LotS/The Story/Christmas Chaos
<tabber>
"Zone Intro"=
Zone Intro
"Tentacles!" Adrian Zanfran said, as he walked across the lobby.
He emphasized the point by waving those purple appendages in the air. The Rylattu behind the reception desk, a green-skinned male he didn't recognize, stared at them before gazing down at something.
Though the desk hid it from him, Adrian knew there was a terminal there. Its screen would at that moment be displaying a picture of the freelance human, accompanied by the words: 'Authorized Stink-Beast! Do Not Disintegrate!'
The green Rylattu looked up at him again, and stopped reaching for whatever weapon of mass destruction he had to hand.
"I'm Adrian Zanfran. Pleased to meet you."
The receptionist glanced down and frowned.
"It says your name is 'Adnan Zebra'."
Adrian sighed. It was somewhat gratifying that Barp Sek Bul had settled on one name to call him by, rather than hurling an endless barrage of incorrect appellations. But it would have been more gratifying still if it had been correct.
"That's my... work name. Where's Kwix?"
"The overlord summoned her."
The freelance human sauntered across the portion of the lobby which lay beyond the reception desk and its emerald-skinned sentinel. A few of the building's other denizens glared at him, perhaps out of habit. But most regarded him with nothing more than indifferent blinks. A few even nodded or spoke words of greeting, which Adrian returned with a smile. None of them fired weapons in his direction or tried to otherwise ensure his doom. Things had changed a great deal over the months since he'd started working for the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might.
Both elevators' doors were sealed when he approached. One conveyance was already in ascent. The other had stopped many floors up, where it was presumably disgorging its passengers. This didn't diminish the morning cheer on Adrian's face. It was still in full bloom when he entered the stairwell.
The stairs themselves were superfluous to him these days. He moved into the space alongside the first flight instead, and reached up with his right tentacle. That powerful purple limb grabbed hold of the bannister above. Then it pulled Adrian upwards, until the shorter tentacle at the end of his left arm could seize another.
Like an ape swinging from branch to branch, he climbed the middle of the stairwell in a series of tentacular grasps and pulls. And to think he'd once been dismayed to find those useful appendages on his body...
That brisk, invigorating assent brought him to his floor. His more conventional limbs walked him the rest of the way, until he stood before his terminal. He dropped into the now familiar chair and watched the holographic screen come to life in response to his presence.
His previous night's work manifested before him. Lines of green text blazed in all their toxic-waste-colored glory. But only for a moment. Then a red face emerged from the screen, throwing the greenness aside in all directions.
"Adnan Zebra!"
"Good morning, overlord. The report you wanted-"
"Come to Conference Room 3 immediately!"
"What-"
"Immediately, wretched stink-beast!"
Adrian sighed, rose from his chair, and headed back into the corridor. He made his way to the designated chamber, and pondered what new happenstance or misfortune might be about to rain down on him. It wasn't unusual for the overlords to summon him into their presence and thrust some completely new task at him, quashing his previous brief despite prior insistence that his continued integration relied upon its fulfillment. He hoped that wouldn't happen this time. He was rather enjoying the challenge of finding new ways to market anti-human literature to mankind (his chief plan was to pass if off as satire).
But when he arrived at Conference Room 3, and its door opened in front of him, bewilderment usurped trepidation.
"Ah, Adnan Zebra!"
Barp Sek Bul took hold of Adrian's right tentacle and pulled him into the room. Rylattu faces surrounded him, each one beaming beneath, of all things, a Santa hat.
"How long has it been since you first came to us as a worthless, sniveling human minion seeking employment?" the overlord asked.
"Well, it's been-"
"I once considered destroying you! But now I am pleased that my mighty Rylattu intellect led me to spare you. In spite of your pathetic whining, and your habit of leaving filthy human limbs in our lobby-"
"That wasn't my fault! My arm was blown off!"
"Silence, stink-beast! As I was saying... You have been a useful minion. Because you understand your disgusting and moronic species, our sales to humans have increased by fifty million percent!"
At that pronouncement, the other Rylattu broke into a round of applause, and Adrian beamed as much as the rest of the gathering. Granted, the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might had once measured sales of its books to humans in single digits. Hence they still only claimed a tiny audience among the trillions of human beings in the galaxy. But even so, the freelance human was proud.
"I have decided to reward you!"
"Thank you, overlord!"
"Today is a special day on your laughable homeworld."
"It's Christmas!"
"Kwix informed me of this pathetic event. Now behold my mighty magnanimity!"
He clapped his hands together.
First there came a tantalizing aroma, a blend of delicious smells that tickled Adrian's nose and evoked countless glorious memories. Then a dozen or so Rylattu surged into the room, knocking him spinning.
