The Grand Battle II! [Happy End!]

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

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Spoileralso this one is my favorite

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SpoilerGee, thanks. Over 70 thousand words, and thirty-seven of them are in your favorite battle. I hope you enjoyed them.

Note: The above snark has the full approval of its intended recipient.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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"All right," declared Maxwell, turning back to confirm his companion hadn't fallen in the pit of spikes yawning in the doorway, "which one do you suggest next?"

The lich hop-hovered noiselessly over the chasm, letting the irritation in his voice make up for the fact his gritted teeth weren't quite contributing to the mood. "I'd rather you explained what you thought this was going to achieve." For while Gestalt and Vyrm'n had been busy discovering and consequently scheming as to how they'd go about killing a Grandmaster, Konka had been having an increasingly difficult time tolerating Maxwell's antics. The two of them would enter a room, the human would peruse the walls, nattering on for a while until Konka replied to some question or another directed at him. This exchange would be followed by Maxwell giving him a careful look, and marching back into the octagonal chamber and arbitrarily picking a new passageway to investigate. The duo repeated this three times without proceeding any further than the first chamber, although the pit of spikes in the doorway had been a nice touch to the last room they'd explored.

Maxwell just kind of waved an absently dismissive hand in Konka's direction, appraising the circle of eight while pointedly refusing to answer the lich. Konka's fleshless fingers gripped his staff a little tighter, the unpleasant little creak of his teeth grating failing to relieve his frustration. Conceding there had to be some method to to the genius' madness, the lich jabbed his staff at one of the three doors he hadn't followed Maxwell into.

"That one, then."

Maxwell took a look at the passageway in question, his gaze's travels interrupted only by the sight of the golem again rising silently from the bedrock and filling in the spike trap. He hissed an invective of some sort under his breath, then snapped, "no."

"And why would-" Konka's exasperated reply was interrupted by a prompt through his cybernetics. Some formidable magical source, its coiled and compacted signal diffused as it was by the ambient forces in the stone, was approaching them from the passageway where they'd left the other three Battlers behind. The lich raised his staff a little. "-something's coming."


Gestalt was, understandably, watching its words for reasons threefold. First, and perhaps most disconcertingly least of the schrotgolem's concerns, was attempting to broach the topic of Vyrm'n attacking the Grandmaster who'd appeared in their midst. Disconcerting that it had bigger problems than persuading a moody, apathetic, contrarian, war-weary alien into relucatant motion. Second, the Grandmaster in question. "Clara" seemed quite content to let her lagging audience set the pace, provided Gestalt could keep peppering her with questions and seem attentive to her response. Granted, multi-tasking came naturally to a creature such as Gestalt, but the dual conversations were still enough of a challenge for the naturally solitary schrotgolem. Gestalt didn't want Clara's guest alerted to its discussions with the Faceless, despite its apparent delight at uncovering its colleagues' conspiracies. Somehow, the schrotgolem doubted the Organizer would be particularly appreciative of schemes on its life, and thus took its sweet time to ensure said intruder, hopefully victim in the near future, would remain oblivious.

Finally, there was the issue of the other omnipotent being Gestalt and Vyrm'n and the three humanoids entangled in this mess had to deal with. The schrotgolem could only speculate on what the Observer thought of recent events, but could only assume their snide, snickering captor had little qualms with what had transpired. Tempting as it was to discount its almost... lackadaisical ways as the breadth and depth of the Grandmaster, Gestalt didn't want to count on it.

I think-

Surprised, Gestalt established that "Clara" had not addressed him, and was nattering on about a healing crystal that had caused some Lutherion a considerable amount of grief. The schrotgolem made a polite noise, coming to terms with the fact Vyrm'n had not only been listening to its musings (granted, it'd left the connection open despite not expecting a reply), but felt like responding.

I think I could chase it down. It's a mind, a vast and twisted mind and Clara only let a tiny spark through, but it's one mind and no matter how much minds coil and twist and slip they're still one, they don't break.

Vyrm'n's bordering-on-threatening-to-sound-cheerful tones made something in Gestalt quail a little just hearing it, but the schrotgolem urged her to continue.

I think I want to do this. I want that monster to touch the Void and flee screaming to the betweenspace the nothing or wherever it hides, scattering into the emptiness. Then I could wrap its heart in black and make it carve me a ransom hollow to hide in before I let it see the the nothing it'll fade into for good- here, the Faceless snapped from its reverie, shivered briefly -but where would that leave you, Gestalt?

"Gestalt?"

