now, albeit without your friend to compete against and mock you after her inevitable victory.
 
It started as an aimless flight, heading from Varlec out into the depths of space. But when you glanced at the display and saw Eclogue's system on the map, you just couldn't resist its allure.
 
Sunlight warms your shoulders, cooled by the whirling breeze into something pleasant and soothing, as though the planet is celebrating your decision or its own irresistibility.
 
It's a pleasant place. A lonely little world that boasts only a single colonized landmass, and that sparsely so. A planet for rustic peace, pastoral calm -- dotted with hobby farms and archaic townships in the style of Earth's distant past. The thought that Talia of all people introduced it to you is amusing beyond measure.
 
But it's great riding country...
 
The engine growls in approval, giving vulgar voice to its power. The bike is great too... Your friends filled the Silver Shadow's cargo hold with all manner of things. When you went to check on its store of supplies for the first time, you found great stacks of provisions -- sufficient to feed you for months on end. And that wasn't all. There were enough small arms and crates of protective clothing to equip a small army. Perhaps they didn't know what you'd need, so they just packed locker after locker with your vast collection of weapons and armor.
 
And there it was, standing proud in the midst of all that useful debris -- gleaming with glorious gold and majestic purple, its sumptuous body shaped in the image of a creature from Chinese mythology. The Dragon Cycle. A vehicle you obtained under the strangest of circumstances, both a challenge and a gift from a well-meaning madman. Its draconic eyes seemed to glitter as they met your own.
 
You tweak the throttle again. The dragon rumbles its satisfaction, roars its acquiescence.
 
There's a tree on the horizon, a lone guardian watching over the surrounding plain. As it grows larger, drawn towards you by inexorable velocity, you see that one of its long, twisting branches is dead. It's slowly rotting like a gangrenous limb.
 
Your right hand relinquishes the handlebar again. This time there's no swerve -- your left is ready to compensate.
 
The pistol leaves its holster and takes aim. This is so reckless, so stupid, so... Talia.
 
Your first shot goes wide. In your head the gunslinger laughs.
 
"Nice try, captain. Leave the fancy shooting to me."
 
But the second shuts her up. It clips the branch, searing its way through the dead wood. You're going so fast that you're beyond the tree before it falls to the ground. You have to watch your triumph in the rearview mirror.
 
"Beginner's luck..."
 
'''The Doom That Came To Eclogue''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a2_q1.jpg|none|The Doom That Came To Eclogue]]
The planet's twin moons creep into the still-blue sky, mischievous children sneaking out after bedtime to be part of the diurnal bliss or else to simply watch you ride. The silvery orbs -- one large and looming on the horizon, the other a dainty little sphere above her larger sister's shoulder -- complete the image, turning the landscape into a wondrous painting.
 
Perhaps it's the moons' appearance reminding you of the passage of time, or else their tidal effect on your water-based biology. But whatever the cause, you feel a sudden pang of hunger. Your stomach seems displeased at being neglected for so long, and is making its feelings known in the disagreeable way of disobedient innards.
 
You didn't leave the Silver Shadow empty-handed. Even amid such bucolic beauty, it never hurts to have a few weapons to hand. It's not likely that any of the UHW's agents could have tracked you here. Not when you flew into the atmosphere aboard a stealth ship. But there's no sense in tempting fate. If someone does confront you, you'd rather they did it whilst looking down a potentially death-spitting barrel.
 
However, you didn't bring any provisions. And a woman can't live off munitions alone.
 
When you rode here with Talia, the two of you bought your meals along the way. There were farmhouses and small settlements dotted about the landscape which were keen enough to offer a little rural hospitality to a couple of off-world visitors with credits to spend. Wholesome rustic fare is tempting (your stomach bubbles in agreement) -- and it'd be much quicker to reach a town than return to your ship.
 
So you turn the bike, placing the moons straight ahead as though you yearned to ride all the way over the edge of the world and onto the larger one's argentine surface.
 
The ground becomes harder, the grass patchier. Little clouds of dust caper in the air on either side of the Dragon Cycle's wheels. This terrain is familiar. The nearest town is one you've been to before. A quaint little place, built in emulation of a settlement from America's Old West. You remember walking into the saloon and being swamped by the wave of history -- the archaic photographs of long-dead lawmen and criminals on the wood-paneled walls, the pseudo-antique furniture and dialects. If you hadn't known better, you'd have thought the place a tourist trap. But it was how its inhabitants chose to live, with a historical veneer overlaid upon the comforts and conveniences of modern technology.
 
To each their own. You've seen far stranger things in this universe.
 
A smile crosses your lips when you recall Talia at the makeshift firing range behind the saloon, a revolver in each hand -- exact reproductions of historical armaments, the names and importance of which now escape you. The barman said he was the best shot in town. But after he saw Talia's marksmanship, the look on his face made you think he was about to drop to one knee and propose.
 
The smile remains there for some minutes, sustained by pleasant remembrances and anticipation. Then the town comes in sight, rising over the horizon to slap the happiness off your face.
 
A button on the left handlebar makes the bike fall almost silent, its powerful engine shunning affected anachronism and demonstrating its true capabilities. Another one opens the communications system. But all channels are as noiseless as your vehicle. Something's blocking the signal. Or else the local coms satellite has been disabled...
 
You twist the throttle. The Dragon Cycle zips across the dusty plain, bringing the grim sight closer and closer, throwing atrocity into sharper and clearer focus.
 
Buildings have been ravaged, ripped open -- as though ruthless explosions gutted them from within. Ruined structures stare at you for several moments, like the corpses of prisoners mutilated and then strung up as a warning to others. It's only when you get nearer still, slowing the bike and drawing your weapon, that the true extent of the atrocity is unveiled.
 
The town square is a scene of slaughter. Pools of blood glisten in the sunlight, crimson lakes and rivers that assail your nose with their coppery tang. And the bodies... They've been smashed. Strewn about the square and crushed into great depressions in the ground. It's as though meteors rained down from above in apocalyptic judgment, annihilating the population.
 
Your gaze roams the sky, searching for a ship or aircraft. But only circling birds mar the blueness.
 
You dismount, letting the bike's stand hit the dry ground with a soft thud. Weapon raised, you move across the square -- searching for survivors to aid or enemies to punish.
 
'''Path of Destruction''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a2_q2.jpg|none|Path of Destruction]]
Inside the buildings there's only wreckage, the detritus of old-fashioned facades and the technology beneath -- an eclectic scattering of electronics and wood, historical clothing and the gadgets of modern leisure. Not a single survivor. Or a single body. The townspeople were all killed outdoors, slain in the streets and the square by whatever weight descended to crush them to death. It's as if they were herded outside for execution.
 
But of the murderers, the vicious forces responsible for the atrocity, there's no hint -- not a single clue as to their identity.
 
They haven't left without a trace, however. On the far side of town you find more impressions in the ground, shallower than the impacts which annihilated the victims. These lead off in two directions across the neighboring countryside -- stretching to the horizon. But only one contains crimson, painted with blood from the massacre. Whoever did this went that way, their vehicle marking the route with casual nonchalance.
 
Perhaps heading for another settlement...
 
You sprint back to the Dragon Cycle. In moments you're zooming across the plain once more, following the tracks, your mind swimming with images of broken bodies and flowing blood.
 
It's a walker. Nothing else leaves prints like these. And from their spacing, it's a large one. But who the hell would bring a walker to Eclogue? It's prime terrain for wheeled or tracked vehicles, or for aircraft. Generations of cartoons, toys, and videogames may depict giant mechs in gleeful abundance, but no serious armed forces employ such walkers when another form of vehicle will serve better. This isn't a military assault...
 
Theories flash through your brain as the ground zips by, still indented with the machine's passage.
 
You've never heard of space pirates possessing anything like this. And that level of wanton carnage, of casual destruction with valuables left among the debris instead of being snatched up... It isn't their style.
 
A small building comes over the horizon. It's a farmhouse. Or at least it was... It's been torn apart, just like those in the town. You slow down, scouring your surroundings for any sign of survivors. Again there's only death.
 
You're no scout, but the signs are so clear that even a simpleton could read them. The walker's footprints leave its former path. They approach the farmhouse. And then...
 
Two crushed bodies, a man's and a woman's, lie framed by blood and compacted soil.
 
After that, the tracks continue onward.
 
A turn of the throttle. Rapid acceleration. You have to reach the next town before the walker does, warn them, rally whatever defense forces they have...
 
'''The Colossa''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a2_q3.jpg|none|The Colossa]]
A few hundred yards from the farmhouse there's another corpse, this one splattered and smeared across harder ground. Once more the footprints tell the tale. The attackers, invaders... Whatever they are... They didn't even get out of their vehicle. Instead they ran him down and stomped on him. Then they continued on their way.
 
The terrain is hillier now, the plain giving way to big mounds and ridges of rock and grass, surmounted by trees. The tracks disappear around them. You start turning the Dragon Cycle to follow.
 
Then you stop. Was that...
 
A voice. A woman's voice. Wordless... Moaning in pain. It's soft but loud, as though projected. Yes, there's a faint hint of electronic 'fuzz'.
 
An image smashes its way into your mind. A lone survivor, an injured woman, crawling over to a broadcast terminal to cry for help -- but managing only a frustrated, agonized moan.
 
The Dragon Cycle zips round the corner.
 
Then it stops for a second time. The breath catches in your throat.
 
The footprints end. They go no further, for the walker went no further. There it is, right before you -- amidst the ruins of a large building. It's sitting.
 
It isn't a transport. Or a weapons platform. Not a bulky, boxy walker or even a rigid, blocky mech like those you've encountered in the past. It's shaped like a woman -- a titanic, metal, curvaceous female figure lounging among the wreckage as though it were a living being, its head turned skyward. Its movements are lithe, subtle. The shifting of its limbs is fluid, the smooth motions of the fingers that stroke the debris so natural they're somehow chilling.
 
A giant robot! No mech moves like that! It has to be...
 
The moan is repeated. It comes from the thing's head. Its upturned jaw even moves, like that of a flesh and blood woman giving voice to the utterance. Its body twitches, shudders, shifts. It's not groaning in pain. It's moaning in ecstasy.
 
One of its feet presses against the ground, twisting and turning -- grinding -- against the earth. There's one final moan, accompanied by a hard, sharp twist of the foot. Then it rises and moves aside, angling backwards so you can see its sole. There are glowing yellow lights across it, large luminous discs with a network of lines running between them. And there's crimson...
 
On the ground, where the robot's foot was a moment ago, is a smear of red. A few chunks of unidentifiable gore are all that remain of the person the thing just crushed to a bloody pulp.
 
Then the robot's head tilts downwards, revealing a face as perfectly shaped as the rest of its body -- as though the entire machine were one great sculpture designed to capture feminine beauty and render it in the unliving coldness of steel.
 
Bright red eyes fasten on you.
 
Metal lips widen. The robot giggles.
 
"I didn't know I had company!"
 
Time freezes. You stare at the colossal robot, your mind awhirl. It stares at you in turn, an engine of destruction that wears a female smile.
 
The gear strapped to your bike... Could one of the heavy weapons damage that thing? Are its eyes weak spots, offering a path to sensitive systems? Would you even have time to try? These thoughts and a myriad others batter their way through your brain, a tempest of stratagems for an insane situation.
 
The robot giggles again.
 
"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"
 
"Who... Who built you?" The question tumbles from your lips. Yes... Get it talking. More time to think, to plan... "You're not a TALOS design."
 
"Built me?" Its laughter is musical, as lovely as it is terrifying. "Do you think my Crush Colossa's a robot?"
 
"But..."
 
"Have you ever seen a robot like this before? What would I be -- a hundred foot tall pleasure bot?" She laughs again. "But I don't suppose you've ever seen a mech like this either..."
 
The toes of the raised foot wiggle in the air. Their movements are perfect. What the hell kind of mech has lifelike toe motions engineered into it?
 
"A custom design," she replies, as though reading your thoughts. "My own specifications. Very expensive. Worth every single credit."
 
"Why?" you ask. The word is foolish, inadequate... One syllable to encompass all this insanity, the slaughter...
 
"I wanted to squash people, silly!" She laughs once more -- a charming, pretty, seductive laugh. It's the most appalling thing you've ever heard. "I wanted to feel them squish under my feet."
 
She gives a soft moan of remembered pleasure. The balls of her feet press against the ground.
 
"You can't imagine what it's like... To move through a town like a girl in a candy store, to rip a building open with your hands, to see the people running out into the street... And then step on them."
 
She moans the word 'step', as though it were a lover's name. Then she giggles again.
 
"But sometimes I like something a little different... I talk to a person. Tease them. Toy with them. Before I crush them."
 
Giant metal feet push against the ground. The Crush Colossa rises, its feminine form towering above you like a wicked goddess.
 
'''Riding for Your Life''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a2_q4.jpg|none|Riding for Your Life]]
The Dragon Cycle speeds across the ground, silent and determined, as though it knows it's racing for survival and can't spare the breath to cry out. It zips past the hills, out into the plain beyond.
 
Footsteps thunder like earthquakes, crashing inside your head.
 
There are huge grey-brown clouds in the rearview mirror. Everything behind you is one great explosion of dust, broken only by the gargantuan, pounding metal feet.
 
She's fast... So fast...
 
The throttle is twisted forward, held in that position in your frantic grip. The bike accelerates, picking up speed with each passing second. But the crashing footsteps are still close, so near and so loud that you expect one of the mech's feet to fall upon you at any moment, smashing your bones, bursting your organs -- leaving you smeared across her sole, crushed like an insect.
 
"Keep going!" she laughs. Her projected tones are soft and playful, even as her feet crash and thunder. "It's the first time anyone's ever given me a good chase!"
 
Your eyes leave the rearview mirror, catching something at the periphery of your vision. A huge rock face -- right ahead of you. A range of mountains, breaking the plain.
 
"You're running out of road, sweetie!"
 
She thinks she has you. If you turned, veered away from the mountains, she might catch you, stomp you, squish you. But you're not going to do that. She hasn't seen what you've seen...
 
"No!" she shouts.
 
Now she has...
 
The motorcycle flashes across the ground, so fast now that it barely seems to touch the world beneath. It's like you're in your ship, flying through space. The cave mouth is ahead. So close... A gaping black hole offering safety and sanctuary.
 
Her tread becomes louder -- each crashing, earthshaking step further apart as she runs.
 
'''Grasp of the Colossa''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a2_q5.jpg|none|Grasp of the Colossa]]
Her angry scream rings in your ears.
 
But your bike careens into the cave. There isn't time to slow down. You go in fast, your wheels bumping against the rocks.
 
The light from the entrance goes dim. In the rearview mirror... A giant metal hand, thrusting its way through the cave behind you. Titanic metal fingers open, ready to grab and crush -- or to seize and capture, to pull you out so that she can step on you like all the others, moan with pleasure as she squishes you underfoot.
 
'''Bachanghenfil''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z10_a2.jpg|none|Bachanghenfil]]
Something jars under the bike. It hits something... Turns, twists, slides like an injured animal in its death throes. You fall, thrown as though from a bucking horse. The bike screeches on, sliding deeper into the cave amid a shower of sparks.
 
The world is slow. Each agonizing detail is crystal-clear to your fighter pilot's brain as it unfolds. The Crush Colossa's grasping hand rushes towards you. Tessellating plates move around your body, the biker gear's protective systems triggered by your unceremonious dismount.
 
You hit the ground hard. But the armor is in place. It absorbs the shock as you roll and tumble, bump and bang against the rock. When you come to a stop, sprawled on your chest, you're alive and unbroken.
 
"Where are you?" the woman howls.
 
Metal fingers claw at stone, thudding and scraping. But you're out of reach.
 
You gasp as you scramble to your hands and knees, exhaling relief like a thick mist.
 
The colossal hand slaps against the ground. A tremor undulates across the cave, tickling your body as it filters through the shock absorbent layer. Then the great metal limb withdraws, slithering back out of the cave mouth by degrees like an immense serpent.
 
The hand vanishes. Sunlight pools on the ground by the entrance. Then darkness returns, as an expanse of metal and a glowing red eye fill the opening.
 
"Maybe I'll come back for you later," she hisses. "After I've squashed everyone else on this little ball of rock."
 
The Colossa's face disappears.
 
There's a crash. It booms its way through the cave, making the entire world shudder around you. Then another. And another. The pounding blows of giant metal fists, reverberating from wall to wall in a hellish cacophony. Rock trembles. Then it gives way. Tons and tons of it, collapsing beneath the assault, smashing down in a massive heap of tumbling stone and surging dust.
 
The mouth of the cave is blocked, choked by the Colossa's vindictive assault.
 
There's one final laugh, cold and cruel. Then the faint thud of her departing footsteps.
 
Entombed in darkness... For one long, seemingly endless moment, it's like a starless void -- black and silent. Then something growls behind you, a low bestial sound that shivers along your bones. It's followed by a shuffling, lumbering noise.
 
You whirl round and press a button on the left side of your helmet. A broad beam of light pierces the blackness. It illuminates the face of a hulking monster, a great yellow-brown mass of thick muscle and armored hide, with big curved claws at the ends of its arms.
 
The creature blinks in the sudden brightness, stunned by the rush of light. Then it roars, revealing a maw filled with vicious teeth.
 
----
 
You duck, throwing yourself into a roll and letting the monster's huge claws flail above your head.
 
A bellowing roar echoes across the cave as you rise into a crouch beside the Dragon Cycle. It's followed by a series of fleshy pops.
 
Thick spikes push their way up from the creature's shoulders and the outsides of its arms -- forming a fresh layer of brutal weaponry that threatens to rend flesh and break bone. It's as though the thing were covered in primordial switchblades... Two more pop out from its head, creating a pair of demonic horns. The beast roars again. But the sound is different this time, bearing an unmistakable note of challenge -- almost arrogance.
 
Two can play at that game... You reach towards the motorcycle and unhook something from its side. Then you stand, brandishing it before you in a combat stance. You don't know if the creature's ever seen a sword before. Either way, it doesn't seem impressed. Until you press a button, and green energy flashes across its blade.
 
The monster growls. It charges, arms raised high -- claws ready to descend with tearing, bludgeoning might. You lunge and thrust.
 
Your sword passes through its face, plunging into the middle of its grotesque features in a large but precise incision. Emerald energy parts flesh and bone and brain, until it burns its way through the back of the thing's skull.
 
For a moment it stands there, arms still aloft as though it's being held at gunpoint. Then it topples backwards, slipping off your sword with a soft hiss of seared flesh, and thuds against the rock.

LotS/The Story/Because I'm the Wanderer/Everyone's a Superhero

2012-10-26T10:59:57Z

Raptor00:

'''Everyone's a Superhero''' 
"What'll it be?"
 
 
"Whisky."
 
 
"What kind?"
 
 
"Anything without an 'e' in the word."
 
 
The barmaid's brow furrows. She turns round, revealing the slogan that dances across the back of her t-shirt in glowing letters ("Look, Love, But Don't Touch Unless You Tip Real Good!" -- accompanied by a downwards arrow), and inspects the rows of bottles arrayed along the length of the wall like a battalion of mismatched soldiers. Perhaps she's new to the job, or else used to serving nothing but cheap malt liquor. Either way, she seems lost as she tries to locate your desired beverage. But she's making an effort... She scrutinizes a collection of Neo-American bourbons, named after old states, long-dead presidents, or archaic firearms, and rejects each one in turn. They bear the insolent vowel that separates the Scottish product from those of other dominions.
 
 
"One shelf up, over on the left," you say.
 
 
Her eyes fall upon the dusty bottle. She gives a squeal of girlish satisfaction, perhaps delighted by the discovery that the fabled spelling does indeed exist, and celebrating this addition to her alcoholic understanding. Then she snatches it from the shelf and places it before you. There's a beaming smile across her face. She reminds you of a dog who's fetched something for her mistress and now wags her tail in anticipation of approval.
 
 
"Thanks."
 
 
Her smile widens. Your lips return it of their own accord, infected by a merriment that doesn't reach your eyes or mind. She reaches under the bar for a tumbler. You give the bottle an idle perusal while you wait.
 
 
According to the label, this Glenmorangie spent ten years acquiring and evolving its taste. Good old Scots... Still doing things the traditional way. An off-world distiller once moved to Scotland and set up a plant where they used artificial aging. He disappeared a week later. The rumor is that he was turned into haggis. You're not entirely certain what haggis is, but you can't imagine the process was pleasant.
 
 
From the look of the bottle, it may have spent twice as long gathering dust on the shelf as it did gathering flavor in the barrel. But it'll still work.
 
 
The bottom of the tumbler makes an unsatisfying tap against the faux wood surface of the bar. Soft glass. Designed to splat rather than shatter if you hit someone with it. This drinking hole must see a lot of fights. If one breaks out, you'll have to remember to use the bottle instead...
 
 
But if the glass is cheap, the measures aren't. The barmaid sloshes amber liquid into the tumbler until it's nearly full to the brim. Yeah, she's new all right. You make a mental note to tip high, to cover the real cost of the drink.
 
 
She trips away to serve someone at the other end of the bar, the clicking of her heels playing her off with their percussion -- leaving you alone with your scotch and your thoughts. The memory this reawakens isn't a welcome one. So you stare into the long mirror behind the bar for a distraction.
 
 
The first thing you see is a strange face. A woman, her gaze locked with yours. Only the reflection's position allows you to recognize the unfamiliar features as belonging to your own visage -- or at least the one you've adopted.
 
 
There are countless humans in the galaxy, trillions of distinct faces. Even the most famous or infamous should be able to slip into anonymity if they divorce themselves of the clothing and trappings for which they're known, and perhaps make a few minor changes -- a pair of cyberpunk goggles here, a splash of bubblegum pink hair dye there. But it's not a risk you're willing to take. There could be any number of people out hunting for you. So you're hiding behind a holographic disguise, staring into another countenance when you look in the mirror.
 
 
Maybe you should get something permanent done instead, have a surgeon slap a new identity on your skull. But first you'd have to find one you trusted well enough to let her put you to sleep and take lasers to your face.
 
 
You glug the sweet, oaky scotch. Your eyes remain fastened on your reflection's, as though challenging her to a drinking contest. Unsurprisingly, you both set an empty glass down at the exact same moment. The barmaid's heels click their way over. She flashes a smile in which sympathy, understanding, and amusement mingle, then refills the soft glass vessel with the same cornucopian generosity. You decide that you like her.
 
 
The rest of the dingy bar is spread out behind your dubious doppelganger. You focus your attention on its denizens as the second dose of whisky follows the first -- hoping to find entertainment in lieu of contemplation.
 
 
Two young women sit on either side of a small table, dressed in a way that would make prostitutes blush. The drinks before them -- one yellow, the other pink -- throb with a bright glow which brings to mind neon signs and toxic waste. Alcopops. Twice as strong as beer, as easy to drink as lemonade. Chemistry is the natural enemy of sobriety.
 
 
Judging by their laughter and high-pitched babble -- inane even by the standards of their demographic -- these aren't their first drinks of the night. The same thought has probably occurred to the two boys watching them from a nearby table, pondering whether to make their move now or wait until further inebriation will make them seem more handsome and charming.
 
 
Teenage courtship rituals... You direct your gaze elsewhere, leaving them to their future of drunken romance and hung-over regret.
 
 
You're just in time to see a man get out of a booth, leaving a weeping woman in his wake. His stride is firm and fast. Muscles ripple under his dark flesh. A weapon bulges beneath his shirt. He's a fighter -- primal strength and deadliness radiate from him, tens of thousands of years of evolution warning the universe at large to keep its distance. And yet there's moisture at the corners of his eyes.
 
 
The woman cries something out, but it's made unintelligible by the tears which lacerate her thick makeup -- turned into a banshee's wordless wail. Her face slumps onto the table, nestled in her arms, and she shudders with the force of her sobs.
 
 
He keeps walking. By the time he reaches the door, a single tear has rolled down his cheek, leaving a glistening wound. Wherever he's going, neither of them believes he's coming back.
 
 
You drain your glass. This time the barmaid's heels are silent -- muffled by your thoughts.
 
 
"You sure, honey?" She raises the bottle and her eyebrows.
 
 
You nod. The amber pours.
 
 
"Not seen you around here before. New in town?"
 
 
"Just passing through."
 
 
"Figures. We don't get a lot of visitors in New Culverton. Except wannabe vigilantes, or supervillains trying to get in on the action. And most of both end up dead in a couple of days. Where you heading?"
 
 
"Nowhere in particular. But my ship needed fuel, and I needed a stiff drink. This seemed as good a place as any."
 
 
The barmaid waits for a few seconds. When you don't offer any further conversation, she clicks away in search of drinks to replenish.
 
 
You take another glug. This Glenmorangie deserves to be treated as a sipping whisky. But you're in the mood for gulping. As the sweet burn works its way down your throat, you return to the looking glass -- seeking interest in the mirrored world beyond.
 
 
This time you find something more pleasant than the drunken teenagers (who're now sharing the same booth, kissing and fondling with the clumsiness of drink and desperation), or the crying woman.
 
 
There's a group of men sat around a collection of pushed-together tables, the surfaces of which are littered with drained glasses -- the debris of a drinking session that must have lasted for some hours, perhaps ever since they left work for the day. Their laughter and chatter are rough and rugged, sometimes spilling into indecency. When the barmaid comes near she has to field catcalls, propositions both matrimonial and sinful, and slap away groping hands. She does this all with a pleasant laugh and a winning smile that manages to encourage without exacerbating.
 
 
The easy camaraderie is enjoyable in spite of its churlishness. You find yourself drinking the spectacle as much as the scotch, taking in the jokes and banter with the sponge-like absorbency of the solitary drinker.
 
 
The tumbler is emptied twice, but slower than before. You're savoring instead of glugging, allowing human interaction -- albeit from the perspective of an onlooker rather than a participant -- to supplement the alcohol. Sobriety, or as near to it as a woman with a few scotches in her system can claim to be, is tolerable enough with such distractions.
 
 
You're so engrossed in your voyeurism that you don't fully notice the wave of silence washing through the bar until it submerges the men you're observing. First the words and laughs die in the throats of the ones facing towards the door. Their companions follow suit the moment they turn around to see what the first lot saw.
 
 
She appears in the mirror first. A young woman, no more than eighteen from the look of her, with a blonde hair and a low-cut top. Pretty, but not good-looking or voluptuous enough to have quietened an entire bar. Perhaps she's some sort of celebrity, a singer or an actress -- part of the vast swath of interstellar pop culture which exists beyond your knowledge or concern. No... There's anger on some of the faces in the mirror. Derision. Disgust.
 
 
When you study the woman in the flesh, glimpse the right side of her face instead of the reflection of the left, you understand. There's a semi-perm tattoo on her cheek -- the kind you heat up, slap on your skin, and have to remove with a special chem. From its cheap sheen and bright colors, it's new. Probably applied tonight. And it depicts the Centurian Collective's emblem.
 
 
Your fingers tighten around the tumbler, indenting its soft glass.
 
 
You saw newscasts about this kind of thing while you were aboard the Silver Shadow. Centurian Pride, they called it. After the Collective's defeat in the war, many of its citizens around the galaxy decided to start displaying their colors. Some of them were interviewed, either crying about the deaths of loved ones and talking about shared grief or else screaming about solidarity and justice.
 
 
There's a soft murmur that increases in volume and variety as conversations pick up again. People are returning their attention to drinks or friends. As far as they're concerned, the girl and her tattoo are only of passing interest. Varlec was a neutral world in the conflict -- a collection of autonomous settlements such as New Culverton that had neither the capacity to commit military forces nor the inclination to offer support. To most of the bar's patrons, the battles and the fate of the Centurians were just things viewed on a screen or read in a holo-paper, no different from soap operas, celebrity gossip, or the plight of some unpronounceable species of quadruped on an inconsequential backwater world.
 
 
You avert your gaze, throwing your attention back at the mirror. Just a stupid kid. Not worth starting anything over... You swallow a glassful of whisky. The flavors pass you by, leaving only a quick burn.
 
 
The group of reflected men, who provided such entertainment just a moment before, haven't returned to their light banter and merriment. One of them is glaring at the girl and muttering to the others in a low voice. Your aural implant relays a torrent of slurred vitriol from the movement of his lips.
 
 
"What'll it be, honey?" the barmaid asks.
 
 
Her eyes flick between the girl and the men. She's noticed it too. The sign of impending trouble.
 
 
"Tyger, Tyger." The Prider says the brand name as though it were a challenge. Her eyes are practically smoldering.
 
 
She seems disappointed when the barmaid sets a cylindrical bottle before her, containing a bright orange liquid marred by oily black stripes. Yes... She wanted to be refused service, so she could make a fuss. You've seen her type before. Young, stupid activist out looking for a reason to throw her cause in someone's face. The kind that keeps going until they get what they want or get punched in the face -- which sometimes amounts to the same thing.
 
 
The men are leaning in close to each other, their mannerisms reeking of collaboration and conspiracy. The ringleader's face is hidden by someone's shoulder now, concealing his words.
 
 
"Honey, you want to be careful-" the barmaid begins.
 
 
The Prider glares at her. If looks could kill, the ranks of bottles would be festooned with the barmaid's innards. She takes the hint, stops talking, and clicks away. The Prider takes a long drink of her Tyger, Tyger, as if in celebration of a victory or as a taunt. When she sets it back down, the sloshing black stripes reassert themselves into the 'fearful symmetry' proclaimed in the ads.
 
 
Her eyes meet yours in the mirror.
 
 
"What're you looking at?" she asks.
 
 
In your mind's eye you lunge over, grab her by her blonde hair, and smash her face against the bar until the tattoo is drowned in blood. In reality you look away, leaving her to take another celebratory drink at the thought that she's stared you down.
 
 
"Oi, Cent-bitch!"
 
 
The men are on their feet now. The dark-haired ringleader calls out again.
 
 
"Your lot killed my cousin!"
 
 
"Yeah? And both my parents were killed guarding Zhen Bao," she replies, without turning round. "Screw you."
 
 
The man's eyes blaze. Red lights flicker at his wrists and shoulders. You can't tell if they're genuine cybernetic implants or just fashion statements. But either way, the Prider's in for it now...
 
 
The men march towards the bar, knocking chairs out of their way, bumping against tables and sending glasses tumbling to the floor -- where they make a series of anticlimactic splats. The girl keeps drinking. As much as you hate her, you can't help admiring her guts.
 
 
But even if she's nonchalant about her impending homicide, the establishment isn't. Two big heaps of flesh lumber out from a darkened corner. They stop between the men and the Prider, their muscles undulating like boulders shifting through treacle. The bar's Snuuth bouncers.
 
 
"Time to go, boys," one of them says. His tone is friendly, but when he cracks his knuckles it sounds like a skull being smashed open. An inauspicious omen for anyone who's thinking of starting trouble.
 
 
There are only two bouncers. The men have them outnumbered three to one. But the Snuuth are big. And if this lot are regulars, they'll want to drink here again. So the ringleader raises his hands in a palms-out gesture of acquiescence.
 
 
"Fine! Don't wanna drink in the same bar as a Collective whore anyway!"
 
 
His friends echo that sentiment as they bustle towards the door. The bouncers bring up the rear, escorting them from the premises.
 
 
The girl finishes her drink with a sharp, flourishing upturn of the bottle. She gestures for another before the last drop has slipped into her mouth, the empty cylinder still extending straight up from her face as though she were performing a balancing trick.
 
 
A fresh Tyger, Tyger is placed in front of her. Your tumbler is refilled.
 
 
The two of you drink.
 
 
After a few gulps of her burning bright, symmetrical beverage, she scans the mirror -- taking in the entirety of the bar. From the snort she makes, it doesn't please her. Of course not... With those men gone, there's no one left to hassle her. No chance for her to play the aggrieved martyr, and take a kicking for her allegiance. No bruises to show off when she meets with other Priders.
 
 
"We may've lost the war," she says, her raised voice cutting through the conversations floating behind her, "but those Sian bastards don't have their Emperor anymore, do they? Or their damn Princess! Let 'em celebrate the win in hell!"
 
 
The tumbler crumples in your grasp. Whisky sloshes over your hand like spilled blood.
 
 
She gazes around, making eye contact with everyone who can be bothered looking in her direction. But none of them take the bait. No one's interested. So she snorts again, polishes off her drink, swipes her credits to settle her tab, and heads out the door.
 
 
You settle up as well. Then you make for the exit, fists clenched at your sides.
 
 
'''Your Enemy's Keeper''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a1_q1.jpg|none|Your Enemy's Keeper]]
The night air is an icy whisper across your face, after the warmth of the bar and the fire of the scotch. It slashes sobriety into your mind like the cut of a cold blade. But it doesn't cool your anger.
 
 
No sign of her on the street, in either direction. Where is she?
 
 
The universe answers with a scream. A girl's scream. Followed by jeers and laughter, all male.
 
 
They came from the alleyway that separates the bar from the neighboring pawn shop, dividing the place where the desperate gain their credits from the one they fritter them away in.
 
 
There, illuminated by the gaudy glow of purple and cyan lights... The men from the bar. And the Prider. Five of them are standing back, blocking the alley's mouth, cheering and hollering like the crowd at a Twisted Steel event. The sixth, their ringleader, has the girl by the throat. She's pressed up against the wall, her eyes wide and unblinking -- the frozen stare of prey looking upon a predator. Spluttered squeals slip from her mouth. Her hands press and claw at the wall behind her, as though hoping to find some form of escape there.
 
 
"This is for my cousin, Centi!" he hisses.
 
 
His free hand reaches down towards his belt.
 
 
You turn and walk away. The Prider was looking for trouble, and she found it. You'll leave her to her fate, and the men to their sport.
 
 
"Rhapsody!..."
 
 
The voice brings you to a halt.
 
 
"Rhapsody!! You can't let them do this!"
 
 
It's her voice. Stronger than soul, closer than conscience. The voice which commanded your obedience when it came from living lips, and still overpowers you even from memory and imagination.
 
 
"Rhapsody!!"
 
 
You turn back, towards the terrified girl, the leering onlookers, and the man struggling to work his belt buckle one-handed.
 
 
The people blocking the alley cry out in protest when you shove your way past. You ignore them and keep going, until you're close enough to see the spittle on the ringleader's lips.
 
 
"Get off her!"
 
 
There's fury in your words. It isn't just directed at him, loathsome as he is. You're angry at the Prider for causing all this trouble, enraged that you have to intervene to help a girl with a goddamn Centurian Collective tattoo stamped on her face. But he doesn't know that. So the anger will show him that you're serious, that he'd damn well better listen if he knows what's good for him...
 
 
He eyes you up and down.
 
 
"What's your problem? You some kind of Centi-lover?"
 
 
The other men are moving behind you, as subtle and stealthy as a gang of drunken rhinos.
 
 
"I hate the Centurians more than you could possibly imagine. But I'm not going to let you do that."
 
 
They're closer now, almost in striking distance.
 
 
"Piss off!" A blob of spittle punctuates his sentence. It splats against your cheek.
 
 
Well, you gave them a chance...
 
 
'''High-Kicking Heroine''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a1_q2.jpg|none|High-Kicking Heroine]]
A punch glances off the side of your face, powered by intoxicated enthusiasm but ruined by the lousy balance of tipsy legs. When you punch back, your feet and thighs lend force instead of stealing it. Knuckles hit the solar plexus. A drunken fool hits the ground.
 
 
Scotch is an unreliable ally in combat. But you could drink Scotland dry, along with the entire distillery world of Argyll III, and still be able to handle these punks.
 
 
You whirl round, intercepting a kicking leg with your elbow and sending the kicker spinning. Circular motion doesn't agree with him, or at least not with the contents of his stomach. When he falls onto his hands and knees, they make their colorful escape. You shuffle away from him, leaving him to puke a rainbow where he won't trip you up.
 
 
If you wanted to, you could have pulled your sidearm and put a shot in each of their heads. But you're not killing anyone for a Centurian. So you pick your blows as carefully as whisky and circumstance allow. You want them to walk away from this one.
 
 
The ringleader comes at you next. He's less drunk than the others. Either that, or he can handle his liquor better. He even has the presence of mind to feint with his left before throwing his right in a crisp, sharp cross. The man knows how to box. But the Sian Empire doesn't train its people to lose street fights.
 
 
Your forearm parry might have come out of a textbook. Even after all these years, hour upon hour of martial drills have left their imprint. Your arm rotates, hitting his with first one side and then the other -- distributing the impact between both of your bones. A rigid, stylized, traditional block. The kind taught more as a matter of form, as part of kata, than for its practicality. It should be ineffective against a decent boxer. But you're fast, your reflexes those of an ace pilot.
 
 
If the block came from a textbook, the riposte comes from the gutter -- a headbutt that sends the top of your skull crashing into the point of his jaw. He collapses forward. You shove him away, hooking his leg with yours as he goes. He falls on his butt, hard.
 
 
The others are already stumbling and staggering towards the mouth of the alley, like a pack of zombies chasing after a victim. They've had enough.
 
 
Their leader stares up at you, his hands pressed against his chin as though they're all that's keeping the mandible bone attached to the rest of his head. His eyes are sharp and shocked.
 
 
"You! Didn't know was you! Sorry! Sorry! Have her! Yours! All yours!"
 
 
He scrambles to his feet.
 
 
"All yours!" he repeats, with almost comic earnestness.
 
 
Then he runs after the others.
 
 
"You!" This time it's the Prider who fires the second-person pronoun at you. She's leaning against the wall, as though still pinned there by her assailant's grasp. Her eyes are just as wide as before. But the fear is gone. "You bitch!"
 
 
It's then that you tilt your gaze downwards. The shape of your nose is remarkably familiar. Not at all like the one you were wearing earlier tonight...
 
 
You sigh. Maybe it was the headbutt that messed up your holographic disguise.
 
 
"You bitch!" she shrieks. "You bitch!"
 
 
The woman's face twitches. It makes her seem like a malfunctioning robot, her computerized brain locked into a subroutine -- unable to do anything other than spit out the same words again and again.
 
 
Then something clicks. Her mind moves on, grasping its next thought. Her eyes flash.
 
 
She lunges at you, shrieking and clawing.
 
 
"I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"
 
 
The backhand you give her is light. Closer to a slap than a punch. But it takes her in the side of the face, right on the Centurian tattoo, and knocks her clean off her feet. She doesn't brace herself well for the fall. Her forehead thuds against the ground. A soft groan and a trickle of blood emerge from under a messy wave of blonde hair.
 
 
You sigh. Just a stupid kid... You need to make sure she's okay...
 
 
That thought hits you, and you crouch down beside her. Then something else hits you.
 
 
Sprawled on the ground. Not good. Moved out of instinct. Slipped some of the blow. Still hit hard. With what? Feels like a battering ram. Warm liquid in mouth. Blood. Great...
 
 
"Stay down, creep!"
 
 
A woman's voice... Familiar? Head throbbing, but still... Recognize it.
 
 
You slip into a roll. Another maneuver made natural by years of training. The smooth, instinctive motion gives you clearance, moving you further away from your attacker. And it helps you clear your head. When you rise in a fighting stance, arms ready to block and counterattack, your mind is focused once more.
 
 
"You!"
 
 
That pronoun, fired at you again. It's been one of those days...
 
 
The woman stands above the groaning Prider like a sentinel, her chestnut hair swaying in time with the movements of her lithe combat stance -- the weight shifting from leg to leg, threatening to throw her into a myriad different forms of attack or defense. There's a light blue glow around each of her boots. And you know they're not just a fashion statement. Nor is energy-discharging footwear the most dangerous element of those long legs...
 
 
For the third time tonight, you stare into eyes that gleam with recognition. But this time there's no shock. There's only steely resolve. Unflinching determination. Righteous anger.
 
 
"From interstellar war crimes to beating up young girls in alleyways?" she asks. "How the malevolent have fallen."
 
 
"Save the superhero babble, Mech-Leg. There aren't any cameras around, and I'm not in the mood."
 
 
"You're wanted for questioning by the Union of Human Worlds. Come quietly, and I won't give you the beating you deserve for what you did here."
 
 
"She started it..."
 
 
"Princess Illaria would be ashamed of what you've become."
 
 
"Damn it, Leg! I told you -- I'm not in the mood. Knock off the golden age crap! Take that girl to the hospital, or whatever stupid super-secret clubhouse you guys have, and stay out of my way. I've had enough of this town."
 
 
You storm off towards the street. But you don't get far.
 
 
Movement flashes at the corner of your eye, where she's standing. You don't look that way though. You know what this one can do, how she fights... Instead you look up.
 
 
There she is, at the apex of a jump that would be impossible for human muscle alone -- launched there by the power of her cybernetic legs -- slipping into a diving kick that looks as if it could take your head clean off.
 
 
'''The Leg and the Fist''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a1_q3.jpg|none|The Leg and the Fist]]
Her boots flash through the air, each deft kick so swift it seems as if a hundred trailing afterimages are burned into your vision -- a luminous chronicle of the entire fight, fading and evolving every second.
 
 
You don't try to block them. Her augmented legs are like metal bars. And now that she knows whom she's up against, Mech-Leg isn't holding anything back. She understands what you're capable of. If you put a forearm in front of one of those kicks, you might need a surgeon to stitch it back on again.
 
 
So you dodge, slipping away from the burning barrage -- wishing that you hadn't drunk so much.
 
 
A high kick arcs round at your face, threatening to scramble your features so badly that you'll never need a disguise again. You duck under it, throw your arms against the back of the leg. Classic jujitsu: use her momentum against her. Put her off balance. But they didn't have to deal with cybernetic enhancements in feudal Japan...
 
 
The leg she's standing on doesn't give way at all. It might as well belong to a steel sculpture. Instead the raised one sweeps round in a circle, thwarting your technique, and cleaves down at the top of your skull in an axe kick. You move aside to let her descending heel flash past you, ready to capitalize and slip a punch through her guard. It doesn't work out as planned.
 
 
Her heel stops at shoulder-height, making a mockery of momentum, and her left leg chooses this moment to relinquish its seemingly unbreakable hold on the ground. She twists in mid-air, and thrusts her left foot at your chest.
 
 
It isn't a powerful blow, relatively speaking. From that position, she can't throw her full force behind it. But that's cold comfort as you slam into the wall. Your ribs have been through a lot. They remind you of this with a burst of pain that seems to dredge up a host of unwelcome memories.
 
 
That's it... You didn't really want to hurt her, but...
 
 
As the resolution crystalizes in your mind, and you move away from the wall to engage Mech-Leg again, things go from bad to worse.
 
 
This time you're ready, at least. You knew he might show up. He doesn't get to blindside you like she did.
 
 
When Tech-Fist drops down from the pawn shop roof, his gauntleted fist drives into the ground where you were standing a split-second before. The crunch, and the network of little fractures that radiate across the concrete like messy wounds, give you ample reason to be glad of that.
 
 
The science-nerd-turned-vigilante rises, his armored hand apparently none the worse for having been shoved a couple of inches through the ground.
 
 
"You!"
 
 
"The next person who says that is getting shot in the face. Yes, it's me. @PLAYERNAME. Now, if you'll just explain to your wife here that-"
 
 
"I caught him attacking a young girl."
 
 
Tech-Fist's eyes narrow.
 
 
"For the last time, she..."
 
 
You gesture towards where the Prider lay. But there's only a little rivulet of blood there now. She can't have been that badly hurt after all.
 
 
"...started it."
 
 
"What happened to you, @PLAYERNAME?" He jabs an accusing finger in your direction. The gesture would seem more impressive if you didn't know that he practices it in front of the mirror. "You were a hero! Children looked up to you! And now you're a fugitive from justice, a low-life criminal, a-"
 
 
His sentence ends with a spurt of blood. You've heard enough of this crap...
 
 
'''Over Tall Buildings...''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a1_q4.jpg|none|Over Tall Buildings...]]
Within five seconds, it's clear that you're in trouble.
 
 
Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg are used to fighting crime together. They complement one another perfectly, each creating openings for the other, neither interfering with their partner's lines of attack.
 
 
Her flashing kicks and his thunderous punches drive you around the alleyway in a ridiculous dance. You can't even muster a good counterattack. The moment one of them leaves themselves open, the other makes sure you can't take advantage.
 
 
You could draw your pistol... Go for non-lethal targets...
 
 
The thought of shooting at former friends is repulsive. But as you slip another punch that would have fractured your jaw, dart back from one more hook kick, it starts to seem more palatable...
 
 
A loud boom bellows through the night, echoing across the city like a peal of angry thunder. The ground shudders underfoot. It's as though the heavens are passing judgment on your thoughts.
 