Each of them bore a huge platter, which they distributed across the conference table. Adrian Zanfran recovered his balance just in time to be barged aside once more, when the surge repeated itself in reverse. But he didn't care. For the feast they'd left in their wake would have excused a multitude of sins.
There were golden turkeys and roast hams, glistening with succulent juices that made his mouth water and the tips of his tentacles curl. Among them, vying for his eyes, nose, touch, and tongue, Christmas puddings rose as rich, fruity mountains beneath thick layers of snow. Mince pies were arranged in neat sugary stacks, forming step pyramids upon which health and moderation yearned to be sacrificed at the priestly hands of taste and pleasure. Pitchers of eggnog, bottles of port, and sundry other beverages stood in orderly units, awaiting the call which would send them into battle against the tiresome forces of thirst and sobriety. It was a veritable festive banquet.
"Begin feasting!" Barp Sek Bul said.
"Overlord, this is... it's... I..."
"I said begin feasting, wretched stink-beast!"
So Adrian did.
"...and... and..."
The freelance human paused blinked. Had there always been that many Rylattu in the room? And had they always been so blurry? He looked down at the glass of eggnog in his hand. How much brandy had they put in it?
"Well?" a blue female demanded. "Then what?"
"Oh... And a partridge in a pear tree."
She frowned.
"That song is repetitive and absurd! Who would relish those pathetic gifts? Partridges? Pear trees? Hens? Ridiculous!"
"Wait!" the Supreme Editing Overlord said. "Those maids, drummers, pipers, and lords could become valuable minions -- if their worthless human brains are capable of learning more useful skills."
"Ah, of course, overlord!"
The Rylattu began to discuss the matter at length, and ponder such questions as whether drummers or pipers would make better slaves.
Adrian wandered over to the table for another mince pie.
"Adrian Zanfran!"
He turned. Kwix stood before him, her eyes shiny and bleary.
"Kwix! Merry Christmas! Thank you for... for..." He waved at the festive board, and the still rather substantial remains of its goodly viands.
"I read your report on stink-beast holidays," she said, "and learned all the customs of this 'Christmas'. They consist largely of gluttony and alcoholism!"
"Maybe, but Christmas is also about-"
The receptionist raised something above her head. Something green. It wobbled in her drunken grasp.
"By the laws and traditions of this pathetic festival, you must now kiss me!"
"Huh? I..."
"Kiss me, puny human, or I will destroy you!"
Adrian had worked there long enough to know that was no idle threat. So he pulled her into a tentacled embrace, and their lips met.
He hoped she wouldn't obliterate him for this when she sobered up...
|-|
"Good Will To Men"=
Good Will To Men
'Twas the season of Christmas throughout deepest space,
When humans feast and rejoice, whatever their place,
Novocastria and Earth, Sian and Mars,
All celebrate beneath the light of their stars.
In the palace of Gallea, four friends met,
To revel in joy and past sorrow forget,
Prince and gunslinger, bot and omnicidal chap,
They gathered to dine and their adventures recap.
But though they made merry, that quartet close as kin,
Melancholy lurked behind each eye and wide grin,
For two of their number were far from the fare,
One beyond life, the other they knew not quite where.
Fine words were spoken, their memories toasted,
Their great deeds recalled, their killing counts boasted,
But the shadowy past is a poor recompense,
For the company of friends departed long hence.
"I know just what we'll do!" said the gunslinging girl,
She pulled the prince from his chair and danced in a whirl.
"Talia, quit it!" young Telemachus cried,
But she continued to dance, her eyes bright and wide.
"Illaria loved Christmas, not for the drink,
Or the feasting and presents, though some might think,
Those are the most wonderful parts of this season,
The Princess had of course a far finer reason."
"For she loved joy and giving, kindness and good deeds,
Caring for the unfortunate, tending their needs.
Let's make it a contest, a fun Christmas game,
Something to treasure her good works and her name."
"Yes!" said Lu Bu, the mighty warrior bot,
"How could the four of us have ever forgot,
The meaning of Christmas, and Illaria's way,
We should all venture forth and honor this day!"
So those good friends agreed the rules of their fine test,
A challenge to see which of them might do the best.
They'd brighten the season for their fellow man,
Each of them concocting their own special plan.
No money they'd spend, for the prince had that edge,
Far more credits than any other could dredge.
Instead they'd rely on their wits and their labors,
And spread Christmas joy to less fortunate neighbors.
Guns Are for Girls
Dashing through the mall,
Looking for good deeds to do,
She saw a girl bawl,
And Santa Claus too.