The schrotgolem cursed quietly to itself, it had been vaguely aware of the Grandmaster's previous query but absently skipped it. "Vyrm'n-"

"Private moment? Not a problem. I'll go ahead, you two come and find me once you're done." The nun laughed quietly to herself, drifting ahead.

How certain are you that you could kill a Grandmaster in your presence?

Vyrm'n eschewed metaphor, but her assent was confident.

Then... we may agree attacking the Organizer is suboptimal. It would only serve to alert the Observer to our plans, and give him ample to time protect himself.

There was a little smirk behind the Faceless' mental nod, but it was agreement nonetheless.

So now what?

We spend our time here discovering as much as we can - about Grandmasters and their factions... and find a way to expose the Observer.

The Faceless didn't need to be told what her job was after that. With a quietly, dangerously roiling sense of purpose to her, she just nodded again.

Of course, key to gathering that information is maximising our time-

Gestalt was interrupted by a very pertinent boom. The link between the two entities was snapped shut again by the Faceless, who was spasming violently. She squeezed out a pained the rock it's furious before leaping into the air and darting clumsily after the Necropolitan.


Moments earlier, "Clara" took a look around the central chamber, pausing briefly at the corridor Maxwell had refused to go down. She smiled at the lone eye staring sentinel at them from above the doorway, then turned to find a ram's skull in her chest, a dull fire glowing in its empty sockets. The presumptuous little lich on the other end of the staff snarled a demand for an explanation as to what his sensors were reading off the nun.

Konka got only one word out before Clara raised a hand to freeze him in place, but the ensuing explosion was quite sufficient.

"Detonate."

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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As the smoke and debris from Konka Rar's spell began to clear, a figure gradually became visible. Clara hadn't moved from where she'd been standing when the spell went off, although her arms were now folded across her chest. As the dust finished settling and things became even clearer, her face came into view: its lips were pursed and its eyes hooded; the eyes, in fact, were no longer the star-filled black discs they had appeared to be before the attack, having changed into one normal-if-purple-tinted eye and one that glowed with the same light as Konka's cybernetic ocular implant. Her whole face, in fact, had a much more skull-like cast than it usually did, which strongly accentuated the expression of irritated disdain she was wearing.

None of this was so strange, however, as the fact that she wasn't actually standing on anything: her feet hadn't moved since the spell was cast, but the floor had. The nun appeared to be hovering above a small crater that had formed; cracks ran from it up the nearby walls and a few feet into the corridor topped with the eye, and judging from the shrapnel that had pelted Maxwell and Konka Rar, it was very real. Clara just didn't seemed bothered about trivitalities like gravity. She began walking forward towards the lich, who found he was held fast in place. Despite the lack of ground, her footfalls echoed in the silence following the blast; they didn't sound in time with her feet's motion, but the sound was there.

"You know, it's always disappointing when someone has to go and ruin everyone else's nice time. But hey, I'm not gonna let this get me down; we can have a different sort of fun now, you and I. You're one of Cultivator's, right? Yeah, I remember you. Congratulations about Eximo, by the way, but I guess you don't know about that yet."

"Anyway, you wanted an explanation. Well, I'm the Organizer!" The way the capital O clanged left no doubt in the frozen conquerer's mind what the title meant. "You couldn't have known that when you attacked, of course, but regardless, trying to blow someone up is always rude; besides, knowing you, you'd have attacked even if you did know. Konka Rar, great lich, ruler of men and so forth. So stuck up! I know you've had a grudge against us since you got scooped up. Er, the real you, I mean. I can understand that, I suppose. What I can't understand is the thought (and don't tell me you haven't had it!) that you're anywhere near ready to take anyone on. Even nearly the weakest of us after having been crippled and at his most vulnerable, destroyed two of his best fighters." The nun, who was by this point standing mere inches in front of Konka Rar, chuckled. "Mages, huh? Little local reality control and suddenly they're ready to call themselves Vecna the Lich God, Lord of Secrets and such. You just don't understand."

Gestalt and Vyrm'n had caught up in time to see most of the monologue; Maxwell had retreated into the entrance of one of the corridors and was watching around a corner. Clara tapped the lich contemplatively on the chest. "I wonder if this is against the rules, but... You're a duplicate, shouldn't even be here. That can't count, and Observer's not in much of a position to make a fuss about interference. Yeah, this'll be fine." She pushed him to the opposite side of the main room, then moved back ext to the crater. With a click of her fingers, she released her undead opponent from his paralysis, as well as sending faintly-purple translucent barriers up in all eight corridors. "I'm sure you still think you can win this, so I'll humor you. I won't even use mind control, body control, teleportation, or even meddling with your past. Plus, you can have the first shot! Just you and me, no interference. Time to prove yourself, King Konka Rar."