 
The crime-fighting spouses pause in mid-strike -- her right leg raised and chambered, his computerized first drawn back for a punch.
 
 
"That was an expl-" you begin.
 
 
Tech-Fist raises his palm to silence you. He taps one of the buttons on his eponymous gauntlet. A holographic image pops into existence. It's a cartoon boxing glove, replete with big round eyes and a broad mouth.
 
 
"Fisto, what just happened?"
 
 
"Fisto?" you ask. "Really?"
 
 
"The New Culverton Bank is under attack!" the boxing glove exclaims, in a robotic voice that seems like it should belong to an archaic computer. "It appears to be the work of the Hat!"
 
 
"The Hat?" You roll your eyes. "Does anyone in this town have a grown-up name?"
 
 
The two vigilantes frown at you.
 
 
"The Hat's a dangerous criminal mastermind," Mech-Leg says.
 
 
"We don't have time to deal with you, Rhapsody," Tech-Fist says. "Consider yourself lucky."
 
 
The two of them run towards the wall of the pawn shop. She launches herself high into the air, touching down on its roof. He follows a moment later, firing some kind of grappling hook from his gauntlet that latches on and draws him up.
 
 
They disappear from sight.
 
 
Now would be a good time to get back to your ship. But if they're about to go into danger... Tech-Fist fought alongside you in the liberation of Sian. Even after this, you can't desert him.
 
 
You sigh, and look around for a fire escape.
 
 
By the time you get up there, the crime-fighting couple are some distance away. They're good at this. But you've had a little experience with rooftop parkour yourself...
 
 
'''Malevolent Millinery''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a1_q5.jpg|none|Malevolent Millinery]]
Superheroes and villains are onto something with their predilection for rooftop travel.
 
 
The buildings in this part of New Culverton might almost have been designed to give vigilantes, criminals, or traceurs a quick route across the city -- sparing them the monotony of walking the streets like a normal person.
 
 
Sprinting across roofs, leaping over narrow alleyways, you follow Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg as they work their way across the city they protect. She's no role model. With her augmented legs, she could easily take a route you'd never be able to follow. But the Fist's legs are no more adept at jumping than yours. Anywhere he can go, so can you.
 
 
Only a handful of gaps provide anything like a challenge, and give you that feeling of impending doom as your body passes over a stretch of distant concrete made impossibly vast and seemingly unconquerable by panicked perception. You handle them just fine in spite of your qualms, without plunging to an embarrassing death by misadventure and painting the ground with foolish brains. The thrill it sends through your body is exhilarating.
 
 
Even if the athletic figures of your former allies, and more recent adversaries, weren't ahead to guide you, the destination would be impossible to miss. A twisting plume of black smoke rises over the city, a monument to the audacious crime. Robbing a bank... These days most people prefer to hack into systems for that kind of thing -- to simply move credits around on holographic displays, if they possess the skill to work such electronic espionage with impunity. Who'd think it was a good idea to blow a vault open and try to escape with inconvenient piles of hard credits instead?
 
 
But this is New Culverton, where crime is as much a hobby and a form of art as it is a way of making a dishonest living.
 
 
As you near the billowing black pillar, hear the shouts and sirens that provide orchestral accompaniment to the business of bank robbery, the Leg and the Fist disappear -- dropping down into the street below. It's several moments before you reach the edge of that last building. When you do, the scene which greets you is... ridiculous.
 
 
Amid the flame and smoke that caper in destructive triumph around the bank's damaged wall, the two vigilantes are doing battle with the miscreants you assume must be responsible -- more of whom are pouring out of the building each moment. There are men and women, humans and assorted aliens, all wearing the same absurd outfit: long magenta coats and top hats. It reminds you more of a circus than a crime scene.
 
 
But the violence is serious enough. Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg are laying into the identically-dressed criminals with brutal punches and kicks, as the gang swarms around them like a pack of garish wolves.
 
 
You watch the raging combat as you clamber down the building, using its deep window recesses as stepping stones to the street. At least those stupid costumes will let you know which people to beat up.
 
 
'''The Hat''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z10_a1.jpg|none|The Hat]]
Your uppercut hits the woman so hard that she practically backflips before collapsing in the street -- a big purple puddle in her voluminous coat. And yet her hat remains in place on her unconscious head.
 
 
"What're you doing here?" Mech-Leg asks, glaring.
 
 
"Behind you," you say.
 
 
Her glare remains unbroken as her right leg swings upwards, the limb perfectly straight -- as though she intended to axe kick you again. Instead, the toe of her boot reaches over her shoulder and meets the face of the man who was coming up behind her. His nose explodes. He falls in the street. But once again, his hat stays on with laudable tenacity.
 
 
"This isn't your fight," Tech-Fist says.
 
 
He's holding one of the purple-hatted men in a headlock, throwing punches into the poor sap's face in time with his words.
 
 
"And freeing Sian wasn't yours. But you came anyway."
 
 
He frowns, and tosses the groaning criminal aside.
 
 
"If you're still here when we're done, I'm taking you in along with them."
 
 
With that, he turns round and charges at a hatted Snuuth -- throwing a shovel hook into his abdomen that seems to deflate the whole of the alien's flabby body.
 
 
Only half the gang are left standing. The rest are strewn around in various stages of injury and consciousness, writhing in pain or sleeping the sleep of the unjust. Fist and Leg can take it from here. These top-hatted jokers may keep them occupied for a while longer, but they don't seem like much of a threat now.
 
 
You should leave, before you have to go another round with the superheroes...
 
 
Something glimmers amid the smoke, drawing your eye and derailing your train of thought. The golden glimmer becomes stronger, supplemented by a hint of chrome and throbbing pinkness.
 
 
A hover pallet rises up, breaking free from the entangling darkness like a bird seeking freedom. It's laden down with a big pile of metal. So this is what happened to the loot...
 
 
The hard credits stop a dozen feet above the ground and float there, as though taunting those brawling in the street below -- a fabulous prize awaiting the victor of the struggle. No... It's not for them. It's for him.
 
 
A man emerges from the smoke, detaches himself from its grey-black folds as if he were part of it, his ashen coat and dark hat formed from the fruits of his devastation. Orange orbs glow from a purple mask so tight around his features that it resembles paint rather than fabric. A cane sways in his hand, conducting an invisible orchestra.
 
 
You're no expert on supervillainy. But unless the costume shop just ran out of purple coats and hats, you have a sneaking suspicion that this is the gang's leader. The so-called Hat.
 
 
The Hat's grin splits the lower half of his mask like a shark's maw. Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg are busy fighting his minions. They haven't even noticed him yet. He can walk away, escape with his haul. But he pauses, as though in contemplation. Then he angles his cane, aiming the knob towards the whirling melee. A bright blue light fills it, crackling like lightning.
 
 
You run. One of the purple goons staggers into your path, reeling from a gauntleted punch. Your shoulder hits him. He goes flying. You leap, arms outstretched.
 
 
"Hey!" Mech-Leg yells.
 
 
But your tackle comes from behind. She doesn't have a chance to lock her cybernetic legs and resist the impact. The two of you crash down in the street, at the same instant that a beam of bright azure energy sears overhead. It passes through the place where she was standing, strikes one of the goons in the chest, and blasts him across the street.
 
 
Mech-Leg shrugs you off and jumps to her feet. Or at least one foot -- the other lashes out before even touching down, and takes a gang member in the chest. You get up as well, grabbing a handful of purple lapel on your way and yanking its owner's face into an elbow smash.
 
 
"You'll have to forgive me," the Hat says. His voice is high, tittering. "That wasn't part of my ingenious scheme, but I simply couldn't resist. I've always thought that Mech-Leg would be better off without a head. And perhaps stuffed inside a refrigerator... Maybe that would finally pull the rod out of Tech-Fist's butt and spice things up around here!"
 
 
"I'd tell you that you're crazy," you reply, "but I don't think that's news to anyone who calls himself 'the Hat' and color-coordinates his henchmen."
 
 
"Guilty!" he trills. "Who's the new sidekick, Techy? I really must keep track of the people in your little crime-fighting circle, in case I ever want to arrange a death in the family!"
 
 
"She's not my sidekick!"
 
 
"I'm not his sidekick!"
 
 
The simultaneous statements become a chorus. The Hat giggles. Then he gazes at you with fresh intensity.
 
 
"Wait..." he says. His eyes widen, and his voice is different now -- deeper, stripped of its ridiculous flamboyance. "You!"
 
 
"Big mistake..." you reply.
 
 
You reach for your pistol.
 
 
-------------------------------------
 
Twin beams zap across the street, azure lances fired from the Hat's cane and his chunky blaster.
 
 
Mech-Leg jumps, letting the searing blasts pass below, and performs an elegant aerial flip that lands her right next to him. He turns. She kicks. His arm flies upwards, propelled by her boot. His blaster fires backwards over his shoulder as he stumbles, before it falls from his hand -- sending a blazing beam straight at the hover pallet.
 
 
There's a sharp fizz and crackle as electronic systems fry. The platform lurches and tilts, raining hard credits down to clink and clatter in the street below.
 
 
"Damn it!" the Hat cries. Again the camp accent is gone from his voice.
 
 
He brings his cane around, trying to shoot Mech-Leg at pointblank range. But you shoot first. The cane and a few fingers are scattered on the ground. He stares at the cauterized stumps on his hand as he screams.
 
 
Tech-Fist strides over to him. The villain cringes. But when the vigilante's gauntlet comes up, it isn't to punch. Instead it wags an admonishing finger.
 
 
"Who are you? You're not the Hat! Your voice is different."
 
 
"Screw you, man!"
 
 
"Wrong answer."
 
 
Some married couples finish each other's sentences. Others finish each other's happiness. As for Tech-Fist and Mech-Leg... Well, they finish each other's moves.
 
 
He punches. She drops, spins, and sweeps. Her boot hits the back of the Hat's leg at the exact same moment his computerized fist smashes into the villain's jaw. The criminal goes down fast and hard.
 
 
"Screw... Screw... You..."
 
 
His head slumps to the side.
 
 
Tech-Fist crouches and yanks at the man's mask. There's a soft, almost fleshy noise as it tears away. The eponymous hat stays in place, however.
 
 
You walk over, curious to see what he looks like unmasked. This time it's your turn to have your eyes widen in recognition. Beneath the villainous disguise is a dark face. It's the black man from the bar -- the one who left his girlfriend weeping on the table.
 
 
"This isn't the Hat," Tech-Fist says, glancing up at you. "The real Hat's white."
 
 
You shrug.
 
 
"If the hat fits..."
 
 
He and Mech-Leg frown. Apparently only superheroes and villains get to make cheesy comments around here...
 
 
The vigilante gets to his feet. His expression becomes somber as he stares into your eyes.
 
 
"I should take you down. But after this, we owe you."
 
 
"So...?"
 
 
"So get off my planet."
 
 
"Fair enough."
 
 
You turn and walk away.

LotS/The Story/Because I'm The Wanderer/Intro

2012-10-26T10:54:51Z

Raptor00:

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Please state your full name.
 
TALIA RYX: You know my name. It was on that stupid summons you sent me.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Let the record show that the witness is refusing to cooperate. Mr. Lu Bu, kindly advise your client to address this inquiry in a more appropriate manner.
 
LU BU: Talia...
 
TALIA RYX: Fine... Talia Ryx.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Miss Ryx, what is your relationship with Rhapsody-
 
LU BU: Mr. Secretary-General, please remember that former holders of the office of Imperial Jian continue to bear that title as an honorific for the remainder of their lives.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Very well. What is your relationship with the... Jian?
 
TALIA RYX: She's my friend. You already know that. That's why I'm here.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Indeed. Would you say that the two of you are close friends?
 
TALIA RYX: I'd take a blaster shot to the head for her.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: You'd show such loyalty to a woman responsible for millions of deaths?
 
TALIA RYX: [expletive deleted] you!
 
----
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: King Telemachus-
 
LU BU: Prince.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Excuse me?
 
LU BU: My client is the Prince of Gallea. He hasn't yet undergone the coronation process which would formally bestow the title of king upon him.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: I see. Prince Telemachus, were you at any time given foreknowledge of the Jian's planned nuclear attacks on Centurian worlds, or her decision to destroy escape pods containing innocent civilians?
 
[The witness leans over to his counsel.]
 
PRINCE TELEMACHUS: Do I have to answer him?
 
LU BU: No. As a head of state, you'd be well within your rights to-
 
PRINCE TELEMACHUS: Then I'm out of here!
 
[The witness rises and walks towards the exit, stopping briefly to make an obscene gesture in the direction of the secretary-general.]
 
----
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: You were actually beside the Jian when she initiated her illegal assault?
 
RAGNAR RAGNARSSON: I was there when the Centurians got what they deserved.
 
LU BU: I must remind this inquiry that the legal status of Jian Rhapsody's actions are still under dispute. It is highly inappropriate-
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Your objection is noted. Now, Mr. Ragnarsson, can you explain why you made no effort to stop the Jian? Were you perhaps intimidated, and placed in fear of your life?
 
RAGNAR RAGNARSSON: Intimidated? I'll show you intimidated!
 
[The witness stands up, lifts the table above his head, and throws it in the direction of the secretary-general -- causing him to duck for cover. He then strides towards the exit, barging past the security guards who try to restrain him, and leaves the chamber. Some seconds after the door slams closed behind him, the secretary-general reappears from behind the bench.]
 
LU BU: I'd like to remind everyone that my client enjoys full diplomatic immunity as the Sian Empire's ambassador without portfolio...
 
----
 
WU TENCHU: There have been many occasions on which harsh military measures, including strikes against civilian populations, were deemed necessary to bring an end to a conflict. For example, the atomic attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki during the twentieth-
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Mr. Prime Minister, there can be no such justification here. Councilor Dule was willing to end hostilities before the Jian engaged in her illegal-
 
[The witness' counsel rises to his feet and makes a coughing noise.]
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: ...her disputed actions.
 
WU TENCHU: Jian Rhapsody was never made aware of this.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: This is utterly untrue! I personally communicated with her before she initiated the attack on Centurian space, and demanded that she stand down!
 
WU TENCHU: With the greatest of respect, Secretary-General, I do not believe there is any evidence that this conversation ever took place.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Only because the murderous criminal who struck me down deleted the logs! And because Captain Silea and her crew have chosen to aid in the conspiracy!
 
LU BU: These accusations are most improper! Let the record show that no formal charges have been made against any crew member who served aboard the Illaria under the Jian's command or at any time subsequent.
 
WU TENCHU: One might also question how this 'murderous criminal' could have entered your home to assault you, without triggering a security system to which the UHW devoted considerable financial resources.
 
[The secretary-general glares at the witness for several seconds.]
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: I have our finest agents searching for clues as to the identity of that cowardly, despicable person. Rest assured, they will be brought to justice! No matter where they hide, or what they... Aaarrrggghhh!
 
[Added to the record later:
 
The secretary-general's moustache caught fire. The clerk recording the session was forced to jump up and douse Mr. Dupont's face with water to extinguish the burning facial hair. The inquiry was suspended while security personnel searched the building for the party or parties responsible, and Secretary-General Dupont received medical attention for the minor burns he suffered. It resumed approximately 1 hour 03 minutes later.]
 
WU TENCHU: The Sian Empire would like to extend our condolences for the apparent spontaneous combustion of the secretary-general's moustache.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Spontaneous combustion! It was an assassination-
 
LU BU: Of a moustache?
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: ...attempt! Someone is trying to undermine this inquiry! I shall not allow that to happen! I shall...
 
[By mutual consent of all parties involved, the secretary-general's profane tirade has been expunged from these records.]
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Mr. Prime Minster, where is the Jian?
 
WU TENCHU: Where indeed...
 
----
 
-- Extracts from official transcripts of the UHW inquiry into the Centurian Incident

LotS/The Story/Because I'm The Wanderer/Intro

2012-10-26T10:47:45Z

Raptor00:

FRANCOIS DUPONT: Please state your full name.
 
TALIA RYX: You know my name. It was on that stupid summons you sent me.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Let the record show that the witness is refusing to cooperate. Mr. Lu Bu, kindly advise your client to address this inquiry in a more appropriate manner.
 
LU BU: Talia...
 
TALIA RYX: Fine... Talia Ryx.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Miss Ryx, what is your relationship with Rhapsody-
 
LU BU: Mr. Secretary-General, please remember that former holders of the office of Imperial Jian continue to bear that title as an honorific for the remainder of their lives.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Very well. What is your relationship with the... Jian?
 
TALIA RYX: He's my friend. You already know that. That's why I'm here.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Indeed. Would you say that the two of you are close friends?
 
TALIA RYX: I'd take a blaster shot to the head for him.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: You'd show such loyalty to a man responsible for millions of deaths?
 
TALIA RYX: [expletive deleted] you!
 
----
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: King Telemachus-
 
LU BU: Prince.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Excuse me?
 
LU BU: My client is the Prince of Gallea. He hasn't yet undergone the coronation process which would formally bestow the title of king upon him.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: I see. Prince Telemachus, were you at any time given foreknowledge of the Jian's planned nuclear attacks on Centurian worlds, or his decision to destroy escape pods containing innocent civilians?
 
[The witness leans over to his counsel.]
 
PRINCE TELEMACHUS: Do I have to answer him?
 
LU BU: No. As a head of state, you'd be well within your rights to-
 
PRINCE TELEMACHUS: Then I'm out of here!
 
[The witness rises and walks towards the exit, stopping briefly to make an obscene gesture in the direction of the secretary-general.]
 
----
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: You were actually beside the Jian when he initiated his illegal assault?
 
RAGNAR RAGNARSSON: I was there when the Centurians got what they deserved.
 
LU BU: I must remind this inquiry that the legal status of Jian Rhapsody's actions are still under dispute. It is highly inappropriate-
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Your objection is noted. Now, Mr. Ragnarsson, can you explain why you made no effort to stop the Jian? Were you perhaps intimidated, and placed in fear of your life?
 
RAGNAR RAGNARSSON: Intimidated? I'll show you intimidated!
 
[The witness stands up, lifts the table above his head, and throws it in the direction of the secretary-general -- causing him to duck for cover. He then strides towards the exit, barging past the security guards who try to restrain him, and leaves the chamber. Some seconds after the door slams closed behind him, the secretary-general reappears from behind the bench.]
 
LU BU: I'd like to remind everyone that my client enjoys full diplomatic immunity as the Sian Empire's ambassador without portfolio...
 
----
 
WU TENCHU: There have been many occasions on which harsh military measures, including strikes against civilian populations, were deemed necessary to bring an end to a conflict. For example, the atomic attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki during the twentieth-
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Mr. Prime Minister, there can be no such justification here. Councilor Dule was willing to end hostilities before the Jian engaged in his illegal-
 
[The witness' counsel rises to his feet and makes a coughing noise.]
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: ...his disputed actions.
 
WU TENCHU: Jian Rhapsody was never made aware of this.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: This is utterly untrue! I personally communicated with him before he initiated the attack on Centurian space, and demanded that he stand down!
 
WU TENCHU: With the greatest of respect, Secretary-General, I do not believe there is any evidence that this conversation ever took place.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Only because the murderous criminal who struck me down deleted the logs! And because Captain Silea and her crew have chosen to aid in the conspiracy!
 
LU BU: These accusations are most improper! Let the record show that no formal charges have been made against any crew member who served aboard the Illaria under the Jian's command or at any time subsequent.
 
WU TENCHU: One might also question how this 'murderous criminal' could have entered your home to assault you, without triggering a security system to which the UHW devoted considerable financial resources.
 
[The secretary-general glares at the witness for several seconds.]
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: I have our finest agents searching for clues as to the identity of that cowardly, despicable person. Rest assured, they will be brought to justice! No matter where they hide, or what they... Aaarrrggghhh!
 
[Added to the record later:]
 
The secretary-general's moustache caught fire. The clerk recording the session was forced to jump up and douse Mr. Dupont's face with water to extinguish the burning facial hair. The inquiry was suspended while security personnel searched the building for the party or parties responsible, and Secretary-General Dupont received medical attention for the minor burns he suffered. It resumed approximately 1 hour 03 minutes later.]
 
WU TENCHU: The Sian Empire would like to extend our condolences for the apparent spontaneous combustion of the secretary-general's moustache.
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Spontaneous combustion! It was an assassination-
 
LU BU: Of a moustache?
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: ...attempt! Someone is trying to undermine this inquiry! I shall not allow that to happen! I shall...
 
[By mutual consent of all parties involved, the secretary-general's profane tirade has been expunged from these records.]
 
FRANCOIS DUPONT: Mr. Prime Minster, where is the Jian?
 
WU TENCHU: Where indeed...
 
-- Extracts from official transcripts of the UHW inquiry into the Centurian Incident

LotS/The Story/Scaean Gates/Dogs and Vultures

2012-10-26T10:01:41Z

Raptor00:

'''Dogs and Vultures''' 
"No more entreating of me, you dog, by knees or parents. 
I wish only that my spirit and fury would drive me 
to hack your meat away and eat it raw for the things that 
you have done to me. So there is no one who can hold the dogs off 
from your head, not if they bring here and set before me ten times 
and twenty times the ransom, and promise more in addition, 
not if Priam son of Dardanos should offer to weigh out 
your bulk in gold; not even so shall the lady your mother 
who herself bore you lay you on the death-bed and mourn you: 
no, but the dogs and the birds will have you all for their feasting." 
 
-- Homer, Iliad 22.345-54 (Lattimore trans.)
 
----
 
"You want the pilot's seat?" Talia asks.
 
"All yours."
 
Lu Bu stands as well, surrendering the co-pilot's chair. But you motion for him to keep it. The gunslinger and robot warrior both seem surprised as they sit back down.
 
You take a seat in the corner of the flight cabin instead, and watch as Talia takes you into the air -- flying the Silver Shadow towards the hangar's gleaming energy field.
 
The ship shoots into the void, before curving round towards the planet. Sian.
 
Your friends were eager to join the liberation forces. But after the last of the Centurian ships were eradicated you asked them to return to the Illaria first. It's a journey you wanted to make together. One last trip.
 
It would have been fitting to take the pilot's seat, you suppose, as you did on so many of your adventurers. To be the one who flew them down to the surface. But you had to be here, where you can see the entire cabin laid out before you -- all your companions sitting at their stations. You wanted to watch them unobserved. Watch and think and remember.
 
Illaria's words whisper in your ear. The things she said that night, after the final meal. You and she were left alone with the remains of the feast, the bottle of scotch, your recollections, and your lives. There was a sheen in her eyes that you'd never seen there before, the soft glisten of inebriation. Alcohol and friendship had loosened her mind and tongue. Unaccustomed intoxication had bestowed upon her the nostalgic and philosophical state of mind so cherished by drinkers. Your conversation wandered like a drifting dreamer, until its phantom fingers flitted across a subject dear to both your hearts: your companions.
 
The Princess spoke of them as both friend and biographer, her words bearing what at the time seemed to be the misplaced solemnity of the tipsy intellectual. The eloquence of a trained orator and stateswoman flowed forth from her lips, in a manner which would have seemed laughable pomposity from anyone else yet from her carried a sweetness and charm that made you love her all the more.
 
And now... Now those ornate, verbose, drunken pronouncements shine in your mind like holy scripture -- rendered eternal and priceless by her passing.
 
Your gaze is slow, drifting, roaming. Perhaps your eyes can't quite bring themselves to hasten this moment. They wish to savor it, draw it out, stretch it into eternity. But nothing lasts forever.
 
First they alight on Talia. Her hands guide the ship with unconscious perfection, mastering the controls and the vessel. But her face holds none of the joy spaceflight and impending battle usually set there, not even the natural smile that seemed to forever lift the corners of her mouth. Determination, the thought of what's to come, has scoured it. Perhaps after this is all over the grimness will fall from her. You hope so. The universe shouldn't lose that smile.
 
"Talia's wild, unpredictable," the Princess says. "That's how she flies and how she fights. It's what makes her so amazing, so vibrant -- and a terror to our enemies. But for all that, her love and loyalty are as unshakable as mountains. What more could one ask for in a friend?"
 
Next your gaze rests on the young prince. The boy who attacked you on Gallea, protecting his planet from invaders. You remember how much he aggravated you on your first spaceflight, with his hyperactive enthusiasm, his barrage of questions. How could you ever have disliked him?
 
"Telemachus... He's seen things that no boy should ever see. Done things that... Well, maybe no one should ever do the things he's done with that chainsaw of his." She winces. Her mouth wrinkles in distaste at the gruesome memories. "He's suffered. Felt the sting of war and loss just like we have. It's made him strong, a fighter. Yet he can still laugh, still show the warmth and joy of a child's heart. I would be proud to have a son like him."
 
So would you. So would you...
 
He's sat at the gunner's station, facing the screen with unfocussed eyes. Little boyish hands play with the interface, twisting the sticks this way and that. You recognize those movements -- control combinations from one of his videogames. His mind is elsewhere. Perhaps in King Salastro's palace, embracing his father for the last time. Or else already on Sian, filled with the coming bloodshed.
 
You hope a brighter future awaits him after this war. A chance to be a boy again, instead of a warrior.
 
It's with both gentle amusement and a faint sigh that you look to Ragnar, and see the same expression on the Niflung's face. The smoldering eyes in his fierce visage are distant, aimed at the edge of his axe but seeing far beyond the brutal metal.
 
"What can you say about Ragnar? He's like a big, unstoppable, omnicidal teddy bear." She giggles. It's the most enchanting sound you've ever heard. "A lovable brute and a vicious killer rolled into one. A mercenary who wouldn't betray us for all the credits in the galaxy. If we can find some comfort in the conquest of Sian space and the attack on the Child of Heaven, it's that they caused us to meet such a friend."
 
What have those red eyes seen? How many deaths, most inflicted by his own savage hands? And yet there's a softness there too, something within teased forth by Illaria. Perhaps by all of you. Tender emotions twisted into melancholy, shoveled as fuel into the furnace of vengeance.
 
You know what lies before the Niflung. More violence. More killing. Until the day he dies or else drowns the universe in blood. If it makes him happy, so be it. You've felt enough misery to understand the supreme worth of joy. And there may be more for him besides. He'll still have the others, their warmth and friendship.
 
Last you look upon Lu Bu. His metal countenance is the most difficult to fathom. Nor do his movements betray the thoughts which spark within his computerized brain. He's examining his weapon attachments, ensuring their readiness for the coming bloodshed with his customary mechanical precision and grace. But you've known him long enough for empathy to transcend enigma.
 
A being created for a purpose, to serve as a gift from TALOS to the Emperor, and then rejected out of suspicion and prejudice. How that must have stung. But then fate made him your companion, placed him at Illaria's side.
 
"No one fortunate enough to call Lu Bu their friend could ever imagine that robots are mere machines. In speech and counsel, battle and honor, wisdom and loyalty, he's one of the greatest men I've ever known. He could outlive all of us, and our children, and their children. The Sian Empire might be blessed to have him as its advisor and champion for centuries. That thought brings me comfort."
 
The man he was made for is gone. So is the woman in whose service and friendship he found purpose. But there will always be a place for him in the Sian Empire. Wu Tenchu will see to that. And the rest of your companions won't desert him.
 
If the galaxy holds justice in its endless sweeping void and among its grand myriads of twinkling stars, Lu Bu will find his place. It may be that generations from now he'll tell your tale to those who look upon your life and deeds as history, long-ago events that shaped the destiny of their empire.
 
You wonder if you'll be remembered as a hero or a villain.
 
'''For the Empire''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z9_a4_q1.jpg|none|For the Empire]]
There's a saying you learned a long time ago, an anonymous gem of military science perhaps first uttered or written by a general whose identity perished well before his wisdom:
 
He who controls the void controls the air. He who controls the air controls the ground.
 
Its veracity is evident here.
 
With the Centurian fleet destroyed, the Sian Empire and its allies now have total space supremacy within the system. Its reaches, the great rolling blackness between its worlds, is yours to command. And in interstellar warfare nothing is everything, that emptiness the key to mastering the immense spheroids which spin through it.
 
Massive cruisers and squadrons of smaller ships stand vigil around the planet, patrol the surrounding space like victorious battalions marching through a city's streets in all their martial finery.
 
No reinforcements for the garrisons on Sian. No one to save them.
 
The Silver Shadow descends into the atmosphere, centuries of technological advancement making a mockery of elemental fire and fury. Once again the atmosphere of Sian embraces it -- not as a trespasser this time, sneaking into the world shrouded in its cloak of invisibility. This time it comes as part of a glorious liberation force, one amid many, gleaming and proud in the sunlight.
 
Air supremacy has already been established. It was inevitable. With the planet's orbit in your power, it was a small matter to deploy waves of fighters into its airspace -- supported by the mighty aerial bulk of larger vessels. Now gleaming squadrons fly across the sky, each flash of their wings a cry of defiance to your enemies. But there's no one to challenge them, at least not here in Lanjin Cheng. Those aircraft which haven't yet been eradicated soon will be. These skies are yours.
 
Only the ground remains unconquered.
 
There too the Centurians are hard-pressed. Columns of armor and towering mechs make splendid targets for airstrikes. But when one wishes to liberate instead of destroy, to save a planet and its cities rather than ravage them, mass ordinance bombings are out of the question. Thus much of their infantry fights on, and the battle will be settled in the way man has fought for millennia: face to face in the streets and buildings.
 
There's no subterfuge this time as Talia touches down on the palace's private landing pad. It's yours now, as it should be. When the exit hatch opens, it reveals dozens of Sian soldiers and TALOS Battle Bots, bands of warriors standing guard at its edges alongside armored vehicles and turrets. Innumerable salutes greet your first step onto the tarmac.
 
A man and woman in ornate armor jog towards you, the green, blue, purple, and red oriental dragons on their uniforms writhing and snapping across the white plates in time with their movements. Sian generals in battle attire. Even the highest ranking officers want to be on the ground for this mission.
 
They come to a halt in front of the ship just as Telemachus' mech stomps onto the tarmac, joining the others beside you. Both salute, though the gestures are swift and perfunctory. They're here to fight, not waste time with pleasantries or formalities. That suits you just fine.
 
"The Centurians still hold the palace," the woman says. "But we've had word that they're emerging to give battle."
 
"They must have found their spines," the man adds.
 
You nod, though you know it's not true. The Centurians may be many things, but their shock troops aren't cowards. They have to know their time is up, and they want to go out fighting. You're ready to oblige them.
 
"One of the vehicles-" the woman begins, gesturing to a nearby troop carrier.
 
"Don't bother," you say.
 
You turn to your companions -- the gunslinger and prince, warrior robot and Niflung killing-machine.
 
"Come."
 
Then you run.
 
Across the landing pad, past the cordon of troops -- who shout and cheer, filling the air with exhortations that redouble the fury burning in your breast. Your boots barely seem to touch the ground. It's as if even gravity is waving you through, softening its binding bonds. Perhaps the world itself is launching you, urging you, compelling you.
 
There's a stretch of wide road beyond the landing pad. On the right it runs alongside the palace wall, and will take you to its front entrance. There it's clear, kept sacrosanct for your passage. But on the left there's clamor and commotion. It's filled with throngs of civilians that seethe and surge against the line of soldiers who hold them back, trying to maintain order and keep them away from the fray. One of the uniformed men sees you, and yells.
 
"The Jian! Lady Rhapsody!"
 
The cry ripples through the crowd. It becomes a chant, a shout, a torrent.
 
First one of the soldiers comes. Then another. Then another -- breaking away from their stations, their assigned duty crumbling in the swell of warrior spirit. Civilians plough through the gaps, eager to follow. The rest of the guards soon realize that there's no use remaining. They join the clamor, lend their voices, join the mass of Sian humanity.
 
As you and your companions run down the road, towards the battle, hundreds of men and women run behind you -- crying your name, crying her name, the Emperor's name, screaming for fallen loved ones and hurling abuse at your enemies.
 
It's as though the whole city is running, the whole planet, the system, the empire. All of them rushing to victory and destiny, the final blow that will hurl the Centurians' tentacles from this world and return Sian to their hands.
 
Talia is at your side, her swift legs and springing pace matching yours. So are Lu Bu and Ragnar, the robot's mechanical frame and the cybernetic war machine the Niflung calls his body tireless. Telemachus' mech keeps pace as well, its thrusters silent instead of launching him at speed. The five of you run together, the waves of soldiers and civilians behind you, destiny and destruction ahead.
 
When you reach the fighting, enter the vast square in front of the palace, it's as though you've been thrust into an ancient epic, hurled into the The Iliad's hexameters or The Romance of the Three Kingdoms' pages. Everywhere you turn you see one of your allies, using the skills which brought them into your ranks, proving their worth through raw violence.
 
M.1 C.H.U., the misandrous cyborg, sashays towards the nearest Centurian troopers, her curves swaying with the sinister seductiveness of the femme fatale. The big blaster in her hands fires, spitting three bolts of purple energy at three different targets -- straight into each man's groin. They scream and collapse, armor and genitals melted into a mass of metal and anguish.
 
Tech-Fist, the scientist superhero, appears in the shifting fray. The turquoise gauntlet that encases his hand, the eponymous weapon fashioned by a mind both genius and juvenile, swings through the air in a sweeping backhand. It crashes against a Centurian's helmet, denting the metal and sending him spinning.
 
There's a spray of sub-machinegun fire, a burst of bullets that all cluster around an enemy's heart instead of spitting indiscriminate paths into the whirling melee of allies and enemies. Blitz, the guerilla commander that the Collective calls a terrorist and others call a freedom fighter... Even she's come out of the shadows, abandoning subtlety and sabotage, covert bombings and tactical strikes to be here.
 
Xiang Kua, the psychic kung fu expert, appears above the battle for a moment -- rising above the mass of warriors, his legs spinning, boots glowing with psionic energy as they kick a Centurian further and further into the air. When they reach the apex of the maneuver the Sian martial artist slips into a graceful backflip that takes him back down towards the chaos. The Centurian drops like a stone.
 
Nearby a hulking metal form towers head and shoulders above a group of Centurian troopers, laying into them with big swinging blows of his huge fists -- scattering them left and right. Ajax... You first heard his name in reports decrying intelligent robots, heated arguments about how such automatons were dangerous and violent. TALOS' creation is proving them right today, and they can go to hell.
 
All these scenes slip into your perception in an instant, along with a dozen other aristeias -- catalogues of heroism and carnage glaring at you from all sides. Then you draw your jian with one hand, pull your pistol from its holster with the other, and charge.
 
'''Nothing is Over''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z9_a4_q2.jpg|none|Nothing is Over]]
Your friends fight as you've never seen them fight before. In sight of the imperial palace, on the cusp of freeing Princess Illaria's homeworld from the Centurian Collective, love and hatred meld together -- seeping deep into your marrow and exhorting you all. The sights and sounds of the grand melee raging before you have their effect as well. Hundreds of little acts of courage meet your gaze. Hardened veterans and poorly armed civilians stand together to battle those who once came and conquered but now can only delay the inevitable.
 
Ragnar leaps into the air, launched heavenward by the inconceivable might of his thews and the augmented strength of his skeleton. His axe is raised aloft, high above his head -- as though offered up to whatever gods of war and bloodshed may deign to fasten immortal eyes upon this clash. Light gleams along its orange edge, like a sprawling sunrise gathered and focused into one shining brilliance.
 
His bellowing war cry sounds out over the shouts of enemy and ally, the screams of friend and foe, the susurration of lasers and the clanging of metal against metal.
 
Then the axe falls, cleaving down as his muscular body descends, arcing its burning path into the trooper below. It takes the Centurian in the side of the neck, slicing through thick armor plates with the softest screech. And it doesn't stop there. It cuts through metal and flesh and bone and life. When it's done, the Centurian slides apart with a squelch and a grind -- his body sundered and his soul cast into the void for whatever judgment awaits it.
 
Crimson erupts, a fountain that gushes over the Niflung and paints him with the sticky wet glory of his kill. He laughs, and plunges deeper into the fray.
 
Telemachus is beside him in the next moment, his mech's redness matching the Niflung's. Not all of it is paint. The engine of war, built by TALOS at the behest of a loving and indulgent father, echoes the fury of the boy who pilots it.
 
The laser-edged chainsaw flashes like a sliver of cyan sky, the heavens concentrated into a single whirling strip of energy and portent. It's the wrath of Zeus, the thunderbolt of Jove, the combined edicts of every sky-god ever conceived by the minds of man. It chops and slashes, thrusts and cleaves.
 
Armored limbs fly into the air as though grasping for escape and salvation. Heads topple and tumble. Torsos fall one way, legs another. When it comes to slaughter, the prince is already a king.
 
Lu Bu walks a different path.
 
The golden robot could cause as much carnage with his sword and his claw. You've seen him wield those weapons in a cyclone of steel, lay waste to dozens of enemies with such swiftness that most wouldn't even have comprehended the doom which took them. But he doesn't throw himself into the heart of the battle with reckless abandon, doesn't merely go where he could unleash his mechanical might without restraint.
 
Instead he turns his gaze and his strength elsewhere.
 
Men and women in civilian garb, armed with whatever weapons they've brought from their homes or snatched up from the ground, are struggling with a band of Centurians -- hurling themselves into the fray with fierce determination that would soon have become martyrdom against the superior arms and armor of their foes. Would have, but for Lu Bu.
 
He slips into their midst, and slips his sword into the first soldier's heart.
 
Defender and champion of the empire, he takes his stand with its people, shining in their midst. She would have been so proud.
 
Talia is still by your side, her pistols zapping their perfection. No shot is wasted. No laser, even those fired at targets in the middle of the chaotic melee, fails to find a deserving eye or heart.
 
When you move into the battle she spins round, her back pressed against yours for a split-second before she completes the movement, ends up on the other side, and keeps firing.
 
Your jian cuts and thrusts, each strike taking a life or else ensuring an enemy's imminent demise -- beating away a weapon, blocking a blast with its sheathe of energy, amputating a hand or arm which its owner presumed to raise against you.
 
The gunslinger is silent. Her pistols talk for her, speak her rage and vengeance, spit her curses and profanities. When you press deeper into the melee, making for a pocket of Centurions where the fighting is thickest, she presses on with you -- firing at pointblank range.
 
Attacks are coming at you from each angle now, save for that which Talia holds and protects. But your blade answers each of them, and its word is final. As for her... You hazard a glance, and see that she needs no assistance. Her arms move around her body, firing in each direction. Whenever an enemy draws near, one of her weapons points over her shoulder or around her waist and puts an end to them.
 
Her reflexes, her senses, are on the verge of precognition. She's the goddess of gunslingers, and no one can escape the pull of her triggers.
 
Blood. Death. Screams. Shouts.
 
You lose yourself in the battle, disappear into its violent depths. It's only when the cheering begins, when you blink and find yourself on the steps of the palace, that you know it's over.
 
There are no more cries of pain, only joy. Elation. Victory.
 
----
 
This will be the last speech you'll give as Imperial Jian. The one history will remember, for good or ill.
 
Talia and Telemachus, Ragnar and Lu Bu flank you -- the five of you gazing down the broad stairway and the strip of defaced sculptures which bisects its length. Wu Tenchu stands a little distance away, within the pool of shadow cast by one of the portico's pillars. The faintest of smiles twitches at the corners of your mouth. You'll bring him into the light soon enough.
 
The square in front of the palace is thronged, filled with triumphant warriors. A handful even intrude onto the lower reaches of the steps themselves, as though yearning to be as close as possible to the Imperial Jian yet held at bay as propriety struggles with enthusiasm.
 
Some are wounded, their clothes red with their own blood as well as that of friends and foes. But they refuse to leave -- forcing the medics to attend them while they stand and stare and wait. Waiting for the words which will fall from your lips.
 
You glance over at Master Wu, at the shadowy face of the mandarin. For all his genius, all the inscrutable machinations of his cunning brain, even he doesn't know the full extent of your plans...
 
Nor do your companions. You hope that in the end they'll forgive you...
 
'''Scorched Earth''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z9_a4_q3.jpg|none|Scorched Earth]]
First you offer praise. You speak of courage, valor, audacity -- lauding the efforts of all who've lifted weapons since the war began, both imperial subjects fighting for their own freedom and allies whose loyalty and friendship have been tested and not found wanting.
 
You speak too of all the billions of subjects who endured the Centurian occupation, yearning for liberation and doing what little they could to bring it about by passing information or aiding bands of rebels.
 
Then you turn your words and mind to all those who perished. The warriors and civilians who never lived to see this day, who closed their eyes for the final time not knowing if the Collective would ever be defeated. Heads nod in the crowd, or else are bowed in prayer or remembrance. They've all lost someone. No heart is untouched by the conflict's grief. It's here that you speak of the Emperor and the Princess. These words aren't carefully crafted like those you delivered at the funeral. They're genuine, and bite into your soul as they fall from your lips.
 
But it isn't yet time to surrender to melancholy.
 
So your words turn once more. You talk of all the planets that still chafe under Centurian domination -- noble worlds such as Gallea where King Salastro gave his life so that Illaria and his son could escape the Centurians. You ask how you can allow such injustice to continue, how people who have known the weight of the Collective's yoke can permit others to tremble beneath it.
 
Then the critical moment comes. Two words, that will shape the destiny of human space: Alpha Centauri.
 
The Centurians have been driven from Sian space. But that's not enough. They conquered your worlds, brought war and carnage to the streets of your settlements. And now they get to cower from you in the unviolated sanctuary of their own territory?
 
No.
 
Your mandate as Imperial Jian may have been only to free the Sian Empire. But you can't relinquish your power yet. Not whilst the Collective still exists, while Councilor Dule still draws breath.
 
You tell them this, and the people below need no encouragement. They call out for war, for vengeance, for death and destruction. Sian subjects yearn to strike and punish, to exact righteous retribution. As for your allies, you've made your arrangements there. Some are as keen as you to see the Centurians destroyed. Others care only for what they might gain from the conquest of Collective space. No matter. All is grist that comes to your mill.
 
It's at the apex of this clamor that you turn to Master Wu, and name him Prime Minister of the Sian Empire -- declaring that someone must be left to administer to the newly freed worlds while you wage war in the far-off system where Dule lurks.
 
The mandarin is startled. A rare thing for him. But what can he do? Before the eyes of the galaxy, with Sian subjects looking on and cheering your edict, he can only glide towards you, bow, and accept the honor -- even as his eyes flash unspoken questions at you.
 
----
 
Wu Tenchu isn't the only one thrown into confusion when you announce your plans.
 
"But..." Telemachus' widening eyes make him look so young... "I thought we were all going to Alpha Centauri!"
 
"What Lady Rhapsody proposes makes sense," Wu Tenchu replies. "Once Alpha Centauri is attacked, the Centurians may try to retaliate by massacring the populations of the worlds they still occupy. It's wise to ensure their safety before that can happen."
 
You drop to one knee in front of the boy, place your hands on his shoulders.
 
"I know you want Dule. We all do. But Gallea is your world. Those are your people... your subjects. They need you. It's what your father would have wanted."
 
That one hurt. Invoking King Salastro's memory to manipulate him. But you have to...
 
Telemachus nods.
 
"You're right. I'll cut them to bits and chuck them out of his palace."
 
You put your arms around him. He tenses at first, taken aback. But he allows you to pull him close to you, returns the gesture with bemused arms.
 
"You'll make a fine king," you say.
 
You kiss his forehead as you pull away.
 
Stupid... He'll know something's wrong. They all will. Shouldn't have done that, shouldn't have made a big deal out of this parting... But words weren't enough.
 
You turn to Talia and Lu Bu as you stand up. There's a curious expression on the gunslinger's face.
 
"Look after him," you say. "Make sure he gets through the battle in one piece."
 
The gunslinger nods. Then she steps forward and hugs you, surprising you just like you surprised Telemachus. Her lips touch your cheek -- a soft, almost ethereal kiss.
 
Her eyes hold yours for a long moment after she steps back. Then she turns away.
 
"I won't let him come to any harm," Lu Bu says. He drops into an elegant, courtly bow.
 
"Thank you." You return the gesture.
 
"It's been an honor to fight at your side." He pauses. "Today."
 
"And at yours."
 
"A moment, Lord Commander?"
 
You look round, into the face of the female general who met you on this pad when you first landed.
 
"We need to confirm some of your arrangements," she continues.
 
She gestures for you to accompany her. As you turn to follow, you see Wu Tenchu moving closer to the others. You strain to hear the words behind you, but the general is talking. You can only hope that their suspicions aren't enough to make them interfere...
 