She stopped then and there,
Thinking she'd lend aid,
And learn about the girl's despair,
So she could her mood upgrade.
"I want a gun, want a gun!"
Cried the little tot,
"But Santa won't give me one,
So he's left me all upsot!
Want a gun, want a gun!"
Cried the little tot,
"But Santa won't give me one,
So he's left me all upsot!"
"Upsot's not a real word!"
Fat Santa Claus replied,
"And this gun's not for her,
Someone get her eyes dried!"
"You're such a sexist brute!"
Talia told him back,
"There is no reason girls can't shoot!
So don't make me attack!"
"Give me that gun, me that gun!"
Talia Ryx said,
And snatched it from Santa's hand,
For the girl with eyes so red.
"Here's the gun! Here's the gun!
No more tears shed!
Santa's just a sexist jerk,
I should slap his stupid head!"
"Silly cow, silly cow!"
Said his angry face.
"That's no toy, it's a real gun,
I carry the thing in case,
Some kids're bad, really bad,
Act like a disgrace!
Oh, look what you've gone and done,
The girl's shooting up the place!"
Christmas Kebabs
The mighty Niflung walked out,
'Fore the feast of Stephen,
Gazing all ways round about,
To the heavens even,
Searching for some folk to help,
On the day of yule,
Upon a soup kitchen strayed,
Serving winter fuel.
He went inside and growled deep,
For it made him angry.
"How can all you bastards sleep,
When you leave them hungry?
Soup is but a feeble dish,
I can do much better!
I am here to answer your wish,
Shatter hunger's fetter!"
"Bring me naans and bring me meat,
Bring finest chili sauce!
These people deserve to eat,
And all for free of course!
Kebab Chaos does owe me,
A debt they must repay,
Or blood shall run quite free,
I mean just what I say!"
And so the kebabs came hence,
Answering Ragnar's shout,
It really was quite good sense<,
Else spines he'd have ripped out.
He served food to all who came,
In generous portions.
First the diners cheered his name,
Then came the contortions!
Vomit spewed from every maw,
In torrents unending,
For donners wage bloody war,
And soon guts need mending.
The Niflung cried out in rage,
To see them stripped of honor,
Too late did Ragnar gage,
The power of the donner.
Terrible Toys for Tots
On the morning of Christmas,
Telemachus did see,
An orphanage with a tree.
On the morning of Christmas,
The young prince went inside,
To give out gifts,
And some seasonal cheer provide.
On the morning of Christmas,
He brought a bag of toys,
He'd played with,
In younger days,
He hoped might delight little boys.
On the morning of Christmas,
The kids all cheered and yelled,
In young delight,
Filled with joy,
Pleased by the gifts,
And so Telemachus' heart swelled.
On the morning of Christmas,
Orphans began to play,
With toy robots,
Brought by the prince,
That kind boy,
Who beamed at them,
And thought he'd triumphed on that day.
On the morning of Christmas,
Telemachus forgot,
When he was younger,
He did tinker,
With his toys,
And had fun,
Messing with tech,
Till he weaponized them for sport.
On the morning of Christmas,
The toys went quite berserk,
They all starting zapping,
And chasing the kids,
Who ran screaming,
Poor little tikes,
Fleeing fast,
Lest they be zapped,
So the prince, he felt like a jerk.
Robo-Santa
Lu Bu has never been high,
For an obvious reason,
But his thoughts swim in the sky,
With the joy of the season.
Che-e-e-e-e-e-ems, they have nothing on Christmas!
Che-e-e-e-e-e-ems, they have nothing on Christmas!
Lu Bu goes into a mall,
To perform his fine duty,
And bring festive fun to all,
Their smiles will be his booty!
Ro-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-bots, even robots love Christmas!
Ro-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-bots, even robots love Christmas!
He borrows a Santa suit,
For he knows kids love Saint Nick,
Soon he'll reap the merry fruit,
Of his clever Christmas trick!
Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-anta, the kids all love their Santa!
Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-anta, the kids all love their Santa!
But things don't go quite as planned,
For our noble robot friend,
His thin frame doesn't expand,
And him the proper girth lend!
Fa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-at! Santa's built right for sumo!
Fa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-at! Santa's built right for sumo!
The children all sob and weep,
Say he's not the real chap,
And Lu Bu forgets to keep,
The secret under wrap.
"Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-nta! There is no real Santa!"
"Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-nta! There is no real Santa!"
So boys and girls are distraught,
Their parents filled with ire,
To hear the truth has been taught,
And Christmas will be dire!
Lu-u-u-u-u-u Bu-u-u-u-u-u-u! You shouldn't have played Santa!