The lich gripped his staff tightly, watching Clara simply stand opposite him with her arms folded. She was right, in a way; even with the knowledge of who he was facing, the idea that this would end in any way other than his victory simply didn't occur to him. However, overconfident he might have been, but foolhardy he wasn't; he'd been given an advantage in being allowed to move first, and he intended to take full advantage of it. He ran a number of lightning-fast calculations and predictions, his eye and various other cybernetic enhancements gathering as much data as they could. Eventually, shortly after Clara had begun making faces in apparent boredom, he was ready to cast his first spell.

"Arcane Disjunction!"

Konka Rar swung his staff towards the placid nun, its eye sockets glowing with silver light; as it reached the farthest part of the swing, the ram's skill sent a glowing missile barreling towards Clara, the shapeless bolt of glowing energy pulsing and crackling as it hurtled through the air. Clara seemed to be doing nothing in the way of response until the spell had nearly collided with her; then, her hand moved with speed that was impossible to follow. When it stopped, she had the sizzling light wrapped around her fingers and a vague smile hovering on her lips. "Nice try."

There was little else in the way of reaction from her; she began weaving the spell around the fingers of both hands, looking like a very sparkly version of cat's cradle, but otherwise simply stood there. The undead mage's mechanical eye narrowed, and he began preparing another spell; this time, with a cry of "Fangs of Cocytus!", he loosed a barrage of meter-long icicles. Clara flung her hands wide, the threads of magic still wrapped around her fingers expanding for form a wide net in front of her; the icicles collided with it, becoming entangled in the other spell and stopping short of their target. After a handful of them had been caught, the possessed woman freed her left hand from the net and flicked her right arm; both spells collapsed and writhed, reforming into a sort of silver whip studded with razor-sharp chunks of ice.

With inhuman dexterity and speed, she sent the whip screaming through the air, shattering those missiles that were still heading towards her. Most exploded when struck, sending frozen shards back towards the lich and the walls. His enhanced reflexes served him well, and Konka Rar was able to raise a shield before he was perforated, but he was becoming increasingly frustrated, especially when he heard a curt "Strike two." from the other side of the room.

Reasoning that his adversary had been easily able to turn missile spells against him, he decided it was time to try something that directly influenced the environment. Ordinarily, doing something like this in a combat situation would be dangerous, but Clara seemed to have no real interest in retaliating yet; he began chanting, digital mind feeding the calculations and specifications to the arcane one. This wasn't a rote spell like the others had been, some tried-and-tested formula with predictable results and only one real application; this was real sorcery, treating magic more like shapable clay than an often-reproduced mold. A network of red-orange lines wove themselves across the room, accompanied by a deep, mineral rumbling. Clara raised an eyebrow with interest, whip held idly by her side.

There was no loudly-announced and dramatic name, just a few more indecipherable syllables muttered. With no more warning than that, the stone began rippling, then sending out tendrils of rock. They swatted at the nun, who dodged nimbly and sent her weapon snapping towards the offending rock. It easily severed them, but for every one she cleaved off, two more sprouted. In addition, the walls began lancing at her with spikes formed of the same bedrock; they threatened to impale her if she ever stopped moving, forcing her to tumble and run up walls to avoid being skewered. It might have been humorous in another situation to watch the aged woman cavorting like a ninja, but Konka Rar was all business; as Clara was forced to concentrate on simply not being hit, he was preparing another devastating spell.

Several streaks of dark energy lanced across the floor towards the nun; despite her back being turned at the time, she sighed and snapped her fingers.

"I think this has been quite enough."

Konka Rar found himself unable to move once again. Then, as Clara turned towards him, he realized that wasn't quite right. He could still move, but with extreme slowness; the cavern around him was still attempting to attack too, but at a speed that suggested simply waiting for stalactites to grow into her might be more successful, and the black glow of the lich's most recent spell continued oozing much like molasses across the floor. He was forced to watch as she began moving towards him, whip carving a path through spikes and tendrils of stone and figure leaving afterimages in the air. "Do you understand yet?"

With another elegant flick of her wrist, Clara sent the whip careening towards the slowed wizard. By pure force of habit, he tried to force himself to block it, but could do nothing but watch as his body refused to obey and the whip slammed into him. His staff splintered, and as the ice raked across his torso, several ribs went with it. As she continued to move towards him, she sent the lash across him several more times, sundering one of his legs, yanking off his robotic arm, and eventually cracking his skull and cybernetic eye. She tossed the scourge aside as she drew level with him and reached out.