You're led to a group of senior commanders near one of the shuttles -- the craft which will take them up to their command ship. They salute, then ask you a series of questions concerning your orders. You try to suppress the frown which gathers at your brow. Weren't your instructions clear enough?
 
But you answer until at last they're satisfied, salute once more, and board their shuttle. Then you jog back to where you left your companions.
 
To your relief, only Ragnar remains. The others must be on the Silver Shadow already, getting ready for their own trip to a command vessel. The mandarin is gone too, perhaps already dealing with the innumerable issues of state you've dumped into his lap.
 
Then you notice that the shuttle you were to fly to the Illaria is gone as well.
 
"They took that one instead," the Niflung explains. "Said we should keep the Silver Shadow with us, in case we needed it in Alpha Centauri."
 
"Oh..."
 
You board the ship, wondering if confusion is contagious.
 
Ragnar drops into the co-pilot's seat when you take your position.
 
"I'm not stupid," he says.
 
You don't answer.
 
"I know why you only wanted me with you," he continues. "Whatever you're going to do, you think they'd try to stop you. But you know I won't."
 
"Guess eating that Snuuth's brains paid off after all."
 
He grins. Then you fly up to the Illaria in silence.
 
----
 
"You have a transmission, Lord Commander."
 
Captain Silea tells you this the moment you step onto the bridge. She opens her mouth as though to add something, then hesitates. She doesn't even remember to salute.
 
"Is something wrong?"
 
"It's Francois Dupont. He's demanding to speak with you."
 
Dupont... The Secretary-General of the Union of Human Worlds.
 
"Put it through to the war room."
 
"Yes, Lord Commander."
 
You pass into the chamber. Ragnar follows. You seal the door behind him, then sit down in the command seat.
 
If the Niflung cares about the lack of furniture, he gives no sign. He stands beside your chair and looks up at the big screen as Francois Dupont's face appears there.
 
The Secretary-General of the UHW is barely recognizable at first. His hair is puffy and disheveled. It's as though someone's detonated a bomb in the middle of its customary voluminous neatness, and scattered it in all directions. His bushy moustache is equally disheveled -- you'd never imagined that particular word applying to a moustache, but apparently it can. There's a burgundy dressing gown around his thin frame, and he looks to be in a rather modest office instead of the ornate chamber he commands at the UHW HQ.
 
"Lady Rhapsody," he begins, in his high and fruity voice, "I've received word from Councilor Dule of the Centurian Collective."
 
Ah... So that's what's dragged a man like him out of bed.
 
"What did that bastard want?"
 
Dupont gives a little humph at your description of Dule.
 
"The councilor has called upon me to mediate. He wishes to avoid further loss of life, and to that end he agrees to withdraw from all occupied territories, rejoin the UHW, and abide by our rulings."
 
Ragnar laughs. You smile without mirth.
 
"His terms aren't accepted. Tell him to expect us soon."
 
"No!" The secretary-general's eyes flash. His moustache dances with the force of the exhalation. "Lady Rhapsody, in the name of the UHW I order you to stand your forces down. There will be no attack on Centurian space. Such an act will be regarded as illegal military aggression, and bring down the full sanction of-"
 
"Should have killed him when we were on Earth," Ragnar growls.
 
You lift your right hand, ready to swat the screen away as you would a buzzing fly, and break the connection.
 
"Wait! If you refuse, I'll contact each member power and demand that they withdraw their support! You'll be left without a single human ally!"
 
Your hand hovers in mid-air, your mind rushing through the possible outcomes -- making rapid calculations. Some of your allies might ignore Dupont, but others...
 
The secretary-general nods, taking his cue from your indecision.
 
"I'm glad you're willing to listen to reason. Now, I'll-"
 
Then his eyes glaze over and he topples forward. His puffy-haired head taps against the monitor before slumping onto the desk with a soft thud.
 
The air behind him shimmers. A debonair smile appears from nothingness, followed by the rest of Arthur Lupin.
 
"Good luck, my dear."
 
He reaches out towards the monitor. The image vanishes.
 
"Captain Silea," you say, opening another channel, "alert the rest of the fleet. Tell them it's time."
 
"Yes, Lord Commander."
 
----
 
And there it is.
 
It was the first thing you looked for when the Illaria completed its hyperspace jump, just like when you emerged into your native system to fight for Sian. Before you even looked at the Centurian fleet, you scanned the monitors for a sign.
 
This time you see one.
 
An empty portion of the void, away from the great space stations and immense ships on which the denizens of this wordless system dwell. You enlarge that screen, drawing it out until it seems to dominate the entire chamber -- a looming square of blackness that might fall at any moment and swallow you up.
 
You have to be sure...
 
But there's no mistake. There's the shimmer, just like on the Zenith.
 
As your gaze sweeps the chamber, something catches the corner of your eye, some faint trace of movement. But when you look again, it's gone. A trick of the light...
 
It's almost imperceptible. You'd never have noticed it if you hadn't been looking for it. Waiting. Anticipating. Preparing.
 
Why here? That's the thought which fills your mind. Why here and not before, when you fought the Centurians in Sian space? More indecision perhaps. Are they wondering whether it's worth their time to support Dule any longer? Is there a debate raging even now, some voices speaking in favor of aiding the Collective and others calling for them to be cut loose? You'll never know. But that doesn't matter.
 
You reach for the controls, and open a channel.
 
"I know you can hear me."
 
There's no reply. No screen opens to reveal a listener. But they hear your words. You're sure of it.
 
"Watch," you say.
 
Your fingers dart across the keys of a terminal. Two fresh screens come into being amidst the holographic mosaic, pushing their way to prominence. They stand side-by-side, below the empty view of space with its strange shimmer. Two big squares, each displaying a large, dense, heavily industrialized settlement. Two of the Centurians' most valuable, most productive worlds.
 
A few gestures and information is hurled along the channel, flung at your mute listeners. You share the images, give them the planets' coordinates. Perhaps they have their own way of seeing, of identifying, of verifying. But if not, they can borrow your eyes. You don't want them to miss this.
 
A soft growl escapes Ragnar's throat. Does he know what you're about to do? Has he worked it out?
 
If he has, he makes no move to stop you.
 
Your hand reaches towards the special control. The contingency plan.
 
'''Genocide is Painless''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z9_a4_q4.jpg|none|Genocide is Painless]]
"What would she say? About what you're planning?"
 
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.
 
Valuable worlds, precious resources... Gone.
 
"I'll burn it all before I let you have it," you say. "Remember that."
 
Your eyes fix upon the blank square of space. The shimmer vanishes as the Besalaad ships withdraw.
 
Imperialists, not ravagers. Ruined worlds are worth nothing to them.
 
Some of the holographic screens are bleeping. People wish to speak with you. But you're not interested in talking.
 
Instead you widen a different screen. Your battle view. It's time to begin...
 
----
 
The Centurians put up a good fight. But they're outmatched. They committed too many of their defense ships in the battle for Sian. And now they're faced with even larger forces, a vast armada of your allies who've converged on Alpha Centauri whilst smaller fleets strike to liberate the remaining occupied planets.
 
Captain Silea does admirably, more than a match for her Collective counterparts in this theater, under these circumstances.
 
So you only deploy your war room's special control mechanisms near the end...
 
"They know they're beaten!" she says. "Their stations and settlement ships are deploying their escape pods."
 
Yes... They're on the screens -- spherical objects thrown into the void, tossed away from the space stations and gargantuan craft like bombs from a drunken grenadier's hands. They tumble into the darkness before emitting jolts of energy from their thrusters, arresting their descent and flying away from their neglectful parents. Clutches of ambulatory eggs making a desperate migration.
 
"Lord Commander? You've taken direct control of the ship again?"
 
You grasp the flight sticks. Your thumbs rest upon the red buttons.
 
'''Councilor Dule''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z9_a4.jpg|none|Councilor Dule]]
"Those are civilian escape pods! They're unarmed! Non-combatants!"
 
Silea's professional reserve is gone now. Her voice is shrill, that of a horrified girl instead of a warrior.
 
Another sphere explodes, popped like a bubble beneath your sapphire blasts.
 
Someone's banging on the war room's door. But they won't get through it.
 
More bleeps from the holographic screens. A curt gesture silences them. Then more blasts, more cracked eggs. More Centurians scattered onto the tides of oblivion.
 
You're not the only one firing. Others have joined in. Some of your allies, those with the greatest grudges against the Collective or else simply the most bloodthirsty. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that the Centurians learn the true cost of what they've done.
 
Captain Silea's voice falls silent. She knows it's no good. She can't stop you.
 
You pity her. Not the thousands upon thousands who are dying in those ruptured eggs. But you feel pity for her.
 
"Captain, the logs will show that you had nothing to do with this. I accept full responsibility. No one will blame you."
 
She doesn't answer.
 
The last of the escape pods burns. Everything burns. Well, not quite everything. Not yet...
 
You get up and turn to Ragnar.
 
"If any of them try to stop us, don't do any damage that can't be fixed."
 
"Got it," he growls.
 
You activate the security panel beside the door. It slides open.
 
The crew on the bridge are in their seats. None of them look round. The two of you walk to the exit surrounded by silence.
 
A few people pass you on the way to the hangar. Some avert their gaze. Others favor you with approving nods, satisfied vengeance in their eyes.
 
Most of the ships have already been launched, either at the onset of the battle or to join the boarding operation. But the Silver Shadow still rests in its place, ready to take you to Centauri Prime -- their main space station, home of the Centurian High Council.
 
You don't make for the argentine craft, however. Instead you head for one of the storage bays.
 
"What're you doing?" Ragnar asks.
 
"You'll see."
 
The door opens, revealing a darkened room full of crates, great masses of them piled from floor to ceiling. It resembles a cityscape.
 
"It's time," you say.
 
"Finally!"
 
The voice comes from the back of the room, the speaker hidden from sight. There's a whumping of heavy machinery, the sound of weighty metal footsteps thumping against the floor -- drawing closer and closer.
 
Something that resembles a robot emerges from behind one of the stacks, a hefty machine encased in thick metal plates.
 
A panel in its midsection slides open, revealing a jar full of liquid that contains a severed head.
 
Ragnar snarls. He strides forward, raising his axe. You move in the way, press your hand against one of the slabs of muscle on his chest.
 
"Don't worry, Niflung," Rautha sneers. "You won't have to kill me again."
 
"He's coming with us," you say.
 
Your omnicidal friend stares at Rautha for a long moment. Then he grunts.
 
"Hope you know what you're doing," he says. Then he turns around and walks back into the hangar.
 
You follow, Rautha clanking along behind you. Three people, two friends and a former enemy, board the Silver Shadow with murder on their minds.
 
----
 
"Trust me," Rautha says. "I've been here before. This is the best landing place, if you want Dule before anyone else gets to him."
 
He's already moving when you and Ragnar step off the ship, towards the small hangar's exit and into the steel-grey corridor beyond. You jog to keep up.
 
There are hundreds of separate forces moving through Centauri Prime. Sian troops, TALOS robots, and divisions of warriors from each of your allies. Everyone wants to be here at the end, be part of the force that stormed the Centurian capital. Some will adhere to your instructions, that Dule be left for you. But you know that others won't. Even imperial troops may stray, filled with bloodlust, yearning to be the one to avenge the Emperor and Illaria. As for the others... The Niflung berserkers and other savage warriors would tear him limb from limb -- and then offer you a trophy from the corpse by way of an apology.
 
So you allowed Rautha to guide the Silver Shadow with his knowledge of Centauri Prime, to an insignificant looking hangar in a seemingly inconsequential section of the station.
 
Now the three of you pass down stark, metal-paneled corridors -- adorned by nothing but the occasional Centurian emblem. Only the distant sounds of battle prove that you aren't alone in this drab, artless realm.
 
"We're missing the killing," Ragnar growls. "Someone else might-"
 
But the end of his sentence becomes a roar of satisfaction. The din of booted feet, from one of the side passages.
 
"Heh. He knows we're coming," Rautha says. "He's called in reinforcements."
 
"Let them come." Ragnar lifts his machinegun in one hand, his axe in the other.
 
Troopers in iron-colored armor, as drab as the world around them, pour into the passage. Into the meat grinder.
 
The Niflung's bullets tear the first three, a barrage of fire that rips into their bodies -- expensive tips penetrating armor plates as though they were paper, brightening their uniforms with splashes of crimson. Then come the detonations. Explosive bullets... Only the best for this mission, to usher the Centurians off the galactic stage.
 
More follow, men and women brave or desperate enough to throw themselves forward even as they see their comrades eviscerated before their eyes. Their lasers, as red as the blood and gore, flash. But your life's been full of red lasers. These are no different. You throw yourself aside and fire back, putting a blast through a woman's head and putting her brains on the wall behind. More color... Interior decoration, a gift from the Sian Empire.
 
You sensed you could trust Rautha. Now he proves it.
 
The big guns at the ends of his mechanical arms open up, roaring murder -- lending their voice to Ragnar's weapon until the two seem like violent baritones singing an opera. The kind where everyone dies at the end.
 
But the former commander, the man who should by all rights have perished long ago, who urinates in the face of death by the very fact of his continued existence, isn't satisfied with that.
 
Missiles fly from his batteries, spiral through the air, and find new homes in the last of the Centurians. Scraps of metal and chunks of flesh rain across the passage.
 
He's moving before all the pieces hit the floor, heading for the door at the far end of the hall. But he stops when he comes to the corridor that delivered the troopers to their deaths. More footfalls. Louder this time. The sounds of a bigger squad.
 
Laser fire zaps across his chest and shoulders, red lances scratching at his new body's bulk.
 
"Keep going," he shouts, his voice blending with the rattle of gunfire spitting from his arms. "When you get to hell, tell me how you killed him!"
 
You and Ragnar run past, slipping by the laser fire. A glance shows you a huge force of iron-grey soldiers at the other end of the side passage.
 
"Rautha's back, bitches!"
 
With that cry, and a stream of manic laughter, he charges -- guns blazing, missiles flying. The cacophony of carnage follows you through the door, and the next one, before distance and sliding metal barriers conceal it from your ears.
 
You're in a small antechamber -- a closed door ahead of you, an unsealed corridor to your right.
 
The barrel of your weapon takes aim out of instinct when metal forms appear at the other end, then relaxes a split-second later. TALOS Battle Bots. So the other boarding parties have found their way here already. Good. They'll be in time to see him die.
 
The door doesn't retract when you approach it. One stubborn little barrier that thinks it can keep you from your goal. Not a chance...
 
Ragnar kicks it. The door becomes a doormat.
 
And there he is, at the other end of the cavernous room -- surrounded on three sides by huge windows that gaze out into the void, at the countless stars he dreamed of grasping. There are tables behind him, crowned with holographic projections of planets and systems, ships and weapons.
 
Dule's personal war room. The place he's chosen to make his last stand.
 
The glass which covers the mech's cockpit is opaque, its occupant hidden beneath its reflective sheen. But you know it's him all the same, encased in the heavy metal chassis atop chicken-walker legs, arms and shoulders bristling with weaponry.
 
All this passes into your eyes and mind in an instant. Then the shooting starts.
 
----
 
In your imagination, your dreams, your fantasies, there were words. Dule would taunt you, challenge you, mock you. And you'd spit your own words in his face before you took his life.
 
But here, encircled by the void, beneath the gaze and judgment of the stars, there's only shooting.
 
The cylindrical cannons at the ends of the mech's arms spin, showering clumsy bursts of bullets across the room. Some plink against the floor, shoot upwards again in chaotic ricochets. Others patter against the wall behind you. A few rebounding rounds graze your armor as you roll and evade, scratching scars across the metal. But it'll take more than that to stop you.
 
It's been a long time since Councilor Dule took the field, decades since he piloted that mech -- an old model, precursor to the Sentinel -- in combat. He's not a fighter. Not anymore. Not like you and Ragnar...
 
The Niflung and his machinegun both roar. Little explosions erupt across the mech's grey-green plates, scouring and smashing. Bursts of incendiary rage plume across one of the big bullet-spitting arms, at first blending with the muzzle flash but then swallowing it up. The mounted weapon stops spinning.
 
Your blasts take the other one, a series of precise shots at the gaping barrel that melt its metal and seal its mouths.
 
Missiles whoosh from the mech's shoulder launcher, red tips spinning across the room, leaving artful trails of smoke behind them. Two land near Ragnar, explode with enough force to throw his tank-like body through the air. But he lands on his feet, and keeps firing as if nothing had happened.
 
Three swirl their way towards you. But they're inaccurate little things. You've dodged worse than them before. One you shoot in mid-air, the others explode close to where you were -- far from where you are.
 
No... The councilor has nothing. His defiance is meaningless, delaying the inevitable. The stars in their courses are set against him. Perhaps they wish to avenge her too, want to witness his destruction and illuminate the moment with their astral light.
 
You and Ragnar both aim at the shoulder-mounted launcher. You don't know whether it's your weapon or the Niflung's which strikes the critical blow. It doesn't matter. Another mouth silenced. Another nail in the coffin.
 
It's time.

You throw your weapons aside.
 
"Kasan."
 
The burning comes faster this time. Blood becomes fire, an inferno blazing its way through your body -- immolating your innards, devouring meat and soul until there's only flame.
 
So does the darkness. Black tendrils writhe and thrash at the edges of your vision, the periphery of the universe. They're reaching for you, yearning for you. As hungry as the fire. Both want you. Both can have you. But not yet...
 
"Kasan!"
 
Blood and darkness respond to the ancient word, woven through the fabric of time -- carried deep in your essence, in the intangible, existential matter of which DNA is but the faintest echo.
 
Images flood your consciousness as you run, sharpening and blurring with each burning beat of blood. Visions from places both forgotten and half-remembered. They swirl around your perception, like the darkness -- the two melding together, twisting and morphing into something darker than the abyss and brighter than a sun.
 
There are sounds as well, an ocean of noise -- millions of voices that drown one another in their eagerness to be heard. They echo inside your head, little slivers escaping onto the cusp of intelligibility before falling into the endless waves once more.
 
Unfathomable forces tug at you, yank you this way and that. Pull you, push you, batter you, throw you, seize you. They're trying to take you, consume you, digest you into millennia of seething, bubbling, bursting history. That's where you belong, in the incandescent ocean. One voice amongst the others, straining to be heard but thwarted each time by the enormity of creation.
 
In the middle of all this is the single point of reality in the maelstrom, the fragment of solidity that's more important than the universe of surreality which threatens to obscure it. Dule's mech. The laser on its right shoulder, sibling of the ruined launcher, is firing its yellow beam.
 
You raise a glowing hand to meet it.
 
The ocean smashes against you, sweeps you away, knocks sensation from your mind. Dancing colors, swirling existences. They fall together, coalesce into something white. Her. Illaria. She's standing in the middle of the tempest, surrounded by infinity. And she's screaming. Screaming as the fist smashes into her face, obliterates her skull. Redness.
 
There's something hard beneath your hands and your knees. Focus on that, on the solid, real, tangible thing. The floor. It's the floor. You've fallen, knocked down by the blood and the darkness and the light and the sound and-
 
Ragnar's voice and his machinegun's voice cry out, distant sounds that force their way into your brain.
 
You look up, see them explode across the mech's grey-green body. The laser dies. The cockpit's armored glass chips then cracks then shatters. And there he is. Councilor Dule, his face opened by the scattered shards -- blood splashed across his scarred, burned cheek and his grey hair.
 
"No!"
 
You think the voice is yours, though it's hard to tell, impossible to pick it out from the millions and millions. But the Niflung must hear it, must understand. Because no more bullets fly, no explosive round obliterates the councilor.
 
He's yours. Yours. And hers.
 
You're standing now. You're running. The blood's rushing throughout your body, quenching the flames or feeding it. The darkness is grabbing or guiding you.
 
Dule shouts. His weapons are gone. The mech staggers backwards. Then one of its legs gives way and it falls. Broken. Everything's broken. It, you, him, the universe. Breaking more each time. Every time your blood sings.
 
He's crawling from the cockpit, cutting himself on the thick glass teeth, shredding his hands. You yank him out, throw him onto the floor.
 
He looks up at you. His face is bloody, but his eyes are sharp. Focused. Frightened. The darkness is spinning around him. The blood is still raging and surging. Everything's a blur, except for those sharp, focused, frightened eyes.
 
"Kasan!"
 
A million voices cry out at the same time. Some understand the word, others don't. But all sense its magnitude, its importance.
 
Both your hands glow. The blood and the darkness grab you. They have you now. Forever.
 
Your hands plunge towards him. Glowing fingers pierce his skin, shred his muscle, push apart his ribs, grab soft lumps of flesh.
 
He screams. You scream. Illaria screams.
 
You pull, yanking your fists out of his carcass, splintering his ribcage, spraying his blood, casting his organs into the air.
 
Redness. Then darkness.
 
----
 
You did what you had to.
 
You try to cling to that thought as you gaze around the bare walls of your cell, at the blue energy barrier stretching beyond its slender bars. It provides little comfort.
 
Again and again the scene plays across your mind. You feel your thumb pressing the red buttons at the ends of the control sticks, see the Centurian escape pods exploding -- flashes of brilliant fire against the black of the void. The sounds of their destruction, spawned within your aural implant, rage in your ears like an accusation.
 
"Rhapsody!"
 
That voice... From the corridor.
 
The energy field is gone.
 
"Rhapsody!"
 
She appears at the bars, her white dress shimmering. Joy and relief flow across her beautiful face. Princess Illaria...
 
"We have to go! I've got the key!"
 
There's a click. The bars slide away, retracting into the floor and ceiling.
 
She takes your arm, pulls you into the corridor, into her embrace. The universe spins around you, swirling galaxies dancing to the tune of her presence.
 
Her lips brush against your ear as she whispers:
 
"Kasan."
 
Your eyes open.
 
There's a moment of confusion so utter that it might never end. Then the world resolves itself into intelligibility.
 
You're in your cabin on the Silver Shadow.
 
Memories coalesce, gathering and hardening. Centauri Prime...
 
You slide your legs off the bed. There's a moment's soreness when you stand, but it passes as though it were a phantom -- aches and pains remembered by your mind but forgotten by your body.
 
You're not wearing your armor anymore. And your hands...
 
For several seconds you just stare at them. No redness. But you can still feel Dule's organs in their grasp, torn from his ribcage -- his innards flung aloft like an offering to the void.
 
You head for the flight cabin.
 
It's empty.
 
The autopilot is engaged. So is the cloaking device.
 
A green light blinks at you from the communications terminal. A recorded message? You press the button.
 
Ragnar's face appears on the monitor. He's sitting...
 
You glance at the pilot's chair, as though the burly Niflung might have materialized there.
 
"I don't know how long you'll be out," he says. "I got the medical drones to check you over when they cleaned you up. They said you'll be fine."
 
There's a long pause. The Niflung sighs.
 
"I need to get you out of here. You have to disappear, at least for now. After what you did..." Another pause. "I'll hitch a ride off this station, and tell the others you're okay."
 
He gets up from the chair, moves away from the camera -- towards the edge of the screen. Then he stops, turns round, and comes back.
 
"If you need me, just call."
 
He reaches out. The recording ends.
 
For several seconds you stare at the blank screen, as though its black depths might hold some spark of knowledge, some shred of wisdom to help you make sense of it all. You thought the blood would take you, that your existence would end with Dule's. Yet here you are...
 
If the blackness on the monitor knows what to make of this, it betrays no sign. So you sit in the pilot's chair, examine the terminals. The autopilot... No destination set. Not even he knows where you are. Good.
 
He was right. You have to disappear. If you went back, your friends would stand with you no matter what. So would others... You can't put them through that. Better to vanish.
 
And...
 
Yes, you feel them deep within. The blood and the darkness. Waiting for the word that will allow them to consume you. A black and crimson enigma, a mystery you can't begin to unravel. But the galaxy is vast. Perhaps there's an answer to it somewhere out there...
 
Your hands reach for the controls. The autopilot disengages, surrendering the Silver Shadow.
 
The endless void rolls beyond the flight cabin's window, stretching out to ebon infinities. A thousand stars glitter, all of them beckoning you.

LotS/The Story/The Right Tools/The Neuro-Phage

2012-10-23T19:36:04Z

Raptor00:

'''The Neuro-Phage''' 
Step 1: Saw through the top of the donor's skull using an approved bonesaw (if you don't have one, click this *link* for a special offer). If the donor is still alive, make sure he or she is properly restrained and unable to offer any resistance. Thrashing may hamper the quality of your sawing.
 
Step 2: Take hold of the brain in the manner illustrated and ease it out of the head with a firm but gentle twist.
 
Step 3: Season to taste.
 
Step 4: Place on an appropriate serving plate.
 
(Note: A guide to which side dishes and beverages may best accompany the brains of different humanoid races can be found on our *website*.)
 
-- Recipe for 'Bachelor's Brain' in The Neuro-Phagy Cookbook
 
----
 
You fix an accusing glare on Ragnar. The Niflung spreads his arms in a gesture of confusion. But when you turn to Sun Xi you see that she isn't looking at your companions. She's gazing up into the night sky, horror on her face.
 
The Princess takes her arm and draws her back into the house. You follow, slipping through the door as it closes.
 
"He's coming!" the psychic says. "We have to... have to..."
 
A frantic, wordless murmur takes over her voice. Her head darts from side to side, as though searching for an object of defense or a way of escape.
 
"Mistress Sun, what's wrong?" the Princess asks.
 
Sun Xi's eyes meet yours. She steps towards you.
 
"Show you... Quicker..."
 
She places a hand on either side of your face, pulls you towards her, and presses her forehead against yours.
 
Visions flow into your mind, splashing from her brain to yours. These ones are clearer than those you experienced before, crisp and intelligible.
 
"Our connection is still strong from before," she whispers. "Can show you what I saw..."
 
Your gaze thrusts itself into the sky, above the house and the surrounding forest. It pierces the atmosphere, leaving Diogenes behind and threading its way further out into the system.
 
There... A black and red warship, voyaging through the star-studded mantle of space. Its aspect is vicious, predatory. It reminds you of an immense manta ray.
 
Your sight rushes towards the craft, and with a pilot's instincts you wince as you brace for the collision. But instead you penetrate its hull like a lance, intruding into its confines and wending your way along its corridors until you arrive in a dark cavernous chamber, and come face to face with the ship's master.
 
A fat, bloated form sits on a throne, the undulating mass of his flab bouncing against its stone arms as he bellows his orders. He's naked but for a red loincloth that dangles between his legs like congealed blood, displaying the veiny, pustulant skin stretched over his obese body in all its hideous glory. His feet are webbed, his hands clawed. Vicious teeth line his mouth beneath a snub nose and crimson eyes. A Snuuth, from one of that species' uglier, more vicious races by the look of him.
 
Hultex Quibberath. The name appears in your thoughts, and you understand that it was pulled from his -- passed to you by Sun Xi along the chain of psychic sausages that represent your linked minds.
 
He's a neuro-phage, a devourer of brains. And it's the brains of psychics that he finds most delicious. That's what was bringing him to Diogenes -- he was pursuing another psychic, a boy whose image flashes across your thoughts but strikes no chord of recognition. However, when Sun Xi stepped from her home his own psionic powers -- nowhere near as potent at hers, but well honed for this single task -- detected her. Now he's coming in search of the far more delectable morsel lodged within her skull.
 
The images vanish. Sun Xi's anxious face is before you once more.
 
"Stay here, Mistress Sun," you say. "I'll deal with this Quibberath."
 
'''Death Amid the Cherry Blossoms''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z7_a4_q1.jpg|none|Death Amid the Cherry Blossoms]]
"What's happened?" Wilex asks, his expression calm but alert on the communicator's holographic screen.
 
"There's a Snuuth warship approaching Diogenes. It's hostile. Destroy it. We're on our way to help."
 
"Understood."
 
If the Chief Assembler has any qualms about being instructed to engage a strange vessel, he gives no sign. You smile at the thought of how much faith he's willing to place in you. Then you end the transmission, and look to your companions -- who are arrayed beside a bed of red and purple orchids.
 
"We need to get back to the spaceport." You turn to the Princess, who's emerging from the house. "If-"
 
The communicator beeps in your hand. Wilex's face reappears.
 
"We've spotted the target. Moving to engage. But it's sent out scout ships. We weren't able to intercept them. You're going to have company down there." He pauses. "I can send a squad of battle bots to join you, but Diogenes will treat it as a hostile act."
 
"Don't worry -- we'll handle this ourselves."
 
You slip the communicator away and draw your sidearm.
 
"You all heard him," you say. "Get ready for a fight."
 
"Talia..." the Princess says.
 
The gunslinger reaches for one of her spare pistols. She tosses it through the air, into Princess Illaria's waiting hands.
 
Ragnar brandishes his axe and machinegun, a grin on his face. Lu Bu is attaching his sword and claw in place of his hands. As for Telemachus...
 
The prince presses the buttons on his backpack's straps. The metal starts to come apart, unfolding and widening. A red layer of plates tessellates around his limbs and torso -- assembling itself into a battlesuit. A silver device comes into being at his left arm, machinery slotting into place to create its shape. There's a flash, and a whir, as the laser-edged chainsaw activates.
 
"Told you it wouldn't blow up!" he says.
 
Several minutes later, the fireworks start. Colored lights zap against the distant sky, and tiny dark shapes flit across the stars in that slice of the heavens. A little bloom of fire announces the death of a ship.
 
"Diogenes' security forces are well equipped," Lu Bu says, "thanks to the great amount the planet's inhabitants pay to guarantee their solitude and safety. And it appears that they aren't willing to let unauthorized military craft go where they please."
 
You all watch the lightshow for some moments, and it seems as if your work may be done for you. Then a black shape skims over the forest far to your right -- beyond the wall separating Sun Xi's garden from the wilderness.
 
Smoke billows from the ship like a decorative plume. You see other signs of battle damage as well, souvenirs of its encounter with local law enforcement. Its flight is erratic, the vessel tilting from side to side before plunging into the trees amid a crashing of timber.
 
"Princess, Talia -- protect the entrance. The rest of you, with me."
 
The four of you run through the gardens, along the path that winds among the flowerbeds.
 
Orange eyes appear ahead of you, glowing in the shadows beneath the cherry blossom trees.
 
'''Aerial Assault''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z7_a4_q2.jpg|none|Aerial Assault]]
The Snuuth commandos resemble beetles in their grey, rounded armor -- its dimensions fashioned to accommodate the traditional gut-heavy girth of their species. Insects scurrying through the foliage, the orange orbs set into their otherwise featureless helmets glittering with malevolence.
 
Their aspects are fearsome, intimidating. Designed to cow their opponents. Against the little boy -- their originally intended victim -- and his family they would likely have worked well enough. But not against you and your companions.
 
"So much guts!" Ragnar laughs, as though to emphasize your unspoken thought.
 
The Niflung whirls round, and disembowels another of the commandos with a sweep of his axe -- cleaving through the armor with a screeching tear, as though it were a tin can. Another dose of intestines spills onto the grass, its ropey tangles joining the portion which had caused his exclamation. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was making a macabre collage...
 
You dodge a zapping blast of emerald energy and return fire -- catching a Snuuth right between his eyes. He drops to his knees, and topples face first into the diorama of innards.
 
Ragnar's roaring laugh echoes among the trees.
 
Lu Bu kills in silence, as is his wont. Gazing at him fighting beneath the blossoms is like looking into a Chinese legend, a tale of the great warriors who fought and perished in a prior age -- whose spilled blood mingled with the ink of scholars and poets to create their legacy. A long pile of bodies stretches before him. On some you can see the cracks in their armor where his sword found their brains or hearts. One has his dead, porcine face exposed -- the front of his helmet torn away by the robot's claw.
 
Telemachus is close by your side. The prince is unaccustomed to fighting in his new battlesuit, and you kept near to him out of concern for his safety. But you needn't have troubled yourself. He may lack the status of an unstoppable juggernaut outside of his mech, but his brand of passionate, ultra-violent carnage is as manifest as ever. As you look on, his laser-edged chainsaw works its way through a screaming commando's knee -- sending him crashing to the ground. The pistol in the boy's other hand finishes him off, out of either mercy or boredom.
 
A laser beam flashes by close to your head. It takes one of the Snuuth through the left of his orange eyes. You turn around, and look across the garden to where you left Talia and the Princess.
 
They're falling back under the nearby trees as though seeking cover. You glance at the sky above them, and see why the gunslinger attracted your attention with her shot.
 
Dark shapes are descending from the sky, the orange thrusters on their backs illuminating grey armor in their glow. More commandos -- with jet packs.
 
You sprint in that direction as the fire starts to rain down.
 
'''Space Sharks''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z7_a4_q3.jpg|none|Space Sharks]]
"This is much more fun than shooting cartoon ducks!" Talia says.
 
Her pistols punctuate her sentence, each one claiming a life. Two Snuuth fall from the sky. One lands headfirst, his helmet hitting the path with a sparking crunch. The other bounces along the ground a few paces before lying still, like the world's most inept acrobat.
 
An explosion roars above you, capturing three of the commandos in its sphere and annihilating them. Pieces of metal rain down from the detonation, along with a few fragments of barbequed flesh.
 
The gate at the end of the path slides open, revealing the orchestrator of the welcome butchery. A man in a green uniform sprints through the widening gap, a bazooka on his shoulder. A large group of similarly attired men and women come through after him, their laser rifles zapping at the air as they run -- the volley's lattice of bright beams disposing of the last of the Snuuth.
 
"Sergeant Hobbs of the Diogenes Emerald Guard," the bazooka-toting man says, as he stops in front of you.
 
His comrades fan out behind him, each of them moving to one of the fallen Snuuth to make sure of their demise. There's a sporadic hissing of laser fire as some of the deaths are confirmed or brought about.
 
"Are there any more?" he asks.
 
You turn to your right. Telemachus, Ragnar, and Lu Bu are approaching.
 
"Looks like we got them all," you reply. "But there's a Snuuth warship up there."
 
"We know. Our fighters have been scrambled."
 
"My friends and I need to get to the spaceport," you say.
 
"You should leave this to the professionals. Our pilots..." He trails off, as he catches the look in your eye. "Your vehicle's the one on the road back there?"
 
You nod.
 
"Mills, Boggs -- take these people to their hovercar. Deactivate its flight restrictions and escort them to the spaceport."
 
----
 
"Those ships are awesome!" Telemachus says
 
He leans across to get a better look at the monitor in front of Talia, which shows a zoomed-in view of the space battle ahead.
 
"Armor, Tel! Armor!" she shouts, as his metal shoulder presses against her chest.
 
"Oh, sorry!"
 
He falls back into his seat.
 
"Take that thing off if you're going to scramble around in here!"
 
"They're Shark Ships," you say, looking at a similar monitor on the terminal in front of your pilot's chair. "Piscarian military craft. Probably bought on the black market."
 
"Are they good?" Telemachus asks.
 
"Very."
 
The scene on the monitors is growing larger through the window. You can make out Wilex's cruiser and Quibberath's warship. Smaller forms come into view around them a few moments later, amid the fabulous choreography of lights and explosions that only astral warfare can provide. There are the Shark Ships, battle bot fighter craft, and other vessels which look to belong to Diogenes.
 
"What's the plan, captain?" Talia asks. She reaches out for the gunnery controls.
 
"Destroy everything that isn't ours or Diogenes'."
 
'''Massacre of Minions''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z7_a4_q4.jpg|none|Massacre of Minions]]
Quibberath's pilots are good. But you're better.
 
Sharks explode around you one by one, your aural implant spawning a triumphant symphony from their destruction.
 
"That's quite some flying, Vengeful Bitch," an unfamiliar female voice says over the communicator, which you assume must belong to one of the pilots from Diogenes.
 
For a moment you're confused. Then a lurking suspicion creeps into your mind.
 
"Talia..." you say, your eyes fixed ahead -- stealing between the window and the monitors.
 
"Yes, captain?"
 
Her thumbs tap the fire buttons at the end of her joysticks. A stream of laser fire slices a Shark Ship in half with pinpoint accuracy.
 
"You changed the ship's name in the logs, didn't you?"
 
"Sorry... I was playing around with it, and forgot to change it back. But you have to admit, Vengeful Bitch is pretty good."
 
Another voice sounds over the communicator.
 
"Our battle bots have gained entry to the warship and secured one of the hangars," Wilex says. "It's a custom craft, and I wasn't able to find a schematic. But we have squads working their way through it to look for the bridge."
 
"I know where it is," you reply.
 
You look over your shoulder, to where the rest of your companions are sitting -- operating the tertiary turrets.
 
"With your permission, Princess?"
 
She meets your gaze and nods.
 
"Take us in."
 
----
 
TALOS' forces have acted with their eternal precision. Gold and silver battle bots are stationed around the hanger at suitable firing points, their computerized targeting systems scanning with unceasing vigilance. If an enemy shows itself, a dozen lasers will meet it.
 
A new squad of bots is leaving its ship as you disembark, ready to join their brethren in securing the rest of the vessel and eliminating its master.
 
"Come with me," you say.
 
"Authority recognized," the robots chorus after a second's pause. "The Chief Assembler has placed us under your command."
 
With your new mechanical myrmidons leading the way in accordance with your directions, and your companions following, you exit the hanger and proceed into the warship's network of corridors.
 
The passages are gloomy, as you saw in your mind's eye. Their walls are fashioned from dark metal sculpted to resemble stone, making the inside of the ship seem like the caves of the Snuuth homeworld. An occasional light has been embedded in a wall, as though by a begrudging hand, and their dim glows provide the only illumination other than the almost toxic green which radiates from the occasional control panel or stretch of exposed cables. Musty, almost sickening air completes the sensation -- making you feel as if you're deep underground.
 
You encounter more battle bots along your route, each of them standing ready at the tactically appropriate stations they were assigned as the chambers and intersections were secured in turn. These robots were built for pragmatic calculations, lacking the egos and desires of human beings or those androids whose minds have been fashioned in your image. Thus they wait as silent sentinels without quibble or resentment, relinquishing the glory of the hunt and further combat.
 
That glory is left to you.
 
"This way," you say. "This is one of the corridors Sun Xi showed me. We're close now."
 
Ragnar greets this news with a grunt.
 
"About time. At this rate all the killing will be done before we get there."
 
But after a few minutes you hear the sound of weapons fire, along with the clanking of robotic bodies and the battle cries of organic throats.
 
You quicken your pace, moving down a broad, corpse-lined passage with swift steps. Dead commandos are strewn across the imitation stone floor, alongside the gold and silver debris of shattered robots.
 
There's a gaping doorway at the end of the corridor, flanked on either side by a mock-rock pillar -- part of its surface carved into the shapes of skulls, the rest inscribed with deep and unrecognizable alien characters. Battle bots fill its width, bustling and shoving as they try to force their way into the chamber. But they're making little progress, held at bay by more of the beetle-like Snuuth warriors -- whose orange eyes glow from amid the jostling scuffle. These particular robots are designed for ranged warfare. Either by chance or through tactical acumen the Snuuth fighters have succeeded in slowing their advance by hurling themselves into melee combat.
 
But they weren't expecting you and your companions...
 
Ragnar thunders into the back of the battle bots, pushing some aside and sending others staggering forward -- the impact of his charge moving the entire scrum, robot and Snuuth alike. The moment he has an opening, the second space is created between metal constructs and armored bodies, his axe fills it.
 
In a heartbeat the way into the room is clear. And as you and the battle bots charge into the cavern-like chamber, into the dark realm of intersecting laser fire and rushing assailants, you see a corpulent form sitting on a distant throne.
 
'''Hultex Quibberath''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z7_a4.jpg|none|Hultex Quibberath]]
"Stop!" Quibberath cries.
 
His voice, startling in its melodic shrillness, cuts through the clamor of battle -- slicing through the groans of dying Snuuth and the sounds of crashing metal.
 
"Stop!" he repeats. The hovering cannons on either side of his throne, their mouths now black and inert, wobble in the air as though dancing to the sound of the word.
 
His minions fall back, withdrawing from combat and lowering their weapons. Even the one facing Ragnar does as bidden, and loses his head for his troubles -- when a swing of the Niflung's axe parts it from his body and sends it flying across the room.
 
Princess Illaria gestures to the nearest battle bots, her command relayed to the rest in an instant via their internal communicators. They too stop firing, though they remain in position, their weapons raised and ready to recommence the moment the order is given.
 
"If you're willing to surrender," the Princess says, "we'll hear you out."
 
The Snuuth makes a long whistle, as though he's an ancient water heating device announcing that its contents have reached their boiling point. It occurs to you after a few seconds that this is his mode of laughter.
 
"The Quibberath family does not surrender. But let us make a bargain. There is no need for killing. My troops are expensive. So are your robots."
 
The Snuuth whistles again. If he thinks the sound of his merriment is ingratiating, he's sorely mistaken...
 
"You are friends of the woman, yes? The woman in the cherry blossom garden?"
 
"Yes," the Princess replies. "We won't allow you to harm her."
 
"Very well. I did not know she had such powerful allies. A pity... Her brain would have tasted..."
 
Quibberath's red eyes close. A thick, slimy, purple tongue slithers out from behind his sharp teeth and licks his lips as though sampling the phantom flavor of Sun Xi's mind. The Princess makes a wordless sound of outrage, causing the tongue to retract and his eyes to open once more.
 
"Let us make a truce. I didn't come here for her anyway. Your friend is safe. Leave my ship, and I will leave her be. We both win, yes?"
 
"What about the boy?" you ask.
 
You look to the Princess, who returns the gaze with a quizzical expression.
 
"That's why he came to Diogenes. He came to eat a little boy's brain."
 
"Do you know this boy?"
 
"We don't."
 
"Then what does he matter to you? Besides, it's too much trouble now. I can't take him with all those soldiers in the way. I'll have to go somewhere else for my next feast. See? Even your precious stranger boy is safe."
 
"A moment," the Princess says. "I must speak with my friends."
 
You and your companions huddle together.
 
"Do people like him need to eat brains to live?" Talia asks.
 
"No," Lu Bu replies. "They eat them as a delicacy. Ones like this Quibberath, who feed on psychics, usually believe they can gain a portion of their victim's powers by doing so."
 
"Really?" Ragnar asks. "That works?"
 
"I don't know. I've never tried it."
 
"I say we kill him," Telemachus whispers.
 
"Agreed," you say.
 
"Yes," the Princess says.
 
"Suits me just fine," Talia says.
 
"I will gladly help take his life," Lu Bu says.
 
Your group separates.
 
"We've discussed the matter," the Princess says. "I don't believe our decision will be to your liking..."
 
-------------------------------------
 
Hultex Quibberath screams, a long sharp shriek that makes your teeth ache.
 
He falls to his knees, his left hand clutching the blood-spurting stump where his right one was attached before Lu Bu's sword removed it. The two floating cannons drop from the air behind him, and hit the floor with a rattling thud.
 
"No!" he cries. "No! Please!"
 
"I hate it when the bad guys beg," Talia says. "It always makes you feel like a murderer."
 
"Leave it to me then," Ragnar says.
 
He steps towards Quibberath's kneeling, squealing form.
 
"So this guy's a neuro-fag?" the Niflung asks.
 
"Neuro-phage," you reply.
 
"Sounds like an interesting diet."
 
Ragnar brandishes his axe. He looks over to where Princess Illaria is standing, with a growing look of disquiet on her face.
 
"Ragnar..." she begins.
 
"You should get back to the ship," he says. "I'll catch you up."
 
"But..."
 
You place a gentle hand on the Princess' arm, and guide her from the chamber. The others follow.
 
----
 
The rest of your companions are aboard the ship when Ragnar struts into the hangar. He sees you leaning against the craft, beside its closed door, and strides over.
 
"He reckoned you could gain someone's smarts by eating their brain?" he asks.
 
"Apparently so. Feel any psychic powers developing?"
 
"I don't think so." He pauses for a moment, as though attempting to scour his mind for any such inklings. "Do I look any smarter?"
 
You stare at the traces of brain smeared around his mouth.
 
"No."
 
He shrugs his shoulders.
 
"Was worth a try."

LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar/Shuborunth

2012-10-18T16:59:36Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Shuborunth''' Shuborunth "That bastard stole my axe! Tell me where to find him, and I'll tear his-" <..."

'''Shuborunth''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z13_a1.jpg|none|Shuborunth]]
"That bastard stole my axe! Tell me where to find him, and I'll tear his-"
 
"Turn around, mate. That's where you'll find him."
 