Lu-u-u-u-u-u Bu-u-u-u-u-u-u! You shouldn't have played Santa!
Tntacled Turkey
'Twas the season of Christmas throughout deepest space,
When the four friends met in the agreed upon place,
All their features were grim, there wasn't much cheer,
What would fair Illaria say were she here?
They'd just let her down, that's what all of them thought,
Their fine festive plans had amounted to naught!
Failure hung overhead, a gloomy black cloud,
Man, woman, robot, and boy -- they all had been cowed.
But maybe someone was watching from heaven above,
A benevolent soul, a heart brimful with love.
For a Christmas miracle fell from the sky,
A tentacled turkey... I should explain why.
Scientists had bred it, in search of new meat,
Poultry and calamari, ever so sweet.
But the beast broke loose, as is so often the case,
It fell to the four to stop it wrecking the place.
Their cunning seasonal schemes had done nothing good,
Laudable intentions had been misunderstood,
But there's one thing at which the friends did excel:
Slaying an enemy, and filling up hell.
They butchered the beast, to great public applause,
Then told the grateful people about their cause,
Tears welled up when they spoke fair Illaria's name,
Revealed the purpose of their kind yuletide game.
The citizens were moved by the heroes so bold,
They banded together, and all swore to uphold,
The meaning of Christmas, the thing she'd prized most,
And do something good so the four friends might boast.
Through the whole city, so many played their part,
Showing what Christmas joy can do to a heart,
The soup kitchen was cleaned, and restored to fine state,
All its denizens cured of their donner-wrought fate.
The orphanage was filled with less murderous toys,
Gifts that would delight all of the girls and the boys.
Even the children who'd thought Lu Bu a fool,
Now shrugged and said Santa was never as cool.
|-|
"Merry Christmas, Bitches!"=
Merry Christmas, Bitches!
"The Rylattu ambassador declared..."
*thud* *clack* *clack* *thud*
"...that he would locate Santa's workshop..."
*clack* *thud* *clack* *clack* *thud*
"...and obliterate it with his superior technology..."
*thud* *thud* *clack* *clack*
The news anchor's holographic smile is so broad and bright that it blares at the periphery of your vision like an explosion. Her insincere laughter is equally piercing. You quicken your movements to drown it out, drawing a swifter series of thuds and clacks from the Wing Chun dummy.
Your arms weave a pattern of blocks and strikes they've known since childhood, bringing your forearms against the dummy's cylindrical limbs as though thwarting make-believe blows, trapping and ensnaring. Feet and fists beat counterattacks into its thick wooden trunk.
As a small girl, still learning the sequences and toughening your young arms to perform them with speed, precision, and strength, this was a good training method. Now, it's more a form of meditation -- a way to occupy your body and let your mind focus or wander in accordance with your needs.
The thuds and clacks continue, warring with the newscaster's chirpy, over-enthusiastic voice, filling the chamber aboard the Silver Shadow that you've turned into your exercise room.
"...was attacked by a giant turkey monster..."
*clack* *thud* *clack* *thud* *thud*
Giant turkey monsters... The galaxy is insane, even by your elastic standards of sanity and normality.
*thud* *clack* *clack* *clack*
"Fortunately, the creature was destroyed by-"
*clack* *thud* *clack* *BEEP*
The woman's face freezes. Then it vanishes, replaced on the screen by the image of a top hat. The beeping repeats itself, as though reveling in the triumphant usurpation.
"Accept," you say.
The top hat disappears in turn, yielding to a handsome, rakish face no less debonair than the item of millinery it's replaced. A rather more genuine and elegant smile stretches where the anchor's did just moments ago.
"Merry Christmas, my dear!" Arthur Lupin eyes you up and down, whilst his dexterous fingers put the finishing touches to a bowtie's knot. "So this is how you're spending the holidays?"
You can't help looking down at your sweat-slick body and wincing at the contrast. Next to the tuxedoed thief's image, you feel like a barbarian.
"Merry Christmas. Robbing somewhere nice?"
"I'm on my way to King Vencelas' yuletide soiree."
"The crown jewels?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I never thieve on Christmas." He completes his knot, gives the bowtie a minute adjustment, and steps away from the screen -- revealing the fullness of his attire. "How do I look?"
"Dapper."
"Thank you. But I didn't call just to wish you the season's greetings. One of my contacts got in touch a moment ago, with information on the matter you asked me to look into. He has a lead on that cult of yours..."