Her fingers wrapped around his neck, and he could feel his vertebrae grinding with the force of the grip. He was lifted off the ground and forced to look down at Clara's impassive face. There was no malice in her voice as she spoke. "This vessel could hold only a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of what I am. You were given every advantage in the world. Nothing you could ever do or be will be any more significant to me than an ant to an entire galaxy. Nothing could even be that significant to any of us, even worthless, weak pretenders like the Director. Everything you could ever hope to accomplish is nothing. You are nothing. But worse, you're nothing that thinks itself grand and powerful. You're a child brandishing his slingshot against a thunderstorm."

Her face briefly lit up as something seemed to occur to her. "It's too bad you'll never meet Soft. She'd have a field day with you."

And with that, her interest in the lich seemed to wane completely. She tossed him aside like a doll, and he sailed slowly through the air. As she walked back towards the other side of the room, time seemed to catch up with itself; the dark spell collided harmlessly with a wall, Konka Rar collided rather less harmlessly with a stone column formed by his own magic, and most of the remaining tendrils and spikes that filled the room shattered into rock splinters. The barriers she'd raised faded at her will, and Clara beckoned to Gestalt and Vyrm'n, leading them into the tunnel two doors to the right of the one marked with the eye.

"While I have a nice conversation with your much politer friends, I'd advise you watch out; there's some people who aren't pleased with how you've treated their home."

As the nun and her companions disappeared into the passage she'd chosen, several hulking shapes rose from the floor of the main room. Vyrm'n shuddered at the enmity she could feel emanating from every molecule of the temple.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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The chamber was eerily, awfully still. Konka Rar didn’t get up; the cracked halves of his staff didn’t rattle and leap to his outstretched hand. The cybernetic eye was disconcertingly leering in Maxwell’s general direction, the fact it didn’t whir and wheel around of its own volition like the fencer wished it comically would made the situation that palpable bit more disturbing.

There wasn’t much left to joke about.

Three golems, then four, had risen unmarred and noiseless from the stone below. Vyrm’n slouched in the doorway Gestalt had already followed Clara down, and Maxwell watched her watching the golems wait. She wasn’t actually paying attention; she didn’t really care – yet simultaneously, she was acutely aware of not just every bone and component of the lich that littered the chamber, but every desecrated atom of stone that the magician had bent out of place. The Faceless - contrary to an observer’s impression that she was intensely interested - was positively straining to actively not care, to shut out the all-pervading anger of the rock-

The elemental had been tasked with a duty, and gifted mind enough by the one who had enlisted it to take pride in its work. Solitude had not concerned it, but neither had the arrival of those whose exploits it had so faithfully transcribed. Yes, it would’ve conceded had anyone asked it (were anyone able to comprehend it), that these ones were not the ones supposed to be here. Yes, the one who’d brought them here had spat on the entity’s labour of emotionless love, but he was like the giver, of visions and mind and purpose, and though the gifts of the second were not as appreciated as those of the first, they were gifts nonetheless. And when the second’s gift, of the carvings graced with life and movement (even if they were, yes, the ones not foretold), was violent and destructive, the third stepped in. It gave the desecrator a chance, let it make the first move.

And so Vyrm’n waited, trying her hardest not to think about any of this. The golems waited, offering the lich his last chance to make the first move. The same respect the master’s compatriots offered the despicable thing.

The noise was getting worse, the vague yet intense fury of the stone rising like bile. Vyrm’n had to get out, stand somewhere again without a sky-incarcerating mile of rock suffusing her with feelings of murderous rage for a lich she could care less about, and reverence for a Grandmaster she planned to kill.

Vyrm’n.

There was a dagger stuck in somewhere approximating the shadow’s chest. The schrotgolem’s presence hung in the air about her like a haze; Vyrm’n felt ill. Withdrawing the knife and explaining the situation to “Clara”, Gestalt extracted several cardboard boxes, leaving them flat on the ground. It had been listening to the channelled stream of semi-conscious chatter long enough, and things made a little more sense.

Rest on that. It should break your contact with this mind that is troubling you. I will find a means by which we may… escape this Battle.