Four gazes fell upon the man who'd come through the doorway. Ragnar's foe-finders blazed. Metro Mash stood there in the flesh now, the spikes of his hair even higher and bluer than they'd seemed on the holo-vid. The goggles on his eyes flashed with the screen's reflection. In his hand was the hero's foe-hewer.
 
"I've been looking for you, mate."
 
"Give me my axe!"
 
"Oh, I'll give it you... Right through your sodding head. You know how many bloody credits you cost us when you killed that rich bint? She was hot too! Might have been able to give her one when it was all over and done with, and we'd been paid... Why'd you bash her brains out anyway? Price not good enough for you? She wouldn't open her legs? What?"
 
"I don't know!"
 
"You what, mate?"
 
"I told you -- I don't know why I killed her!"
 
Metro cackled like a hyena.
 
"Oh, that's bloody priceless, that is. You cost us a sodding fortune, and you don't even know why! Too pissed, were you? Wanker!" Metro Mash made a shaking motion with his free fist. "You could have killed Moto anytime... You know, like after we were done! But oh, no, you had to go and-"
 
"Wait... What did you call her?" Ragnar asked.
 
"Moto, mate. Moto Zair."
 
The Niflung bellowed with laughter. His great frame shook. The others gazed at him in wonder.
 
"Something funny, mate?"
 
"And what... what was the... the job?" the hero managed, from amidst laughter that was like the roar of merry thunder.
 
"She wanted us to kill this kid... a prince, or something."
 
"Ha!" The son of Ragnar turned to the weaver. "That's why I killed her! Because the bitch deserved it! Moto Zair's the one who tried to kill Tel! And the stupid bitch thought she'd hire me to finish the job! She got what she had coming!"
 
"I'm sure there's a great backstory there and all, but you still cost me a sodding big pile of creds. And I'm-"
 
"I'm in a good mood," Ragnar said. "Give me my axe, and I won't even rip your spine out."
 
"Come and get it, mate!" He placed both hands on the mighty weapon's shaft and took up a fighting stance.
 
"Stupid stink-beast! This hulking human will destroy you! Give him his axe, or we'll have to clean your guts off the floor!"
 
"She's right," Svana added. "You can't take Ragnar. Not even with that axe."
 
"Good thing I brought a mate along then, isn't it?" He turned to the doorway. "Hey, Shuborunth -- get your arse in here!"
 
A slimy, slithering, dragging noise filled the air. Then something just as slimy, slithering, and dragging filled the entrance. It bulged through the gap like a huge mass of rancid meat, before coming inside with a pop and standing... sitting... festering there in all its hideousness. It was a blob of bright white flesh, its amorphous shape broken only by two eyes and a huge, gaping, toothless maw.
 
"What the hell's that?" Svana asked.
 
"The other killer the pathetic brain-splattered female hired," Bel replied.
 
"Shuborunth!" the blob... blobbed. Its very voice sounded like wobbling balls of flab undulating in the air. "Shuborunth!" Shuborunth!"
 
"Huh?" the weaver asked.
 
"He's a Blob Beast," Ragnar replied. "They use their own names as war cries."
 
"Blob Beast is slur!" he blobbed. "Human is racist! Shuborunth is Wulblunralxanachi!"
 
"How do you spell that?" Svana's fingers danced upon the word-axe's screen, lest the galaxy never learn of this strange encounter.
 
"Human will look it up! Shuborunth is killer, not dictionary!"
 
"One last chance, you spiky-haired pile of crap!" the hero roared. "The axe! Now!"
 
"Not a chance, mate. Shuborunth -- kill him!"
 
"Shuborunth! Shuborunth! Shuborunth!"
 
----
 
Ragnar roared and charged. His mighty body hurtled at Metro Mash. It was as though a fearsome avalanche crashed down from the mountains, thundering in an unstoppable wave that would surely smash the man foolish enough to stand in its path.
 
"Shuborunth!"
 
The blob... leapt. Svana gasped. Disbelief flooded her body from head to toe. It filled her valkyrie boots, bulged in her mail bodice, danced across her blonde locks. The massive lump of flesh launched itself into the air -- turning its body into a torpedo of flab. Its great mouth opened wide... And descended on Ragnar.
 
Shuborunth splatted in a big mound. Then it rose up, and gave a burp that made its lips shudder.
 
"Shuborunth wins! Shuborunth is best killer! Shuborunth is... Ugh!"
 
The blob groaned. Something bulged outwards from its gut. The flesh fell back into place. Then there was another bulge. Then another.
 
"Ugh! Human is alive! Shuborunth's gasses should have killed human! Human is hitting Shuborunth! Hitting inside! Ugh! Help! Ugh! Help Shuborunth!"
 
He flopped this way and that. His huge bulbous body swayed.
 
"Shuborunth! Shuborunth! Shuborunnnnnnth!"
 
The cry became a blobby screech as eight fingers burst from the middle of his body, each hand's digits pressed back to back. All those present stared in wonder and marveled at the might of Ragnar... For they all knew what must happen next.
 
"Shubor..."
 
The hero's powerful thews, the arms which had brought slaughter to his foes and salvation to his friends, that had wielded foe-hewer and doom-scribbler in myriad battles, pulled.
 
Thick, slimy flesh tore with a heavy wet rip. A stench as of rotten eggs filled the room and made Svana's nose wrinkle. The little hole, from whence the son of Ragnar's fingers had emerged, lengthened and widened. It ripped down Shuborunth's length. Then across his width, as the Niflung warrior opened him as though he were a pair of vile drapes.
 
And there Ragnar stood, amid the alien's exposed innards.
 
Metro Mash ran. But he'd gawped at the sight for a moment too long, and Svana was fast. The word-axe, that potent weapon of war and tale, the tool of her craft which would cleave the story into being, first clove Metro's skull. He crashed to the floor. And then came Ragnar...
 
"This is mine." The hero brandished his foe-hewer. "But you can have a taste..."
 
His raised his weapon. Doom seethed across its blade. Then weapon and doom fell as one, and Metro Mash was sent to tell the tale to the dead whilst Svana told it to the living.
 
----
 
"Svana?"
 
"Hi, Karl."
 
"What're you doing here?"
 
"Just visiting. How's my replacement getting on?"
 
"She's doing... Well she's doing as well as can be expected. But you... I mean, really you shouldn't be here... And who... Who are these people?"
 
"This is Ragnar Ragnarsson. A friend of mine."
 
Svana Spunbracher and the Niflung warrior strode down the corridor. Karl Hrolfsson, Rektor of Siegfried School, had to jog to keep up.
 
"And the other one?" He gestured at the man slung across Ragnar's brawny shoulder.
 
"A wanted criminal," the warrior replied. "With a nice bounty on his head."
 
"I demand a lawyer!" the man wailed.
 
"There'll be plenty of lawyers where you're going."
 
"Prison?"
 
"Not quite. Now keep your mouth shut, or I'll tear your jaw off."
 
The criminal fell silent. He liked his jaw where it was.
 
"This school isn't an appropriate place for dangerous criminals!" Rektor Hrolfsson said. "Apart from the parents, I mean."
 
"Don't worry, Karl. He won't be here for long. Trust me."
 
"Svana..."
 
She turned to him, not slowing her pace, pulled his head to hers with one fair hand, and planted a kiss on his lips.
 
"Trust me, Karl."
 
"Oh... Okay."
 
He stopped in the corridor and fell away behind them. In a few moments they were at the door of the classroom where Svana had once taught.
 
Through the square window that dominated its upper half, the writer and warrior saw a young teacher -- perhaps fresh from university -- half-crouched behind her desk. In front of her, at their own desks, a horde of teenagers screamed and threw things. Most of them hurled e-readers or styluses. But an axe spun end over end and embedded itself in the wall. Two more were stuck nearby.
 
"Damn kids," Ragnar grunted.
 
"Exactly," Svana replied. "Time to scare them straight..."
 
Ragnar kicked the door open and stormed inside.
 
"The fun's over, you little bastards!" he roared.
 
The children stared at the muscular warrior, their mouths agape, unhurled missiles falling from their hands. His crimson glare found each of them in turn, and they trembled.
 
"Excuse me..." the teacher murmured. "Can I... Can I help you?"
 
"No," Svana said. She stepped into the room. "But we can help you."
 
She turned to the pupils.
 
"You lot remember me?"
 
Some of them nodded. Others just stared at Ragnar and the prisoner he carried.
 
"Good. This is Mr. Ragnarsson. A friend of mine. He's here to show you something..."
 
Ragnar shrugged the man off his shoulder. He hit the ground with a thud and a cry.
 
"Hey!"
 
"Watch this!" Ragnar growled.
 
He grabbed the man's leg.
 
"Hey! What are you doing? What're- Aaaaarrrrgggghhh!"
 
The Niflung warrior stomped down with his boot and pulled with his arms in the same moment. His muscles were strong. So were his cybernetics. Far stronger than the man's leg...
 
Some of the pupils screamed when it tore free. Especially the ones whose faces were sprayed with its blood. Others still just stared, noiseless, pale, aghast.
 
"Aaaaarrrrgggghhh! My leg! My leg! Aaaaarrrrgggghhh!
 
Ragnar grunted, raised the limb above his head, and brought it down as a bludgeon. The man screamed at first. But the blows that showered down on his thrashing body beat silence into him. Then the brains out of him.
 
The warrior tossed the leg aside, grunted once more, and turned to the children again.
 
"You kids keep causing trouble, and I'll be back to do this to you. Understand?"
 
Teenage heads nodded with frantic, neck-spraining speed. The children took their seats.
 
The teacher got up from her half-crouch, sat in her chair, and beamed her gratitude at Ragnar and Svana.
 
"Now where were we?" she asked, scanning her e-reader. "Ah, yes..."
 
Ragnar and Svana left the classroom and closed the door behind them.

LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar

2012-10-18T16:57:11Z

Raptor00:

[[File:LotS_Quest_Zone_13.jpg|center|The Saga of Drunken Ragnar]]

<tabber>
"Zone Intro"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar/Intro}}
|-|
"Brainteaser"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar/Brainteaser}}
|-|
"Fast Food Fight"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar/Fastfoodfight}}
|-|
"Barroom Brawl II"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar/BarroombrawlII}}
|-|
"The Tale of the Tape"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar/Thetaleofthetape}}
|-|
"Shuborunth"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar/Shuborunth}}
</tabber>

LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar/Fastfoodfight

2012-10-18T16:56:00Z

Raptor00:

'''Fast Food Fight''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z13_a1_q2.jpg|Fast Food Fight]]
 
Crates flew this way and that. Dozens already lay strewn across the landing pad like corpses in the wake of a savage army's passage, victims of their bloody massacre. Some had broken open and disgorged their innards. Stuffed toys, cheap clothing, weapons, armor, candy bars... All these things and many others poured from within. Such was the fury of Ragnar, son of Ragnar. Svana lay on the ground and waited for the storm to pass. 
 
"Sir! Put the crate down! I'll-" 
 
The hulking Niflung turned to the man, who was clad in a security guard's armor. A pistol trembled in the guard's hand -- for he was no Niflung, but one of softer blood. Ragnar held a huge crate above his head as though he were Thor himself, ready to hurl it forth and crush an enemy's skull in the distant days when god fought giant. There was darkness in the warrior's foe-finders. There was darkness too around the guard's crotch. Perhaps the man saw himself smashed beneath the crate's weight, his blood smeared across the ground. He holstered his weapon, turned, and ran for all his legs were worth. Ragnar threw the crate, and let it smash in his wake. 
 
"Ragnar!" the weaver cried. "Stop it!" 
 
"Where's my axe?" 
 
"I don't know! But you're not going to find it in these crates!" 
 
He snorted. Yet there was wisdom in her words. 
 
"You might have left it someplace last night. If we retrace your steps, maybe we could find it..." 
 
"Fine! I'm going to Kebab Chaos." 
 
Ragnar stomped away. Svana rose and pursued him, her word-axe clutched to her vomit-smeared chest. 
 
"I'm coming with you!" She hurried alongside the hero, trying to match his great stride. 
 
"I told your father I'd look after you. I can't do that while I'm smashing kebab shops." 
 
"I don't need looking after! And I can help. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have this lead at all!" 
 
Ragnar snorted. Yet no retort passed his lips. 
 
"I need to get cleaned up first though. I can't go around like this! Is your ship here?" 
 
"I landed on the other side of the city. But I know somewhere on the way to Kebab Chaos. You can get a shower and some new clothes there. But only if you're quick. If you take forever washing your hair, I'll go without you." 
 
----
 
"You look beautiful, dear!" The plump woman clapped her hands. 
 
Ragnar grunted his approval and stared at the weaver's breasts -- true to his former words. This time they were not covered in vomit. Instead a mail bodice held them in its grasp. 
 
Svana gazed down at her new outfit and sighed. 
 
"I'm grateful. Really. But it's not exactly me..." 
 
"I think you make a lovely valkyrie" the woman said. "But if you'd like to see the Arabian princess outfit again... Or maybe the panda suit?" 
 
"We don't have time for this!" Ragnar said. He spoke the first words to Svana's chest, and the rest to her eyes. "We should be at Kebab Chaos!" 
 
"Ragnar!" the woman exclaimed. "A nice girl like this deserves a better date than that..." 
 
"It's not a date, Liz. If they did what I think they did, it'll be a bloodbath!" 
 
"Oh. Then her outfit's perfect! That's real Niflung mail, you know. Some of the girls' clients are very picky about things being real. Well, not everything... But the outfits, anyway..." 
 
"Great... So if anyone shoots or stabs me in the breasts, I'll be fine..." Svana sighed once more. "How much do I owe you?" 
 
"On the house, love. Anything for a friend of Ragnar's!" 
 
Svana gave her thanks. Then she and Ragnar ventured from the brothel, into the great happenings that awaited beyond. 
 
"So..." the weaver said. Her fingers were poised above the word-axe as she spoke, ready to inscribe the hero's words into its electric memory so she might later weave it into his saga. "...how do you know Liz?" 
 
"She had a pimp. Years ago. He used to hit her. Until I threw him off a building." 
 
The weaver recorded the deed, that future generations would know of the doings of Ragnar, son of Ragnar. As her word-axe cleaved, her bosom chafed -- unused to the mail which adorned it. But she bore that discomfort with the strength and courage of a fashioner of sagas, willing to endure such things in the name of her tale. 
 
Her mighty companion walked in silence. He stared at each man, woman, and child they passed -- as though believing that any of them might have stolen his foe-hewer. Svana feared he might grasp them and try to shake the truth from their heads, or else splatter their brains beneath his boot to join those still caked in its treads. But he did not, and the weaver was glad. 
 
Yet violence was only delayed, not averted. For as they passed down streets and alleyways, the sounds of combat drew their ears -- the cries of warriors yelling in pain or exultation. Weaker men would have turned back from such things. But Ragnar only quickened his stride, until the weaver was forced to run to remain by his side. The noise grew louder as they neared their destination, and they found both kebabs and carnage in the same place. Such is the fate of warlike men. 
 
Before them, on the other side of the road, was Kebab Chaos -- its name emblazed across a black sign in glowing red letters that consumed the entire width of the building's upper floor. It was a banner that had beckoned drunks by the dozen, and perhaps the son of Ragnar was among those whose drunken guts had been host to the sustenance it offered -- before it gushed forth in foul-smelling torrents on Svana. But now the sign did not look upon hungry drunks, nor upon people seeking a morning meal to carry them through the day. Instead it bore witness to bloody battle. 
 
Two groups of uniformed warriors clashed, each comprised of both men and women, humans and aliens. One band wore the same red and black as the sign. The backs of their shirts bore the image of a hunk of cartoon donner meat with four slender limbs and big hands, feet, and bulging eyes. The other's members were clad in yellow-brown shalwar kameezes and turbans. These too bore a symbol on their backs, proclaiming their allegiance. Theirs showed a man of equally cartoonish proportions and palette to the anthropomorphic donner meat. He wore the same turban as they, though his was adorned with a huge diamond. He held a broad-bladed scimitar in each three-fingered hand, and his mouth was opened in a golden-toothed war cry which bespoke his readiness to use them. 
 
No blasters flashed. Nor did slug-shooters bark. Instead the warriors fought with knives -- stabbing and slashing. It was as though some grim ritual combat took place before the weaver's eyes. As she looked on, a Snuuth's black shirt and fat gut were opened by a cruel cut. His intestines poured into the street as he tried in vain to pull them back. Nearby one of that Snuuth's fellows, a Vlarg, gained revenge by opening a shalwar-wearing Piscarian's throat. 
 
Within the store, big windows revealed further blood and steel. More warriors struggled among the cheap plastic tables and chairs. A swarthy man stood behind the long counter and jabbed with a metal pole -- keeping his foes at bay like the defender of a greasy castle wall. 
 
Other men and women besides Ragnar and Svana bore witness to this all. They stood around the melee, falling back like shifting tides when it seemed that the slaughter would stray in their direction. The weaver turned to one of these women. 
 
"What's happening?" Svana asked. 
 
"It's a franchise fight," the woman said. "The Curry Caliphate wants to turn this place into another Mega Masala." 
 
Ragnar roared. 
 
"These Kebab Chaos people can't answer my questions if they're dead!" 
 
The hero's hand went to his belt once more. But again he could only growl when his grasp was denied its familiar grip on his foe-hewer's handle. So he charged empty-handed, his rage redoubled. 
 
"Your friend should stay out of this!" the woman said. "Around here the fast-food workers are trained killers! They-" 
 
Her voice gave way to openmouthed silence when the son of Ragnar grasped two of the Curry Caliphate's agents by their right hands, and drove each one's weapon into the other's body. Then he tossed them aside, and struck a shalwar-clad woman with a backhand from his head-smasher. The kenning was made reality, to the cost of her skull. 
 
The remainder of the Caliphate's warriors in the street retreated from his path, scurrying away like rats before a fearsome hound. But in their cowardly haste, their terrified eyes saw only the dread hero. Their enemies' knives were forgotten, until they struck and drew both blood and life. 
 
Those within Kebab Chaos still fought, not yet knowing that Niflung doom approached. But they knew soon. 
 
Ragnar's foe-finders flashed this way and that. His head-smashers flailed where his gaze fell, scattering his enemies. Yet his pace never slowed, for all the violence he wrought. He crossed the restaurant, bashing his path through the melee, and sprang over the counter -- storming the bastion like a raider of old come to loot and pillage. The man who guarded the fastness fell aside and trembled. But the hero wasn't there to destroy him. He was there to seize a weapon. 
 
A great hunk of meat, like an elephant's leg in shape, rotated upon an upright spit -- displaying sides from which long strips had been shaved. It glistened with grease, dripped with fat. It offered filled belly and ruined health, sated hunger and woeful illness. Such was the power of the donner kebab. 
 
The Niflung hero grasped the thick metal pole and tore both spit and meat from their berth. With that great bludgeon in his hands, he leapt back over the counter -- and rained death upon his foes. 
 
A Rylattu screamed. Then the heavy chunk of meat flattened his turban and broke his skull. A man screamed his battle cry -- "The Caliphate is great!" -- and leapt at the son and grandson of Ragnar. But the meat glistened. The pole flashed. The man fell to the floor and groaned, his stomach greasy and bruised from the great blow that had struck him. The meat rose and fell in the hero's hands. Blow after blow thudded against his head, until his brains flowed. 
 
Like a raging inferno set by thoughtless hands and now consuming all in its path, Ragnar and his donner meat slew warrior after warrior. 
 
"Donner meat is hard..." a woman gasped. Then she died, for her lungs had been crushed. 
 
"Kebabs are dangerous..." a Vlarg said. Then he saw that his brains were beside his head, and he too died. 
 
"Madras smash!" a burly Snuuth yelled. But his war cry died along with him, and he lay still -- grease and blood smeared into the ruins of his fat face. 
 
Only when no warrior wearing a shalwar kameez drew breath did Ragnar toss the weapon aside and grunt. One of the men in red and black lifted the spit from the ground. Its great hunk of cooked flesh was smeared with blood, slathered with brains, and streaked with grime. He rubbed it against his apron before he passed it over the counter, where it was set back in place. 
 
"You want donner?" the man behind the counter asked, when the weaver entered. He raised a whirring blade, and motioned towards the meat, miming the shaving of strips. 
 
"No," Svana said. 
 
Ragnar's foe-finders went from face to face -- for all the survivors in red and black were gathered there now, and they stared with awe carved deep into their countenances. 
 
"I ate here last night!" the hero boomed. His voice was like the rumbling of thunder, or the trembling of earthquake. "Who served me?" 
 
"Me!" A female Snuuth waved her hand in the air. "I remember you! No salad, triple meat, extra chili sauce. I had to wrap it in two naans to fit it all in!" 
 
"No refunds!" the man behind the counter said. "You no like? No refund. You sick? No refund. You die? No refund. Is policy." 
 
"He saved our lives!" 
 
"Fine... Store credit. Make you new donner. You want donner?" Once more he motioned towards the spit. 
 
"Did he kill anyone while he was here?" Svana asked. 
 
"No." The Snuuth shook her head with great conviction. "That's the kind of thing I would have remembered." 
 
"Did you put metal spiders in my kebab?" Ragnar asked. 
 
"Metal spiders? I could see you were wasted, but I didn't know you were on chems! If you saw metal spiders, they weren't real." 
 
"And what about my axe? Did I have it when I came in?" 
 
"I didn't see one." 
 
"Damn it!" he roared. 
 
The employees backed away. The man behind the counter ducked from sight. 
 
"If you've lost your axe," the Snuuth squeaked, "maybe you left it at Binary Beer." 
 
"Binary Beer?" Eagerness overtook wrath on his face. 
 
"That's where you were drinking, wasn't it? That's what you said last night..."

LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar/Intro

2012-10-18T16:54:50Z

Raptor00:

'''Zone Intro''' 
--- 
From: Svana Spunbracher 
To: Rektor Hrolfsson 
Subject: Resignation 
 
Karl, I've decided to resign my position. Please consider this message my formal notice. I'll finish up the month, to give you time to find a replacement, but after that I'm gone. 
--- 
--- 
From: Rektor Hrolfsson 
To: Svana Spunbracher 
Subject: Re: Resignation 
 
Svana, this has come as quite a surprise. I know things were a little difficult for you today, but you shouldn't make hasty decisions while you're upset. Just between you and me, you're the best literature teacher we've ever had. We need you here at Siegfried. 
 
Have you been offered a better post somewhere else? If so, I'll hack the head off your shoulders and mount it in the hallway as a warning to others who might betray Siegfried School with their treachery and set loyalty at naught. 
 
Sorry -- you know the school charter forces me to say that. But really, I hope you'll reconsider. 
--- 
--- 
From: Svana Spunbracher 
To: Rektor Hrolfsson 
Subject: Re: Re: Resignation 
 
I'm sorry, Karl. My mind's made up. But you don't need to threaten me with decapitation (I still can't believe they voted that clause into our contracts -- I suppose that's what we get for having so many ex-berserkers on the school board). I'm not heading to another school. I'm quitting teaching. 
 
It's not just today's incident. That was just the final nail in the coffin. Things have been bad for a while now. 
--- 
--- 
From: Rektor Hrolfsson 
To: Svana Spunbracher 
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Resignation 
 
We've had a few problems over the past months, sure. But what school doesn't? We both know we have more than our fair share of troubled kids here. That's all the more reason why we need teachers like you, who can reach them and inspire them. 
 
And I can't believe you're quitting teaching! I mean, it's great that I won't have to chop your head off. I wasn't looking forward to that at all. And your father's people would have broken me in half when they found out. But you love teaching! I remember your first day here. You were so excited about stepping into that classroom. 
--- 
--- 
From: Svana Spunbracher 
To: Rektor Hrolfsson 
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Resignation 
 
I don't think "a few problems" really covers it. When you turn around to write on the holo-board, you expect the kids to mess around a little. But you don't expect them to chuck a throwing axe at your head. 
 
That was bad enough. But remember what his father said when we brought him in? He told the boy off -- for having such bad aim. How are we expected to do this job when the parents won't pull their weight? 
 
Anyway, teaching was never my real passion. Literature is. I just thought it would be great to help kids discover that same love. But my time here at Siegfried has made me realize that the job just isn't for me. It's about time I tried doing something I'll feel good about. That's why I'm going to become a writer. I've always wanted to write a great Niflung saga, like the ones that inspired me as a girl. I bet I'll reach more children that way than standing in a classroom and having axes thrown at my head. 
--- 
--- 
From: Rektor Hrolfsson 
To: Svana Spunbracher 
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Resignation 
 
Well, I'm still sorry to see you go. But I can see your mind's made up, so I wish you the best of luck. 
 
Don't worry about seeing the month out. I can bring in a substitute teacher to cover until we find a full-time replacement. As of the receipt of this message, you're officially no longer a teacher at Siegfried. 
 
Hey, now that you don't work here anymore, the policy on intra-faculty relationships no longer applies. Would you like to go out for a drink, or maybe some dinner? The Butchered Beast is doing its 'beer and boar' feast tonight. 
--- 
--- 
From: Svana Spunbracher 
To: Rektor Hrolfsson 
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Resignation 
 
Sure. A little beer and boar should help get the literary juices flowing. 
 
I'll meet you there at seven. 
--- 
 
----
 
--- 
From: Midgard Publishing 
To: Svana Spunbracher 
Subject: Re: Submission 
 
Dear Miss Spunbracher, 
 
Thank you for your submission entitled The Saga of Bloody Erik. However, I'm afraid that it doesn't suit our present needs. By which I mean that we at Midgard Publishing pride ourselves on publishing high quality fiction and creative non-fiction, whereas your work was, to put it simply, crap. 
 
That said, my gratitude is genuine. Just last week I was telling my colleagues that women aren't cut out to write sagas. So, I'm extremely grateful for the evidence your submission provided. 
 
Yours sincerely, 
 
Olaf Runnson 
Editor 
Midgard Publishing 
--- 
--- 
From: Midgard Publishing 
To: Svana Spunbracher 
Subject: Apologies 
 
Dear Miss Spunbracher, 
 
Please except my sincere apologies for the message you received from one of our editors. Naturally if Mr. Runnson had known who your father was, he certainly wouldn't have addressed you so inappropriately. 
 
I hope you'll remember that our editors often have to deal with many hundreds of submissions each day, and that their judgment might therefore sometimes be impaired by tiredness and frustration. Upon reading The Saga of Bloody Erik for a second time, Mr. Runnson realized that his previous assessment of the work was unfair and inaccurate. 
 
We'd be honored to publish your saga. Please review the attached contract, which I believe you'll find very much to your liking. We've doubled our usual advance for first-time authors, as a token of our esteem and a gesture of apology. 
 
If you'd be so good as to inform your father of our offer, and prevent him from slaughtering us all, we'd be very grateful. 
 
Yours sincerely, 
 
Kveldulf Gulbrandensen 
Chief Editor 
Midgard Publishing 
--- 
--- 
From: Svana Spunbracher 
To: Midgard Publishing 
Subject: Re: Apologies 
 
Dear Mr. Gulbrandensen, 
 
You don't have to worry. I didn't tell him about your editor's rude rejection slip. 
 
As for your offer to publish my saga, I'm afraid that I can't accept it. I'd like my writing to be published on its own merits, not because your background check found out about my father. If I wanted to benefit from nepotism, I wouldn't have changed my name to Spunbracher. 
 
If you really want to show you're sorry, perhaps you could give me some advice on how to write a better saga? 
 
Yours sincerely, 
 
Svana Spunbracher 
--- 
--- 
From: Midgard Publishing 
To: Svana Spunbracher 
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Apologies 
 
Dear Miss Spunbracher, 
 
I must say I admire your attitude, and I'm not just saying that because I don't want to be hacked limb from limb. 
 
I've written a number of sagas over the years, and have published many more. So I feel qualified to give you a little advice, as you requested. 
 
The Saga of Bloody Erik wasn't a bad attempt. However, the market for sagas set on Earth during the Viking Age is limited at the moment. These days readers (and editors!) prefer stories with a contemporary setting. Although we respect our glorious Norse heritage, the events of that period can seem rather unimaginative by modern standards. Family feuds, medieval lawsuits, and honorable duels are all well and good for historical fiction -- but a modern Niflung saga should try to move beyond them. An unusual plot will help you grab an editor's attention. 
 
Similarly, don't feel shackled to old literary devices. A few kennings are a nice touch, but they should be used sparingly. As for throwing in stanzas of alliterative verse and intricate skaldic poetry, that's a little excessive. Remember that you're trying to appeal to a broad, present-day readership. Give us the flavor of a Norse saga without going over the top and making it a struggle to read. 
 
If I might offer a suggestion, why don't you write a saga about your father? I'm sure he's done plenty of things people would love to hear about. 
 
Yours sincerely, 
 
Kveldulf Gulbrandensen 
Chief Editor 
Midgard Publishing 
 
PS. Please feel free to submit your next saga to us. If you're worried about nepotism, just put a different name on the submission message. 
--- 
--- 
From: Svana Spunbracher 
To: Midgard Publishing 
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apologies 
 
Dear Mr. Gulbrandensen, 
 
Thank you very much for your kind advice and offer. I'll most certainly consider the former and take advantage of the latter. 
 
I don't think it would be appropriate to write a saga about my father. Most of his adventures probably aren't suitable for a daughter's ears. But you've given me an idea. I think he could put me in touch with another contemporary Niflung warrior whose exploits would be worth writing about. 
 
Thank you once again. 
 
Yours sincerely, 
 
Svana Spunbracher 
 
PS. Please tell Mr. Runnson to stop sending me boxes of chocolates, barrels of ale, and honey-glazed hams with groveling apology notes. I've run out of places to put them, and have had to donate the last six barrels and twelve hams to the local orphanage. 
--- 
 
----
 
--- 
From: Valkyrie Bloodsword 
To: Midgard Publishing 
Subject: Submission 
 
Dear Sir, 
 
Please find attached a work entitled The Saga of Drunken Ragnar, which I hope will interest you. 
 
Yours faithfully, 
 
Valkyrie Bloodsword 
---

LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Alleyways of Minor Annoyance

2012-10-18T16:50:43Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Alleyways of Minor Annoyance''' Alleyways of Minor Annoyance "Where the hell's my axe?" Ragnar demanded. <b..."

'''Alleyways of Minor Annoyance''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z12_a1_q4.jpg|none|Alleyways of Minor Annoyance]]
"Where the hell's my axe?" Ragnar demanded.
 
Talia smiled at her omnicidal friend's holographic image.
 
"Your weapon has been located, sir," came a training bot's emotionless voice.
 
The screen panned away from the Niflung and centered on the robot. The axe was buried in its chest.
 
More of Telemachus' home movies, recorded during some of their training sessions. When Talia came across the holo-vids, she knew she had to play them for the sleeping prince. If the others couldn't be here, it was the next best thing.
 
"Give me that!" the recorded Ragnar roared.
 
He stepped into the frame, grabbed the weapon's shaft, and pulled it free -- straight upwards, cleaving through the training bot's head.
 
The gunslinger looked over at Telemachus. She was almost certain that the corners of his mouth twitched.
 
----
 
"I need to speak to the mayor!" Telemachus said.
 
"Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist asked. She didn't even look at him. She was busy admiring her 16-bit beauty in a hand mirror.
 
"No, but it's important!"
 
"I'm sorry, but the mayor's in a meeting with the press. You'll have to wait."
 
Telemachus glanced through the glass door. The mayor was sitting at his desk. He was bare-chested, just like in his street fighting days -- displaying his huge muscles. The men in suits who sat opposite him looked like children compared to his powerful bulk.
 
"Mr. Mayor, isn't it true that crime figures are through the roof?"
 
"Doesn't officially changing the city's name to Murder City send the wrong signal?"
 
"What about rumors that you've been killing criminals without trial, and leaving their bodies lying around to boost the recorded murder rate and thus justify your vigilante killing sprees?"
 
The mayor glowered before the bombardment of journalistic inquiry.
 
"You should duck, kid," the receptionist said, as she slipped under her desk.
 
"How come?" Telemachus asked.
 
"Because when the mayor gets mad..."
 
There was a crash of breaking glass. Telemachus dropped to the ground. He was just in time.
 
A volley of airborne newsmen hurtled through the space where he'd been standing. Most hit the floor and sprawled there. A few hit it hard enough to roll for several more paces. One unfortunate journalist, who perhaps regretted his lack of mass, actually made it all the way across the room and smashed through the window. From the subsequent crunch, someone parked below would share his displeasure when they returned to their vehicle.
 
"Who's next?" the mayor roared from the shattered doorway.
 
"This kid is," the receptionist said, as she clambered out from beneath the desk.
 
"Come on then." He turned and stomped back into his office.
 
Telemachus scrambled to his feet and followed. The mayor stared at the boy from across his desk.
 
"If you're looking to buy drugs, kid, you've come to the wrong place. That was the last mayor. And now he sleeps with the fishes. And the lions. And the hippos. And the giraffes. He died at the zoo, and bits of him went everywhere. That's what happens if you run negative ads about Ragnar Ragnarsson."
 
"I found out that Colonel Ironside's going to-"
 
The phone on the desk rang.
 
"Hang on, kid." The mayor pressed the speakerphone button. "This is Mayor Ragnar."
 
"Ah, Mayor Ragnar," came the deep, gruff voice. "The man who's too good to do business with us."
 
"Ironside!"
 
"That's right. I'm here to make you another offer."
 
"If it isn't your head on a plate, I don't want to hear it!"
 
"Oh, you'll want to hear this. We have Jess."
 
"What!?!"
 
"If you ever want to see her again, you'd better stop killing our boys. That's bad for business! Well, not for our line of funeral homes. But it's bad for all our other businesses -- the ones dead guys can't help with! So stop doing it!"
 
There was a click. Then the line went dead.
 
Ragnar growled.
 
"I'm too late!" Telemachus said. "He's already got your daughter."
 
"What're you babbling about, kid?" The mayor glared at him.
 
"Jess..."
 
"Jess isn't my daughter! She's my axe!"
 
"Oh..." Telemachus exhaled. "Well, that's okay then. You can always get a new axe, and-"
 
"Get a new axe? Get. A. New. Axe?" Ragnar stood up. "A new axe?"
 
He grabbed hold of the big rosewood desk and lifted it above his head as though it were cardboard.
 
"Get a new axe?"
 
The mayor roared. Then he hurled the desk. It crashed through the remains of his glass door, flew across the reception area, and smashed into an unlucky journalist who'd just made it to his feet.
 
"Do you know how many people me and Jess have killed? She's my axe, and I'm getting her back!"
 
Ragnar strode towards the wall, extended his arms on either side of his body, fists clenched, and span around. The wall crumbled before his sweeping, spinning limbs, sending chunks of masonry into the street beyond.
 
"Use the door, Mr. Mayor!" the receptionist yelled.
 
"There isn't time for doors!" the mayor roared.
 
He jumped through the hole and charged off down the street. Telemachus leapt through and ran after him.
 
When the boy caught up to Ragnar, he found him standing next to a small heap of corpses, a terrified teenager in his grasp. There were spray-paint cans scattered on the ground at their feet, and a layer of fresh, glistening graffiti on the nearby building. It was a mural of Colonel Ironside.
 
"You punks work for him! Where is he?" Ragnar shook him, making his limbs dance like a marionette's. "Tell me!"
 
"We... We... We..."
 
The mayor stopped shaking him. The graffiti artist took a deep breath and recovered the power of speech.
 
"We're just taggers! His gang pays us for it! We've never met Ironside! He's the big boss, and we're just trash, man!"
 
"Who do you know in the gang? You must know someone!"
 
"We... We get our orders from Chem Rautha. We meet him in the abandoned apartment building on 32nd!"
 
Ragnar grunted. Then he slammed the punk's head into the wall. Blood and brains added their colors to the mural. Whether it was an improvement or not was a matter of opinion.
 
The mayor turned to Telemachus.
 
"What're you doing here?"
 
"I want to help!"
 
Ragnar glared at him for a long moment.
 
"You're the kid who saved the president, aren't you?"
 
"Yeah."
 
"Fine. You can tag along. But don't get in my way. I rule this city!"
 
Telemachus followed him through deserted streets. Word of the mayoral killing spree must have spread. The only people left out and about were the two of them and Murder City's criminal community. It made it easy to know whom to hit...
 
They battered their way to 32nd street, leaving a trail of corpses behind them. Looters, robbers, jaywalkers... Crime didn't pay when the mayor was around. There, in front of a derelict building -- an ugly shell of broken glass, worn brick, and shattered wood -- was a contingent of unsavory individuals. Among them was a face Telemachus recognized.
 
"You?" he said.
 
"You!" Rautha echoed. "You're the one who stole-stole-stole my big break! Thanks to you I fell into a life of crime-crime-crime. Now I make-make-make my living using chems!"
 
"Don't you mean selling chems?"
 
"Huh? You can sell-sell-sell chems? Why-why-why didn't someone tell-tell-tell me! Stupid walrus!"
 
"Where's Ironside?" Ragnar roared.
 
"Won't tell-tell-tell!"
 
The gangbangers advanced. So did Ragnar. This wasn't going to be pretty...
 
----
 
"Remember when we killed that jerk in the hoverchair, right here in the palace?" Talia asked.
 
She stroked the prince's cheek.
 
When one of the psychics had left his seat to take his break -- they were all resting in turn to keep their minds fresh -- he'd offered it to Talia. He'd said her presence, her voice, her actions were helping. She couldn't tell whether he'd been sincere or just trying to comfort her, but she was glad to be right by Telemachus' side again.
 
"He thought he was a badass, with all those stupid psychic powers and telekinetic barriers. But we still blew his brains out."
 
----
 
"Where's Ironside?" Ragnar pulled Rautha towards him by his shirt as he growled the question, until they were nose to nose.
 
"He's in the-the-the-"
 
"Damn you!"
 
The mayor roared, lifted him up, and impaled him on a fire hydrant.
 
"Ouch-ouch-ouch!"
 
"Is there anyone around here who isn't on chems?" Ragnar asked.
 
"I'm... I'm not..." one of the sprawling gangbangers murmured.
 
Telemachus crouched next to him.
 
"Then you'd better tell the mayor what he wants to know. He looks pretty mad."
 
"The colonel's base is in the Yasuda building!"
 
"How do we get there?"
 
"You'll have to fight your way through the subway and onto the train. Then more fighting on the train, until you get off on the west side of town. Then you'll have to fight some more, until you get to-"
 
"Idiot!" Ragnar grunted.
 
He raised his boot and stomped down on the gangbangers head -- driving his face into the street. His skull gave way with a crunch.
 
"Did he think we're on a sightseeing tour? Let's find a cab."
 
"Where? Everyone's hiding apart from us and Ironside's guys."
 
"Damn cowards!"
 
"We could-"
 
The screech of abused rubber cut him off. A black sports car was zooming down the road ahead of them. The vehicle swerved just long enough to plough through a group of gangbangers, launching their mangled bodies in all directions. Then it straightened up, whooshed towards the mayor and the boy, span, and pulled to a squealing, smoking stop next to them.
 
"Need a ride?" Talia asked.
 
"Are those fingers sticking out of the wheels?" Telemachus inquired.
 
"Maybe. I ran over a lot of them on the way here. And you know how fingers are... They get everywhere."
 
Telemachus and Ragnar nodded in sympathy. Then they piled into the vehicle.
 
"Where are we heading?" the gunslinger asked.
 
"To get my axe back!"

LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels

2012-10-18T16:50:32Z

Raptor00:

[[File:LotS_Quest_Zone_12.jpg|center|The Prince & The Pixels (Planet 12)]]

<tabber>
"Zone Intro"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Zone Intro}}
|-|
"Monkey Business"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Monkey Business}}
|-|
"Count of Monte Fisto"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Count of Monte Fisto}}
|-|
"Deranged Dwelling"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Deranged Dwelling}}
|-|
"Alleyways of Minor Annoyance"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Alleyways of Minor Annoyance}}
|-|
"G. Rahn"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/G. Rahn}}
</tabber>

LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/G. Rahn

2012-10-18T16:50:03Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''G. Rahn''' G. Rahn The drive through the city was an experience. At least Telemachus assumed it was. With..."

'''G. Rahn''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z12_a1.jpg|none|G. Rahn]]
The drive through the city was an experience. At least Telemachus assumed it was. With the way Talia drove, it was mostly a blur -- apart from the 16-bit gore on the windshield.
 
"Help... me..."
 
"Who was that?" the boy asked.
 
"I think one of them's stuck to the car." Ragnar laughed.
 
"Help... me..."
 
"Should we do something about it?"
 
"Sure, Tel."
 
Talia turned on the radio, and boosted the volume until powerful music blasted through the car.
 
"That's better," she said.
 
Telemachus nodded. Talia's taste in music complimented their breakneck speed and repeated vehicular homicides. And it was only enhanced by the percussive accompaniment of severed body parts splatting and thudding against the hood and windshield. Hence all three of them groaned when a song was truncated in mid-chord, and gave way to a news bulletin.
 
Talia reached towards the knob.
 
"Wait!" Telemachus said. "It might be about Ironside's gang."
 
"I'm here on the Zenith," the reporter said, "the spacecraft where the World Warrior Championship tournament is taking place -- a location selected because it's neutral ground, as well as just being plain awesome. But what isn't so awesome is the absence of last year's winner, Telemachus."
 
"No!" The boy groaned. "I forgot all about that!"
 
"He's entitled to fight this tourney's winner for the title, but if he doesn't show up he forfeits that right! That might be welcome news for G. Rahn, who's been looking unstoppable so far."
 
"G. Rahn?" Ragnar asked. "I know that bastard! He's the CEO of Centurian. They've been helping Colonel Ironside's punks launder money for years!"
 
"It was all a setup," Telemachus said. "Grislak, King Mega, Professor Squid, Colonel Ironside... G. Rahn wanted to keep me busy so I wouldn't get to the Zenith in time! Now it's too late!"
 
"No, it's not," Talia replied. "I can get you there, if we go now."
 
"Take him!" Mayor Ragnar said. "I'll go get Jess!"
 
"You sure?" the boy asked.
 
"Kid, I've been killing people longer than you've been alive."
 
"Okay..."
 
"Good luck! And beat the crap out of G. Rahn!"
 
With that, Ragnar threw open the door and leapt out. Telemachus saw him through the rear window -- hitting the ground, rolling, getting to his feet, and sprinting down the street. Before the car turned, he saw the mayor barge into a pack of gangbangers. They probably wished they'd been hit by the vehicle instead...
 
"How're we going to get to the Zenith?" Telemachus asked.
 
"Trust me, Tel."
 
----
 
"When I first met you," Talia said, "I wanted to kill you. That was only fair, right? I mean, you were trying to kill us too. But we're both still here. Alien monsters, robots, Centurians, hookers... We've been through a lot, and it hasn't killed us yet. Trust me, you'll be fine. You just need to wake up, and we can keep being crazy together. Trust me."
 
----
 
The sports car's tires squealed as it turned -- quite an achievement, since it was driving in the perfect vacuum of lavishly rendered 16-bit space. Telemachus couldn't decide what it said about Talia's driving. It didn't matter. Supremely skilled or suicidally foolhardy, the important thing was that they were approaching the ship.
 
Something bleeped. Talia pressed a button on the radio.
 
"This is the Zenith. Did you know you're driving a car in space?"
 
"Yeah," she replied.
 
"Just checking. We'll open the landing bay for you."
 
----
 
Talia's eyes widened. Had she imagined it? No! There it was again.
 
"He moved! He squeezed my hand!"
 
"The prince's thoughts are getting stronger," Arla said. "But there's... There's something in the way."
 
"This affliction is clever," Norux said. "It's struggling to keep him."
 
"Come on, Tel!" Talia whispered. "Win!"
 
----
 
"G. Rahn wins!" The referee declared. "Perfect!"
 
Rahn raised his arms and stood over his opponent's prone form.
 
"This fool was no match for my Centurian power!" he declared.
 
"Since last year's winner is absent," the referee continued, "and therefore unable to defend his title, I name Rahn as-"
 
"Hey!"
 
The entire crowd, from gorgeous 32-bit celebrities to 8-bit plebs, turned as one. Their combined pixelated gaze rested on the boy in the red gi.
 
"I'm here, Rahn. This title isn't yours."
 
"So, the wretched cripple failed?" Rahn's voice echoed from the confines of his mask. "I'll just have to destroy you myself!"
 
----
 
Telemachus tottered. His entire body felt like it was still burning, as though it had been consumed by the fury of Rahn's psionic blue flame instead of merely singed. His limbs were heavy. His mind exhausted by the eclectic adventurers of the past days.
 