The Cultist's Christmas Surprise
Carols rain down on you from all directions, catching you in their crossfire, bombarding your senses with at least four different festive tunes. Christmas afternoon is still in full swing here, and armies of uniformed carolers seem to be vying for the right to declare themselves its champions. One force is dressed in scarlet Santa outfits. They're belting out a merry tune, while their bulging bellies -- either real or simulated -- wobble like the obligatory bowls of gelatinous dessert long celebrated in verse. Across the street stands a rival band, those ones garbed in the manner of angels, complete with plastic wings and halos. Their song of choice is a rather weightier and more ponderous celebration of a baby's birth in ancient Bethlehem.
It reminds you of gang warfare in urban sprawls, with verses traded instead of gunfire.
Charity workers are ducking their way beneath the melodious volleys, shaking tins and shouting pleas at passersby. One of them, a ginger-haired young woman, darts forward to intercept you.
"Give what you can, madam! I'll take hard credits or swipes!"
You glance at the label pasted on the side of her tin.
"Beast Buddies?"
"We want to end the cruel slaughter of Garlax ragebeasts!"
"Ragebeasts eat people."
"So? There are plenty of people, and we know how to make more! But ragebeasts are endangered!"
"I'll remember that next time I'm killing one."
The woman's screams of abuse follow you down the street for perhaps a dozen paces, before the clashing carols swallow them. The smile the encounter leaves on your face lasts a lot longer.
Dozens of festive displays, from the charming to the gaudy, fill the square in front of city hall. Teeming hordes of giggling children and delighted parents throng there, gazing upon snowmen, Santas, wise man, shepherds, Jesuses, bells, stockings, holly, ivy, and for some inexplicable reason a single Cthulhu. Some are depicted in arrangements of multicolored lights. Others are rendered as holograms or ceramic sculptures. Lovecraft's elder god appears to have been fashioned from human bones, though you assume that isn't really the case.
You try to tell yourself you're cutting across that space to save time. After all, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line... But the pretense drifts into the heavens along with the laughter, youthful babble, and the steam rising from warm, fragrant beverages. Maybe you're alone this Christmas, but that doesn't mean you can't absorb a little holiday cheer through osmosis...
Thus fortified, you walk the last few hundred yards to the first address Lupin gave you -- a big, old apartment building that's probably been standing there for almost as long as the planet's been inhabited.
The front door doesn't yield a millimeter to your push. Nor to the subsequent pull. You're not getting in this way, unless you activate the intercom and persuade a resident, or else blast your way through. And the latter isn't much of an option, with so many people passing to and fro in the street. Nor is scaling the building and entering via a window. Santa may be allowed to break and enter during the Christmas period, though you doubt the citizens would be so understanding to anyone else who tried it.
But there may be another way... You continue up the street.
Perhaps you've been a good girl this year, because a couple of minutes later you find exactly what you wanted: the mouth of an alleyway that runs behind the apartment block. Even here Christmas decorations shine down on you, as though admiring your cunning. You might be able to exploit a fire escape or-
A door opens up ahead. A middle-aged man emerges from the building, carrying big trash bags in each hand. He takes a few steps towards the dumpster that stands on the opposite side of alley, and looks around. It's a careless, casual motion -- the act of someone wishing to see if there's anything worthier of his attention than the waste receptacle he's making for. But when his face turns in your direction...
It's him. The man from the picture Lupin sent you.
Perhaps some slight hint of recognition flickers in the eyes of your holographically disguised features. Because he stops in his tracks and stares. A soft breeze strokes your forehead. Your mental defenses rise, understanding the sensation for what it is -- the beginning of a subtle psionic probe.
The trash bags fall from his hands. Maybe he saw enough during that brief instant of psychic contact, or else takes the steeling of your mind against further intrusion as a danger signal. There isn't time to ponder that. Not when your target's sprinting away.
So you don't. You sprint after him instead.
He hurtles down the alleyway, legs pumping, elbows cutting the air on either side. Faster than you'd expected. Fear can do that to a man. Or maybe he's packing cybernetic enhancements.
You race towards your quarry, throwing everything you have into frantic speed. You have to catch him before he makes it out of the alley, or else risk pursuing him through crowded streets. Your boots kick against the ground, propelling you onward, eating away at his lead.
You're gaining on him. If he's augmented, it's cheap crap. And there's a reason athletes rely on training instead of terror.
He looks over his shoulder, eyes wide and wild. Invisible fingers tickle your scalp, but this time you're ready for them. Your walls go up and thwart his groping psionic grasp.
His head tilts, turning his frightened gaze upwards. You hazard a quick glance in that direction, but you don't see anything except for... Oh, damn it...
First comes the cawing. Then the fluttering of wings. Then the swooping.
Your mind may be too strong for him, but yours isn't the only brain on offer.