The Faceless was too beleaguered to protest, and slunk away from the doorway before slumping gratefully on the boxes. It didn’t shut out all the anger, but there was room enough again in Vyrm’n’s mind for her own thoughts. “Clara” enquired whether putting a blanket on top was appropriate, and though Gestalt couldn’t tell whether the Grandmaster was being condescending or confused, the nun was eventually convinced into leaving the convalescing shadow in peace.


Maxwell wasn’t sure what motivated him to intrude on the room of statues – perhaps it was his conscience seeing accusation in the glare of an unseeing cybernetic eye. More to stop it staring at him than anything else, he slunk in and pocketed the eyeball, and started violently. A fifth agglom of rock had stealthily emerged, right behind him. With a faint prickling noise, a hairline grin zigzagged its way across its boulder of a head, before it split in two and uttered a settling-shale sigh. Two dully glowing eyes stared from within the rough-hewn jaws, boring into Maxwell with a placid hostility. There was something blankly angry there, yes, but it wasn’t directed at him.

Something small and broken stirred in a corner of the room across from Maxwell; a toe bone he’d been making a concerted to not look too hard at chattered by the genius’ feet. The bones and fragments of bone close to the shattered bulk of the necromancer twitched slowly back together, like a tiny creature yanked on invisible, connecting threads. The golems watched, and Maxwell inched his way round the perimeter of the central chamber to get a better look. The sounds the man himself made, the scuff of his boots, his shallow, cautious breathing, were the only thing distracting him from the tiny scrape of a jawbone dragging its way back to its skull. Snapped limbs couldn’t seem to heal, but they slid back in place as best they could. When the oppressive silence was pierced by a little beep from his pocket, Maxwell nearly sagged in relief. He hastened to Konka’s side, standing awkwardly aside as the necromancer rebuffed his help standing.

The swordsman glanced from intruder to guardians, the golems’ blank gazes affixed on Konka. The necromancer had struggled into a sitting position, leaning on the wall, when Maxwell stepped between him and the ominous monoliths. One of them struck up a chatter, like a pebble tumbling down a distant slope.

“D-don’t hurt him.”

The lich uttered a rasping chuckle; a mere husk of his former mechanised voice. “Admirable, boy, but ultimately useless.”

Maxwell turned, and stared about halfway up the wall. Konka Rar hung limply there, suspended from a stone fist clamped round his chest and remaining arm. The little skittering noises the golems were making rose slowly in volume, the sound of more boulders joining the impending landslide. The skull, eye sockets lit dully green or no, couldn’t help Maxwell read the lich’s expression; the resigned hiss that whispered forth from it made it clearer.

“She said… I was a duplicate. Which means the true Konka Rar fights on in the Savage Brawl.”

The cascade of rock grew louder, the temple walls themselves seeming to join in. The floor might’ve been shaking, or maybe it was just an unfulfilled expectation on Maxwell’s mind’s part, taking steps to jitteringly compensate for the sensory dissonance. The lich chuckled again.

“I doubt these golems would indulge me a last request, so you’d better.”

“I… what?”

“The first round. It was in an underground cavern, described as the afterlife. A young woman was fatally wounded and triggered a powerful freezing curse on her death. The most distinctive contestant would be… a giant one-eyed meatball.” The necromancer paused, begrudgingly acknowledging how absurd his story was. He pressed on, urgently. “With noodles. I’m aware you’ve already eliminated half of the chambers, but this will doubtless save you time.” Maxwell blinked, somewhat put out that the lich had seen through his seemingly aimless explorations. The smirk on those gaunt features was more imagined by the man than consciously pulled by Konka.

“Find out whether I – whether the real Konka Rar survived and won.” The necromancer made an irritated little sound, as the rumbling was interrupted by the prickle of a seam splitting the wall on which he was pinned. “If he emerged victorious, disregard the following. If not… If that Organizer spoke the truth, and my… vacuum cleaner won its battle… I entrust you with the task of ensuring it receives its new orders.”

Maxwell was about to point out even he could tell what a ridiculous request that was, when the chanting, if the chorus of granite on granite could be called that, reached an earthen crescendo. It was so loud it astounded Maxwell the roof wasn’t caving in on top of him. The split yawned open without warning, the doorways on either side of the patch of wall buckling aside to accommodate the expanding crack. The stone fist gripping the necromancer remained in place, its misshapen, grotesquely long “arm” reaching out of the black chasm that opened around it. The darkness within was more than the absence of light – it had substance and inexorable flow.

And it thundered. The weak fire in the lich’s eyes flared up, as he mustered the last of his reserves to raise his voice above the roar, issuing his final, impossible, ludicrous order.

“My final command for Eximo, to be rewarded with freedom on its successful completion.