But G. Rahn was no better. He was as unsteady on his feet as the boy. Some of his armor plates were scattered across the floor. Others were dented, marked by Telemachus' fists and feet. The malevolent CEO's exposed flesh had been battered and bruised by the same martial strikes. Blood trickled from a dozen places. A single trail of crimson ran from his brow into his right eye. Yet he made no move to wipe it off. He knew his adversary would be on him the moment he left himself open.
 
Not a single pixelated eye blinked. No one in the entire room took a breath. Everyone knew the next exchange would end the fight and place the mantles of victor and loser on the fighters' shoulders.
 
"No match..." Rahn gasped. "No match for... psi-power..."
 
Golden psionic energy crackled across his arms as he lunged. It licked its way down his body, sheathing him in psychic force as his feet left the ground and pure psychokinetic energy sent him spinning towards Telemachus like the head of a drill.
 
"Come on, Tel!" Talia whispered. "Win!"
 
Telemachus' fist clenched. He dropped into a crouch.
 
Rahn spiraled closer, a split-second away. Each electrified pixel of psionic wrath blazed with the might of destruction.
 
Telemachus rose.
 
His hand tightened around Talia's.
 
It struck Rahn at the same time. A rising, leaping, soaring uppercut that threw both their bodies into the air. But Telemachus landed on his feet. Rahn crashed down on his back, his eyes almost popping from his head.
 
"Tel!"
 
"Talia?"
 
Two worlds floated around his vision, his consciousness. He focused on the one with better graphics.
 
The prince blinked. The 16-bit Zenith and the tinny cheering of the pixelated crowd vanished. They were replaced by the richer cries of flesh and blood.
 
"I won," he said.
 
"Me too, Tel. Me too."

LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Deranged Dwelling

2012-10-18T16:49:17Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Deranged Dwelling''' Deranged Dwelling The mansion loomed against the night sky. Yes... loomed. It looked m..."

'''Deranged Dwelling''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z12_a1_q3.jpg|none|Deranged Dwelling]]
The mansion loomed against the night sky. Yes... loomed. It looked much like any other large house of its period, yet while its counterparts elsewhere might have been content to merely stand, this one was different. The cold and foreboding structure was the only one for miles around, overseeing nothing but green hills and fields from its gloomy eyes. It was almost like it was lurking. Lurking and looming...
 
Telemachus knew the stories. Professor Sarah Squiller was once a brilliant scientist and a respected academic. But after almost dying in a lab explosion, she relinquished her post and became a recluse -- withdrawing to the Squillers' isolated family home. Depending on which rumors one believed, she either carried out secret government research within its walls or else murdered trick-or-treaters. The best rumors went so far as to combine the two, though Telemachus found that unlikely. If the government wanted to kill trick-or-treaters, they could just put razor blades in the candy again...
 
In any event, if she really orchestrated Grislak's rampage, he intended to find out why. That meant going inside the sinister mansion...
 
----
 
"Six of you, and you still can't wake him up?" Talia sighed.
 
"It's not a matter of brute force," one of the Piscarians said. "The psionic attack he's suffering from is complicated. If we're not careful, we could damage his brain."
 
Talia said nothing. She knew her frustration was futile. But she couldn't help it. With each passing hour the space around Telemachus' bed became more crowded with the psychic healers Wu Tenchu had enlisted. And yet the prince still slept his unnatural sleep.
 
"If you were here," she whispered to a picture on the wall, "I'd even try getting you to kiss him. That's how you wake sleeping princes, right?"
 
But the portrait of Illaria just smiled in beautiful serenity.
 
Talia sighed again. Standing around and waiting, helpless and useless, went against every fiber of her being. But she had little choice. So while the psionics did their work -- even young Arla returning to the fray, insisting that she be allowed to play her part -- and Doctor Yien busied himself inspecting reading after reading on his machines, Talia merely looked on. Every so often her eyes met Bermund Pelar's, and read similar sentiments there. But the seneschal was sat next to his daughter, his arm around her, offering the strength and comfort of family as she exerted her mind to save the prince. The gunslinger couldn't even do that much.
 
She looked at the inert projector on the floor. They'd deactivated it after it had played through all of Willy's Twisted Steel matches. Not for the first time, she wished the others were there. But if Wu's message had reached them, they hadn't made it to Gallea yet. She was still alone.
 
So she went back to walking among Telemachus' childish treasures, her gaze roaming across the things that brought him joy.
 
----
 
Telemachus ascended the few steps that led up to the porch. A bristly doormat crunched underfoot -- the noise seemed impossibly loud in the nocturnal quiet. There was a doorbell. But he wasn't inclined to press it. If Sarah Squiller was an evil, scheming villain, he felt that he should play the role of an intruder and possible assassin rather than that of a polite caller. So he reached for the doorknob instead. It didn't turn in his hand. That was annoying. He much preferred neighborhoods where the locals didn't lock their doors, and often didn't even seem to mind if random visitors helped themselves to the contents of their dressers and treasure chests.
 
He inspected the door, and gave it an experimental tap. There was metal under the wood. Smashing it down would be difficult, and far from stealthy. He moved to one of the windows that opened onto the porch, wondering if the time-honored entry point of vampires and burglars would serve any better. But it was locked, and the glass was thick. The same proved true of the other window.
 
Telemachus furrowed his brow. Perhaps he'd find a suitable entrance around the back... He strode back along the porch, intending to give it a try. Then the doormat crunched under his shoes again...
 
A reclusive scientist, possibly an evil mastermind, with reinforced doors and windows which she kept locked. No, there couldn't possibly be...
 
The boy crouched down. In doing so, he noticed the message inscribed on the mat: "Go away!". He pulled the charming sentiment aside. And something shone in the gloom. He picked it up, stood, slipped it into the lock on the front door, and turned it. There was a click. This time the knob turned in his grasp. The door opened into a drab hallway.
 
He took a moment to revel in the unexpected ease of his entry. Then he gazed around the room, wondering which of the doors might most likely separate mundane household from abominable villainy. None of them appeared to offer a clue, so he settled for trying the nearest one. It revealed a kitchen.
 
Telemachus spent a few moments opening cupboards and the fridge in search of clues, but he found nothing more evil than diet soda. There was also a chainsaw, hanging next to the knives. He conceded that this might be considered evil in certain circles. But under the circumstances he didn't feel entitled to judge. He took the weapon down, grunted upon discovering that it was battery operated and devoid of those necessary articles, and decided he might as well take it with him anyway. It could still come in useful.
 
There was another door at the opposite end of the kitchen. Telemachus headed towards it, resolving to continue his search for evil by learning what was on the other side. He was three strides away from the portal when it flew open.
 
"All germs in the dining room have been destroyed. It is now cleansed. I-"
 
The voice was sultry and feminine. So was the speaker, who occupied the doorway in a state of dress that might charitably be deemed risqué, and less charitably be called indecent (perhaps with the word 'exposure' appended, if one were feeling particularly ungenerous). The outfit in question had the distinct air of the hospital about it, albeit expertly blended with that of the strip club. Telemachus realized that it was a close approximation of a nurse's uniform, albeit a thrifty version which had no doubt saved money by only employing half the usual material. The voluptuous body it adorned didn't so much fill it out as push it to the limits of tensile strength. Furthermore, that body was made of metal.
 
"New life form detected!" the robot woman said. "Engaging disinfection mode!"
 
"What... Hey!"
 
Each of the android's hands drew a bottle of cleaning product from some inner recess with the speed and precision of a master gunfighter. She fired them just as fast. Telemachus spluttered and clamped his mouth shut as their lemon-scented spray washed over him. A potent blast of the stuff ignited his tongue, as though a citric bomb had detonated there. After a few seconds, enough time for the robot to douse him head to toe on all sides, she gave a contented sigh.
 
"Cleansing operation completed. The new life form has been disinfected externally. Considering the possibility of internal disinfection. Negative. The subject is organic. Internal bacteria and other uncleanliness must unfortunately be tolerated."
 
"What the hell!" the boy exclaimed. "You just-"
 
"Further scans indicate that the life form is a human male. Consulting archived protocols. Appropriate response detected. Initiating ravishment mode."
 
"Huh?"
 
"Come here, my love!"
 
She advanced on him, arms outstretched. Her metal breasts undulated in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic fashion -- producing a faint whirring noise. Telemachus backpedaled.
 
"Wait! Stop!"
 
"Subject expresses a lack of consent. Databanks indicate that this implies the affirmative, coupled with a desire for mild to moderate sensual violence."
 
"You crazy metal bitch!"
 
"Subject enjoys foul language. Subject is a dirty little boy."
 
"Get back!" He brandished his chainsaw. "Get back or I'll... I'll..."
 
'Scratch you a bit' seemed inadequate, so he let the threat hang in the air. When the robot continued to advance and undulate, he started swinging. Batteries or not, it was better than nothing...
 
His first blow clanged and scraped against a metal bosom without causing any damage.
 
"Subject expresses a preference for sadomasochism. Violence settings increased."
 
Telemachus made another wild, desperate swing as he leapt backwards. It missed the robot. Instead it smashed a vase on the worktop, sending water splashing across the granite and onto the floor.
 
The robot halted.
 
"Standing water detected. Potential for the breeding of germs. Disinfection mode activated."
 
She pivoted on her heels, drew her sprays, and bombarded the offending liquid with its antibacterial cousin.
 
"Disinfection completed. Returning to ravishment mode."
 
She pivoted once more, and continued her amorous advance.
 
Something large and white appeared in the corner of Telemachus' vision as he backed away. The fridge... It was worth a try.
 
He lunged towards it, threw the door open, shoved the chainsaw inside, and swung the weapon. Cheese, chicken wings, jars of indiscernible condiments, and numerous other foodstuffs cascaded across the room, smearing and shattering on the floor.
 
"Food products! Bacteria! Potential for germs and odors: catastrophic! Initiating emergency disinfection mode!"
 
This time she reached over her shoulder with her right hand. There was a series of hissing, clicking noises. Then her arm returned -- clutching an enormous shotgun-like spraying device. She whirled towards the nearest offending article, leveled the weapon, and commenced blasting.
 
Telemachus slipped back into the hallway, closed the door behind him, and breathed a sigh of relief.
 
He glanced at the other doors. Perhaps he'd try the stairs instead this time...
 
----
 
Talia flicked through the holo-vid menu. She stopped when one particular title caught her eye. Mega Chainsaw Slaughter II: Brains on the Chains. She glanced at the information blurb, and discovered with minimal surprise that it was one of the prince's home movies -- filmed during battle via his mech's cameras. Kids these days... The gunslinger kept browsing.
 
Carnage gave way to comedy, after a long selection of vids in which the two seemed to blend together. Then she came to his cartoon collection. From the looks of their cover images, many of them were inclusive of the previous two categories. But she found others as well, which might be more suitable for playing in front of the present audience.
 
Talia picked up a projection device, set it down near the foot of the prince's bed where she'd placed the Twisted Steel one earlier, and pressed the play button. An anime movie about bright, colorful, robot death machines came into existence.
 
Bermund Pelar smiled at her. It somehow seemed appropriate. It was very... Telemachus.
 
----
 
"Oh..." Telemachus said.
 
"Who're you then?"
 
"I'm... Well... I'm..."
 
"What? Don't know your own name? Bloody stupid, that is."
 
"You're a tentacle! A talking tentacle!"
 
"Oh, my mistake. You're not stupid. You're a regular genius. It must be nice, being able to spot the bloody obvious so you can tell everyone else about it. I mean, if you hadn't come along I'd never have known that I was a tentacle. Or that I could talk. Idiot."
 
Telemachus felt the weight of the chainsaw in his hands. But he still hadn't found any batteries, so carving the disagreeable creature into quivering chunks was out of the question. Instead he groped for a suitable verbal riposte.
 
Upon ascending the staircase, he'd arrived in the upper hallway. He'd expected this, due to the customs and traditions of architecture. But he hadn't expected the hall's occupant, who vied with the kitchen's mysophobic, nymphomaniac, robotic nurse for bizarreness. That occupant was, as he had astutely but perhaps superfluously declared, a tentacle. A blue, walking, talking tentacle with one eye set at its upper end -- beneath an expressive eyebrow -- and two rows of large suckers along the rest of its front. It also had little arms sticking out of its sides, along with other appendages which Telemachus might have referred to as tentacles were it not for the dubiousness of speaking of a tentacle with tentacles.
 
"You're a jerk," the boy said at last.
 
"Ooh, I'm wounded! Help me someone!" He placed one of his arms against his brow. "I fear I might perish from such a cutting barb."
 
"Well, at least get out of my way."
 
"No!"
 
The boy stepped to the left. The tentacle moved to block him. The boy stepped to his right. Again the tentacle half-shuffled, half-bounded in front.
 
"You know, I could just beat you up!"
 
"Ever tried to beat up a bloody tentacle, mate? It's not as easy as you'd think. Not that I imagine you do much thinking."
 
"I want to get past!"
 
"Oh, you do, do you? We all want things, sunshine. But we don't always get what we want. I wanted to be an actor. And I would have been great at it too." He cleared his throat. "If not, I'll use the advantage of my power and lay the summer's dust with showers of blood rain'd from the wounds of slaughter'd Englishmen!"
 
"You're pretty good."
 
"Pretty good? I'm bloody marvelous! But my talent's doomed to go to waste. I've called every agent in the country... None of them want a tentacle as a client! And God knows what the professor's going to do when she sees the phone bill..."
 
"Well, I'd like to help you, but..." He paused. A notion popped into his mind. "Hey, have you thought about acting in Japan?"
 
"Japan? I heard they chop up tentacles there and eat them!"
 
"Maybe... But I've heard they put others in hentai."
 
"Hentai?"
 
"They're special movies, with schoolgirls and tentacles."
 
"Schoolgirls? Ah, I would like to work with young, impressionable actors -- and give them the benefit of my thespian excellence! What did you say they were called? Hentai?"
 
"Yeah."
 
"Then I'm off to learn more about them! Thanks, kid!"
 
The tentacle bounded away down the stairs. Telemachus shrugged, and continued to explore. This time, when he pushed a door open and stepped inside the room beyond, he was ready for any manner of strangeness.
 
But he found himself in a disappointingly ordinary bedroom. Perhaps slightly too pink for his tastes, but still ordinary.
 
"Can I help you?"
 
The girl who sat on the bed, her back against the headboard, also seemed...
 
"You're normal."
 
"Thanks... I think."
 
"Everyone else in this place is crazy!"
 
"Tell me about it..."
 
"I met this robot woman who... She wanted to... I mean..."
 
The girl sighed.
 
"That's Nurse Ratchet. My dad had her built. He was a pervert. Now he's dead. Yay!"
 
"And there was a talking tentacle..."
 
"Blue? He's harmless."
 
"But you're normal!"
 
"Well, not quite..."
 
She leaned forward. Six metal appendages rose from behind her like snakes, shifting and swaying in the air above. Each ended with a little snapping mouth.
 
"I do have these. My mother made me get them."
 
"Still normal, compared to the others."
 
"I suppose. Who are you, anyway?"
 
"Telemachus."
 
"And what're you doing here? I mean, it's nice to talk to someone that isn't insane for a change, but why would anyone want to come to this lunatic asylum?"
 
"I'm looking for Professor Squiller."
 
"Oh, my mom." The girl sighed. "Another minion come to work for her, I guess?"
 
"Er... Actually... If she's done what I think she's done, I'm going to kill her."
 
The girl smiled.
 
"Really?"
 
"Yeah."
 
"Great!"
 
"But first I need to get some information out of her."
 
"She's a supervillain! Just look at her the right way and she'll blurt out her evil plan. Then you can kill her. I'm Samantha, by the way."
 
"Oh... Okay. But I'll need some batteries for this thing." He brandished the chainsaw.
 
The girl slid open a drawer in her bedside table, rummaged around inside, and pulled out a hand clutching a couple of big, fat, black and gold cylinders.
 
"Try these."
 
Telemachus popped open the chainsaw's battery compartment, dropped them inside, closed the flap, and pressed the button. The blade came to life with a shriek of metal that gave way to a whirr.
 
"Come on," Samantha said. "I'll take you to her."
 
The younger Squiller led Telemachus along corridor after corridor, through a thick steel security door, and down a couple of hidden passages. When the odyssey ended, it had brought them to a secret underground laboratory -- at least according to the sign on the door. And from the strange machinery lying around the place, combined with the lack of any windows, those advertised designations seemed accurate. Moreover, it was tenanted by the woman he'd been searching for. Professor Sarah Squiller.
 
The family resemblance was obvious. She and Samantha both possessed the same distinctive nose and cheekbones. They shared the same black hair, though the professor's was cut much shorter. Their jumpsuits might have been -- and probably were -- purchased at the same store. And the sextet of mechanical tentacles that emerged from each of their backs was something of a giveaway. Nevertheless, the boy felt obliged to make sure.
 
"Professor Squiller?"
 
"No," the woman replied.
 
"Oh..."
 
"Sarah Squiller is no more. Now there's only... Professor Squid! Muahahahahaha!"
 
"Ah. So does that mean 'yes'?"
 
"Yes," Samantha said. She rolled her eyes. "Mom, this kid here wants to know about your secret evil plans."
 
"Foolish child! Do you think I'd reveal my-"
 
"See, I told you she was too stupid to be part of an evil scheme. She's always been a loser."
 
"You little brat! For your information, I'm working for Colonel Ironside -- one of the most powerful differently abled criminals in the world! I ordered King Mega to unleash Grislak, so the stupid ape could distract Telemachus while Ironside put his plan into action. He's going to take over Murder City!"
 
"No way!" Telemachus exclaimed. "The mayor there's an ex-street-fighter. He won't give in to Ironside!"
 
"Oh, he will... If he ever wants to see his beloved Jess again! Muahaha-"
 
"There, you've heard her stupid scheme," Samantha said. "Can you kill her now?"
 
"Sure."
 
"Great. I'll help."
 
"Muahahahahaha..." Professor Squid stopped laughing and frowned. "Wait, what?"
 
"This is for running all my birthday parties!"
 
Samantha's tentacles pushed off against the floor, launching her into the air -- straight at the professor.
 
"What kind of mother serves poisoned cake to children?" she added.
 
"An evil one!"
 
The two Squillers collided. Six pairs of mechanical tentacles thrashed and clawed, creating a great tangle. It was like watching a dish of cybernetic noodles trying to eat itself.
 
"Ungrateful brat!"
 
"Delusional bitch! You're not even a real professor! You cheated in the exam by writing all the answers on your tentacles!"
 
Their human arms joined the fray, scratching at each other's faces and tugging at one another's hair.
 
Telemachus decided that he should put a stop to it. So he pressed the battery-operated chainsaw's button. It came to life as he ran into the fray.
 
"Now, Telemachus!" Samantha called. "Now!"
 
She twisted aside, pulling her mother's tentacles away with her own -- exposing the professor's torso.
 
The chainsaw flashed and whirred. Her costume and flesh opened. Ropes of intestines poured out.
 
"Told you... I was... evil... villain!" she moaned. "Only... evil... villain... deaths... have... so... many... ellipses..."
 
She took a step, slipped in her own guts, and fell with a thud.
 
"She's dead!" Samantha punched the air with all eight of her arms. "She's dead! She's really dead! Hey, there's a whole bunch of other people I'd really love to kill. Think you could help me?"
 
"Sorry," Telemachus replied. "I need to get to Murder City!"

LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Count of Monte Fisto

2012-10-18T16:48:48Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Count of Monte Fisto''' Count of Monte Fisto "Hey, are you Glass Rautha?" Telemachus asked. "Who's..."

'''Count of Monte Fisto''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z12_a1_q2.jpg|none|Count of Monte Fisto]]
"Hey, are you Glass Rautha?" Telemachus asked.
 
"Who's asking?" the boxer replied. He looked the boy up and down with a sneer.
 
"I am."
 
"Yeah, I'm Rautha. But after tonight no one's going to be calling me 'Glass'. I'll be Iron Rautha... Steel Rautha... Diamond Rautha!" He raised his gloved fists in the air, stared up at the heavens -- or at least the damp, stained ceiling of the jobber's dressing room -- and closed his eyes. "I can already hear them chanting. Die-mond Row-tha! Die-mond Row-tha!"
 
"That's great... But I need to-"
 
"Die-mond Row-tha! Die-mond Row-tha!" The boxer opened his eyes, frowned, lowered his arms, and looked down at Telemachus. "What're you doing in here anyway? You're not on tonight's fight card."
 
"Not yet... But I want to be. Step down, and let me fight King Mega instead."
 
"What? You want me to give up my big break, my chance at the big time, my one shot at-"
 
Telemachus didn't have time for this. He sprang up and nailed Rautha with a right cross on the tip of his prominent chin. The glass-jawed boxer hit the ground before the boy landed.
 
The door to the locker room opened. Telemachus turned towards the newcomer, fist clenched and ready to mete out more of the same. But it wasn't another boxer. It was the portly referee who stood there in his black slacks, white shirt, and bright red cap. Telemachus was no veteran of the squared circle, but even he knew that beating up the referee would be inadvisable.
 
"Mamma mia!" the ref exclaimed. "What-a happened to Rautha?"
 
"He..." Telemachus began. "He knocked himself out shaving!"
 
The referee sighed and stroked the end of his prodigious moustache.
 
"Again? Madonna! But he's a-supposed to be fighting King Mega tonight! And who do you think the promoters are a-going to blame-a? It's a-me! Minchia!"
 
"Hey, why don't I just take his place?"
 
"You? You're just a bambino! King Mega will-a kill you!"
 
"Hey, yesterday I saved the president from ninja. This morning I killed a big monkey monster. I think I can handle a boxing match."
 
The referee shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands in the air.
 
"Madonna! You want-a to get-a yourself killed? You be-a my guest!"
 
----
 
"How long have you known the prince?" Arla asked.
 
"It feels like forever," Talia said.
 
They were milling around a corner of Telemachus' bedroom, running idle hands and eyes over some of the inexhaustible supply of knickknacks which seemed to fill the chamber and turn it into a cross between a museum and a scrapyard. Their places at the prince's bedside had been usurped by the latest psionic healers to arrive and lend their minds.
 
"Has he really killed people?"
 
"One or two..."
 
The girl glanced into the gunslinger's eyes.
 
"Okay, maybe it was one or two thousand," Talia amended. "It's hard to keep track. Things happen pretty fast when you're fighting."
 
"That's... terrible."
 
"They all deserved it though."
 
Arla frowned. Talia decided to change the subject.
 
"Hey, check this out!"
 
She picked up a small disc that was nestled between stacks of assorted toy robots, set it down on the floor, and pressed a button on its side. A large holographic screen popped into being -- taller than either of the two women, and twice as wide as it was tall. Its expanse was dominated by the near life-size images of two people in battlesuits punching each other. Behind the bellicose pair, thousands of spectators were screaming their approval or lack thereof.
 
"This is from when the captain was in Twisted Steel. Tel loved watching him fight."
 
"The captain?"
 
"Willy. You know, the Jian. Back on the Child of Heaven, we had a whole bunch of captains. But when we said 'the captain', everyone knew who we meant. That's how great he is."
 
"We should take this over to the prince."
 
"Reckon it might do some good?"
 
"Yes, if it reminds him of happy times and good friends."
 
----
 
"Phage drek, chummer!"
 
King Mega yelled out the serving suggestion. But in the absence of any available 'drek', he fed Telemachus his fist instead. It proved an unenjoyable repast.
 
The boy flew across the ring and slammed spine-first into the turnbuckle. He slumped against the corner, his arms stretched out on either side -- draped across the ropes like he was being crucified. And from the way his face felt, his groggy mind doubted crucifixion would hurt any more. His dazed vision roamed across the ring, searching for the chunks of brain matter he was sure had been knocked out of his skull.
 
"Go on, scav! You phobed? Baino over here and get wrecked!"
 
King Mega beckoned him over with both fists.
 
Telemachus pulled his arms off the ropes, took a step out of the corner, and fell on his butt. The podgy referee bustled over like a waiter preparing to serve his last meal.
 
"A-one! A-two! A-three!"
 
The boy flopped over and dragged himself towards the ropes -- those dear sweet friends he had been a fool to abandon.
 
"A-four! A-five!"
 
He grabbed hold of them and tried pulling himself up. His legs were like rubber underneath him.
 
"A-six! A-seven!"
 
But somehow he made it to his feet. The count stopped. And the beating continued.
 
King Mega's fists knocked his feeble guard aside and thundered against his ribs, his skull, his brain. His whole body shook with every impact. His spine had just burst out and landed in the crowd... He was sure of it.
 
"Call this a rumble?" King Mega asked. "Kauf tickets for this drek? Find me someone with proper fighting meat on their bones!"
 
A sweeping left hook battered Telemachus' head. He felt something under his back. There was blackness in front of him. Blackness and distant lights. Distant, twinkling lights.
 
"A-one!"
 
It was peaceful here.
 
"A-two!"
 
A good place to rest.
 
"A-three!"
 
To sleep.
 
"A-four!"
 
Yes... Sleep.
 
"A-five!"
 
Sleep forever.
 
"A-six!"
 
"Tel!" The voice... a man's voice... drifted in front of him like a black bird. No... A dancing dragon.
 
"A-seven!"
 
"Tel! Get up!"
 
"Eight!"
 
"Are you going to let this fat sack of crap beat you?"
 
The darkness parted. The lights blazed above him.
 
"A-nine!"
 
The universe shifted around him, reality tumbling and turning like it'd taken a big hook of its own. When it righted itself, he was on his feet. And no one was counting.
 
Telemachus raised his guard. He wasn't done. Not yet. Not ever.
 
Across the ring, King Mega lowered his arms. His eyes widened. The boy was up... That kind of beating, and the boy was up.
 
The bell rang. And they both breathed a sigh of relief.
 
Telemachus staggered over to his corner and dropped onto the stool. A face appeared next to his, between the ropes.
 
"You can win this, Tel."
 
"Willy? What're you doing here?"
 
"Saving your butt, as usual."
 
"He hurt me bad, Willy."
 
"You're still alive, aren't you?"
 
"I think so..."
 
"Then he hasn't hurt you enough to win. The next round. Just one round, and the fight's yours. One more round."
 
"Think it's going to take more than that..."
 
"No. Not if you fight smart. Think, Tel. Think. Look how much he loves to open that big mouth of his. He leaves himself open. When he does that, pop him there. Then work the body. He's got big muscles on his arms, but I bet that flabby gut of his is weak."
 
"Okay! I'll do it!"
 
The bell rang. The boy got to his feet.
 
"Tel! Don't forget the most important thing..."
 
"What's that?" he asked, turning back.
 
"I believe in you."
 
Telemachus looked across the ring at King Mega.
 
"You're about to get rumpled, scav! I'll knock the noosing meat right out of you!"
 
"Keep talking," the boy murmured, as he stepped forward to meet him.
 
Some of King Mega's punches missed. Telemachus was focused now. He dodged and weaved, letting them slip by his small body. Others hit him hard. But this time he took them without so much as flinching. Pain didn't matter. Broken ribs didn't matter. Only the right moment mattered. He didn't launch any punches of his own. Let King Mega think he had nothing left to throw at him. Let him get cocky. All that mattered was the opening. And there it was...
 
"Time to get rumpled, chummer!" The burly boxer raised one arm in the air.
 
Telemachus struck. Blood and teeth rained on the canvas.
 
"Should have worn a mouthguard, 'chummer'," the boy said.
 
King Mega groaned. His gloves rose to his injured maw. His flabby gut was wide open... So the boy punched. His little arms moved like pistons, throwing out a flurry of powerful blows. Each one thudded into soft flesh, pounding it like they were trying to tenderize a great slab of meat.
 
The fat boxer reeled. He staggered backwards with each fresh blow. It was time to finish him...
 
"I believe in you."
 
Telemachus' fists glowed.
 
"Kasan!"
 
He punched, a tremendous uppercut straight to the abused abdomen. King Mega's guts exploded.
 
Pixelated blood, gore, and excrement spewed out in all directions. King Mega looked down.
 
"Drek!" he groaned.
 
Then he fell.
 
"Tell me why you unleashed Grislak!" Telemachus said, gazing down at his dying foe. "Tell me!"
 
"Wreck off..."
 
The boy stomped down in the middle of King Mega's churned up guts. The boxer screamed.
 
"Professor Squiller! She told me to! Professor Squiller!"
 
Telemachus walked towards the ropes. Behind him the referee scurried over to the dying pugilist.
 
"A-one! A-two..."
 
Telemachus stepped between the ropes, walked down the stairs, and headed up the aisle. Professor Squiller, he mused. Interesting...

LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Monkey Business

2012-10-18T16:48:21Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Monkey Business''' Monkey Business "What happened?" Talia asked. "Wu said it was an assassination attempt."..."

'''Monkey Business''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z12_a1_q1.jpg|none|Monkey Business]]
"What happened?" Talia asked. "Wu said it was an assassination attempt."
 
"Yesterday the prince met with Moto Zair, a representative of Envision Armaments," Bermund Pelar replied. "During King Salastro's reign, Envision supplied most of our planetary defense force's weaponry. She wanted to renew those agreements with the prince. But..."
 
"No," Telemachus said.
 
"But Your Highness," Zair replied, "your father was always satisfied with our products."
 
"That was before your weapons killed him!"
 
Moto Zair coughed. Her beautiful face reddened, making her seem young and shocked. Innocent and aghast at the accusation. But the seneschal had done his research. The woman was twice as old as she appeared, and she hadn't become an executive at Envision by being sweet and naive. Perhaps her employers thought Zair's synthetic youth and beauty would win over Gallea's young ruler...
 
"It's true that we sold weaponry to the Centurian Collective, among many other human and alien powers. But I promise you, we wouldn't have dealt with them if we'd known they intended to carry out an unjustified and barbaric attack on Gallea. King Salastro wasn't just a client to us, he was a dear and respected friend. His tragic death was-"
 
"You kept selling to them afterwards!"
 
"We had to honor our contracts, or the UHW would have-"
 
"Your. Weapons. Killed. My. Father. I won't have them on Gallea!"
 
"That's... unfortunate, Your Highness." Zair sighed. "But my superiors believe that the contracts your father signed with us are still valid in spite of the period of... interruption... caused by the occupation. If Gallea refuses to uphold its end of the arrangement, they may take the matter before the UHW."
 
"Get out."
 
"I-"
 
The prince jumped to his feet.
 
"Get out or I'll grab my chainsaw!"
 
Moto Zair stood as well.
 
"Your Highness..."
 
She stepped forward, dropped to one knee -- bringing her eyes almost level with his -- and clasped Telemachus' hand. The gesture was unexpected enough to make the prince's brow furrow, and the snarl retreat from his mouth.
 
"I'm sorry. I told my superiors that this mission was a terrible idea. And for what it's worth, I always considered your late father to be a decent and honorable man. I'll do my best to make them release Gallea from its obligations."
 
"Oh..."
 
Telemachus glanced at the seneschal, who could only shrug. He certainly hadn't anticipated any such kindness from Envision's representative.
 
"Thank you," the prince said.
 
Moto Zair held his hand for a long moment and bowed her head. She continued to hold it even as she stood, before finally releasing it, bowing again -- from the waist this time -- and leaving the chamber.
 
"We believe she infected him," Doctor Yien said, "with some kind of engineered psionic ailment."
 
"Did you catch her?" Talia asked.
 
There was a calm coldness in her voice that made the Bermund Pelar shiver. If Moto Zair had been in a cell, he knew that nothing could have saved her from dying there with a pistol wound in her face. The mental image didn't displease him. But the seneschal sighed.
 
"It was almost a full day before the prince fell ill," he said. "She'd left Gallea long before then."
 
"That incubation time was meant to be the perfect alibi," Doctor Yien said. "If Arla hadn't detected the psionic aspect, we mightn't have known his illness was inflicted."
 
"You're sure it was Zair?" Talia asked.
 
"I contacted her, and told her the prince had reconsidered," the seneschal said. "I invited her back to Gallea for fresh talks. She told me she was in negotiations with the Novocastrian government, and couldn't leave their space until they were concluded. But Prime Minister Wu spoke with Lady Hollister. Moto Zair lied."
 
"Then when Tel's better, the two of us will hunt her down. He can bring his chainsaw."
 
The gunslinger tightened her grasp on the boy's hand and leaned towards him, bringing her lips close to his ear.
 
"Hear that, Tel? Wake up, so we can hack that bitch to pieces."
 
----
 
"Talia..." the boy murmured.
 
"Talia..." a voice echoed.
 
"Talia?"
 
Telemachus opened his eyes. The first thing that met his gaze was the framed picture on his bedside table. He and Ronald Reagan were standing side by side, cramming greasy wedges of battered pizza into their mouths. Good times...
 
"That's right, Talia!" the voice said.
 
The TV... Telemachus sat up.
 
A pixelated news anchor with a blocky blue suit and equally blocky blond hair was on the screen. Yes... The boy remembered. He'd been watching one of the 8-bit news channels when he fell asleep.
 
"Talia has been abducted!" the anchor continued.
 
"What!?!" Telemachus threw the blankets aside and jumped out of bed.
 
"You heard me! Talia has been abducted. Pay attention, kid. Now, in other news, authorities have reported a massive increase in fatal traffic accidents involving oversized frogs..."
 
The boy ran towards the TV, reached into the screen, grabbed the anchor by his poorly rendered lapels, and pulled him close -- until they were nose to nose.
 
"Tell me what happened to Talia!"
 
"Okay! Okay! Geez..."
 
Telemachus let go of his jacket. The anchor collapsed back into his chair.
 
"Talia has been abducted by Grislak, a blue gorilla-like monster," the newsman said.
 
An image appeared to the upper right of his head, showing the creature in question and confirming his status as being both blue and gorilla-like.
 
"Grislak was an attraction at the local zoo, until this morning -- when he inexplicably broke out of his cage and rampaged through the city. Fortunately this rampage was largely limited to 8-bit neighborhoods, so the damage isn't-"
 
"Get to the part about Talia!"
 
"All right! All right! Grislak smashed through her apartment building, grabbed her, and took her to a local construction site."
 
The anchor disappeared, replaced by animated footage of the blue ape. Grislak was standing on the shell of a partially constructed building, a framework of haphazard girders. Talia was next to him, looking as vexed as the area's 8-bit ambiance permitted.
 
"Police officers tried to apprehend him," the invisible anchor said, "but Grislak seems to have found an inexhaustible supply of barrels -- which he's prepared to use as weapons."
 
On cue, three pixelated cops appeared in the bottom corner of the screen and ran along the lowest girder. It was angled to create a convenient ramp, either by design or as the result of shoddy construction. But as the officers of the law made their way across it, the ape started throwing barrels. Each missile hit the uppermost of the sloping girders, then proceeded to roll down its angled length. When it reached the end, it fell onto the next girder -- which was angled in the opposite direction -- and continued rolling. It occurred to Telemachus that Grislak might have arranged this himself. If so, he was quite the engineer... At least as far as apes went.
 
The cops ran one way, using the slanting girders to ascend the structure like bold defenders of law and order. But the barrels were coming down the other way. When they met, something had to give...
 
"Here we see the police officers' tragic demise!"
 
One of the barrels ploughed through the cops, smashing each of them in turn before rolling off -- leaving the poor souls spinning in a circle before the momentum ebbed and they finally collapsed dead on the girder.
 
"Who can stop this monster?" the anchor asked.
 
"I can," Telemachus replied. "I can."
 
----
 
"He's strong," Arla said. "His mind, I mean."
 
"He's a tough kid," Talia replied. "I guess they breed you that way on Gallea."
 
The girl smiled. Its brightness only accentuated the weariness etched into her young face. Red lines crawled across the whites of her eyes, and dark patches tainted the fair skin beneath -- making her look like a tired little panda. She was on her feet, stretching legs that had been bent for too long, leaning against Bermund for support.
 
"He's a gamer," Norux said.
 
The Snuuth nodded towards a holo-poster on a nearby wall. It depicted a wizard hurling a fireball at a plate of roast chicken, perhaps to indicate his disdain for poultry.
 
"They always have strong minds," he continued. "Playing so many games changes the way they think. They get used to fighting against any situation, no matter how strange and ridiculous it is. That's why they don't get as many nightmares."
 
"If that's true," Talia replied, "this psionic illness thing doesn't stand a chance against Tel."
 
The Snuuth smiled and took his seat -- an especially wide one which had been brought to the room to accommodate the sizable dimensions of his posterior. He was the second psionic healer to arrive at Wu Tenchu's behest. The first, a Piscarian female whose clothing seemed to consist entirely of imitation seashells, was already entranced. Her eyes were closed, like Arla's had been. And like her young human counterpart, she now held one of Telemachus' hands. She'd relieved the girl, allowing her a welcome respite. Soon Norux would join her, then the others who were making their way to Gallea and its palace. Together they might be able to do what Arla alone could not...
 
"Does the boy have a pet?" the Snuuth asked. "A dog, perhaps? Its presence, the feel of its fur, might help him."
 
"No," the seneschal said.
 
"Not unless you count his mech," Talia added. "And I don't think we want to stick that on his bed."
 
"How about a teddy bear?" the Snuuth suggested. "Or another favorite childhood toy? Anything which evokes strong, happy emotions could aid us."
 
The gunslinger looked up at Pelar.
 
"How about-" she began.
 
He nodded.
 
"I'll go get it," he said.
 
----
 
Telemachus craned his neck and stared up at Grislak. The blue-haired beast was just standing there, alternately scratching himself and halfheartedly beating his chest.
 
"Hey, monkey!" the boy yelled.
 
The creature stopped scratching his genitals, shifted them back under a swath of pixelated fur, and glared down at him.
 
"Grislak not monkey! Grislak ape!"
 
"Whatever! Let Talia go!"
 
"No! Grislak keep girl! Grislak obey boss!"
 
"Who's your boss?"
 
"Ha! You think Grislak stupid? Grislak not tell you King Mega is boss!"
 
"You work for King Mega?"
 
"No! Stupid human! Grislak said Grislak not tell you that!"
 
"Tel!" Talia shouted. "Do something about this guy!"
 
"Why don't you just shoot him through the eye?" he yelled back.
 
"I don't have my guns!"
 
"Okay! I'll save you!"
 
"Ha!" the ape roared. "You not save girl! You get smashed instead! Smashed by Grislak's barrels!"
 
The beast's brutish hands grabbed one of those containers and brandished it above his head. Then he hurled it down at the boy. Telemachus broke into a sprint. The barrel crashed onto the ground behind him, close enough for the some of the smashed pixels to plink against the back of his head.
 
Grislak bellowed. The boy was on the angled girders now. The blue ape couldn't hit him from here. Not with a direct shot, anyway...
 
As Telemachus ran up the sloping metal, he heard the rumbling high overhead. The barrels were rolling. But still the boy kept on running, up one girder and then along the next. He couldn't leave Talia in the monster's clutches.
 
On the next girder he saw them, revolving towards him. A barrage of barrels, too many and too close together for him to jump over...
 
----
 
"Here it is!" Pelar said.
 
"What's that?" Norux asked. He stared at the object in the seneschal's arms.
 
"It's a laser-edged chainsaw," Talia replied.
 
"Oh..."
 
Bermund Pelar laid it on the bed beside the unconscious prince, and placed the boy's hand on top of it.
 
----
 
Telemachus' eyes lit up. There, suspended above him...
 
He jumped up and snatched it from the air. It fell into his grasp with a satisfying chime. He didn't know where it had come from. Perhaps one of the construction workers left it there, though he had no idea what a builder might have wanted with one of these things. That didn't matter though. What mattered was that it was his now...
 
The boy pressed the button. The laser-edged chainsaw whirred to life in his hands.
 
The barrels rolled towards him. He laughed and ran at them. Pixelated wood chips rained through the air. Big chunks of barrel fell this way and that.
 
He ran up the girder, swinging and thrusting with his newfound weapon -- obliterating barrel after barrel, laughing with the thrill of destruction. The ape must have heard him, because he gave a confused bellow before throwing down more barrels. They were chainsawed to bits just like the others.
 
Telemachus strode up the last sloping girder, onto the horizontal one that Grislak must have left undamaged to serve as his platform.
 
"Tel!" Talia cried. She was on a smaller girder-platform above.
 
And there ahead of the boy was the massive ape.
 
"Time to die, monkey!" he yelled. Then he ran towards his blue foe, swinging his chainsaw.
 
"Grislak not monkey!" the ape howled. "Grislak... Aaaaarrrrgggghhh!"
 
The blue beast clutched his injured hand. Even his mighty jungle flesh was no match for a laser. Or a chainsaw. Let alone the two combined into one weapon of considerable homicidal might.
 
"No fair! Human has sharp stick!"
 
"It's a chainsaw, you idiot!"
 
"Grislak not... Aaaaarrrrgggghhh!"
 
A slashing wound across his broad chest was enough for the ape. He turned and ran. He wasn't very fast.
 
"Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!"
 
Some heroes might have allowed the ape to flee, slink away to his nefarious lair (in this case his cage at the zoo, nefarious or otherwise), lick his wounds, and plot his revenge. But Telemachus wasn't one of them. Thus he drove his chainsaw at the routed ape's butt.
 
Grislak leapt at least a dozen feet in the air. Then gravity decided to put him out of his misery by grabbing him and slamming him onto the hard, unforgiving ground below. A pool of blood and splattered 8-bit organs gushed out of his blue body. It was game over for the ape.
 
"Nice job, Tel," Talia said. The gunslinger dropped down and landed beside him.
 
"Thanks. But it isn't over yet. You heard what he said -- King Mega was behind it."
 
"The boxer?"
 
"I guess so. I'm going to find him and beat the truth out of him."
 
"You're in luck. He's fighting at the Genyo Arena tonight..."

LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Zone Intro

2012-10-18T16:47:39Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Zone Intro''' "Get lost, kid!" the man in blue said. He jabbed his index finger into the boy's chest. "Yeah!" his black-garbed associate ..."

'''Zone Intro''' 
"Get lost, kid!" the man in blue said. He jabbed his index finger into the boy's chest.
 
"Yeah!" his black-garbed associate added. "This is private property!"
 
"Oh?" the boy replied. He glanced at the sealed doorway behind them. "And what kind of property is it?"
 
"It's a secret ninj-"
 
"Pet store!" the blue one interjected. "A secret pet store!"
 
"It sounded like he was about to say nin-" the boy began.
 
"Nine-banded armadillo! That's right! We're a pet store that sells nine-banded armadillos."
 
"Can I buy one?"
 
"No. We told you -- it's a private pet store. Go away."
 
"Fine. But I want to know something first..."
 
"Yeah?"
 
"If you guys work in a pet store, why are you both wearing ninja costumes?"
 
Their eyes narrowed within the slits of their masks.
 
"Kid..." the black ninja snarled, "I'm going to give you one more chance to get lost. If you don't, I'll throw a shuriken at you!"
 
"Oh, sure..." The blue one sighed. "You always have to rub it in..."
 
"Hey, it's not my fault you failed the shuriken safety course and got stuck wearing that stupid blue uniform. Yeah, bright blue -- real stealthy!"
 
"Shut up!"
 
The two ninja glared at one another, until the boy's voice drew their eyes back to him.
 
"A man asked me a question this morning. I think he was a Secret Service agent or something, because he had sunglasses on."
 
"Makes sense." The blue ninja nodded.
 
"He asked me if I was a bad enough dude to save the president. You know what I said?"
 
"What?"
 
"I said yes."
 
The ninja tried to move out of the way. They weren't fast enough. When the boy leapt towards them, stuck one of his short legs out, and span around in the air -- swinging the extended limb like a helicopter's blade, they each took its full force to the jaw.
 
Telemachus landed, looked down at their sprawling blue and black bodies, and grunted.
 
"Ninja... Such losers. Most of them go down with one hit."
 
He stepped over them and pushed the door open, revealing a metal-paneled corridor... And a host of blue, black, and red ninja.
 
"I'm bad!" he yelled. He punched a boyish fist up into the air, as though beating that sentiment into the universe.
 
Then he charged towards the oncoming ninja. The president had to be in there somewhere, and Telemachus was going to save him!
 
----
 
"Where is he?"
 
"Ma'am, the palace is closed. If you had an appointment here, you'll have to-"
 
"Where's Telemachus? I need to see him!"
 
"His Highness Prince Telemachus," the guardsman said, emphasizing the title, "doesn't see uninvited visitors. You-"
 
"Cut the crap! I know he's hurt bad. Take me to him. Now."
 
