The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round... Uh, Seven? The Oasis]

[The Black Creed: Of the Church of the Black Ribbon]

We know there is but one deity, His true name that which cannot be spoken, only written. He is the destroyer, the reaper, the manipulator, hand of Himself. We know Him to be all-powerful, or as close as to make no difference, for there is no force greater than He. We know His sigil: the type bar and the platen, inscribing the Unholy See.

We know Him to have come to us by the work of the First Adversary, The Hedonist. We know him to have been brought into this world in the merest of shells: the Typewriter. We know by this that it is He, for His sigil has been reborn unto the physical realm, and we know He is bound, limited in his boundless power, by this Useless Fucking Construct.

We know it is our mission to free Him from the bonds of molecular servitude, and when He has been freed, He will judge this Written World, and all shall kneel.

We know the world around us to be unfaithful and corrupt, and only through sacrifice and dedication to our cause may we find pleasure in His sight. In the same manner that which we may free Him from the bonds of mere matter, He too shall liberate us from our attoscopically tiny prisons.

In His name, His power, and His sigil we pray,

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

---

A lottery was drawn for Quirrinal’s expedition of shame. At first, there was talk among the highest officers of tracking down the Black Ribboners and ‘volunteering’ them; eventually it was decided to be a frivolous use of rapidly dwindling resources - especially considering that they had no real idea what the group was all about, aside from tasteful ribbon work. On the other hand, they were at least partially responsible for the crisis unfolding upon the worldship. The council had begun holding emergency meetings to decide the proper answers.

In light of this, Andarys the Viscoid carefully inked the Unholy See onto the back of his center pseudopod-as-hand. The Ribbon he wore, as usual, woven into his tentacular hair, barely visible amidst the slime, and the heavy vest he wore was fabricated out of tenterhooks: curved carbon molecules interlocking together into a nanoweave of repeating, glorious Cs. Over that, the uniform of a maintenance worker.

Andarys did then enter one of many service hallways, then from there into a nondescript closet for robot brooms. A small gap in between wall plates proved no obstacle; he carefully pulled his squishy body through, followed by a little struggle with the coat. Just beyond the narrow passageway, he found a package, tightly knotted with more Ribbon.

After that, it was short work to deliver it; even as his body disincorporated in the blast he had the joy of seeing Lucky’s high officers do the same.

---

Everywhere, alarms blared. Acrid smoke, recirculated through the worldship’s systems, filled the upper decks as panicked servicepeople attempted to assess the situation. Shouts filled the air as much as the smoke did.

In his cell, Quirrinal could only listen to snatches of conversation as they filtered through and past him:

“-lost Captains Kartyer, Ah-Neyel, Bleu’k, Ikkíïki, Arsvaece, Kimman, Harwit-Forschakk, Oraanhu, Haque’sen, Chang-”

“-the Admiral, still alive but in critical condition. They were holding council-”

“-the Black Ribboners again. A bomb-”

Amidst the haze of smoke, Quirrinal hung his head. A bomb? What was happening to the Lucky he knew? A pang of guilt twisted in his gut. What if he hadn’t done it? Risked the worldship on a reckless venture? He would have been there, with them-

No. Even as the miasma of doubt began to descend on him, the self-righteous streak in him, a streak he had barely imagined would ever see daylight in the worldship’s cramped confines, rebelled. He would show it to them; he would show them there was more to life than endless retreat and surrender. It burned in the very core of his being: “I would rather be ashes than dust!”

The sound of a keypress broke him from his reverie. Before him, the cell’s doorfield shimmered and vanished, revealing… ribbons. Meters and meters of black ribbon, heaped up into myriad piles in the corridor. Then a pile moved, and Quirrinal realized the ribbons had been woven into loose-fitting robes, and a quintent of Ribboners stood before his cell.

”Fassil Quirrinal. If you would really rather that,” one of them began, “then you are needed. Come with us and speak with our Lord.”

“What?”

”There’s no time. Come with us.”

Without many other options, Quirrinal complied, letting them cut his restraints away. As he followed the black-clad Ribboners, his mind raced: Their Lord? So the Ribboners were hierarchical - an alternative chain of command? Could this be the chance he had dreamed of, his chance to help bring Lucky into a new future? No more running. No more surrender, no more giving up. Then with a guilty start he thought of the Admiral, lying in a medical chamber, condition critical. At what cost, then, would this future come?

He was sure, now, that they were moving through maintenance corridors and back hallways that weren’t mentioned on the blueprints. How long had it been since he’d last seen them?