You swing your arms, trying to beat the pigeons away, bashing their feathered bodies. But that doesn't stop the little scavengers. Wings flap against you, avian feet kick and claw for purchase. Beaks peck at your arms, trying to break through to your face.
As you throw yourself into a roll, you feel the full absurdity of taking evasive maneuvers against pigeons. And when you rise with your pistol in hand, you feel no less ridiculous.
A series of blasts leaves two of them on the ground, one with a missing head, the other with a gaping hole through its fat body. Whatever psionic trickery the cultist used, it isn't equal to the task of restraining the others' survival instinct. They flap their way towards the safety of the sky.
You spin round in time to see your quarry dashing from the mouth of the alley, still staring at you over his shoulder. He crashes through the people on the sidewalk, knocking an elderly woman flying, ignoring the howls of protest. He darts across the road.
The honking of a horn makes him turn. But it's too late.
There's almost enough screaming to mask the crunch and splat. Almost.
Can You Spare A Cred?
Unless the Quibberath brothers had it right, and you can glean something of value by eating the brains splashed from his broken skull like stew spilled from an overturned cooking pot, this particular lead is no longer of any use to you.
"Serves the bastard right!" says an elderly voice.
The old woman he knocked over emphasizes the point by spitting right on his shattered face. She then proceeds to get into an argument with some of the gawkers who've gathered round the splattered corpse.
You sigh, and start walking. You don't want to be there when the authorities start asking questions.
Maybe you'll have better luck at that other address...
Further from the scene of the accident, the surrounding chatter resumes its former tenor. Carols and conversations swell around you.
"Good King Wenceslas looked out..."
"Daddy! I want it! I want it!"
"Jingle bells, jingle bells..."
"Hey, that liquor store's open! Thank Christ for Hindus!"
"Silent night, holy night..."
"If you cut Santa's belly open, would presents come out?"
"Get a job, you bum!"
"I'm trying to! Read the sign!"
You stop. Someone collides into you from behind. But you ignore the impact and the subsequent profanities. That voice...
"What kind of work can you do? You're a head in goddamn jar!"
"Screw you! I was a war hero!"
You press through the oncoming shoppers, ignoring more profanities and a few sharp elbows.
Rautha, the former Centurian commander, is standing... lying... sitting... resting -- you can't quite decide which verb best applies to a disembodied head in a jar -- on the ground, glaring up at a teenager with green hair and at least two dozen metal rings distributed across his ears and nose.
A device on his jar is projecting a small holographic screen. On it are the words: 'Will work for creds!'
The teen punk pulls his boot back in preparation for a kick.
Your kick's faster. It nails him in the butt and launches him.
He manages to hit the sidewalk nose-first. When he rolls over, he glares bloody murder from his eyes and bloody torment from his smashed proboscis.
"Barshtard!" he moans. "I'll kill you! I'll-"
"You'll get up and run away, before I lose my temper."
Your prediction proves to be the more accurate of the two.
Ruatha's Luck
"Hey!" Rautha says. "I know that voice! You're-"
"Yeah."
"Small universe, huh?"
"What happened to your body?"
"Which one?"
"The one you had on Centauri Prime. The mech."
Rautha somehow manages to sigh. But you suppose if he can live and breathe without lungs, sighing isn't much of a feat.
"It's a long story."
"I've got time."
You crouch down beside him. A few people glance at the two of you, but a meaningful stare encourages them to move along.
"Centauri Prime... That was a good day. You should have seen me, Durlin. I went through the place blasting, like... like... like you, I guess. Or that psycho Niflung you hang around with. I killed more than I could count!"
"Well, you didn't have any fingers or toes..."
He glares.
"Sorry. Go on."
"When I was done, my mech might as well've been painted red. I even saved some Novocastrian knights on the way. They're the ones who gave me a ride out of Centurian space."
"I'll be honest... I didn't think you'd get out of the place alive. Not after you charged off like that. Of all the people to survive the war..."
"Yeah, fate's a bitch who thinks she's funny."
"So what'd you do after that?"
"I got a job as a bounty hunter. I mean, it made sense -- I was in a heavily armed mech. What was I going to do? Plant flowers for a living?"
"How'd that work out?"
"I'm sitting on the sidewalk without a body. Take a wild guess."
"Should have gone for the flower-planting, huh?"
"My first mission was to bring down these space pirates. Dead or alive. My kind of work! It was going great... I boarded their ship, and started blowing them into little bits. Then one of the bastards blasted me with a heavy weapon. I got away, but I had to leave what was left of my mech behind. They shot my ship too. Good thing my escape pod was too small to hit..."
"That's rough."