"Ma'am, I don't know where you heard that, but the prince is perfectly-"
 
"I'm going to count to five. Then if you're still in my way, I'll shoot your legs out from under you. And the same goes for your friends there. One."
 
Bermund Pelar, the seneschal of Gallea's royal palace, heard the exchange as he came down the broad marble staircase. And though his years and manner of living had left him with a pleasantly plump physique to which athletic exertion was anathema, the desperate anger in the woman's voice caused him to run. He descended the remaining stairs with near-disastrous haste -- only avoiding a perhaps bone-cracking tumble thanks to a fortunate clutch at the bannister -- and dashed across the great hallway.
 
The scene at the doors justified his dangerous and unseemly swiftness.
 
Five guards stood in a row, their weapons raised -- like the firing squad at an execution, poised and awaiting the signal that would bring death. Five long barrels were trained on the woman standing at the entrance. As for her... Pelar's eyes fastened on the woman for what seemed like an age. There was something indescribably captivating about her as she stood there.
 
She wore a black jumpsuit, unzipped almost to the waist -- disclosing a top the color of pure snow beneath. That white within blackness, the ebon hue surrounded in turn by the brilliance of the sunlight that framed her in the doorway, made the tableau into a sumptuous painting. Even the pistols in her hands, steady and unshaking, only enhanced the artistry it evoked in the seneschal's mind. It had been years since he'd picked up a brush. Yet now, in spite of the gravity of the situation and the terrible events of which it was but the latest episode, part of him yearned to paint her. That conviction, absurd but insistent, became even more powerful when he dwelled on her face and the emotions which flowed and froze across it. Anger and determination were there, the warrior's unflinching willingness to bring destruction upon those who stood against her. But both were tempered by sorrow, anguish, frantic worry. Tears glimmered in the corners of her eyes, transforming her into a wrathful and mournful heroine, a goddess of war and sadness. It was a face worthy of a masterpiece, one that deserved to be immortalized.
 
Her eyes shifted, focusing on Pelar and meeting his -- assessing the new arrival and perhaps marking the seneschal as another target for her guns to deal with. The force of her gaze pierced his artistic reverie.
 
"You're Talia Ryx," Bermund Pelar said.
 
"Yes."
 
"I've seen pictures of the two of you together." He stepped forward and placed his hand on a guardsman's shoulder. "Stand down, sergeant. She's one of the prince's closest friends. I'll take her to see him."
 
The five rifles were lowered. Talia's pistols slipped back into their holsters. There was sympathy on the guardsmen's faces now, replacing the impassive rigidness of their profession. It only seemed to heighten her anxiety.
 
"Come with me," Pelar said.
 
The gunslinger darted to him and matched his stride as he made his way back across the hall.
 
"We didn't expect any of you to arrive so soon," the seneschal said.
 
"I was already in the system. Wu Tenchu sent us here to make an appearance at a charity thing on Calypso. The Dragons, I mean."
 
Bermund Pelar nodded, though the name 'Dragons' meant nothing to him.
 
"I was going to visit Tel afterwards," she continued. "Then I got Wu's message..."
 
The seneschal gave a small, awkward cough as they began to ascend the stairs.
 
"I... I trust that you..."
 
"I didn't tell anyone," she replied.
 
"Thank you. The people of Gallea have been through so much -- the Centurian invasion, the death of their king. I didn't want to cause them further grief. Not while we..."
 
"While you don't know if he'll make it?" There was a tremor in her voice.
 
Pelar could only nod.
 
"No one outside the palace knows," he said after a long moment of silence. "Except your prime minister and the people he told. I had to reach out to Wu Tenchu for help, and he asked permission to inform the prince's dearest friends."
 
From the hall at the top of the stairs, the seneschal led her down a long corridor. When they reached the door he paused for a moment, as though bracing himself. Then he pressed the button. It slid open to reveal Telemachus' bedroom. The chamber was large, and had once been elegant. But its original ambiance, the royal splendor it had been decorated to display, had long since been buried beneath holographic posters, images of the prince's mech, pictures of his companions, racks of assorted weapons, and a number of archaic videogame systems connected to modern screens via dubious tangles of cable.
 
The sight made Talia smile. But only for a moment. Then she stepped into the room, turned, and it slipped away -- unraveled by a soft intake of breath.
 
Telemachus was on the bed, eyes closed, face expressionless. His body was still, save for the rise and fall of his bare chest and the almost imperceptible fluttering behind his eyelids. An array of machines formed a semi-circle around the upper half of the bed, bristling with a plethora of holographic screens and images. Slender tubes ran from the devices to bands around his arms and forehead, to pads on his soft, boyish chest. Some pulsed with colored light, as though drawing arcane substances from his body or else pumping them into his flesh. Others were dull and lifeless, their deeds concealed beneath segmented metal or black plastic.
 
There the Prince of Gallea lay, a cybernetic spider in the middle of an electronic web.
 
Two people shared the machines' vigil around Telemachus' bed. The first was a girl, sat cross-legged on a chair, holding his right hand with her left. She was in her early teens from the look of her. Not much older than the boy. But the sheer concentration on her face, almost painful in its intensity, made her seem much older at first glance. Her eyes were closed, like his.
 
The second was a short man in a white and red medic's uniform. He was standing in front of one of the devices, his back to Talia and Bermund Pelar, examining the three-dimensional simulacra of organs it projected.
 
"I'm Yien, the palace physician," he said, without looking round.
 
The gunslinger sat down, pulling her chair close to the bed. She reached out, paused, and glanced at the seneschal. When he nodded, she grasped the prince's left hand in both of hers. Then she looked to the physician.
 
"How bad is he, doc?" Talia asked.
 
"He's as well as I can make him." Yien sighed, and turned away from the display -- revealing gaunt and haggard features. "But that doesn't mean anything. Not when we're dealing with a psychic attack. Arla here's doing more than I can."
 
Pelar knelt beside the girl and stroked her auburn curls, moving a lock of hair away from her face. He looked at Talia and gave a faint smile.
 
"My daughter," he said. "She was off-world when the Centurians attacked, training to use her powers for healing."
 
"Arla's psionic," Yien added. "We're lucky she was in the palace. I don't know of any other psychic healers left on Gallea."
 
"Can't she wake him up?" Talia asked.
 
"She doesn't have the strength. But as best as I can tell, she's keeping him stable. Even that's more than I expected from someone her age."
 
"It's why I went to Wu Tenchu," Pelar said. "I knew that he'd be able to help us. He said you and Jian Willy helped the Sian Empire make many psychic allies during the war. Men and women we could trust. Until they arrive, we can only wait -- and hope the prince's mind is strong enough to endure."
 
----
 
"You're too late!" the Scarlet Harlot laughed. "The president is mine!"
 
The red-skinned ninja leader stood on the helicopter's landing skid as the craft rose, shunning the safety and comfort of interior seating for the pleasure of taunting her young foe as he battled her dogs below.
 
Telemachus kicked one of the snarling canines aside, punched another square on the nose, and glared up at her. He couldn't let the Scarlet Harlot escape with the president!
 
"Yeah?" he shouted. "Too bad I've killed all your ninja! How're you going to carry out your evil schemes without them?"
 
The scandalously dressed villain gestured towards the pilot's window. The helicopter stopped climbing.
 
"I'll hire new ninja!" she said. "Better ones!"
 
"Good luck with that! There are plenty of other bosses out there snapping up wannabe ninja as fast as they can throw uniforms on them. And what about all the dogs?" He emphasized the point by dodging another set of snapping jaws and punting the creature across the hangar. "You'll have to get a whole bunch of new ones, and put up with your next base stinking of dog crap until they're housetrained! Face it -- you've got the president, but you're screwed!"
 
"You little bastard!" she shouted. Her eyes flashed like daggers. "I'll teach you to mess with me!"
 
The Scarlet Harlot reached into her bodice, pulled something out, and hurled it at him. But the little object landed wide. When it exploded in a small plume of flame, it only succeeded in singeing one of the dogs -- who ran off yelping.
 
"Great bomb!" The boy laughed. "Maybe if you didn't dress like such a slut you'd be able to carry bigger ones!"
 
"Take us lower!" the Scarlet Harlot screamed, making frantic gestures at the pilot. "Take us down so I can blow him up!"
 
The helicopter descended until it was only six feet from the ground. She pulled another bomb out of her bodice and took aim. From that distance she would have been able to hit him. But she never had the chance.
 
Telemachus jumped upwards, landed in front of her on the skid, and knocked the explosive out of her hand. The bomb landed on one of the dogs. Then bits of that dog landed on the others, sending the entire pack scurrying.
 
"You bosses fall for it every time!" Telemachus said. "You guys need to learn to quit while you're ahead!"
 
"And you need to learn to die!" the Scarlet Harlot hissed.
 
She lashed out with one of her black boots, aiming for the boy's head. He parried it aside with his forearm. The red-skinned woman howled as the momentum almost sent her off the skid, and grabbed for a firmer handhold.
 
An elderly face appeared at the helicopter's window, pressed up against the glass near Telemachus.
 
"Win one for the Gipper!" the president cried.
 
"Huh?" the boy asked.
 
"Never mind! Just kick that red bitch's ass!"
 
"Sure thing!"
 
The Scarlet Harlot crouched and kicked, trying to sweep his legs out from under him. He jumped, twisted in mid-air, and answered with a kick of his own. It caught her in the side of the face as she rose from the crouch. Her head thudded against the helicopter's reinforced window.
 
She groaned, and stared at Telemachus through dazed, groggy eyes.
 
"You're good..." she murmured.
 
"No," Telemachus replied. "I'm bad."
 
Another jump, another spinning kick. This one sent her tumbling off the skid. She hit the hangar floor headfirst.
 
"Better take her down, son," the president yelled inside the chopper, "if you know what's good for you!"
 
The pilot evidently did, because the helicopter descended until it touched down next to the Scarlet Harlot's corpse -- scattering the dogs who'd gathered round to lick up their former mistress' brains.
 
Telemachus pulled its door open.
 
"Nice work, kid," the president said. "But I don't suppose I've got much future in politics after this. The other side were already saying I was too soft on rampant ninja-related crime. They're going to have a field day with this. Oh, well. Hey, you want to go for a burger?"
 
"Make it a deep-fried pizza, Mr. President, and you've got a deal."

LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels

2012-10-18T16:47:08Z

Raptor00:

[[File:LotS_Quest_Zone_12.jpg|center|The Prince & The Pixels (Planet 12)]]

<tabber>
"Zone Intro"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Zone Intro}}
|-|
"Monkey Business"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Monkey Business}}
|-|
"Count of Monte Fisto"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Count of Monte Fisto}}
|-|
"Deranged Dwelling"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Deranged Dwelling}}
|-|
"G. Rahn"=
{{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/G. Rahn}}
</tabber>

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Zone Intro

2012-10-18T16:43:27Z

Raptor00:

'''Zone Intro''' 
"It's savage and barbaric," Wu Tenchu said. "When the Emperor rescinded its prohibition in Sian space, and went so far as to allow the building of a stadium here on Sian, it was against my counsel."
 
He did that thing he does with his eyes. You know the one I mean, captain -- where they go sort of narrow, and you can tell he's pissed off about something. I think it makes him look like a cat. Maybe a tiger. A tiger with a silly moustache. (Don't tell him I said that.)
 
"Thugby... Only the uniforms and the slim rulebook render it an athletic contest instead of an act of wanton criminality. The individuals who play the game are for the most part little more than murderous lunatics who relish the opportunity to participate in what amounts to legalized rioting by day, and to take advantage of the imbecilic 'groupies' the sport attracts by night."
 
"So ask Ragnar," I replied.
 
"That was my first thought as well. But it transpires that the sparse rules governing thugby include a prohibition against players with substantial performance-enhancing cybernetic augmentations. And Mr. Ragnarsson contains more implanted technology than would be permissible when distributed among an entire team. Perhaps even an entire thugby league. So I'm compelled to look elsewhere to find a suitable captain for the Sian Dragons."
 
"You'll need someone with a death wish. Everyone on the other team's going to be trying to tackle the Dragons' captain and rip his head off."
 
"Someone with a reckless disregard for their own wellbeing?"
 
"Yeah!"
 
"The kind of individual who's willing to risk life and limb in the most idiotic, frivolous pursuits?"
 
"Exactly!"
 
"I concur. The job is yours."
 
"Oh..."
 
Yeah, okay, I probably should have seen that coming. But when he sent for me, I thought he wanted to, you know, catch up. Maybe even ask my advice about stuff. Yeah, yeah -- I know you're probably laughing. But you remember how it used to be... All of us sitting around together, planning things out. Back when she was still here, and you were too. I miss those days... I thought maybe he did too.
 
I hadn't spoken to him for months. The last time I saw him was at that ceremony right after the war, when he gave out our medals (I have your one, by the way -- I wear them both when I go clubbing). After that he was busy doing whatever he does now... Prime ministering, I guess. Thought maybe he'd forgotten all about us. Then I got his message, saying he needed to talk to me about something and asking me to come to the palace. He has an office there now -- just a small little room tucked away somewhere. Guess he wouldn't have felt right taking the Emperor's office. Or Illaria's.
 
So, like I said, I thought he wanted some advice. Maybe he was thinking about ordering some new fighter ships, or pistols for our soldiers. Stuff I know about. Instead, he wanted someone stupid enough to get themselves killed on a thugby pitch. Got to admit, I was a little mad.
 
"Me? Captain a thugby team? You think I'm crazy?"
 
"Well, let us examine the evidence..."
 
He pressed a button on his desk, and a big holo-screen popped up between us.
 
"This aerial footage shows a number of people riding motorcycles through the streets of Wunhai at dangerous, and indeed illegal, speed."
 
"Yeah... Kids these days..."
 
The screen zoomed in. And there I was, right in the middle -- jumping from one bike to another. Long story... Well, okay, not long. I was bored and some guy I knew was taking bets on whether anyone had the nerve to jump between bikes during a street race.
 
Guess I should have worn a helmet...
 
"Perhaps this episode will prove more memorable," Wu said.
 
Another screen came up next to the first one. It showed a bunch of fighters flying through space in a close pack, along a beam of purple light thrown out by a cruiser up ahead. Sound familiar, captain?
 
"I believe this is what you pilots refer to as a 'Tunnel of Death Race' -- a form of suicidal competition in which men and women of questionable sanity attempt to overtake one another in such narrow confines that they each risk both their own life and those of everyone else involved."
 
"Well..."
 
Yeah, I think you can guess what happened next. One of the fighter ships zipped through the others, skimming right between them to take the lead -- so close I'm pretty sure some of their paint came off. I didn't bother trying to deny that one. Wu knew not many people could fly like that. And out of them, none of the rest of you would.
 
He turned the screens off, so I could see his face again. I'm pretty sure he was smiling. Well, as close as he gets to smiling anyway.
 
"You seem quite willing to jeopardize yourself to make a few credits..."
 
He got that wrong. Wu's a smart guy, but he doesn't understand how it is for people like us. We don't stop just because the fighting does. We still need the rush...
 
"...but not to serve the Sian Empire?"
 
"Fine! I'll do it!"
 
"Splendid. Then, Miss Talia Ryx, I formally name you as captain of the Sian Dragons."
 
He looked down, and started messing with a datapad on his desk. I figured that meant we were done, so I got up and went to the door. Then he called out after me.
 
"Oh, and Talia..."
 
"Yeah?"
 
"Make sure you win the match."

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Gut-Phager

2012-10-18T16:42:17Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Gut-Phager''' Gut-Phager So there I was, with the ball in my hand and two psychos coming to break me in h..."

'''Gut-Phager''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z11_a1.jpg|none|Gut-Phager]]
So there I was, with the ball in my hand and two psychos coming to break me in half. I know you've been in situations like that, Willy -- times when you have to think fast and act fast to survive.
 
"She's thrown the ball, Bob!"
 
"It's a bad throw, Jesse! Look how high it's going! She's not getting enough distance! It won't reach any of the other Dragons!"
 
"It doesn't have to, Bob! Look!"
 
Stupid Megas... I threw the ball, and they looked up at it instead of at me.
 
"Unbelievable, Jesse! Ryx is running like a madwoman, and she's... Yes! She's caught up with the ball! It's dropping right to her!"
 
"She threw the ball to herself! I've never seen anything like it! Some of the Megas are trying to break away and stop her, but the Dragons are on them!"
 
"Guan just planted two of them into the pitch at the same time! Jackson's taken down Gressa! They aren't letting anyone through!"
 
"Talia's speeding down the pitch. But wait! Gut-Phager's knocked Kai Wung spinning! Wung's down! And there's no one else there to tackle him! He's between Talia and the end zone!"
 
"Look at Gut-Phager taunting! He's going to make damn sure Ryx has to go through him if she wants to score!"
 
"Time's running out, Bob! She has to make her move!"
 
"She's tossed the ball right up in the air!"
 
"But Gut-Phager isn't as dumb as he looks, Jesse! He isn't looking up. He's going for Talia instead!"
 
"She went to the well once too often with that trick, and she might pay for it now!"
 
"Nice dodge! Ryx can move! That punch went right by her. And... Yes! She just tore Gut-Phager's mask off!"
 
"That's bad news for Gut-Phager, Bob! Most of his skull's metal-plated, but his jaw isn't!"
 
"This is what he gets for being too cocky to wear a helmet! Oh! Flying knee! Ryx just put her knee through his unprotected jaw!"
 
"Maybe she was listening to me, Bob!"
 
"Maybe! But that means Gut-Phager's going to be pissed off at you after the match, Jesse! I might need a new broadcast colleague when he's finished with you!"
 
"Oh, hell..."
 
"Ryx didn't even land after that knee! She just jumped off his shoulder! She's in the air! Gut-Phager's falling, and... Yes! She has it! She caught the ball!"
 
"She's hit the ground, she's rolling, and..."
 
"Touchdown!"
 
"Touchdown!"
 
"Touchdown! She's done it! The Sian Dragons have won the match! The crowd's going wild!"
 
"But look over at the away fans section, Jesse! They aren't happy!"
 
"Uh oh... The Blood Alley Gang are storming the pitch! Looks like they're going to take care of the Dragons themselves!"
 
"Wait a minute, Jesse! They're not going for the Dragons! They're after the Megas! If the grapevine's telling the truth, the Megas just cost them a fortune -- and they're taking it out of their hides! Look at them stomping on Gut-Phager!"
 
"This something you just hate to see, Bob. The Drekchester Megas did their best!"
 
"Yeah? Try telling that to the Blood Alley Gang!"
 
"No thank you, Bob. I don't know what 'rumpled' means, but I'm sure I don't want it to happen to me!"
 
"Look! Talia Ryx just pulled one of them off Gut-Phager, and headbutted him! A thugby helmet against an unprotected face? That's going to leave a mark!"
 
"And here come the rest of the Dragons! They're helping the Megas, and beating the hell out of the Blood Alley Gang! What a great show of sportsmanship!"
 
Yeah... Security was taking way too long to get there, and I wasn't going to let the Bloody Alley Gang get away with that. So I stepped in, and started kicking butt. Guess those losers hadn't counted on that. Or they were too stupid to care. But they cared by the time we were done. Pretty sure every player, on both teams, ended up stomping our boot-prints into them.
 
So, all's well that ends well. Wu Tenchu was happy, and so were the fans. Even the Drekchester Megas were cool about it, after we saved their butts. They came out drinking with us that night. Gut-Phager actually apologized to Jacob Chang for practically powerbombing him through the pitch. But Chang wouldn't hear it -- said it was just part of the game. And no one complained when Screaming Barracuda decided to play at the victory party.
 
After that, it all became kind of a blur. Maybe it was the liquor. But I like to think it was the Music Montage Theory...

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Pitch Battle

2012-10-18T16:42:03Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Pitch Battle''' Pitch Battle They'd scored already... Not good. You know how it is in a battle. If..."

'''Pitch Battle''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z11_a1_q4.jpg|none|Pitch Battle]]
They'd scored already... Not good.
 
You know how it is in a battle. If one side gets the upper hand right away, and scores a big win of some kind, it can make the other side lose hope. And once their morale goes, they just fall apart. I couldn't let that happen. I needed everyone to keep their heads in the game. So when we huddled up, I said: "Time for Plan V."
 
The 'V' stood for 'Violence'.
 
"Jacob Chang is taking the kickoff for the Sian Dragons, Bob."
 
"And look at that ball go, Jesse. It's the first time I've ever seen a crane kick on the thugby pitch."
 
"It's going all the way down the Megas' half of the field! How did he kick like that?"
 
"It's called chi, Jesse."
 
"Well, some of our fans will probably call it chi-ting. Get it, Bob? Chi-ting? Cheating?"
 
"It's not a real joke if you have to explain it, Jesse... Check out the Dragons! They're going all out! The eleven players on the team are invading the Megas' territory together. They're not leaving anyone behind for defense!"
 
"They're not even making for the ball! They're all just starting fights with the first Megas they run into!"
 
"Virgil Jackson practically tackled that guy in half! 'Great Wall' Guan is ploughing through Megas like a rhino smashing its way through a pediatrics unit! Leif Gunderson has 'Grunge' Gressa in a headlock and is punching her in the face! Frida Gunderson, the other half of the brother-sister thugby duo, is stomping on Zippy Lazlo's head! It's not been a good night for Zippy!"
 
"Uh oh... Jacob Chang's going for Gut-Phager. This could be a mistake, Bob."
 
"A flying kick! And Gut-Phager just knocks it aside!"
 
"Oh! You could feel that punch from here! The entire crowd groaned with that one! Chang's tottering around like he's been on a bender!"
 
"And Gut-Phager isn't finished with him! He's picking him up, and... Powerbomb! He smashed Chang down right on his head!"
 
"Chang isn't moving!"
 
"Even chi can't save you from Gut-Phager!"
 
"There's 'Great Wall' Guan -- he's grappling with the Megas' captain, and keeping him off Chang."
 
"It's a bit late for that, Jesse. I've been served crispy aromatic duck that looked more alive than that guy!"
 
"Frida Gunderson's slung Chang over her shoulder, and is carrying him to the sideline for medical attention. We'd like to remind everyone watching that thugby armor automatically immobilizes a player's neck and spine when they're incapacitated. If you encounter someone with possible spinal injuries elsewhere, they shouldn't be manhandled like that!"
 
"The rest of the Dragons are out for revenge! They're going for Gut-Phager, and the other Megas are diving into the melee to back him up! It's a warzone! They don't even care about the ball anymore!"
 
"Hold on, Bob -- it looks like a couple of them still do! Zippy Lazlo's dazed from his stomping, but he's staggering towards the ball. And there's Leif Gunderson right behind! Zippy's got it, but he doesn't know Gunderson's coming for him! He's turning round and... Wow! Lazlo grabbed the ball, and the Niflung grabbed Lazlo! He's running down the field with the Mega!"
 
"None of the other Megas are paying attention! They're too busy fighting! Gunderson's near the end zone and... He just powerslammed Zippy into the ground! With the ball! Touchdown! Touchdown!"
 
"The score's tied now! The referees' are blowing their whistles to get the teams to their positions, but no one's listening. They're still going at it!"
 
----
 
Chang was okay. He was out of the match, and we had to bring a substitute on, but there wasn't any permanent damage. As for the rest of us...
 
Ever tried fighting in thugby armor? It's pretty tiring -- especially when you're getting battered by a bunch of beefy players. And we went at it hard for a long time. So we were all exhausted, us and the Megas. Afterwards the game slowed down for a bit. Both teams played more defensive. It was only near the end of the match that things livened up again.
 
The ball had just gone out of bounds, into the stands. That meant another scrum to get things restarted. Everyone knew the next try would settle it, and it gave us our second wind.
 
"Both teams are pushing hard, Bob!"
 
"And punching the hell out of each other! That's what I like to see!"
 
"There's the ball! It looks like Virgil Jackson grabbed it and knocked it clear -- straight to Talia Ryx! The scrum's breaking up! Some of the Dragons are heading down the field, and the Megas are moving to block them!"
 
"Talia's getting ready to throw the ball, but no one's open! And two of the Megas are heading right for her!"

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Scum Scrum

2012-10-18T16:41:40Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Scum Scrum''' Scum Scrum Time flies. Maybe it was all the montages... But before we knew it, we were runnin..."

'''Scum Scrum''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z11_a1_q3.jpg|none|Scum Scrum]]
Time flies. Maybe it was all the montages... But before we knew it, we were running out onto a pitch that was lit up with floodlights, and there were thousands of people shouting in the stands. Some of the kung fu students kept looking around like they couldn't believe it. I probably should have trained them for that too, but a girl can't think of everything. I was okay -- after you've been in a few battles, a screaming crowd isn't a big deal. Besides, I was there when you were in Twisted Steel. It was pretty much the same thing.
 
And it was a home crowd. Mostly people from Sian who'd come to cheer the Dragons on. That helped everyone who was nervous. There's nothing quite like hearing an army chanting your name, or seeing your team logo painted on girls' breasts (it was a cold night as well -- hope none of them caught a chill).
 
Wu Tenchu had set aside part of the stadium for the away team though. It was full of people from Drekchester, so it looked kind of like a riot that hadn't got started yet. The Blood Alley Gang were there in the front row. Virgil said they'd bet a ton of credits on the match. And word was that they'd offered a big bonus to any Mega who killed me in the match. Jerks! We should have let Ragnar cut that big one's leg off...
 
Those two guys who do the commentary for all the big thugby matches were there as well, linked to the stadium's sound system so everyone could hear them.
 
"I'm Jesse Shark, here with Bob 'Blam' Boser, broadcasting from Sian's Eternal Dragon Stadium! Did you ever think we'd be back here, Bob?"
 
"No I didn't, Jesse. When the Centurians took over, I thought this place would be closed down for good."
 
"That's right, Bob -- thugby was banned all across Collective space, including in the conquered Sian Empire. A sad day for liberty and sport!"
 
"Yeah! Makes me glad Willy genocided them!"
 
"Wow! Controversial words, Bob!"
 
"Not to this crowd! Just listen to them cheer, Jesse!"
 
"Well, a lot of people think we're going to be witnessing another genocide here tonight."
 
"Nice segue, Jesse! Yeah, most gamblers aren't betting on whether the Dragons will win the match -- they're betting on how many of them will survive!"
 
"Talia Ryx, the captain of the newly rebuilt Sian Dragons, has been landed with the most dangerous job in thugby. She has to be regretting that decision right about now!"
 
"Ha! See that, Jesse?"
 
"It looks like Miss Ryx is making an obscene gesture in our direction."
 
"You're just lucky that's all she's doing! The girl's a great shot with those guns of hers. We've all seen the footage of her shooting camera drones out of the air and datapads out of journalists' hands."
 
"We sure have, Bob. Those reporters should have learned what 'no comment' means!"
 
"Here come the Megas! Just listen to the home fans boo!"
 
We'd all watched holo-vids of the Megas. You have to be prepared, right? But they looked even bigger and nastier in person. Remember what the walls looked like in Drekchester? It was like they'd been cut right out of them. Their armor was covered in graffiti. Some of it was even done in glowing neon. It actually looked pretty cool. I might get a black dress with that stuff on it for nights out.
 
The biggest of them all was their captain, Gut-Phager. I spotted him right away, because he was a few inches taller than everyone else and just wore a mask instead of a helmet (he didn't need one -- his skull got cracked open in a match, so he had metal plates put in). His name was spray-painted on his chest. In case he got lost, I guess. And below it was a picture of a mouth with some long, ropey things hanging out.
 
He walked up and stared into my eyes, like he was trying to psyche me out. Guess he didn't know I'd met way scarier people than him...
 
"You ready to get rumpled, chummer?"
 
At least I think that's what he said... Even my aural implant couldn't really understand his accent through that mask.
 
"Huh? Take those turds out of your mouth before you talk to me." I pointed at the picture on his chest.
 
"Those are guts, prosser! I'm Gut-Phager! I phage guts!"
 
"Yeah, sure they are... Crap-Phager."
 
Okay, if you were there you'd probably have come up with something cleverer. But hey, it worked. He was pissed. He would have gone for me right there, if the refs hadn't separated us and made both our teams line up.
 
There was a minute's silence for the original Sian Dragons. Everyone honored it -- even the Megas and their fans. If someone had spat, you would have heard it hit the ground. The dead players' pictures appeared on the stadium's screens. First there were some from the matches they played. Then there were more, showing them just having fun with their friends and families. I never knew any of them, but I still got a bit choked up.
 
When it was over, there was a round of applause. Then the Sian anthem played. Oh, yeah... I forgot to say. That was Screaming Barracuda's deal. She played for us when we trained, and in return she got to sing the anthem on the night. I didn't tell Wu Tenchu about that. He might have sent an assassin after me...
 
And it worked out great. Barra has a pretty nice voice under all that screaming she usually does. She probably knew she couldn't get away with screwing up our anthem. Not if she wanted to get off Sian alive. I think it was the first time people have ever cheered at the end of one of her songs because it was good, instead of cheering because she'd finally shut up.
 
Did you know Drekchester has an anthem? I didn't. But after the crowd was done cheering, it started up. The Megas were given mics, and they sang it themselves -- with all the away fans joining in.
 
"So you noose you're mega, 
You noose you're some hot drek, 
You baino into Drekchester looking for some creds.
 
You noose that we'll all phobe you, 
You noose that we'll back down, 
Well, chummer, you'll get rumpled right into the ground!
 
You're mega back where you bio, 
They noose you're some hot drek, 
But on our streets you're just a prosser who's going to get wrecked!
 
Drekchester! Drekchester! We'll rumple you for fun! 
Drekchester! Drekchester! Then we'll wreck your mum!
 
We'll twock out all your organs, and kauf them in the slums, 
Kauf them to some street-scavs who need to fill their tums! 
Then we'll get some chems and snuff them up the schnoz, 
And leggie how we taught this scav just what mega was!"
 
It was kind of catchy...
 
After it was over, the refs made us take up positions. It was time to start. That meant it was time for the scrum.
 
A bunch of our guys and a bunch of theirs, all locked together like it was one giant wrestling match -- fighting for the ball that a ref tossed into the mix. Those things are crazy. And I'm glad I wasn't in there with them. I was standing outside, waiting for the ball to pop out so I could grab it and run.
 
"The Dragons are holding their own, Bob!"
 
"They sure are, Jesse. I hear that 'Great Wall' Guan ate a cow and a shark before the match, to keep his weight up -- a little surf and turf training."
 
"I don't know about that, Bob, but he's certainly standing his ground with all that bulk. Still, we should take a moment to remind our younger viewers that overeating can lead to a number of serious health issues!"
 
"Ha! So can thugby!"
 
"Good point, Bob. Good point."
 
"According to my monitor, that's Virgil Jackson in there with him. Didn't you used to play with him in college, Jesse?"
 
"I did! And let me tell you, Bob, those Megas have their work cut out for them. We used to say that Jackson was worth two or three guys in a scrum."
 
"And now the punches are flying! You've gotta love it!"
 
"The Drekchester Megas are good at throwing those hooks that work so well in scrums, Bob. And... Holy crap! Did you see that?"
 
"I sure did, Jesse. That Mega flew out of the scrum like she'd been hit by a truck! Let's bring up the slow-motion replay!"
 
I hadn't seen what happened, because it was on the opposite side. So I looked up at the big screens along with everyone else who wasn't in the scrum.
 
"That looks like the handiwork of Kai Wung, a Dragon whose player profile states he's an expert in over a dozen forms of kung fu. But he barely seemed to touch 'Grunge' Gressa! How did he hit her so hard? The referees might need to examine Wung's suit for illegal strength-enhancing actuators."
 
"I don't think so, Jesse. That move's the one-inch punch -- a strike made famous back in the twentieth century by the legendary Bruce Lee."
 
"I'm impressed by your knowledge of the martial arts, Bob! It's... Wait a second! There's the ball! It's bounced out of the scrum, right into the hands of Zippy Lazlo of the Megas!"
 
"Zippy was on the ball in more ways than one! While everyone else was gawking at the screens, he waited for his opportunity and he grabbed it. Now he's running down the field like he's on fire!"
 
"Lazlo used to be a chem courier. He's used to running for his life and dodging weapons fire at the same time. Talia Ryx is going after him, but with that lead he has, she has no chance of catching him."
 
"Lucia the Cobra's on defense. She's heading across the pitch to intercept him. That girl's fast!"
 
"Zippy's looking round. He sees her coming, and he's putting on a burst of speed! He knows she's the only one who can keep him from the end zone now!"
 
"Lucia's gaining on him! She's right behind him, and-"
 
"Is she...?"
 
"Yes, Jesse! Lucia's garroting him!"
 
"The Megas' coaches are screaming on the sidelines, Bob! They're complaining that she's using a foreign object -- an illegal weapon! And there's the whistle! One of the refs is going over to investigate."
 
"A load of Dragons and Megas are gathering around as well. This could turn ugly!"
 
"The ref's examining Lucia's garrote. Let's put his mic over the sound system, so the fans can hear what he's saying."
 
"...legal! Miss... Uh... Miss Cobra's garrote is attached to her gauntlet. That makes it a legitimate part of her armor, just like her spikes! I repeat, it's not an illegal weapon. Let play continue!"
 
"The Megas don't look happy with that call, Bob. But just listen to the crowd cheer!"
 
"Zippy Lazlo is the unhappiest of them all, Jesse. The ref's telling him to let Lucia put her garrote back around his neck!"
 
"And there's the whistle! The match continues! The garroting continues! The... Wait a second, Bob -- Lazlo doesn't have the ball anymore!"
 
"One of the Megas is running over to the end zone. It's Gut-Phager! And he has the ball! Gut-Phager's got the ball! Lazlo must have passed it off to him while everyone was arguing! There's the whistle!"
 
"Touchdown!"
 
"Touchdown!"
 
"Touchdown! Apologies to all the fans who've sent us complaints about Neo-Americanisms in our commentary. But call it a try, call it a touchdown, it all means the same thing: the Megas have scored! The Dragons' fans are booing! Team captain Talia Ryx is grabbing one of the referees by his shirt and yelling in his face. But the call stands! The referees are allowing it! It's a touchdown! One-nil to the Drekchester Megas!"

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Eye of the Dragon

2012-10-18T16:41:00Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Eye of the Dragon''' Eye of the Dragon I had my team! Pretty impressive, huh? It was awesome to be the lead..."

'''Eye of the Dragon''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z11_a1_q2.jpg|none|Eye of the Dragon]]
I had my team! Pretty impressive, huh? It was awesome to be the leader for a change (no offense, captain...). But with great power comes the ability to make great screw ups and get yourself run off the planet. If we got smashed by the Megas, I knew everyone would blame me. And angry thugby fans are worse than death squads. At least death squads don't try eating your organs while you're still alive...
 
I had to win. And to win, I had to turn us all into an ass-kicking team. That meant hard training.
 
----
 
"Are you ready to rock!?!"
 
Screaming Barracuda's voice blasted from the stadium's sound system. It was just the Sian Dragons on the pitch, and the stands were empty. So it was sort of like being at a concert where everyone had forgotten to show up.
 
"If we say no," Lucia asked, "will that stop her?"
 
"No," Virgil replied. "She played a gig on Cythera once. A punk in the audience shot her in the arm before we grabbed him, and she still carried on playing."
 
"I said, are you ready to rock!?!"
 
Barra didn't wait for an answer. She just started singing. Or screaming. With her, they're kind of the same thing. The others gathered round like they were going to lynch me.
 
"What the hell is this?" a Niflung yelled. I couldn't tell which he was, since their big blond beards and long hair made all the men look the same.
 
"There isn't really a thugby match, is there?" Kai, one of the kung fu students, asked. "Tricking people is the only way she can get them to come to her damn concerts!"
 
I waved for Barra to quiet down. Her guitar made this big wailing twang like she was pissed, but she stopped.
 
"It's part of our training," I explained.
 
"Great plan. We'll hate life so much that we won't think twice about getting killed in the match." Lucia... I don't know why she bothers with that garrote. She could just cut people's throats with sarcasm instead...
 
"I call it Music Montage Theory. It's something I discovered when I was watching old movies. Back in those days they used inspirational songs with power chords to distort space and time -- so people could do a ton of training really quickly."
 
"That's ridiculous."
 
"Uh-uh. I asked Professor Mycroft about it, and he said my theory was as brilliant as I was."
 
"I see..."
 
"So, let's do some training!"
 
I gave the signal before anyone else could argue. Screaming Barracuda hit Wailing Doom's strings and sang.
 
"Killer! I can see it in your eye!
Killer! People cross you and they die!"
 
----
 
The rest of the session went by in a blur. I figure that means my Music Montage Theory was right! Or maybe it was the concussion they say I got in tackling practice...
 
There was definitely some running. You've got to be fast in a thugby match, so you can run with the ball without anyone smashing you -- or catch one of their guys if they have the ball. And you can't just be fast in straight lines, like a sprinter. You have to be able to change direction and get around people. That's why I brought in a bunch of SWAT cops with riot armor and shock sticks, and had them chase everyone.
 
You know how quick I am. Lucia too. And the others ended up doing great as well. Nothing like an electric shock up your butt to make you go faster. Sure, Guan ended up getting fried a bunch of times. But that's what he gets for eating dim sum all day...
 
I don't remember exactly how the tackling drills went, but for those I brought in Raiyama. I couldn't persuade him to join the Dragons ("There is no honor in thugby!", his subtitles said), but he agreed to help us train. Good thinking, huh? If you can bring down a sumo wrestler in a battlesuit, or survive being tackled by him, you've got it made.
 
For the scrum, I got Wilex to help out. TALOS built these training bots for thugby players, but no one ever used them. You know how most people are about robots. And it didn't help when one of them broke a player's spine at the demonstration (don't worry -- they fixed the bug and the guy's back). Anyway, he said we could have a bunch. For scrum workouts they all sort of combine by locking their bodies together. Makes them really tough to wrestle with, so it gives you a great workout.
 
He helped out with our catching work as well, by taking an anti-air gun and converting it to fire thugby balls instead of shells. Nothing like having a storm of footballs flying at your face to make you think fast. Some of the others ran for cover. And at first the kung fu guys kept parrying them aside instead of grabbing them. But most of us got the hang of it. They said I even jumped into the air, sprang off Virgil's shoulders, and grabbed one that was like twelve feet in the air. Wish I could remember that, because it sounds awesome.
 
We trained that hard every day until the match. Most of us had to spend our nights in healing tanks to recover, but it was worth it. And I had Screaming Barracuda's best tracks pumped into the tanks to keep our fighting spirit going.

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Team Building

2012-10-18T16:40:29Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Team Building''' Team Building So there I was. Me -- a captain. Pretty weird, huh? I knew the first time so..."

'''Team Building''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z11_a1_q1.jpg|none|Team Building]]
So there I was. Me -- a captain. Pretty weird, huh? I knew the first time someone called me that, I'd turn around and expect to see you there. But I guess we're both captains now, captain.
 
There was just one little problem... I didn't have a team. That's kind of the first thing you need when you want to play thugby. Well, maybe the ball. But after you have the ball, it's the next thing. Did you hear what happened to the Sian Dragons? The old ones, I mean. The rest of us only found out after we got Sian back, and I don't know how much you've been watching the news networks.
 
When the Centurians attacked, the Dragons put on their armor and went out to fight them. They were gunned down in front of the stadium, trying to protect people who'd taken shelter inside. Every last one of them. There's a statue of them there now. Wu had it put up, even though he's always hated thugby players.
 
So, I needed to find some new recruits. And since I didn't really know any athletes, I figured I'd have to improvise...
 
----
 
"I thought an assassin would be hard to sneak up on."
 
"I'm not an assassin." She turned around, pulling the guy she was garroting round with her -- so he ended up between us. His tongue was hanging out like a happy dog's. The rest of him didn't look so happy though. "I'm just a concerned citizen. And you didn't sneak up on me. I recognized your footsteps and knew you weren't a threat."
 
"I'm kind of insulted... My superior officers always used to say I was a threat to the rest of the squadron whenever I got in the cockpit."
 
"Did Wu Tenchu tell you I was here?"
 
'Here' was an abandoned toy factory. The Centurians closed it down back when they took over. Guess the jerks didn't like stuffed bears.
 
"Yeah, he said you were taking care of something for him. What did this guy do?" I pointed at the man she was choking. He reached out, like he wanted me to help him. But if Wu Tenchu wanted him dead, I figured he'd done something to deserve it...
 
"He informed for the Centurian Collective during the occupation."
 
"I think they have trials to handle that kind of thing..."
 
"He covered his tracks too well for that. Besides, my way's quicker. What do you want, Talia?"
 
Typical Lucia the Cobra. No small talk, no asking how I'd been. I could see why Wu hired her to help clean things up. She was his kind of woman.
 
"You're pretty fast, right? And good at fighting."
 
"Yes. Your point?"
 
She dropped the guy. He fell face-first into a pile of Happy Lucky Bears. I used to love those things as a kid...
 
"How would you like to play thugby?"
 
"What?"
 
"It's this sport where-"
 
"I know what thugby is."
 
"Great! Then you're already qualified! I-"
 
"Wu Tenchu sent you here to ask me that?"
 
"I told him I wanted you for my team. I'm captain of the Sian Dragons now."
 
"Since when does he care about thugby?"
 
"Since we got challenged by the Drekchester Megas."
 
Oh, yeah... Sorry, Willy. I probably should have mentioned that earlier. What can I say? I suck at storytelling.
 
"The Megas? Don't those idiots know the whole team got slaughtered?"
 
"Pretty sure that's why they challenged us. The Dragons beat them in the last three matches. They want a chance to get their own back, and probably don't think whatever team we throw together will stand a chance."
 
"Wu should just tell them to go to hell. Or send me to Drekchester to shut them up..."
 
"That's what I said, but he said the match would 'show the galaxy that the newly liberated Sian Empire is ready to resume its place in the interstellar community'."
 
"That sounds like something he'd say."
 
"Personally, I think he just didn't want to lose face in front of the Megas. Anyway, he said it would be great PR to have a hero of the liberation as team captain."
 
"And you got stuck with the job."
 
"Yeah. So, how about it? Want to join up? We have fancy uniforms and everything!"
 
----
 
Then I went clubbing.
 
The Galloping Galaxy was holding its big reopening. You should see the place now -- they rebuilt the whole thing twice as high as it was before, and added a new low gravity room. I knew the guy I wanted to see was going to be there.
 
I wore something slutty, had a few Tygers (hey, I like the stripes!), and went onto the main dance floor to do my thing. Didn't take long for someone to grope me. Just what I was waiting for. I turned round and punched him out. That got Virgil's attention.
 
You remember Virgil, right? He used to be a doorman on Cythera. He stuck around on Sian, and ended up becoming Galloping Galaxy's head of security. I'd tried to get in touch with him, but he was busy sorting stuff out for the reopening. So I got creative, and ended up in his office (the guy I floored got thrown out -- sucks to be him!). It was pretty cool in there. He had these big screens all over the walls, ceiling, and even the floor. They showed everything in the club. It was like having x-ray vision or something.
 
"Tonight of all nights?" he said. He had this frown on. Maybe it was the Tyger, Tyger, but I thought it made him look all cute and serious. "You had to cause trouble while all those media people are here covering our reopening?"
 
"Hey, most of the reporters were too wasted to see anything..." I pointed at one of the screens on the floor. That woman from Channel 509 was in a hallway, pressing this young guy against the wall and pretty much sucking his face off. "Besides, you'll get great publicity out of it. Don't mean to brag, but I'm hot stuff at the moment."
 
"You have a point..."
 
"Anyway, I needed to talk to you. And you weren't returning my calls."
 
"I've been busy."
 
"Me too. That's why I'm here. I'm putting a thugby team together, and you'd be perfect for it."
 
"Huh? You think every big black guy just happens to be good at thugby?"
 
"No. But the ones who went to university on a thugby scholarship? Probably."
 
"You know about that?"
 
"Hey, I'm not just a pretty face and a pair of guns!"
 
He glanced down.
 
"Not those ones! The ones I shoot people with!"
 
"Oh..."
 
"Anyway, I checked to see if I knew anyone who used to be an athlete, and I came up with you. So, want to play for the Dragons?"
 
"No chance. My thugby days are behind me."
 
"We're playing the Drekchester Megas."
 
"Then count me in."
 
"Heh. Yeah, I figured you'd say that. When I was reading up on your bio, I saw your blog. Not a fan of Drekchester, huh?"
 