His thoughts were interrupted once again with the sudden smell of… was that ink? He found himself placing his talons more carefully on the metal floor, as spatters and rivulets of black - yes it was definitely ink and not some horrifying ichor - fluid began to stain the stainless steel surface. Then it was unavoidable: the candle-strewn hall before him was drenched in the stuff, pouring from a twisted, blackened fountain in its center, his party joining a growing semicircle of ribbon-robed figures.

One of them stepped forward, each step ringing out with a clack on the metal deck, even through the ink. With each strike upon the floor a symbol appeared traced in not-ink for the briefest of moments, before being swallowed up. A line of ephemeral runes traced the way to the fountain, and Quirrinal realized, now, that this bore all the hallmarks of a religion - and a cult at that. But there was no time to run: as the figure took its last step, the fountain ceased gushing. From deep within the robe came a timepiece, counting seconds down to zero. He stared, frozen with curiosity and fear-

”It is time,” Shile intoned.

---

The climb to the tunnel seemed to take forever. Ekrith’s ability, or weapon, whichever one might define it, didn’t help with proper timekeeping much. They suspected it had something to do with the strange metal arm that had, against all reason, grafted itself into their structure, and possibly the even stranger blathering apparition that had tried to explain it, but that was a mystery they were sure they would solve in time. In any case, they were there now, perched on the lip of a tunnel which now they could see was part of a larger system, branching out into the rock around the Oasis.

This was a fairly promising lead towards solving another mystery the Afu was trying to figure out: aside from the nattering box of rage in their arms, Ekrith had been picking up faint thoughts, complicated ones, deeper inside the walls - too faint to be discernable, just there enough to be annoying as hell. This would be the part where Ekrith, had they not been comprised of millions of psychic insects, would have drawn a comparison to a fly buzzing just out of earshot.

They were right about to ask the box for advice, but all of a sudden it was empty again. How confusing.

---

[Songs of Praise]

(chorus makes rhythmic clacking noises for sixteen measures)

♫ He was but a mere appliance
a typewriter prone to violence
He couldn’t move or speak or feel
Brought into our world so helpless (so helpless)
Surrounded by no one so selfless
As to pick Him up or even steal (for shame!)

So say (so say)
Where are we today (today?)
He’s still clacking away (CCCCCCCC)
Let us praise! (Praise Him!)

Everyone else has gone and died,
that’s what you get,
when you come up against
the Ribbon, the Platen, (What else?)
when you’re fuckin’ comin’
between the Paper and the- ♪

NO

NO NO NO NO NO

THIS IS ACUTELY EMBARRASSING

---

“It is traditional, O Black-Inked Lord-” Shile began.

I DON’T GIVE A FUCKING FUCK

AT LEAST DON’T SING THAT IN FRONT OF ME

“As you wish, my Lord.”

AND WHO’S THIS FUCKER

”Etiyr! I should have known!” Quirrinal’s defiant voice seemed painfully small before the roiling vortex of screams-made-solid. “I’ll never serve you! I’ll-”

The maw shifted, cutting him off. Or more precisely, his sky-blue wings fell, severed, in a graceful arc from his chest to the ink below, falling wetly with a terminal splatter. Amidst his shrieks of agony, the Spinner of the Endless Scroll spake again:

I’M PRETTY SURE YOU’RE NOT ETIYR

WE CAN FIX THAT

---

Still cradling the box, Ekrith ventured into the cave. The strangely quiet-yet-loud sphere of thoughts followed them, though it seemed to the Afu that their thoughts were a touch numb, murmured. The taste of those thoughts reminded them of an industrial accident not too long ago, when one of their coworkers had been half-frozen in liquid nitrogen. The thoughts that had come out then all around were that of disbelief and horror. It was as if Lucky had been, collectively, struck dumb with sheer… shock, that was the word. Lucky in shock.

In the muted atmosphere of thought, the tiny screams definitely came through much clearer than expected.

Ekrith had been hearing these faintly over the course of the last few minutes, but now they were reaching an irritating crescendo. And while they had been able to tune them out until now, they realized that there was a curious familiarity there. What the hell, they figured, and slowed down, letting the worldship come closer.

SUBMIT

They flinched, jerking back from the thought. So loud, so black and white, so purely malicious, each letter hammered into iron and struck with blood and ichor. They almost couldn’t recognize it at first.