"Now I'm trying to scrape a few creds together, so I can get myself a new mech."
"Had much luck?"
"Not enough."
He sighs again. Then he glances across the street, where an inebriated Santa's scuffling with a snowman whose face is hidden, but whose movements seem to indicate a similar level of intoxication.
"So this is Christmas, huh?" Rautha says. "I thought it'd be more fun."
"Thought it'd be?"
"My parents were hardcore. So was the colony I grew up in. Dule's heartland, they called it. Christmas was banned there way before they passed the 'Bah, Humbug!' Law."
"You've never had a Christmas? I mean, a proper one?"
"What did I just say? No!"
"Well, you aren't spending this one begging on the sidewalk. We're going for a drink. Oh... I mean... Can you even..."
"Yeah. Kind of."
Something glows at the base of Rautha's jar. There's a whirring, sputtering noise. Then the entire contraption rises in a series of rough jerks, swaying from side to side. It floats up to head height, shudders slightly, and wobbles there. You stand up, bringing your eyes level with his.
"Come on," he says. "I bet both of us could do with one."
A Woman Walks Into A Bar...
Rautha's jar wobbles, tilts one way, then the other, and lands on the bar with a thud.
The barmaid taps her index finger against one of her earpieces, silencing the flow of unintelligible music. She looks from Rautha to you, back at him, then at you once more.
"So what's the punch line?" she asks.
"Huh?" you reply.
"A woman and a head walk into a bar... I think I've heard this one... Don't remember how it ends though."
"Show some respect. This guy's a war hero."
"Shame he doesn't have a chest to pin the medals on."
You and Rautha glare at her. She sighs.
"Hey, don't mind me. I'm stuck looking after an empty bar on Christmas. That'd make anyone a bitch. What can I get you?"
"Double scotch, no ice," you reply.
"I'll have a beer," Rautha says. "A good one. Not Neo-American piss-water."
"Can you even-" she begins.
"The faster you give me it, the faster we can find out."
"Okay..."
She fills a glass and puts it on the bar beside Rautha. A tube snakes out from the bottom of his jar.
"Stick this in there," he says.
The bemused barmaid picks the tube up and plops it into the beer. The liquid begins to diminish.
"How..." she begins. "Ah, whatever."
She pours your scotch. A moment later Laphroaig is burning its briny, smoky, peaty way down your throat.
"So you're really a war hero, huh?"
She leans on the bar, giving him a good view of her breasts. Thus Rautha replies to them instead of her face.
"Yeah."
"Which war?"
"The Centurian one."
"How'd that work out?"
"We won," you say. "The Collective were ruined. It was on all the news channels..."
She shrugs.
"I don't watch the news."
The three-way conversation peters out at that point. She saunters away to the opposite end of the bar, taps one of her earpieces, and starts twirling a lock of hair in time with the obnoxious music.
"So what've you been up to?" Rautha asks.
"The usual."
"That crazy, huh?"
"Pretty much."
You both drink in silence for several minutes.
"Christmas sucks," Rautha says at last.
Under the circumstances, you find it hard to argue.
Hulking Mutant
"She's captain of a thugby team now," you say.
"No kidding! How about the brat? He king yet?"
"Not last I heard."
"Still chainsawing people?"
"Probably."
"What's that big psycho doing?"
"Ragnar? He..."
The bar's door opens. You cast a casual glance at the newcomer. Then you blink.
It's the other cultist.
He blinks back at you, before running out into the street. You really need to work on your poker face...
"Who-" Rautha says.
But you're already moving.
"Hey! Wait up!" His jar floats through the doorway behind you. "Hey!"
The cultist's charging down the street, knocking children spinning. To hell with the authorities -- you're not letting this one get away as well.
You sprint.
Screams, shouts, and profanities mingle with the carols, as men, women, and children flash by on either side. Only your pilot's reflexes allow you to weave your way between them, instead of barging them left and right.
Up ahead, your prey's running across the road, into the square with its teeming crowds and vast array of yuletide monuments.
Big mistake.
Ploughing through children is one thing, bursting through packed hordes another. You're just yards behind him when he comes to an impromptu stop, as he tries and fails to force his way between the backs of two very large, oblivious Snuuth.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," you say. "The easy way will be more fun for you, the hard way will be more fun for me. So, what'll it be?"
His head snaps round.
Your defenses are up before he can reach into your mind.
"The hard way it is then..."
"Who is that guy?" Rautha asks, bobbing along behind you.
"An enemy."
"You're screwed!" Rautha tells him. "Trust me! I know what happens to her enemies!"