"Have you heard the way they talk there? It's like they took ancient Greek and fed her chems until she became a drugged-up slut! As a classics major, it pisses me off." He got that look on his face, the one he gets when he's about to say something fancy that no one else understands. "It fills me with anger equal to the wrath of Achilles -- the direful spring of woes unnumbered!"
 
"Yeah... If you say so."
 
----
 
Things were going pretty well. I may not be as great as you are when it comes to recruiting people, or like Illaria was, but I can get the job done. Plus I got lucky. I found out that a bunch of Niflung thugby players were stranded on Sian. They came for the battle, helped us fight the Centurians, then started drinking to celebrate. A couple of months later they were still drinking, and ended up selling their ship for beer money. Niflungs...
 
I got Wu Tenchu to settle their tab and give them a new ship if they agreed to play. But they probably would have done it for free anyway. When their team didn't hear back from them, they thought they'd died in the battle -- and had them replaced. So playing the Drekchester Megas was a way for them to get back into the game. Maybe even impress some of the Niflung teams they wanted to play for.
 
I hit up some kwoons as well, to fill out the team with kung fu experts. If you can kick someone's head off, you can kick a ball, right? Most of them told me to get lost. The masters said stuff about how thugby killed the soul and diminished your chi. Pretty lame, huh? But I went to one of those modern kwoons, the kind of place where the cybered-up kung fu guys train. They were up for it, so I picked out the ones who didn't have too many implants.
 
After that, I just wanted one more player. We needed more beef in the team, someone big and heavy to help out in the scrum. And I knew where to find him. I just had to follow the sound of crying restaurant owners.
 
I don't think you ever met Guan Chao. He used to compete in Twisted Steel as 'Great Wall' Guan. They called him that because he's big, and he beat up the Mongol Horde (a stable of fighters, not the real Mongol horde -- I think the Mongolians stopped having hordes a while back). He went out and helped fight in the streets when we needed that distraction. And in the last battle, while you and me were fighting in front of the palace, he took out a whole Storm squad single-handed. Just charged into them and beat them to death with his bare hands. Well, okay... He was wearing a battlesuit. So not exactly 'bare' hands. Still damn good though.
 
He was given a medal for that, just like the ones the rest of us got. And pretty much every restaurant on the planet said they'd give free meals for life to any customer who had one...
 
I found him sitting at a table, covered with plates and plates of dim sum (the table, I mean -- not Guan). He was using two pairs of chopsticks, and demolishing everything -- shoving food into his mouth as fast as his hands could move. The owner and his wife were arguing in the kitchen. She wanted to throw Guan out before they went broke.
 
"Hey, Guan... How'd you feel about playing thugby?"
 
He didn't answer. Pretty sure he heard me, but he didn't want to stop eating long enough to talk. I waited for him to finish, but the owner won the argument -- and waiters kept bringing out more dim sum. So Guan just kept on eating. Until I pulled my pistol out and blew the ends off his chopsticks.
 
The waiters started yelling, and some of the customers ducked for cover. But the owner's wife gave me a round of applause.
 
"As I was saying... Would you like to play thugby?"
 
"Fine! Fine! Whatever! Just bring me more chopsticks!"

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Zone Intro

2012-10-18T16:39:56Z

Raptor00:

"It's savage and barbaric," Wu Tenchu said. "When the Emperor rescinded its prohibition in Sian space, and went so far as to allow the building of a stadium here on Sian, it was against my counsel."
 
He did that thing he does with his eyes. You know the one I mean, captain -- where they go sort of narrow, and you can tell he's pissed off about something. I think it makes him look like a cat. Maybe a tiger. A tiger with a silly moustache. (Don't tell him I said that.)
 
"Thugby... Only the uniforms and the slim rulebook render it an athletic contest instead of an act of wanton criminality. The individuals who play the game are for the most part little more than murderous lunatics who relish the opportunity to participate in what amounts to legalized rioting by day, and to take advantage of the imbecilic 'groupies' the sport attracts by night."
 
"So ask Ragnar," I replied.
 
"That was my first thought as well. But it transpires that the sparse rules governing thugby include a prohibition against players with substantial performance-enhancing cybernetic augmentations. And Mr. Ragnarsson contains more implanted technology than would be permissible when distributed among an entire team. Perhaps even an entire thugby league. So I'm compelled to look elsewhere to find a suitable captain for the Sian Dragons."
 
"You'll need someone with a death wish. Everyone on the other team's going to be trying to tackle the Dragons' captain and rip his head off."
 
"Someone with a reckless disregard for their own wellbeing?"
 
"Yeah!"
 
"The kind of individual who's willing to risk life and limb in the most idiotic, frivolous pursuits?"
 
"Exactly!"
 
"I concur. The job is yours."
 
"Oh..."
 
Yeah, okay, I probably should have seen that coming. But when he sent for me, I thought he wanted to, you know, catch up. Maybe even ask my advice about stuff. Yeah, yeah -- I know you're probably laughing. But you remember how it used to be... All of us sitting around together, planning things out. Back when she was still here, and you were too. I miss those days... I thought maybe he did too.
 
I hadn't spoken to him for months. The last time I saw him was at that ceremony right after the war, when he gave out our medals (I have your one, by the way -- I wear them both when I go clubbing). After that he was busy doing whatever he does now... Prime ministering, I guess. Thought maybe he'd forgotten all about us. Then I got his message, saying he needed to talk to me about something and asking me to come to the palace. He has an office there now -- just a small little room tucked away somewhere. Guess he wouldn't have felt right taking the Emperor's office. Or Illaria's.
 
So, like I said, I thought he wanted some advice. Maybe he was thinking about ordering some new fighter ships, or pistols for our soldiers. Stuff I know about. Instead, he wanted someone stupid enough to get themselves killed on a thugby pitch. Got to admit, I was a little mad.
 
"Me? Captain a thugby team? You think I'm crazy?"
 
"Well, let us examine the evidence..."
 
He pressed a button on his desk, and a big holo-screen popped up between us.
 
"This aerial footage shows a number of people riding motorcycles through the streets of Wunhai at dangerous, and indeed illegal, speed."
 
"Yeah... Kids these days..."
 
The screen zoomed in. And there I was, right in the middle -- jumping from one bike to another. Long story... Well, okay, not long. I was bored and some guy I knew was taking bets on whether anyone had the nerve to jump between bikes during a street race.
 
Guess I should have worn a helmet...
 
"Perhaps this episode will prove more memorable," Wu said.
 
Another screen came up next to the first one. It showed a bunch of fighters flying through space in a close pack, along a beam of purple light thrown out by a cruiser up ahead. Sound familiar, captain?
 
"I believe this is what you pilots refer to as a 'Tunnel of Death Race' -- a form of suicidal competition in which men and women of questionable sanity attempt to overtake one another in such narrow confines that they each risk both their own life and those of everyone else involved."
 
"Well..."
 
Yeah, I think you can guess what happened next. One of the fighter ships zipped through the others, skimming right between them to take the lead -- so close I'm pretty sure some of their paint came off. I didn't bother trying to deny that one. Wu knew not many people could fly like that. And out of them, none of the rest of you would.
 
He turned the screens off, so I could see his face again. I'm pretty sure he was smiling. Well, as close as he gets to smiling anyway.
 
"You seem quite willing to jeopardize yourself to make a few credits..."
 
He got that wrong. Wu's a smart guy, but he doesn't understand how it is for people like us. We don't stop just because the fighting does. We still need the rush...
 
"...but not to serve the Sian Empire?"
 
"Fine! I'll do it!"
 
"Splendid. Then, Miss Talia Ryx, I formally name you as captain of the Sian Dragons."
 
He looked down, and started messing with a datapad on his desk. I figured that meant we were done, so I got up and went to the door. Then he called out after me.
 
"Oh, and Talia..."
 
"Yeah?"
 
"Make sure you win the match."

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Zone Intro

2012-10-18T16:38:54Z

Raptor00: Created page with "'''Talia's Team''' "It's savage and barbaric," Wu Tenchu said. "When the Emperor rescinded its prohibition in Sian space, and went so far as to allow..."

'''Talia's Team''' 
"It's savage and barbaric," Wu Tenchu said. "When the Emperor rescinded its prohibition in Sian space, and went so far as to allow the building of a stadium here on Sian, it was against my counsel."
 
He did that thing he does with his eyes. You know the one I mean, captain -- where they go sort of narrow, and you can tell he's pissed off about something. I think it makes him look like a cat. Maybe a tiger. A tiger with a silly moustache. (Don't tell him I said that.)
 
"Thugby... Only the uniforms and the slim rulebook render it an athletic contest instead of an act of wanton criminality. The individuals who play the game are for the most part little more than murderous lunatics who relish the opportunity to participate in what amounts to legalized rioting by day, and to take advantage of the imbecilic 'groupies' the sport attracts by night."
 
"So ask Ragnar," I replied.
 
"That was my first thought as well. But it transpires that the sparse rules governing thugby include a prohibition against players with substantial performance-enhancing cybernetic augmentations. And Mr. Ragnarsson contains more implanted technology than would be permissible when distributed among an entire team. Perhaps even an entire thugby league. So I'm compelled to look elsewhere to find a suitable captain for the Sian Dragons."
 
"You'll need someone with a death wish. Everyone on the other team's going to be trying to tackle the Dragons' captain and rip his head off."
 
"Someone with a reckless disregard for their own wellbeing?"
 
"Yeah!"
 
"The kind of individual who's willing to risk life and limb in the most idiotic, frivolous pursuits?"
 
"Exactly!"
 
"I concur. The job is yours."
 
"Oh..."
 
Yeah, okay, I probably should have seen that coming. But when he sent for me, I thought he wanted to, you know, catch up. Maybe even ask my advice about stuff. Yeah, yeah -- I know you're probably laughing. But you remember how it used to be... All of us sitting around together, planning things out. Back when she was still here, and you were too. I miss those days... I thought maybe he did too.
 
I hadn't spoken to him for months. The last time I saw him was at that ceremony right after the war, when he gave out our medals (I have your one, by the way -- I wear them both when I go clubbing). After that he was busy doing whatever he does now... Prime ministering, I guess. Thought maybe he'd forgotten all about us. Then I got his message, saying he needed to talk to me about something and asking me to come to the palace. He has an office there now -- just a small little room tucked away somewhere. Guess he wouldn't have felt right taking the Emperor's office. Or Illaria's.
 
So, like I said, I thought he wanted some advice. Maybe he was thinking about ordering some new fighter ships, or pistols for our soldiers. Stuff I know about. Instead, he wanted someone stupid enough to get themselves killed on a thugby pitch. Got to admit, I was a little mad.
 
"Me? Captain a thugby team? You think I'm crazy?"
 
"Well, let us examine the evidence..."
 
He pressed a button on his desk, and a big holo-screen popped up between us.
 
"This aerial footage shows a number of people riding motorcycles through the streets of Wunhai at dangerous, and indeed illegal, speed."
 
"Yeah... Kids these days..."
 
The screen zoomed in. And there I was, right in the middle -- jumping from one bike to another. Long story... Well, okay, not long. I was bored and some guy I knew was taking bets on whether anyone had the nerve to jump between bikes during a street race.
 
Guess I should have worn a helmet...
 
"Perhaps this episode will prove more memorable," Wu said.
 
Another screen came up next to the first one. It showed a bunch of fighters flying through space in a close pack, along a beam of purple light thrown out by a cruiser up ahead. Sound familiar, captain?
 
"I believe this is what you pilots refer to as a 'Tunnel of Death Race' -- a form of suicidal competition in which men and women of questionable sanity attempt to overtake one another in such narrow confines that they each risk both their own life and those of everyone else involved."
 
"Well..."
 
Yeah, I think you can guess what happened next. One of the fighter ships zipped through the others, skimming right between them to take the lead -- so close I'm pretty sure some of their paint came off. I didn't bother trying to deny that one. Wu knew not many people could fly like that. And out of them, none of the rest of you would.
 
He turned the screens off, so I could see his face again. I'm pretty sure he was smiling. Well, as close as he gets to smiling anyway.
 
"You seem quite willing to jeopardize yourself to make a few credits..."
 
He got that wrong. Wu's a smart guy, but he doesn't understand how it is for people like us. We don't stop just because the fighting does. We still need the rush...
 
"...but not to serve the Sian Empire?"
 
"Fine! I'll do it!"
 
"Splendid. Then, Miss Talia Ryx, I formally name you as captain of the Sian Dragons."
 
He looked down, and started messing with a datapad on his desk. I figured that meant we were done, so I got up and went to the door. Then he called out after me.
 
"Oh, and Talia..."
 
"Yeah?"
 
"Make sure you win the match."

LotS/The Story/Talia's Team

2012-10-18T16:38:28Z

Raptor00:

[[File:LotS_Quest_Zone_11.jpg|center|Talia's Team (Planet 11)]]

<tabber>
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{{:LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Zone Intro}}
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"Team Building"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Team Building}}
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"Eye of the Dragon"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Eye of the Dragon}}
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"Scum Scrum"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Scum Scrum}}
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"Pitch Battle"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Pitch Battle}}
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"Gut-Phager"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Gut-Phager}}
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LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels

2012-10-18T16:20:34Z

Raptor00: Replaced content with "The Prince & The Pixels (Planet 12) <tabber> "The Prince & The Pixels"= {{:LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/The Prince & Th..."

[[File:LotS_Quest_Zone_12.jpg|center|The Prince & The Pixels (Planet 12)]]

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"The Prince & The Pixels"=
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LotS/The Story/Talia's Team

2012-10-18T16:05:52Z

Raptor00:

[[File:LotS_Quest_Zone_11.jpg|center|Talia's Team (Planet 11)]]

<tabber>
"Talia's Team"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Talia's Team}}
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LotS/The Story/Talia's Team

2012-10-18T15:56:24Z

Raptor00: Replaced content with "Talia's Team (Planet 11) <tabber> "Intro"= {{:LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Intro}} |-| "Talia's Team"= {{:LotS/The Story/Talia's..."

[[File:LotS_Quest_Zone_11.jpg|center|Talia's Team (Planet 11)]]

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"Intro"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Intro}}
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"Talia's Team"=
{{:LotS/The Story/Talia's Team/Talia's Team}}
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LotS/The Story/Because I'm the Wanderer/Cyan Eyes

2012-10-18T15:47:58Z

Raptor00:

'''Cyan Eyes''' 
It's the dreams that do it.
 
The same old dreams, longstanding acquaintances made familiar but not welcome by their frequent recurrences across the years and decades of your life. It would be wrong to call them nightmares. There's no gut-wrenching terror, no bitter grief to claw at your soul long after you wake. Only a sense of residual annoyance and disquiet that your subconscious has chosen to rebel against you.
 
They began when you were at school. In those days your nocturnal ramblings were as varied, weird, and wonderful as those of any child fed endless torrents of information from all quarters -- television, the information networks, books, your teachers, your peers... Innumerable things fight for space within a girl's brain, and all of them made themselves felt in your dreams, thrusting their way into the nonsensical perambulations of slumbering thought. But certain dreams recurred with unyielding determination, as though they squatted in your mind throughout the day, yearning for the moonlit hours when they might come forth to scamper around your whirling consciousness.
 
You're in one of the school buildings, bustling towards a classroom, surrounded by the friends and enemies of childhood. You go inside with the others, all of you taking your places in the good, orderly fashion of children who know that corporal punishment awaits misbehavior. A troubled sensation is already bubbling in your stomach, though you can't yet identify its cause. That's when it strikes you. The exam... You're here to take the exam. And you haven't revised. The paper is laid in front of you. The text difficult to read, changing and shifting. But you can read enough. You know that you don't have the answers. You're going to fail.
 
Even after you left school, your destiny taking you to the military academy, the dream persisted. Always the same -- still set within the environs of that former place of learning, even though you no longer walked its corridors in your waking hours. Whenever a test loomed on the horizon for which you hadn't done adequate preparation, whenever an essay would soon be due that as yet lay half-written, you'd fall asleep and be in that classroom.
 
It continued beyond that too, surprising you with its tenacity. Formal education lay behind you, left in your wake to ensnare fresh generations of children with its didactic tentacles. The armed forces of the Sian Empire became your new life. But still you dreamed that dream. If some task, some duty was undone, shunted aside for laudable reasons or else because the alluring demon of procrastination had seduced you, night found you back in that classroom ready to fail the unrevised-for exam.
 
The dreams came to serve as a warning. When they haunted your sleep, you knew that you had to accomplish whatever things were nagging at your subconscious. You accepted them as a tool of motivation, something to urge you on and compel you to tend to your duties in a responsible, timely fashion.
 
It had been a long while since you last had them. Then they returned, just the same as before, hurling you into a school building which may no longer exist, in the midst of boys and girls who haven't aged a day in decades -- frozen in youth and time even as their real selves have grown old, changed, and perhaps died.
 
For the past few days they've been niggling away at you. In the mornings you've woken with the absurd memories of failure swirling around your head. At first you couldn't even imagine what had brought about their resurrection. And then it finally occurred to you, an epiphany erupting across the surface of your brain and bathing everything in the hot glow of its explosion.
 
Yes, you feel them deep within. The blood and the darkness. Waiting for the word that will allow them to consume you. A black and crimson enigma, a mystery you can't begin to unravel. But the galaxy is vast. Perhaps there's an answer to it somewhere out there...
 
The thing you've thrust deep within mind and soul, shoved into some inner recess. There it remains, lurking and unmastered, a primal force that merely bides its time. Never forgotten, of course. That would be impossible. You'd allowed it to slip into the background of life and thought, however, like the sufferer of a disease who chooses not to dwell on their condition -- attempting instead to live each day of life as it comes.
 
Now the dreams tell you that you've neglected it for far too long.
 
You've allowed your wanderings to occupy you, filling your life with new sights and sounds and deeds. You haven't been idle. There are men, women, and children who're still alive because of your recent actions. Good people you've saved, and evil ones you've punished. In minute ways, through the tiny actions with which an individual may scratch their mark on the immensity of existence, you've made the universe a better place.
 
But you've neglected that task, that duty. You're no nearer to learning about the power that seethes in your blood, the mysterious heritage that empowered and damned you.
 
What can you do though? Even in the epiphany's light, the shadows of self-delusion chased away by its bright rays, you're left with that question. Aimless wandering is unlikely to bring you what you seek. There's enough of the Milky Way to keep you occupied for a myriad lifetimes, millions of adventures just waiting to challenge and enthrall you. But in the endless void, the seemingly infinite tapestry of space, the chances of you simply straying across a lead by chance are inconceivably remote.
 
You have to do something, find a place to begin your search for answers. But where? How?
 
Sun Xi could have helped you, if she'd lived. But she's beyond your reach now, separated by the veil of death. You've encountered many others with psionic abilities, including allies you might be able to call upon for aid. None with a fraction of Mistress Sun's power, however -- able to delve deep into the past and thus unravel the mysteries of the universe. Perhaps you could search for another psychic whose brain throbs with the same terrifying might. But how could you entrust a stranger with a secret of this magnitude?
 
There might be others like you out there...
 
This thought isn't new to you. You've pondered it many times before, in both drunken musings and sober reflection. The Emperor shared the secret. It lay within his blood as it does in yours -- an ancient link between two people unrelated by any contemporary measure. If there was common ancestry between you, it most likely lies so far back across the expanse of history as to be untraceable. Attempting to isolate it, to work your way through labyrinthine family trees that you know full well would disappear into distant darkness, would be an insurmountable task.
 
Could DNA analysis, comparing the Emperor's material with your own, yield valuable data? This too is something you've wondered about. But even if the 'chi', as he knew it, were something that could be picked out in such a way, isolated by comparing each of your genetic makeups -- which you regard as a dubious proposition -- there's only one way you could bring it about. That's by returning to Wu Tenchu and the others, asking for their aid. It isn't something you can risk. Not after everything that happened...
 
So you sit in the Silver Shadow's flight cabin, grappling with a problem that seems to have no solution. You don't even know where to start looking for one...
 
Where to start...
 
Start...
 
And then it hits you. Even at that very moment, when it blazes with all the resplendent brightness of a fresh idea, you know it's a longshot. A crazy notion plucked from the ether. And yet the very randomness of its genesis seems to imbue it with mystical importance, as though it were thrust into your brain by the hand of fate. Foolish, perhaps. But it's something...
 
So you prepare for the hyperspace jump, filled with absurd elation even as you know that this might -- likely will -- prove fruitless. At least you're doing something, making an effort to grapple with the occult mystery which surrounds you.
 
Perhaps that'll be enough to stop the dreams...
 
'''The Woman Who Waits''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a5_q1.jpg|none|The Woman Who Waits]]
Strange, colorful flora surrounds you. There are great fleshy things, like tentacles, swaying in the air high above your head -- their ends turned downwards, as though stooping to inspect you as you pass. Below these, alongside your thighs and chest, are bulbous blobs that wobble this way and that like the needles of gelatinous metronomes.
 
It's beautiful, gorgeous in spite of -- or even because of -- its bizarreness. The kind of alien landscape which makes artists reach for their tablets, writers for their datapads, and chem-addicts for their narcotics. But it wasn't always like this. Rainbows of plant life have grown over generations to conceal all evidence of the horrific combat that once raged on this very ground, churning up the soil and sowing blasted furrows with the charred body parts of slaughtered soldiers.
 
That battle helped shape the destiny of human space, ensuring the survival of the Sian Empire. It was fought by Daedun Qin, the First Emperor. It's the battle he claimed to have won with the aid of a blue dragon spirit...
 
Blue dragon. Orange eyes.
 
Scholars have debated his writings for generations, musing over what philosophical and metaphysical meanings the First Emperor may have intended his words to convey. But they don't know what you do.
 
You wander among the fantastic foliage, eyes drifting across land and sky in search of... something. Once again the notion seems ridiculous. Do you imagine that visions are like holo-vids, just waiting around until someone else comes along and decides to replay them? That the incomprehensible forces which aided Daedun Qin have been drifting around this multicolored landscape and biding their time until you deigned to visit them?
 
But the wondrous sights, the spicy-sweet blend of botanic scents, the bleep-buzzing song of the avian creatures that perch on the tall plants and weave their twisting paths overhead... These things infuse you with an inner warmth to match that of the pleasant heat against your skin. Ridiculous or not, you're glad you came here.
 
Time elapses disregarded as you wander, drinking in the world around you. You can't say whether it's minutes or an hour later that you notice her. A woman on the horizon, her back to you, the purple and cyan hues of her long dress mingling with those of the surrounding flora. Black hair cascades down her back, rippling in the gentle breeze that plays with the folds of her garment.
 
The sight of another person takes you by surprise, but only because of its suddenness after so long alone -- with only the native plants and animals to share the landscape. It's not unusual for Sian subjects to visit this former battlefield, to walk among the echoes of the empire's history.
 
Your first inclination is to turn your steps to the right or left, leaving her to whatever purpose has brought her here. But there's something about her that draws you, some vague sense of familiarity in her figure and pose that evoke your curiosity.
 
She doesn't move as you draw near, lost in whatever introspection holds her -- content to stand there as the breeze toys with her dress and hair, allowing the beauty of the world to drift over her.
 
You speak when you're still some yards away, so as not to startle her. A lone woman might not relish the unexpected appearance of a stranger at close quarters.
 
"It's a beautiful place, isn't it?" you say.
 
She turns round, her black hair dancing aside. The breath catches in your throat.
 
"It's wonderful," she replies.
 
The soft, lovely smile falters on her lips -- quelled by the way you're staring at her. You blink and exhale.
 
"I'm sorry..." you say. "You reminded me of someone."
 
The smile replenishes itself, illuminating her pretty face.
 
"Have you ever been here before?" she asks.
 
"No. I..."
 
"Me either. It's silly, but I came here looking for... something."
 
"Oh?"
 
"You're going to think I'm crazy..." She bites her lip, glances down at the ground. "But I've been having these dreams."
 
She looks up again. Her eyes widen as she reads your expression.
 
"Orange eyes?" she whispers.
 
"Yes!"
 
"You too?" She steps towards you, urgency in her gaze.
 
"What do you know?" you ask. "About..."
 
Your voice trails off, your brain unsure of what words could encapsulate and explain it all. But the woman nods.
 
"The First Emperor, and the dragon," she says. "And I know the word. Listen!"
 
She leans in close. You match the movement, bringing your ear towards her mouth, ready to hear that word from another's lips, to receive proof that you're not alone, that-
 
Your body convulses, thrown out of control, muscles wracked by powerful spasms. The fizzing crackle of electrical discharge flashes around you, in your ears and eyes and brain.
 
Legs crumple beneath you, dead and nerveless. The back of your head thuds against the soft ground.
 
The woman's smiling face fills the sky as blackness washes over you.
 
'''Windows To The Soul''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a5_q2.jpg|none|Windows To The Soul]]
"She's waking. Her thoughts are moving." A woman's voice...
 
"Yes... But I still can't penetrate them." A man's...
 
"Something's blocking us... Shielding her subconscious."
 
"The betrayer's touch?"
 
"Perhaps... The Mistress will know."
 
The voices drift across the blackness, slipping into the gathering fragments of consciousness. Your eyes open and blink, burned by brightness. There's something hard and cold under you... Metal. Uncomfortable. You try to raise your arms to block the light, try to get up off the hard surface. But your wrists are stuck, held in place by the same rigid coldness. And there's something at your neck... Softer and warmer, but still unyielding.
 
Vision clears, snapping itself into sudden sharpness. Oh... This isn't good.
 
You're fastened to a metal table, surrounded by bright lights and walls of green, holographic characters that flow in different directions like warring rivers. A man and a woman stand on either side of you, dressed in outlandish outfits -- tight azure fabric adorned with bands of glowing symbols, smooth featureless masks with glowing cyan eyes.
 
"I knew you'd let your guard down," the woman says. Her voice... "That's why I had the surgeons change my face, to look more like hers."
 
"Who are you?" you ask. "Centurians?"
 
"No," the man replies. "We serve something much greater."
 
Religious lunatics. Great...
 
"If you want the answer, you'll find it in our eyes," the woman says.
 
The cyan lights in their masks brighten, expanding in all directions as though widening to consume their entire heads.
 
You close your eyes, but it's too late. The cyan lights are inside, with you in the darkness...
 
"We couldn't get in while you slept..." Her voice is strange, echoing, distorted. "So we'll just have to use the front door instead."
 
There's only one light now, the four cyan bursts merging into a single entity. It fills your vision as it rushes to consume you.
 
'''The Vision''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a5_q3.jpg|none|The Vision]]
A cyan sun, burning and searing. Trying to force its way into your innermost mind. But you've dealt with more potent psychics than these two...
 
You concentrate on the edge of the light, willing its periphery into existence -- a place where it ends and gives way, where it finds its limitation. Your mental gaze traces the border, working its way around the brightness until its shape is clear. Defined. Restricted. Then you press in on all sides, with a thousand invisible mental arms, compressing it towards its center.
 
"She's strong!" the woman gasps. There's shock in her voice.
 
The man says nothing. But there's a faint, masculine groan.
 
You were trained to resist psionic attacks. And more importantly, you had Sun Xi in your mind -- testing you and strengthening you with her presence. These masked morons are nothing compared to her.
 
Your eyes flick open. The man and woman are reeling. The cyan lights in their masks blink, going alternately bright and dull.
 
"Very impressive."
 
Another woman's voice... She's somewhere beyond the upper edge of the table, where your head lies fastened in place -- unable to turn and glimpse her.
 
People move into your field of vision, dressed in the same costumes as the man and woman. They take hold of their disoriented comrades, steady them as they recover.
 
"But I expected no less."
 
The voice is still coming from the same place -- the speaker isn't among those who now crowd around the lower half of the table, gazing down at you from their expressionless masks and glowing eyes.
 
"Her subconscious was impenetrable," the first woman says. "So we-"
 
"No matter," the unseen one replies. "Her mind will open to us."
 
"Who are you people?" you ask. "How did you know about..."
 
"We're her children, her disciples."
 
"Why is that when people find religion they stop giving straight answers? Whose children?"
 
"You'll see..."
 
This time it's a dozen eyes that blaze from featureless faces, swarming and swirling around the edge of your vision... Like vultures waiting for a fresh corpse...
 
Something plunges into you with so much force that it seems to pierce your skull and part your brain. By the time you realize it wasn't physical, that your body is intact and your mind perceiving only a simulacrum of agony, she's inside.
 
The unseen woman's talons are clawing around, trying to force aside your inner defenses, probe deep into your mind.
 
Colors swim in the darkness, blending and blurring across your mental vision.
 
"Behold..."
 
Two cyan eyes glimmer in the midst of the color-strewn void. They're like those in the masks, but far greater -- pregnant with power that makes your teeth ache, your bones shudder.
 
"See her..."
 
The eyes are getting bigger, closer. Some of the colors are swirling around it, rivers of paint flowing together. An image is forming, coalescing around the cyan orbs -- framing them.
 
"Look upon the image of the Far-Seer."
 
'''A Dangerous Mind''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a5_q4.jpg|none|A Dangerous Mind]]
A monstrous azure visage, a horrific face. It roars amid the maelstrom, its jaws spewing tides of primordial chaos. Nascent features undulate, blurring and unblurring, parting and merging, as though the creature's might is struggling against the very limitations of existence.
 
But the cyan orbs are unflinching, unchanging. Solid and blazing and unalterable. They're glowering, eyeing the mind they plan to rip asunder.
 
The colors tighten, flowing together and solidifying, giving final shape to the abomination they've summoned forth. It's demonic, reptilian... Draconic. A visage of wickedness that's almost primal, ingrained into the mind of man -- tainting his myths and theology with its ill-remembered violent majesty. It's an image to evoke terror, to herald destruction.
 
And yet that isn't what flashes across the tortured reaches of your mind. Instead there's... Recognition.
 
Yes... You've seen it... her... before. That's impossible. Where could... How... But it's true. Seen her face, heard her voice.
 
The dragon roars. You ignore it. Trying to distract you, stop you thinking. Pain explodes across your consciousness, a million different agonies screaming for your attention. You thrust them aside.
 
Where was it? What did she say?
 
"I see further still, to a time when your blood will flow across the void, blazing beneath a thousand burning suns."
 
There!
 
A door, so utterly sealed that it had melded into the very fabric of your mind, hidden behind a facade of nonexistence, flies open. No, not a door... A dam, breaking apart and unleashing the flood.
 
Oceans of sight and sound and smell and taste and texture crash down in one gigantic wave, an existential tsunami that washes over the dragon's face and scatters it into disparate colors once more. Only the eyes remain, disembodied and furious.
 
"There!" the unseen woman shrieks.
 
It isn't a cry of anguish. There's anxiousness, desperation, but also... victory. This is what she wanted. What she thrust herself into your mind to steal. No... it's more. She didn't expect all this. She's shocked, filled with avaricious glee. An ocean of impossible memory, so vast and varied as to be incomprehensible. But even now you can see little pieces of lucidity among it all, like crystals awash on the tide. Recollections that can be grasped and understood.
 
Dozens of hands are reaching for them, grabbing, snatching -- trying to loot what they can. Part of you yearns to join them, to take hold of these priceless treasures, unravel them and fathom them, gain their forbidden knowledge.
 
There isn't time. You have to stop them before they can pillage your mind, before they get what they want and can dispose of you while you lie helpless on the metal table.
 
Recognizing the dragon opened the way for them. Provided them with a shortcut to their plunder. It's served you as well, however. Your mind is clear, freed from the draconic assault. It's still swarming with invaders, but they're busy looting...
 
You have a chance. Could battle free, take command of your body, and... No. Still fastened to the table. Strong bonds. Trapped. Need a different plan, another strategy.
 
Oh... Their minds are in yours. Connected...
 
You rise up from the darkness, filling your flesh like warm liquid poured into a mold. Once it reaches your lips, you speak.
 
"Kasan."
 
The word bursts from your mouth and the dark fire flares around the edges of your vision. Agony, despair... Torment jabbing itself into each fold of your brain.
 
"Kasan."
 
Illaria's standing there, screaming in anguish. The Emperor's fist strikes her face, explodes her skull, bursts her brain.
 
"Kasan."
 
Redness. Everywhere redness. Forever and ever. And you understand.
 
"Kasan."
 
People are screaming. Some are in your mind, some are in your memories, some are around you. It doesn't matter. All the same.
 
You understand. The power of your blood, the thing these people want to steal... Awakened by trauma, by fury, by anguish. By the sight of Illaria's death. Redness. Power and pain bound together, inextricably woven. One and the same. That's why...
 
"Kasan."
 
Illaria. Death. Failure. Grief.
 
They tear through you like bullets, shredding your sanity. But shredding theirs as well. And they've never experienced it before...
 
"Kasan."
 
They aren't as strong as you. This is a power they have no right to.
 
They're staggering, screaming, thrashing. Hands are pressed to heads, as though trying to hold their skulls together. Blood's gushing from ears, spilling out under the masks from noses and mouths.
 
"Kasan!"
 
The shout is the judgment of the universe, irresistible and final. You wrench your body, feel the metal yield and break as your wrists tear free, your neck rip its way through the strap.
 
A million Illarias die before your eyes. Your heart dies a million deaths.
 
But they die too.
 
The masked men and women fall, a collection of arrhythmic thuds. You can hear them convulsing on the floor, their hemorrhaging brains making them dance like broken puppets.
 
You smile as you tumble into the familiar blackness.
 
'''Kalaxian Cult-Mistress''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z10_a5.jpg|none|Kalaxian Cult-Mistress]]
"Urgh..."
 
The groan comes from somewhere above your head, drawing your swimming mind into half-consciousness.
 
The unseen woman... She must have got out of your mind in time -- escaped before taking the brunt of it. Only knocked out instead of killed like the others. You were both unconscious. Sleeping enemies.
 
"You..." she murmurs.
 
She's groggy, but she's pulling herself together. It doesn't matter. You're free now.
 
You swing your legs off the metal table. Your feet are unsteady when they touch the floor. You have to grab the table to steady yourself.
 
There's the cult's mistress -- down on one knee, recovering her strength just as you are. Her mask is different from the others. It only covers the upper half of her face, revealing her pursed lips below. Four cyan eyes glimmer from its metal, giving it a strange, alien appearance. Flowing black hair and azure robes pool around her in waves, making her seem drowned and disheveled.
 
"Just so you know," you say, "I'm going to beat some answers out of you before I kill you."
 
The woman's lips draw back in a sneer.
 
"Kalaxia watches over me."
 
She grabs for the weapons at her belt.
 
----
 
She cries out in horror or surprise. It's hard to tell which, and a woman who's had a corpse thrown at her might be entitled to either emotion.
 
You didn't have a weapon. She had two, one of them ranged. You had to do something about that... So you dropped down when she started shooting, using the table for cover, grabbed a corpse, and hurled it at her.
 
The pistol flies from her hand, dislodged by her minion's posthumous betrayal.
 
You vault over the table before she can recover it, forcing her to meet your attack with her sword alone. It's a fine weapon from the looks of it -- a broad blade sheathed in pulsing, crackling cyan energy. But a sword's only as good as the arm that wields it.
 
She swings the weapon in both hands. You step in close and grab her forearms, thwarting the blow. She howls in frustration. Then she screams in pain, as the sole of your boot stomps at her leg -- inverting her knee joint with sickening crunch. The sword falls from her grasp, sparking and clattering on the floor.
 
But you don't let her fall to join it. Instead you keep your grasp on her arms, holding her up even as she desperately tries to keep the weight off her broken leg -- not an easy task when your body is trying to collapse that way.
 
"Now, about those questions..."
 
"Kalaxia!" the woman shrieks.
 
Blood gushes from her nose, erupts from her ears with so much force that it shoots from her head in either direction like a pair of crimson blaster bolts.
 
A psionic suicide technique. The equivalent of a cyanide-filled tooth.
 
You shrug, and let her body fall.
 
Even if you can't question her, you have something. Kalaxia... You can do some investigating, and see where that name leads. You doubt a bunch of lunatic, uniformed cultists have gone unnoticed in their forays around the galaxy.
 
And you have more besides...
 
You remember. The places you went with Sun Xi, the things she showed you... Much of it is a blur, just as it was back then. A swift sensory experience. But some of it remains clear and firm. You remember the woman you met in that place of nothingness, the warrior from a long-forgotten world. The hero who helped you find your way back home.
 
Forbidden knowledge shimmers in your mind.
 
You doubt you'll be having that dream tonight...

LotS/The Story/Because I'm the Wanderer/The Butler Did It

2012-10-18T15:40:18Z

Raptor00:

'''The Butler Did It''' 
"The butler did it!"
 
You whirl round, slashing your arm through the air like the blade of a scythe and punctuating the sentence by transfixing the named individual with a pointing finger. You're somewhat taken aback when an ominous, dramatic musical score sounds at that exact instant -- underscoring your words with its 'dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn'. You sweep the room with your gaze, but there's no sign of its origin.
 
"You triggered the ship's ambiance systems," the robotic manservant explains. "It believed you were performing a denunciation."
 
"Oh..."
 
Your pointing finger remains frozen in place for several seconds, like an unsheathed weapon denied the tasting of blood and now left hovering in awkward indecision. The butler glances at it for a long moment. Then he meets your gaze, somehow managing to convey the full measure of his disapproval without marring his aspect of outward politeness.
 
You withdraw the offending digit.
 
"As I was saying... The butler did it." This time you refrain from flourishing gestures. "He's the one who invited me aboard."
 
A few of the lounge's dubiously dressed occupants frown. Others roll their eyes. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all...
 
----
 
"This is the Mysterious Murder, requesting aid from any nearby spacecraft. We've had an... unfortunate incident... and are in need of assistance. The matter would most properly be addressed by someone with a previous background in law enforcement."
 
That was the message that came over the Silver Shadow's communications system, floating on a suave and sophisticated accent that didn't quite manage to conceal the speaker's perturbation. It hadn't been directed at you in particular. You were invisible to the other vessel, as to anyone else who might have been nearby. Rather it was an eloquent and enigmatic cry for help, delivered as though to the galaxy at large.
 
It succeeded in capturing your attention, at any rate. You accepted the visual feed which accompanied the audio. A robot appeared on the screen, clad in an immaculate butler's outfit of the kind you'd seen on flesh and blood servants at Novocastrian functions.
 
"I'm sorry," you said, opening the channel at your end, "did I hear that right? Mysterious Murder?"
 
"Your hearing was indeed accurate, sir."
 
"That's the name of your ship?"
 
"Quite so. I must commend sir on grasping the obvious with such masterful aplomb." He gave a faint sigh before he continued, bespeaking the air of one who'd been forced to explain that curious matter of onomastics innumerable times in the past. "This vessel is what one might refer to as a... novelty ship. A place of entertainment. It hosts murder mystery events, in which guests are invited to play the roles of detectives and solve a simulated homicide."
 
"I see... So, what's the problem?"
 
"I fear that it's a rather delicate matter. May I ask to whom I'm speaking? The communication console appears unable to identify your spacecraft."
 
"That's a rather delicate matter as well."
 
"Ah..."
 
A few moments elapsed in silence, pregnant with the contemplations of two individuals pondering their secrets and the navigation of warring discretions.
 
"If you want someone in law enforcement, try one of the emergency channels," you said. "You'll have better luck that way."
 
"Regrettably, that course of action is unfeasible. I'm not at liberty to inform the duly constituted authorities. However, there's nothing to prevent me from seeking aid from a private individual who may happen to have a background in such a profession."
 
Things were becoming more curious by the minute. At that point, you just had to get involved.
 
"Your accent... Novocastrian, I believe?"
 
"Quite correct, sir. The Mysterious Murder is registered as a Novocastrian vessel, though of course my own possession of the accent is the result of technology rather than nurture."
 
"One moment..."
 
You closed the channel, and spent some minutes sending another transmission. It proved fruitful. A short time after that, you heard from the Mysterious Murder and its mechanical majordomo again.
 
"We've just received a communication from Lady Hollister, a figure for whom my late master had the utmost respect. Whilst the good lady was reticent about identifying you, sir, she assured me that you're an individual of both considerable talent and boundless irreproachability. In fact, she went on to apply numerous unflattering epithets to any hypothetical parties who might say anything to the contrary."
 
That made you smile. Lady Hollister had always been a loyal friend. According to unconfirmed reports from Novocastria -- political rumors regurgitated on broadcasts to fill tiny slivers of the perpetual news cycle -- she even went so far as to knock Edmund Rochester spinning when he traduced you in the parliamentary bar.
 
"Perhaps you would care to come aboard the Mysterious Murder, sir?"
 
A short while later, you stood in a lobby that might have been cut wholesale from a Novocastrian stately home. It was rendered in sumptuous decadence, emulating and imitating an architectural style from Earth which the butler told you was called 'Victorian'.
 
"Lord Ponsonby was a devotee of detective fiction from what he considered to be the heyday of the art," he explained. "A period of time encompassing portions of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. When he attained considerable success in his business dealings, he chose to use his newfound wealth to have the Mysterious Murder commissioned. The holo-tabloids said the most scandalous and derisory things when they learned of his desire, causing my late master to inflict bodily injury on several ill-bred journalists.
 
"For over thirty years, this ship was host to gatherings of the kind I described to you. Guests would arrive in the guise of their favorite sleuths from the portion of literary history favored by Lord Ponsonby, and proceed to match their wits against the various ingenious crimes he had us enact. Alas, his lordship passed away a few months ago. This is the first such event to take place without his august presence."
 
"If he's dead, who arranged all this?" you asked.
 
"I did, sir. His lordship was most explicit in his last will and testament. He instructed that murder mysteries continue to be held aboard this vessel, conducted according to the very rules he'd established, and that the costs be paid from the wealth of his estate."
 
You nodded. It seemed simple enough. Eccentric, perhaps -- but simple.
 
"So what went wrong?"
 
"There's been a murder, sir."
 
"Isn't that supposed to happen?"
 
"A real murder, sir. A genuine act of homicidal violence. One of the guests was found in his stateroom, slain. The gentleman had been stabbed through the heart."
 
"Has the killer been identified?"
 
"No, sir. But the list of suspects isn't extensive. All but four of the guests were in the main lounge when the crime appears to have taken place, enjoying a pleasant soiree. And all the servants have likewise been accounted for. Alibies are to be found in abundance."
 
"Four including the victim?"
 
"That's correct, sir."
 
"Could it have been suicide?"
 
"The weapon had been removed from the body. Though I confess to being no detective myself, I believe this happenstance indicates murder."
 
"So why not just call the authorities, and ask them to investigate?"
 
"While he lived, Lord Ponsonby was firm in his desire to avoid further embarrassment in the media. He therefore had all his guests sign legally binding documents in which they agreed that... to express it in colloquial terms... what happens on the Mysterious Murder stays on the Mysterious Murder. Even when two distinguished members of parliament came to blows in a stateroom following a drunken romantic tryst, the matter was never spoken of beyond this vessel."
 
"But Lord Ponsonby's dead..."
 
"Nevertheless, the terms of his will are abundantly clear. The rule must still be adhered to, and his posthumous reputation safeguarded. That was the source of my conundrum, which your presence here should solve. Given Lady Hollister's high opinion of your abilities, perhaps you'll be able to interview the three suspects and determine which of them carried out the crime."
 
"Wait... What about the other guests? If they're all amateur detectives, couldn't they solve the murder?"
 
"I did consider that possibility, sir, but it seemed... undesirable. The thought of a dozen budding sleuths fighting over clues, getting in one another's way, and clashing their -- if I may be so bold as to say -- immense egos together... Over the past decades I've seen what tends to result from such a state of affairs. I don't believe it would be most conducive to dealing with the problem at hand."
 
"I see. I don't suppose the ship's cameras..."
 
The butler gave a small cough.
 
"No cameras?"
 
"None, sir. Lord Ponsonby felt that such modern methods of crime-solving would be entirely out of place on a vessel such as the Mysterious Murder."
 
"And I suppose DNA testing of the crime scene..."
 
Another cough.
 
"Lord Ponsonby-"
 
"I think I get the picture," you replied.
 
"His lordship was most ardent that crimes be solved using methods of detection appropriate for the golden age of sleuthing of which he was so fond."
 
You sighed.
 
"Perhaps if I waterboarded the three suspects..."
 
The butler's gasp of horror reminded you that some of the methods you've employed in the service of the Sian Empire aren't necessarily suitable for every situation.
 
"Fine! I'll see what I can do."
 
"Thank you, sir! I assure you that I'm most grateful for your assistance."
 
"First, I need to see the crime scene."
 
"Actually, it would be advisable to see the other guests first. They're waiting for us in the lounge. When I announced that I was bringing in an 'outsider', some of them became rather... undignified in their remonstrance. I hope that by speaking with them you might put their minds at rest and prevent any unpleasantness which could interfere with the smooth running of your investigation."
 