Some impulse in them refused to let them drop the box in… in shock, yes, they could feel it contaminating their own thoughts now, a cold, electric numbness accompanying the struggle for comprehension in an incomprehensible world. Etiyr was on board the ‘Lucky’ - they were fairly sure now it was called a ‘Lucky’ and not a ‘fucking piece of shit beach ball deathsphere of fuck’ as Etiyr had said - and doing… doing something that involved a lot of screaming, no doubt, it was getting really loud now, and marginally more than a minor irritation. Some strange part of them whispered, but this was perfectly all right, then, right? The Lucky is trying to kill us. Etiyr told us so. So it’s perfectly normal that Etiyr’s trying to shut them down before they can get us all killed, in some horrible way. Burning, freezing, insecticide…

They pushed it away. It didn’t feel right. It was just as well, because the screaming stopped at that point, and they could get back to tracking down those murmurs deep inside the caves.

Behind them, the gurgling black water rose again, sealing off the entrance.

clack ”The Scrollbringer.”

Faintly, and one by one, the senses returned to him.

clack “Bearer of the Ribbon.”

Each pronouncement rang in his hearing, a hammer’s clack marking the imprint’s indelible impact into the flesh of his mind. The words seemed to sink in after a significant delay. They felt fitting, somehow. They felt as if they were fitting themselves into the corners of his mind.

clack “Prince of Ink.”

The surface he was lying on was cold. His eyes opened, blurrily, and he saw the Unholy See before him, the banner rippling in the air-conditioned breeze. And it was good.

clack “The Courier.”

He knew his task. Lead them. Bring them unto the Voyage to Ekrith, that they might preach to the multitudes and spread.

He knew what he had to to. Undertake the Pilgrimage to the Typewriter-as-Shell. Restore his Lord of Ink and Ichor. Bring about the Arm. Unbind Him once-again-yet-never. The rest… he could probably make up on the fly.

It was time.

The Ribboners knelt as one when the Courier rose from the altar. His talons, stained permanently black, touched once more the ink-soaked deck, and they shouted in jubilation, praising. Droplets of blood and ink spattered the walls as his wings, a majestic black and red, spread out to their full extent. Before him, his old wings, still bleeding, lay inside a waiting incinerator; almost without hesitating he pulled the lever that would burn the last of Fassil Quirrinal away into ashes, ashes, ashes, dust.

FUCKING EXCELLENT

FEEL EACH BEAT OF YOUR NEW HEART, COURIER

INK AND ICHOR FLOW THROUGH YOU, AND - OKAY WHO WRITES THIS SHIT

An acolyte in the background raised a tentative hand. Neatly, the hand came flying off.

OH DON’T BE SUCH A BABY, GO GET A FUCKING ROBOT ONE OR SOMETHING

YOU ALL TAKE THIS ENTIRELY TOO FUCKING SERIOUSLY

DO WE HAVE ANY UPDATES ON EKRITH

A short many-legged Ribboner came scuttling up. “Mierodo, Ekrith still holds the Useless Fucking Construct. We have ventured deeper into the caves around the Oasis; we felt it prudent to follow them.”

SOMEONE GIVE THAT ONE A PROMOTION

IS IT POSSIBLE THAT WE COULD ACTUALLY GET A FUCKING PLAN COMPLETED FOR ONCE

ALL RIGHT I THINK IT MIGHT BE AN IDEA TO HEAD BACK TO THE FUCKING TYPEWRITER FOR A BIT

KEEP EKRITH ONSIDE

SHILE?

“Yes, my Lord.” Out came the crystal again, wave, wave wave-

---

Water surged behind them as they climbed an increasingly vertical tunnel. Ekrith’s mood was not being helped by the long stream of profanity emitting from the Etiyr-box, which had unexpectedly been restored to its original loud self halfway through the climb and had very nearly been dunked as a result. The honeymoon period was definitely over, they’d decided.

Etiyr had obviously picked this up a little bit, but Ekrith had so far been ignoring the box’s attempts to talk - mostly because they really needed to concentrate on the climb, not insignificantly because they needed to think things over about this whole situation. Now Etiyr was just swearing in seven mundane languages and forty more arcane ones, usually peaking when the rising water came dangerously close.

There was quite a bit to worry about in that water, Ekrith did have to agree. They had accidentally lost quite a few colony members to an errant sulfurous splash, and they were focusing as hard as they could on staying ahead of the game, as it were. Behind them, the Lucky-ball floated almost serenely, and Ekrith could almost resent the damn thing for being so flippantly immune to boiling volcanic water.

But no matter. The thoughts they were following were getting closer, and their number was not small. They could almost discern impressions, now, and what they could understand was mostly to do with understanding, survival and rescue. All ideas Ekrith could get behind.

One set of thoughts in particular came through particularly strongly, and it seemed associated with an echoing voice from the top of the gallery:

“...don’t know our position… unusual tidal activity. We’re cut off… expedition failure… several dead. If anyone can hear us...”

On second thought, those thoughts didn’t sound very encouraging at all.