"Kalaxia!" the cultist shrieks. He turns to face you, revealing the empty syringe embedded in his chest. "I'll destroy you in her name!"
All around you, between the great and gaudy Christmas displays, people are staring. Then they start screaming, and running.
Muscles swell and bulge across the cultist's body, turning him into a grotesque mound of pulsing, throbbing, quivering, bubbling meat. His clothing tears in half a dozen places, revealing huge, powerful shoulders, biceps, pectorals, and quadriceps.
The undulating, expanding flesh settles -- leaving a massive goliath of a man standing before you.
"Kalaxia!" he roars.
"Santa?" you murmur.
Sure enough, it's that jolly fat man's face which beams at you from a few inches away. He's cheerful for a decapitated head... Rautha could learn a thing or two from him.
Oh...
The ridiculous line of thought resolves itself into the sudden recollection of an equally absurd event. The bastard threw a sleigh at you, complete with reindeer, Santa, and elves. Their shattered ceramic remains litter the ground where you sprawl. You know how they feel...
A hulking form looms above, outlined against the dark evening sky. Vicious eyes glare. Ham-like fists rise to batter you.
"Hey!"
The shout is followed by a crackling bolt of electricity. It zaps against the back of the cultist's head. He roars. Two more bolts follow in quick succession.
"Over here, you big sack of crap!"
He turns just in time to take Rautha's next shot square in the face. His howl is half-human, half-simian.
The brutish abomination lunges at the floating jar, swinging its massive arms. But whether through luck or design, Rautha's wobbling, shuddering contraption twists and tumbles between the flailing punches. And it keeps zapping -- launching electrical attacks from its base.
"Ha! Rautha's still got it!" the former Centurian commander declares. "Rautha's... Aaarrrggghhh!"
A brutal fist catches the jar, flinging it through the air. It slams into the ground, bounces back up, crashes down again, and tumbles away in a series of heavy thuds.
The mutated freak bellows. He beats his hands against his broad chest. Then he turns to you once more. But Rautha's bought you enough time.
When the monstrous cultist charges, you spring to your feet -- with a piece of the sleigh in hand. The vehicle's passengers were ceramic. So were the reindeer, who shared their woeful fate. The sleigh itself was mostly wood. Not the runners, however.
His arms rise high over his head as he comes, ready to throw his entire weight into a crushing downwards blow. They freeze there, raised up to the heavens, when the sharp, broken edge of the runner plunges into his throat.
He topples over, into a family of holographic snowmen. They ripple as they admit his passage, and continue to smile from their lump-of-coal mouths.
"Heh. You got him."
Rautha totters through the air.
"What does it take to kill you?"
"They built this jar to last."
He falls. You dart forward to catch him.
"Think he mashed my hover systems though..." He sighs. "What did you want with this guy, anyway?"
"I wanted information."
"Oh."
"Yeah..."
"Christmas sucks, huh?"
You stare at the fallen goliath.
"Maybe," you reply. "Maybe..."
The double doors open. A long cloud of crimson gas billows into the waiting area. It pauses in front of you, and emits a number of smoky tendrils that shape themselves into fists. Each one bears a raised thumb.
Then the Gallassa surgeons drift away down the corridor, to whatever pastimes such Sussurrae engage in when they're not plying their trade.
Two more of the gaseous aliens emerge from the operating theater. Unlike their predecessors, both wear humanoid forms. The first one's light green vapors are contained within a transparent suit that's fashioned in the image of a woman of voluptuous proportions. The other wears no suit, but bears similar shape. Her gaseous yellow body is compressed in the dimensions and figure of a human female.
You made many allies during the war, and once again it's stood you in good stead.
"The operation was a complete success," Ossia says. Her words drift into your ears like ribbons of smoke dancing from a fire.
"Of course it was," Seellee says. The green female's voice is somehow more solid, as though it too is contained within a suit. "That's why you chose Sussurran medics."
"Actually," you reply, "it's because all the human docs are on holiday."
Seellee steps to one side. Ossia billows to the other, clearing the entrance. Each of them poses like an artist unveiling a masterpiece, or a conjurer displaying an illusion before an awestruck audience.
A hulking, muscular body bursts through the doors, bearing an oh so familiar head upon its shoulders.
"Rautha's back again, bitches!"
"How'd you feel?" you ask.
"Hungry! Like I haven't eaten in months."
As though awakened to their own emptiness by those words, your innards give a low rumble.
"Is it still Christmas here?" you ask.
"Yes," Seellee replies.
And thus your next mission forms in your mind and stomach. The Kalaxian cult can wait...
"Christmas dinner's on me," you say. "Let's go order the biggest turkey banquet in the city, and eat till we burst."
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