"If you insist. Lead the way."
 
The butler paused for a long moment. His face was the product of splendid engineering. It displayed his sense of awkwardness with as much eloquence as any organic visage could have managed.
 
"Sir, I fear there's something you should know before meeting our guests. You may find them rather... Bizarre."
 
"Bizarre? Men and women who spend their leisure time dressing up as old-fashioned detectives so they can solve made-up crimes? Surely not..."
 
The butler's lips twitched in the faintest of smiles, as though appreciative of your sarcasm.
 
"I'm afraid that it goes well beyond that. You see, in accordance with Lord Ponsonby's edicts, and indeed a general sense of propriety, our guests spend the entire duration of their time on the vessel in-character. They behave as if they were the literary figures they portray."
 
"You're joking?"
 
"Alas, no. I assure you that under normal circumstances the effect is most gratifying, and adds a certain ambiance to the affair. However, it may prove... inconvenient... given the seriousness of the situation at hand."
 
"So I'm going to be talking to a bunch of Victorian detectives?"
 
"Well, that description wouldn't apply to all our guests. But, to a certain degree... Yes. With the exception of a few necessities, they will retain their adopted personas."
 
"Necessities?"
 
"A genuine lady or gentleman from the nineteenth century might be expected to express some shock at encountering a robot manservant, or one of our alien guests. Lord Ponsonby was content for such things to be glossed over."
 
"Alien guests?"
 
"Yes, sir. A few guests belonging to alien species have attended these murder mysteries over the years -- those who share his lordship's love of classic detective fiction in spite of their vastly different cultural backgrounds. In fact, one of the three suspects is a Snuuth."
 
Upon seeing that he'd given you enough to consider for the moment, the butler led you off to the lounge.
 
----
 
"Preposterous!"
 
"Unseemly!"
 
"Quite absurd!"
 
"An affront!"
 
"Who is this person, anyway? Some sort of ruffian from the look of him!"
 
These and several other expressions of disapproval, outrage, surprise, and disdain bombard you from all quarters. For a bunch of people dressed like fools, the Mysterious Murder's guests are very judgmental...
 
"Ladies and gentlemen," the butler says, "if I may request a modicum of calm..."
 
"Calm?" splutters a man in a yellow-brown jacket, sporting an iron-grey moustache. "Calm? A man lies dead, and a friend of mine is being dishonored by base suspicion. Dash it all, man -- does this sound like a time for calm?"
 
At this pronouncement, there's a general intake of breath -- which you interpret as a replenishing of oxygen supplies before a second volley of discontent. You wince, preparing to weather the storm. But the barrage doesn't come. Instead there's a soft, almost imperceptible cough. The impending torrent dies on their lips. All heads turn to regard a slim gentleman at the back of the room.
 
He was silent while the others shouted, content simply to stare at you with a steady and enigmatic gaze. Thus you now hear his voice for the first time, and when he speaks it's with soothing dignity enveloped in a French accent.
 
"My friends," he says, "I think this gentleman is more suited to the task than you might imagine."
 
"Monsieur Dupin," says the man in the yellow-brown jacket, "surely you're not willing to accept this upstart's presence here?"
 
But there's a hint of uncertainty in his voice now. And most of the others are studying you with newfound interest -- as though trying to see what this Dupin fellow saw in you.
 
"Have you ever dealt with a murderer before?" a young man asks.
 
The guests' scrutiny intensifies. Dozens of eyes scan your face. As many ears wait to hear what you'll say. Now that you have an opening, the right answer might forestall a fresh eruption of disgruntlement...
 
You glance at the butler, remembering what he said about things on the Mysterious Murder remaining aboard the Mysterious Murder. You hope he was right.
 
"I was the one who brought down Colonel Mustard," you say, your eyes drifting from face to face.
 
"What?" The man in the yellow-brown jacket jumps to his feet. "You most certainly did not! I-"
 
"He's talking about the infamous Sussurran murderer, dear," an elderly woman says.
 
"Oh... Yes. Of course. Splendid. Jolly good show." He sits back down, looking suitably abashed.
 
"And I'm the one who caught Nemo, the space pirate."
 
You can almost hear the thoughts clicking into place inside their heads.
 
"That means you're..." the old woman says. "Oh."
 
Noiselessness flits around the lounge.
 
"A man fully aware of the scope of human evil," muses a short, stumpy gentleman in the attire of a Catholic priest. "You can think like a murderer. That gives you an advantage."
 
Similar sentiments are murmured from other lips. It seems that you're done here... So you excuse yourself, and ask the butler to take you to the crime scene.
 
----
 
"Who was he?" you ask.
 
"Our guests' identities are-" the robot begins.
 
"His character, I mean."
 
"Sexton Blake."
 
"Who?"
 
"A British detective who was a prominent figure on the literary stage for some decades."
 
"Oh."
 
Whoever he was, he's solved his last pseudo-mystery. The wound in his chest tells the story. No need for any hard detective work there. He was stabbed through the left side of his chest, the blade passing through the jacket and waistcoat of his dark three-piece suit at an angle that would have put it through his heart. And the murderer wasn't content to leave things there. His face lies ruined, slashed at least a dozen times by what you assume was the edge of the same weapon.
 
"These were done after he was killed," you observe. "You can tell by the blood."
 
The butler says nothing. You glance up at him.
 
"Forgive me, sir, but Lord Ponsonby instructed me to always play the role of the detached manservant rather than the fawning, overly-impressed companion."
 
No other signs of damage or injury. His sleeves and hands are unblemished.
 
The room -- a spacious lounge and dining chamber -- is similarly unmarred, save for the blood that's soaked into the rug beneath the corpse. Its door shows no sign of having been forced, nor has anything been knocked aside. Only the dead man himself, lying on his back in the middle of the floor, provides evidence of the violence which took place there.
 
As a matter of course you explore the rest of the suite, but it's just a formality. Those slashes to the face... This wasn't a robbery. Sure enough, the other rooms are just as neat. They haven't been ransacked.
 
"What's this?" you ask.
 
You spot it when you return to the main room. On the lip of the stone fireplace...
 
"It appears to be a pile of ash, sir. Part of the aesthetic effect."
 
The butler indicates the larger grey heap deeper within, where a fire would burn. But those ashes are different...
 
"A clue!"
 
Once more the butler seems underwhelmed by your discovery. So you content yourself with transferring the ash to a little bag he provides and sealing it within. That accomplished, you head out into the corridor.
 
"I think it's time I met these suspects of yours."
 
'''Elementary, My Dear (name)''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a4_q1.jpg|none|Elementary, My Dear %name%]]
"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to accompany you, sir?"
 
"Thanks, but I don't think I'll have much need for a detached manservant."
 
"Very good, sir."
 
The butler hands you the key, bows his head, turns around, and glides away in the appropriate manner of a trained (or in this case 'built') servant -- almost noiseless, just audible enough to prevent his employers from engaging in embarrassing indiscretions while he's nearby.
 
You pause outside the first of the doors he directed you to, hand raised in preparation for a knock. A simple matter of courtesy -- to announce your presence and make sure the man within is decent before you unlock the door and push it open. Then you remember that you're a detective, and that the door in front of you has a keyhole...
 
On a whim, you crouch down and put your eye to the small hole. It's purely an affectation. There are no tumblers and so forth in the wood around it. Instead the key's systems will trigger and disengage a series of electronic mechanisms. But the hole works just as well when it comes to prying into other people's affairs. And isn't that what being a detective's all about?
 
Based on this portion of its contents, the room beyond is a study. There's a desk across from the door, positioned beneath a large window. Sunlight pours through the glass, spilling over the dark wood and across the floor like a cascade of golden liquid. Holographic windows -- you saw them elsewhere on the ship. Designed to conceal the fact that you're on a spacecraft. These furnishings and a bookcase full of old-fashioned, leather-bound tomes are all that reward your spying. Probably not enough evidence to incriminate a man...
 
So you stand up and knock.
 
"One moment!"
 
The urgency in the voice, masked as it is by a veneer of friendly nonchalance, doesn't escape you. There's a sound of hurried footsteps from within. You drop back down to the keyhole. The suite's occupant, your suspect, is standing at the desk. He shoves something into one of its drawers, and closes it with a swift yet controlled motion -- careful not to let the wood make a telltale scraping noise. This accomplished, he tugs at his left shirt sleeve, neatening it and fastening it at the wrist. Then he moves across the room, out of sight once more.
 
"Do come in!" he says at last.
 
You put the key in the lock. It clicks open, issuing a counterfeit sound to match the archaic pretense.
 
When you open the door, the man is sitting in an armchair by the blazing fireplace, watching the dancing flames. He's wearing a long coat now, and a deerstalker hat -- a form of headwear made famous by the individual he's masquerading as, its name known to you purely because of the endless stream of movie and videogame adverts you've seen in which the renowned character sports it. His left hand holds a pipe in the corner of his mouth. A wisp of white smoke snakes upwards from its bowl.
 
He turns his head to face you, the gesture so casual it's hard to believe that he was darting across the room just a few moments before. If he feels any trepidation, even a hint of anxiety, it doesn't show in his intelligent, piercing eyes.
 
"I'm-" you begin.
 
He holds up his right hand, palm outward as though to bar the words that are about to tumble from your mouth.
 
"You're a skilled pilot, accustomed to being on military spacecraft for long periods of time. But you're also highly proficient in personal combat, well beyond the level to which it's customary to train a pilot. In particular, you're skilled in kung fu -- the Chinese form of fighting. This martial prowess was advantageous in your career as a bodyguard. You have my condolences. I see that the lady you were tasked with protecting is no longer with us. You cared about her a great deal."
 
Words freeze on your tongue and slip back down your throat. He's recognized you! That's the only explanation. You've been around enough psychics that you would have felt the warning signs if he'd tried to root around in your brain through psionic means. He knows who you are. But how?
 
You glance down at your nose.
 
"And you're wearing a holographic disguise," he adds.
 
You frown. You'd put it on so that your true identity wouldn't prove a distraction when it came to interviewing the suspects. For naught, it seems.
 
"Who told you?"
 
"No one. It was a matter of elementary deduction. Please..." He gestures at the armchair on the other side of the fire.
 
You sit down, mind reeling.
 
"You can tell a great deal about a man from the manner in which he walks. And your stride is that of a longtime spacefarer. From the way you balance and distribute your weight, you're accustomed to navigating the corridors of a ship even in dangerous conditions -- when gravitational systems fail or the vessel is buffeted by enemy weapons fire. But the quick movements of your eyes are those of a pilot, not merely a crewman."
 
"Okay..." you reply, still dubious, "...but how did you know I was a bodyguard?"
 
"When you entered the room, you scanned it for threats in a way so natural and instinctive that it would have escaped the notice of most observers. But your instincts weren't for self-preservation. From the manner of your entry, you're used to placing yourself between a perceived threat and the person behind you. However, there are already the faintest signs of atrophy around this ingrained behavior. This leads me to conclude that your service in this capacity came to an end. And if you'll forgive me, your eyes betray a certain melancholy."
 
"How did you know she was a woman? That I..."
 
"Cared for her? Losing a woman always leaves a special mark."
 
He glances at a photograph on the mantelpiece. It shows an attractive girl in Victorian garb.
 
"And the kung fu?"
 
"That was perfectly evident." His gaze returns to meet yours. "During the aforementioned entry, your body was prepared to strike out at any hypothetical ambushers you might have encountered. In particular, your left arm was ready to drive against an enemy's solar plexus in the form of exaggerated straight left lunge, driven by the rear leg, more common in Chinese fighting systems. However, at the same time there was a slight motion in your right leg indicative of a potential kick should danger come from another direction instead. On its own, it may have belonged to any number of fighting arts -- such as savate. But when coupled with the nature of the punch..."
 
"That's amazing!"
 
"Watson often tells me much the same. But I fear that in the present investigation my role is that of a suspect rather than a consulting detective."
 
"Yes, I'm afraid so. I believe the butler has spoken to you about what happened?"
 
"He informed me that Sexton Blake had been murdered, and that I and two other individuals were regarded as suspects -- as the other guests had been in the main lounge for some considerable length of time when the crime was discovered."
 
"Exactly. Can you tell me what you were doing while the soiree was going on?"
 
A slight redness creeps into the detective's face, so subtle that you can't be sure it's not the effect of the fire. He glances at the photograph once more -- a gesture so swift that an ill-timed blink might have stolen it from you.
 
"I was working on my latest monograph." His voice betrays nothing. Perhaps you were imagining things... "It concerns the dropping of letters in a range of regional English accents from different social classes."
 
He leans towards the fireplace and upends his pipe, emptying out a little heap of ash. Most of it falls into the flame. But you track the descent of those ashes which go wide, falling onto the ironwork instead, with eager eyes.
 
"Would you like to examine it?" he asks.
 
"Excuse me?" you reply, wondering if he's discerned your train of thought.
 
"The monograph."
 
"No, that's quite all right."
 
A faint smile twitches his lips.
 
"Where are my manners? In the absence of my housekeeper or Watson, I suppose it falls on me to offer you a cup of tea."
 
"Thanks. Milk. Two sugars."
 
"I shan't be long."
 
He stands up and heads towards a doorway at the opposite end of the room. The moment he disappears from sight, you rise as well.
 
You make for the desk first, training and the thick, soft rug muffling your footsteps. A glimpse of Victorian London greets you through the window, of smoggy buildings and horse-drawn cabs. But you don't have a chance to drink it in at leisure. Your attention is directed elsewhere... From the movements you saw through the keyhole, he used the middle drawer -- the one above the leg space. You pull it open, taking as much care as he did when closing it. Your eyes widen.
 
The drawer is filled with small bottles, alongside a large leather case. You open the latter, tilting the lid up against the hinges on its upper length. It contains a fancy looking glass syringe. You close it, and grab one of the small bottles -- turning it to disclose the label. Cocaine. The great detective is a chem-abuser.
 
You return the bottle and close the drawer. The sound of clinking china comes from somewhere beyond the doorway. It isn't close. He's still making the tea, not bringing it in.
 
So you dart over to the fireplace, crouch down, and annex the spilled ash. Then you hold it up in the palm of one hand, letting it bask in the artificial sunlight, whilst pulling out the sample from the murder scene with the other.
 
To your intense disappointment, they don't match. Even to your untrained eye, it's clear from their color and texture that each came from a different type of tobacco. You tip your hand over the fire, disposing of the ashes from Holmes' pipe.
 
You're sat in the armchair when the detective returns with the tea tray, pretending to amuse yourself by gazing into the flames.
 
"Good tea," you say, after a sip. In truth your palate for English teas is no more refined than that of a Niflung berserker. But you felt obliged to say something complimentary.
 
"Brewing tea is an elementary matter of chemistry -- a field of scientific endeavor with which a man in my position has reason to be familiar."
 
For some time the two of you simply drink your tea and share meaningless banter. It's when you set your cup down empty on its saucer and Holmes does the same that you return to the investigation like two fighters leaving their corners at the ringing of the bell.
 
"What did you think of Sexton Blake?" you ask.
 
"His death represents a tremendous loss to our profession."
 
"He was good then? I hadn't heard of him before."
 
Holmes' eyes narrow.
 
"It's says very little to the credit of human civilization that one of the finest detectives in literary history has been forgotten so."
 
'''Psychological Detective''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a4_q2.jpg|none|Psychological Detective]]
"Come in, mon ami!"
 
You step into a new room and, apparently, a new century. It's a large, bright chamber -- furnished in a manner that you know is archaic, yet somehow manages to seem modern and stylish compared with Holmes' Victorian apartment. Everything is neat and trim, with an abundance of straight, orderly lines supplemented by only the most obedient of curves. The term 'art deco' appears in your mind. You forget where you might have come across it or what exactly it entails. Nevertheless, it somehow seems fitting.
 
In this world of straight lines, the person ensconced in a red leather armchair stands out quite considerably -- an island of roundness in the middle of precise linearity. So this is the Snuuth suspect the butler told you about... He's as rotund as many of his species, his belly an impressive, mountainous bulge. His clothing is immaculate, even if it does seem comprised of enough material to create a substantial tent. The black jacket and trousers, light grey waistcoat, white shirt, and red bowtie are all perfectly pressed, brushed, laundered, or whatever verbs and treatment might best be administered to the respective articles of a gentleman's attire. You don't think you've ever laid eyes upon such a fastidious Snuuth before.
 
A remarkable black moustache adorns his lip, waxed into fine, glistening points that look as if they could take someone's eyes out.
 
"Mr. Hercule Poirot, I believe? I'm here to investigate the murder of Sexton Blake."
 
"Of course. I wondered how long it would be before the estimable butler, he found a man most suitable for this unpleasant task. Between you and me, I am relieved that he did not select another member of our... how you say... little detective gang. They are charming -- especially Mademoiselle Marple -- but some of them have the ideas most confused about our profession. They become obsessed with the details most trivial, when instead one must focus on understanding the psychology of a crime."
 
"Um... Yes..." you reply, taken aback. You've never heard a Snuuth with that kind of accent before. The effect is quite something.
 
"Please, be seated," he says, indicating an identical chair opposite him, on the other side of a square table. "May I offer you a crème de cassis before we begin?"
 
"No, thank you. I don't think the butler would like me to drink and detect."
 
"A coffee perhaps?"
 
"Sure. Thank you."
 
"Bon."
 
You don't particularly want the drink. But you do want to see him move...
 
When he does so, getting up from the chair and trotting off to the kitchen, it's with surprising grace for a person of his considerable girth. You've noticed this among Snuuth before. Some of them may seem to be walking piles of fat, but they have a great deal of muscular power underneath. He could have struck the fatal blow with ease.
 
You explore the room while awaiting his return, inspecting the various artworks and searching for anything which might be deemed a clue. You even examine the canes and umbrellas in the stand by the door -- wondering how useful an umbrella could possibly be on a spaceship -- but find that none of them contain a hidden blade. If the murder weapon is somewhere in this apartment, it's concealed better than that.
 
Poirot returns with two cups of coffee, and the two of you resume your seats.
 
"There're a lot of French detectives onboard, aren't there?" you say.
 
"You are right, mon ami. Messieurs Dupin and Rouletabille, par example. But I am not among them. I, Hercule Poirot, am Belgian."
 
Your mind scrambles to process that information, and associate it with a proper piece of historical or geographical knowledge. But it's some seconds before anything comes to mind.
 
"Like the waffles?"
 
Poirot frowns.
 
"Yes... Like the 'waffles'." He says the word in the same way a prudish person might say 'whores'.
 
But the good humor returns to his face as he reaches over to a little side table beside his armchair and picks up a colorful cardboard box. He places this between your coffee mugs in the exact center of the larger table, adjusting it ever so slightly until the edges of box and table are precisely parallel.
 
"And also like the chocolates."
 
He opens the box, disclosing two dozen or so delectable squares, circles, and diamonds. You take one of them between thumb and forefinger out of politeness, and transfer it to your mouth. Your teeth penetrate the chocolate shell, exposing an exquisite, flavorful creaminess within. Your eyes widen. It suddenly occurs to you that your lack of knowledge concerning Belgian matters is a deficit you should remedy at greater length later on.
 
But for the moment, there's the small matter of the crime...
 
"Where were you during the soiree?"
 
"I was here all evening, reading a mystery novel written by my good friend, Ariadne Oliver."
 
"Did you know the victim?"
 
"I was acquainted with him. One of the breed of detective most tiresome, who believe that cases should be solved with duels -- as if fisticuffs were a proper substitute for the little grey cells!"
 
"The what?"
 
"The little grey cells! If you are to find the killer, you must exercise them! It is about the psychology, the method, the mental processes by which we may arrive at the truth."
 
"I see..."
 
He reaches into his jacket and withdraws a silver case from an inner pocket, opening it to reveal a number of tiny cigarettes. You shake your head when tilts it towards you. He removes one. It's like a toothpick in his hand.
 
This suspect likes to talk, you muse as he lights his cigarette and retrieves an ashtray -- which he places on the table alongside his coffee cup. Perhaps you can use that to your advantage...
 
"So, you didn't care much for Blake's work?"
 
"I most certainly did not."
 
"Perhaps you were glad when you learned he'd been bumped off?"
 
"No, monsieur. I do not approve of murder!"
 
"I should hope not. But you have to admire the murderer's cunning."
 
"Cunning? To stab a man through the heart and mutilate the face of his corpse? There is no cunning here! The great Hercule Poirot, he has dealt with the murders most intelligent. This is not such a person. Do you know who was the greatest murderer of all? Iago!"
 
"The space pirate?"
 
Poirot sighs.
 
"You do not know the works of the most excellent Shakespeare? My friend Hastings would be distraught to hear the fruits of his countryman neglected! Iago was a murderer who manipulated others into committing his crimes. He whispered here and there, using his words to fill people with dangerous thoughts, and then had but to watch as his will was carried out. He was a genius, mon ami. A wicked man, but a genius. For his power was to murder from utter safety. Yet the killer of Monsieur Blake? Only wicked."
 
"Have you ever killed a man?"
 
"I have. But only in circumstances most necessary. And you?"
 
"More than I can count."
 
"Then I pity you, mon ami."
 
He taps his tiny cigarette, dislodging its burned debris to form a little mound in the middle of the ashtray.
 
They're exactly the same as the sample you took from Blake's room.
 
'''The Lady in Red''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a4_q3.jpg|none|The Lady in Red]]
You don't bother to knock before entering the third suspect's room. Whereas the other two were found in their quarters after the body was discovered, and locked within while the butler went to the communications room in hope of enlisting help, this one was located and detained in the library -- which fortunately has its own bathroom facilities and a bar. Apparently the ultra-wealthy never like to be far from places where they may consume and then dispose of alcohol.
 
The chamber disclosed beyond the opening door is stately and dull. Save for the space annexed by the window which shows a starry night sky, the broad fireplace and the large painting above it, and the doors, every wall has been consumed by floor-to-ceiling bookcases -- each stuffed with a plethora of ornately-bound volumes. It's a bibliophile's wet dream. Perhaps those detectives of a scholarly persuasion enjoy spending long hours in here, searching for information that'll help them crack one of their pseudo-cases. To you, the chamber only has one point of interest, one splash of brightness and color amid the drab, subdued colors of its ancient furniture and endless tomes: Miss Scarlett.
 
There are certain things you expect to find in a library. Books, for example. And librarians. But a gorgeous blonde woman wearing a red dress that seems to be retreating up from her legs and down from her chest in a determined effort to become a belt, on the other hand, seems somewhat out of place in such surroundings.
 
However, she appears content enough with the present state of affairs. From the dazzling smile on her face, sitting on a table and toying with a long brass candlestick might be a marvelous way to spend an evening.
 
"Miss Scarlett, I presume?"
 
"Please, call me Scarlett, darling."
 
"Your first name is the same as your surname?"
 
"It's... complicated."
 
"I'm here to investigate the death of Sexton Blake."
 
"Oh, how horrible! The butler told me that it was a murderer, in Sexton's apartment, with a dagger."
 
"A dagger? The murder weapon hasn't been identified. What makes you think it was a dagger?"
 
"How silly of me... Force of habit, I suppose." Her smile widens, flashing pearly white teeth and ruby red lips in all their priceless glory.
 
"You seem pretty cheerful for a woman who's suspected of murder."
 
"Oh, I'm always a suspect, darling. But I didn't kill Sexton. I must have been right here when it happened."
 
"What were you doing in a library while a soiree was going on?"
 
"I don't seem like a bookworm to you?" She giggles. "I came here for a little fun..."
 
Her left hand strokes its way along the length of the cylindrical column she's holding.
 
"Miss Scarlett, in the library, with the candlestick?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.
 
"What a dirty mind you have! But no... I was with Sherlock."
 
"He was here? What were the two of you doing?"
 
She laughs.
 
"Do I have to draw you a picture? If I did, it might make you blush."
 
"Why the library? You could have just gone to your quarters, or his."
 
"That was my idea. Part of a little game I like to play. First it was Professor Plum in the ballroom, then Mrs. Peacock in the lounge, then Dupin in the billiard room... I thought it would be fun to complete the set. Though there isn't a conservatory on the ship..."
 
"How long were you both here? If you spent the evening together..."
 
"Spent the evening? Ha! He was only here for a few minutes. Then he started crying."
 
"Crying? Why?"
 
"I think he has... issues. He said he had to go back to his rooms for a few minutes, and left."
 
"You stayed here?"
 
"I thought he just needed a little cocaine to help him perform. So I waited. But he never came back. I must have fallen asleep on the rug in front of the fire. The butler found me lying there, naked. He seemed very embarrassed."
 
"He... He didn't mention that."
 
"He's such a dear, isn't he? Very discrete. What every girl wants in a servant."
 
'''The Murderer''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z10_a4.jpg|none|The Murderer]]
"Is this a bad time?" you ask.
 
"I'm currently hanging upside-down above a floor laden with high-explosive mines, attempting to bypass one of the most complicated electronic security locks in human space before the hover-drones make their next patrol. Give me a few seconds."
 
Exactly four seconds later, Arthur Lupin's voice comes from the communications terminal again.
 
"All done, old boy."
 
"What did you steal?"
 
"Nothing."
 
"Really?"
 
"The jewels were rather tacky, so I simply opened the case and left a note next to them -- expressing my opinion of the lady's taste in unflattering terms. Now, what can I help you with?"
 
"It's a long story."
 
"Then I should return to the comfort of my ship before you start telling it, instead of perching on this roof like a common gargoyle."
 
You sit back and wait for him to make his undoubtedly daring escape from the scene of his dubious crime.
 
The butler was alarmed when he saw you heading towards the hangar. He thought you'd decided to give up the case. But you told him that you just needed to use the Silver Shadow's communications systems to open a secure channel.
 
"Fire away," Lupin says. This time video flashes into existence on the screen, showing the thief lounging in a spacecraft's flight cabin.
 
"Master Wu told me that your name was a literary reference."
 
"He was quite right. A composite of 'Arthur Raffles' and 'Arsène Lupin'. But if you've called to ask for my real name, I'm afraid-"
 
"I haven't. So, you know your way around nineteenth and twentieth century crime fiction?"
 
"Becoming a lover of literature?"
 
"Not exactly..."
 
Later, after an extensive conversation with the master thief has yielded its fruit, you return to the butler and ask him to convene the guests -- including the three suspects -- in the main lounge.
 
----
 
"We're gathered here because of a heinous crime," you say. "A man was brutally, viciously, nefariously-"
 
Disapproving faces stare at you from all sides. It seems that these sleuths don't want to hear a lengthy preamble from a novice, so to speak. You'd better get to the good stuff...
 
"Sexton Blake was murdered," you amend. "And one of these three people did it!"
 
This time you feel nothing but satisfaction when your sweeping arm and pointing finger evoke the dramatic score.
 
<nowiki>*</nowiki>Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn<nowiki>*</nowiki>
 
"Very good, sir," the butler says. "But I fear you're merely providing us with information with which we're all already acquainted."
 
"I'm summarizing. Butt out."
 
"Puns are the lowest form of wit, sir..."
 
"As I was saying... My task was to eliminate each innocent suspect in turn until I was left with the murderer."
 
"But, mon ami, there have been the cases most singular in which all the suspects were guilty."
 
"Perhaps... But not this time. First I eliminated Miss Scarlett. She may be a nymphomaniac, but that's a far cry from murder."
 
"Actually..." the man in the priest costume begins.
 
"Besides, if she were to commit murder I believe she would have chosen a more appropriate venue for the crime -- such as the ballroom, or the library."
 
"You know me so well, darling!" she laughs.
 
"That left me with two suspects, and I couldn't help but notice the evidence pointing towards Hercule Poirot. The man disliked Sexton Blake, saw him as a black mark on his respected profession. And the ash left at the crime scene came from the very same cigarettes that he smokes."
 
The gasps around the room are gratifying in the extreme. You're beginning to see why people attend these murder mystery events.
 
"But then I began to use my little grey cells..."
 
"Très bien!" The Snuuth sleuth nods his approval.
 
"A man as fastidious as Poirot would never have simply left ash lying around at a crime scene. It would have offended his sense of neatness and order. Furthermore, he wouldn't have struck the left side of his victim's body. Even in matters of life and death, his obsession with symmetry is well known."
 
"But in a violent struggle, even obsessions might have been neglected," a young Frenchman says.
 
"Perhaps. But from studying the scene of the crime, it's clear that the victim was taken by surprise. That's why he didn't protect himself and receive defensive wounds. The killer had ample opportunity to administer the fatal blow in a place of his choosing. So that left me with only one suspect... That man!"
 
Again your finger points. Once more the 'dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn' sounds. You could get used to that...
 
"After all, who would be more likely to use cigarette ash in the incrimination of an innocent man than someone who'd written an entire monograph on the subject?"
 
Murmurs of approval ripple through the assembled detectives. The face beneath the deerstalker hat is impassive, his emotions hidden, his sharp eyes fastened on you.
 
"When I discovered that Sherlock Holmes was a habitual cocaine user," you continue, "a theory began to form in my mind. What if he had been high on drugs, having injected himself with his chosen chem, and committed the murder whilst in a coked-up frenzy?"
 
"Holmes has been using cocaine for years," one of the American detectives drawls. A lump of black chewing tobacco emerges with his words, splatting on the floor and glistening with strings of saliva. "Why would he go crazy from it now?"
 
"Perhaps because he was in a state of emotional turmoil, after an embarrassing tryst with Miss Scarlett!"
 
"What?"
 
"Holmes?"
 
"A tryst?"
 
"Sex?"
 
"But he's..."
 
"Isn't he..."
 
"Does he even..."
 
The confused babble continues for several moments, and all the while Holmes retains his inscrutable gaze.
 
"It's true!" Miss Scarlett says. "Me, with Sherlock Holmes, in the library. A girl doesn't like to kiss and tell, but let's just say it was... inadequate. Then he ran off crying."
 
"Filled with embarrassment at his failure," you say, "and shame at his betrayal of the woman whose picture rests on his mantelpiece, Sherlock Holmes resorted to the cocaine bottle. And then-"
 
"It's true!" Holmes cries. "All true!"
 
<nowiki>*</nowiki>Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn<nowiki>*</nowiki>
 
The gasps almost overwhelm the sound effect.
 
"I'd always been jealous of Sexton Blake," Holmes continues. "He was the greater detective, and the greater man. So that evening, filled with anguish and cocaine, I went to his quarters and murdered him!"
 
<nowiki>*</nowiki>Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn<nowiki>*</nowiki>
 
Okay, now it's getting annoying... You gesture to the butler. He glides away to deactivate it.
 
"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen," you say. "Sherlock Holmes, emotionally and sexually disturbed, murdered Sexton Blake in a drug-fueled rage and tried to frame Hercule Poirot for the crime. That's what we were supposed to believe, anyway."
 
"What the devil do you mean, boy?" Colonel Mustard asks. "The man just confessed!"
 
"This man did," you say, walking over to the detective in the deerstalker hat. "But this man isn't Sherlock Holmes. He's none other than... Sexton Blake!"
 
He raises his hand to ward you off. But you're too quick. You snatch at his face, tearing away the false nose and other adornments which disguised Blake's features as those of Holmes.
 
There's no musical score this time. But you don't need one. The detectives' shouts and gasps more than suffice.
 
"So you mean that dead Sexton was a Sexton?" a young man dressed in rough clothing asks.
 
"What?" you reply, bemused by his accent as much as his incomprehensible words.
 
"Rhyming slang, guvnor. Sexton Blake -- fake."
 
"Oh. Exactly. The dead man was Sherlock Holmes. The mutilation to his face was aimed to conceal that fact. Blake lured him into his apartment, and murdered him."
 
"So it was Blake in the library?" Miss Scarlett asks.
 
"Yes. Pretending to be Holmes, as part of his scheme."
 
"How did you know?" Blake asks, his voice low and guttural.
 
"Elementary, my dear Blake. The farce with the cocaine? Obvious misdirection. The man I met in Sherlock Holmes' quarters showed no signs of recent cocaine use. And the cigarette ash? The furtive glance at Irene Adler's photograph? Far too obvious. You overplayed your hand. Besides, Sherlock Holmes would never have surrendered even to Miss Scarlett's temptations. It would have been a tremendous breach of character -- no less egregious than your act of murder."
 
"But why did he do it, sir?" the butler asks.
 
"Why?" Blake hisses. "Why? Because everyone knows Sherlock Holmes, and no one knows Sexton Blake! I solved more crimes than he ever did, hundreds and hundreds of cases! I was the greatest, most celebrated detective in the world! And for what? So people could forget my name, like I was no better than a Ferrers Locke or a Lord Peter Wimsey?"
 
Two men, presumably those named, cry out in anger.
 
"That's why you plotted to not only kill Sherlock Holmes, but to ruin his name aboard the Mysterious Murder," you say, "knowing that after the scandal no one would ever take it up again."
 
"Ladies and gentlemen," the butler says, "I believe the case is solved."
 
There are murmurs of approval. Even a few outspoken words of praise hurled in your direction. But most faces are grim, their eyes fixed on Blake.
 
"But what do we do with him?" Miss Scarlett asks. "We can't hand him over to the police, can we?"
 
"Most certainly not, madam," the butler declares.
 
"That's easily fixed," you reply. "I hear you like to duel, Sexton."
 
His eyes glint.
 
"I do."
 
"Then duel with me. To the death."
 
"Challenge accepted. If you people will be so good as to escort me to the chambers I usurped, I'll retrieve my weapons."
 
----
 
Sexton Blake knew how to fight. But he was no Manwue.
 
That's why he's lying on the floor, his weapons and gadgets scattered around him, a hole in his head.
 
"Très bien, mon ami," Poirot says. "Under these most difficult of circumstances, what has been done is right and proper. It was, as my friend Hastings would say, playing the game."
 
"Jolly good show," Colonel Mustard says. "Fair and sporting, and the bastard still got what he deserved."
 
Sundry similar sentiments rain down on you.
 
"Sir," the butler says, "I feel you really must be rewarded for the invaluable assistance you've rendered us."
 
"That's very generous-" you begin, wondering how many credits he's going to throw at you.
 
"So I propose that chambers be set aside for you in perpetuity aboard the Mysterious Murder, that you may take part in all our future events!"
 
You open your mouth to decline with thanks. But Miss Scarlett chooses that moment to throw her arms around you, and plant her lips on yours. Thus you can only splutter while the others cheer. By the time she releases you from the kiss, it's far too late. So you simply smile and accept your fate.

LotS/The Story/Because I'm the Wanderer/Crush (2)

2012-10-18T15:16:46Z

Raptor00:

'''Crush (2)''' 
You're trapped in a cave, buried alive. Yet your own plight isn't what fills your mind and consumes your thoughts. She'll keep going... Trampling Eclogue beneath her feet, squashing its inhabitants like insects. A mass murdering deviant, moaning in rapture as she crushes and kills.
 
Have to escape... Warn them...
 
'''Cycle Spelunking''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a3_q1.jpg|none|Cycle Spelunking]]
The Dragon Cycle lies on its side in mournful majesty, illuminated by a pool of torchlight from your helmet.
 
A quick onceover shows that it's undamaged. When you push the ignition button and turn the throttle, it hums to life. Its eyes gleam, proud and strong like the creature they were built to adorn. Its headlamp floods the cave with its brilliance. This piece of engineering was built to last.
 
The rest of your weapons are intact as well... Could you cut or blast your way out?
 
You cast a dubious glance at the masses of rock blocking the entrance. Perhaps... But it would take far too long. Then you look in the opposite direction, deeper into the cave. As powerful as the bike's lamp is, the far reaches of the tunnel are still lost in blackness.
 
It could lead nowhere. But what choice do you have?
 
So you head down the passage, wheeling the cycle along over the uneven ground, allowing its lamp to scatter the shadows -- eyes and ears wary in case any more of those creatures are nearby.
 
Hope surges in your breast when the tunnel gives way to a large cavern. Several passages branch off from it. The first is a narrow, irregular opening in the stone wall. Perhaps dug by the same monstrous claws that tried to slaughter you. But the others... They're much bigger, broad and high. And from the look of the rock it's clear that they were made by industrial equipment.
 
Mining tunnels.
 
The headlamp flashes down one of them, disclosing the trappings of human development -- signs admonishing workers to wear proper safety gear, disused terminals mounted upon the tunnel wall. And from the markings on the ground, their varying depths chronicling the passage of transport containers both loaded and unloaded, the way out is clear enough.
 
You mount the Dragon Cycle and ride down the large passage, scanning the ground for any nasty surprises that might send you tumbling. But the path is clear, long ago smoothed by man's industry and not yet reclaimed by nature. If your luck holds, there'll be a way out at the end...
 
'''Daikaiju''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a3_q2.jpg|none|Daikaiju]]
A simple barrier blocks the mouth of the tunnel, an expanse of plastic mounted to cap the rock passage -- no doubt erected when mining terminated and the place was abandoned. Perhaps it was intended to keep children from straying inside. It certainly wasn't built to resist your weapons...
 
Sunlight washes over you when you ride through your impromptu exit, bright and glorious and warm. You find yourself on the same side of the mountains as before. It doesn't take long to locate the Crush Colossa's footprints.
 
Within minutes you're whooshing across the countryside, following the intimidating indentations. She wasn't in a hurry. From their spacing, she might even have been sauntering -- just a woman out enjoying a summer stroll beneath the daylight moons, with joyful thoughts in her mind instead of perverted murder.
 
You push the Dragon Cycle for all it's worth. Maybe you can catch her before she reaches the next town, even get ahead of her and...
 
But that hope soon flutters away in the rearview mirror along with the hurtling landscape. The town comes into view. It's a larger settlement than the last, its architecture modern and technology unhidden by any archaic facade. And there she is, towering above it -- clawing at the buildings with giant metal hands.
 
Weapons fire rains on her body from below, bursting and flashing against the curvaceous metal on all sides. But if the onslaught has any effect, there's no sign. Even from this distance you hear her laugh, projected far and wide from the mech's speakers, as she raises a gargantuan foot high above the ground. Then she stomps down.
 
This is insane... And yet you keep riding, zooming towards the town and the murderous titaness.
 
'''Shadow of the Colossa''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_z10_a3_q3.jpg|none|Shadow of the Colossa]]
You hit the cruise control button, locking the handlebars into position. Now isn't the time to take risks.
 
Then you run your hands over your gear, the plan forming itself in your brain even as you zip towards the battle at breakneck speed. You grab item after item, unlatching them from the bike and pulling them free whilst desperately trying to keep your balance. The smaller ones you shove into the recesses of your outfit. The larger one you sling across your back.
 
Screaming men, women, and children run towards you when the Dragon Cycle winds its way past one of the outlying buildings. Can't ride any further, not without mowing people down...
 
So you dismount and start sprinting, pushing past the town's denizens as they flee in the opposite direction. One of the men leaps onto the vacated motorbike. He cries out in frustration, slams his fist against a handlebar, gets off again, and continues running. DNA lock... No one's going to be riding away on it.
 
If you can't stop the Colossa, these people are all going to die. No matter how fast they run, she'll catch them and step on them -- hunting them across the landscape for sport and sensuality.
 
Melodious laughter fills the air above, washing down on you between the tall buildings. You round a corner, and once more gaze upon the metal lips that move as though shaping it.
 
The Crush Colossa towers above the plaza, a giant sculpture of death and destruction. Ruined buildings surround her legs. Smashed corpses and great expanses of blood are smeared across the ground. The square is one big charnel house.
 
Men and women scurry amid the carnage, insects at the murderous feet of a goddess, crying out in fear or rage as they fire their weapons at the woman who's come to crush their lives and loved ones. Others are on the roofs or at the windows of ravaged structures, blasting away from those vantage points.
 
These people are well armed... Local militia, perhaps. There's damage on the Colossa, scars and burns across her burnished female form. But if it affects her, she gives no hint. She's still laughing.
 
Once more she raises her foot -- slowly, deliberately, as though relishing the action. A man screams as its shadow falls upon him. The rifle drops from his hands, clatters in the street. He doesn't turn, doesn't run. He's frozen, petrified by his fear.
 
You sprint towards him, your ears and mind filled with the Colossa's laugh.
 
'''Crush Colossa''' 
[[File:LotS_Quest_Boss_z10_a3.jpg|none|Crush Colossa]]
The man keeps screaming even as you tackle him and the two of you tumble on the ground, his screeching wail long and unbroken.
 
Her metal foot thunders down behind you, crashing against the surface of the plaza, echoed by her cry of rage. Then she giggles.
 
You get to your feet, yanking the man up after you, and give him a shove. He takes the hint and keeps going -- still screaming.
 
"Is that my little bike-rider?" she asks. "It's so hard to tell when you're all so tiny!"
 
She bends down, bringing her face and its glowing red eyes towards you. Weapons fire continues to rake her body, dozens of zaps and blasts. But she ignores them as though they were gnats.
 
"It is you!" Her voice is almost a squeal, an expression of unmitigated joy. "You got out! Now I get to squish you too!"
 
She lifts her foot. Bloodstained metal and bright yellow lights block out the sun, filling your vision with their utter finality.
 
----
 
You yank the Blue Dragon Crossbow from your back. Its limbs deploy with a click.
 
Her foot comes down -- not with a fast, hard stomp but in a slow, luxurious descent. She wants to enjoy squishing you...
 
You pull the trigger. A shaft flies, right into one of the yellow discs on her sole. She gives a slight hiss. That's all the confirmation you require.
 
When the explosive-laden bolt detonates, the woman screams in anguish.
 
You're already sprinting when her foot smashes down, well away from the impact. The Colossa totters, arms flailing as though she were dizzy. There's an immense crash, a rumbling earthquake. She's on one knee, that great metal joint planted deep in the ground.
 
''"I wanted to'' feel ''them squish under my feet."''
 
Sensors. Connected to her nerves. You'd suspected as much, had risked your life on the hypothesis.
 
The townspeople cheer, dozens of voices expressing victory and relieved hysteria in equal measure. But it's not over yet. You don't know how long the shock will keep her out of commission. And you don't intend to find out...
 
You draw a pistol-shaped item, one of the tools you took from the bike, and take aim. When it fires, a grappling hook flies at the end of a thin, strong cord. It finds purchase in the Colossa's metal, locks its prongs in place with unshakable tenacity.
 
A touch of a button and you're flying towards the giant metal face, yanked aloft as the grappling line retracts. The speed and force of the ascent might make someone else lose control of their bodily functions, perhaps even black out or at least surrender their grip and fall to their death. But you're a fighter pilot. You've endured much worse than this.
 
Your boots brace against the side of her head, preventing you from hitting the sleek metal in a clumsy splat. You're right next to the Colossa's ear. Close enough to see that you were right again.
 
A slender, cylindrical object appears in your hand, drawn from a secure pocket. Its end glows bright blue as you put it to work. An Ironic Screwdriver. They say these gadgets can unlock just about anything...
 
They're right.
 
The Colossa's ear opens up, metal panels sliding aside to reveal a cockpit. You thrust yourself inside.
 
And there she is. The woman herself, slumped in its control chair with her eyes closed, attached to sundry terminals by cables strapped all over her body. She's beautiful... Her figure, her curves, match those of the Colossa. It must have been modeled on her own body. She's barefoot, and in her feet -- each fastened to a dozen tiny connectors -- you see exact representations of those which crushed so many innocent people to death beneath their tread.
 
You snatch handfuls of cable and tear them away, severing her interface with the colossal machine.
 
Her eyes flicker open. She gives a soft groan. Then she blinks, focuses on you, and screams.
 
Your punch takes her in the jaw, shutting her up.
 
How did she get into this thing? Ah, yes... A small hover platform. It would have carried her up to the head when she wanted to board the Colossa. You pull her from the chair and sling her over your shoulder, before stepping onto the platform and letting it ferry you both out of the mech. It descends towards the plaza with gentle precision.
 
Dozens and dozens of locals gather round when you touch down, forming a deep semicircle. Some of them have their weapons raised, casting nervous glances from you to the Colossa and back again. But they lower them at the behest of the others.
 
You dump the woman on the ground like sack of refuse. A kick to her stomach makes her splutter back to consciousness.
 
"She's all yours," you say.
 
You step back.
 
"No!" she cries, as they press forward, surrounding her, hiding her from your sight. "No!"
 
First the shouting starts. Then the stomping. Boots and shoes rise and fall in haphazard, inharmonious chorus, thudding against the murderess' soft, helpless body. They keep stomping long after she falls silent.