Destroy the Grandmasters. Every last o-”

His words were torn out of him as the arm contracted sharply, pulling him into the shadows without protest. With alarming speed, the stone jaws crashed shut, the eventually settling dust revealing an unmarred temple wall.

Behind Maxwell, one golem uttered a satisfied clatter; before they melted as silent one back into the floor.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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It wasn't long before Vyrm'n disappeared behind the advancing pair, and not much longer than that before the sounds of Konka Rar's dismemberment faded too. All that remained was the creak of living rock, the gentle hiss of years, and the bubbling voice of Clara as she told the story of her possessor's battle; words flowed endlessly over the schrotgolem as it followed her through the winding corridor, oddly not accompanied by the twang or thud of traps. It seemed that it was easier and more convenient for the grandmaster to simply rewrite reality such that there were no traps where the two passed than to bother avoiding them or wait for Gestalt to disarm them itself.

It wouldn't be accurate to say that Gestalt wasn't paying attention to what Clara was saying; the golem was excellent at multitasking and was absorbing every quip and side-comment the grandmaster was churning out, but... The actual information it was getting and the near-monologue conversation it was getting it from were not at the forefront of its thoughts. It drifted down the corridor in a cloud of words, pausing dutifully at certain carvings at the Organizer's whim, but its primary thoughts were all focused not the battle the Organizer kept referring to as "PC" ("For beings most of whom time is largely a matter of choice to," he had quipped, "They sure like acronyms and abbreviations."); rather, Gestalt was occupied with its own battle and how to use the Organizer's presence to its advantage. Simply killing the capricious grandmaster was obviously out of the question: even after giving a powerful sorcerer like Konka Rar all the advantages in the world, Clara had been able to obliterate the uppity mage with seemingly no effort. Even if a head-on fight was a possibility, Gestalt doubted very much that defeating him would do any more than kill poor Clara, an innocent in all this. No, all that could be hoped to gain was an advantage or escape.

The golem pondered what motivations or emotions a being like the Organizer could possibly have, and how to appeal to them. It was uncanny how chipper Clara's voice stayed, even when she was tearing Konka Rar apart or describing the gruesome deaths of PC contestants; only for brief, rare moments did any frustration show, and even during those times it was difficult to glean why any particular thing had gotten to him. How was one supposed to deal with that kind of... person? A cloud of dark pessimism threatened to envelop Gestalt's thoughts, but the golem was nothing if not practical and kept plugging quietly away at the problem.

Eventually, something the Organizer was saying cut through the pondering and made Gestalt shift the brunt of its attention to its conversational partner. "You know, I wonder... I know how my battle is going to turn out by now. It's gotten to a point where it's not only unlikely that one of them will win, but it is quite literally impossible in all potential timelines. Er, timelines that matter anyway. I won't bore you with the details and even without a brain to hold you back I doubt you'd understand anyway, so... Let's call it short-term predestination and be done with it. Anyway! Point is, I know what's going to happen in a very general sense. It might as well already have happened, depending on your perspective. I'm curious to see what these carvings have to say about that, aren't you?"

Gestalt was curious, albeit almost certainly for different reasons than the Organizer. The two of them were in the penultimate room for this battle anyway, so it was a fairly short walk to sate their collective curiosities. As they approached the final room, the near-silence of the temple was joined by a subtle scraping, grinding sound; the source became obvious as the corridor opened up into the last chamber: one of the golems, for all anyone knew one of the ones that had been present for Konka Rar's death, was standing by the wall, dragging an appendage across the stone. Actually, through the stone; the "finger" was pressed straight into the rock, and as it moved it left a channel as though the wall were made of soft clay. It payed the new arrivals no mind, and simply went about recording whatever events its mind was telling it to. Most of the chamber's walls were blank, but the narrative of the final round was beginning to play out near the door and outwards; additionally, as the Organizer might have suspected, at the far end of the room there was a bizarre three-pronged shape surrounded by a circle.

Clara's face formed into a satisfied smirk. "I knew it. Well I mean obviously I didn't or I wouldn't have had to check, but... Your language is really ambiguous, you know that? On top of the whole clunky 'speak using sounds' thing. Anyway, yeah, this is nice vindication of my knowledge and suspicions."

"You will have to forgive my presumptuousness, but I was given to understand from some of your previous comments that many of the carvings in this place had been tampered with or altered. Is it perhaps possible that this is such a creation of the grandmaster who seeded those distortions rather than the vindication you were seeking?"

Clara's hand waved airily. "Trust me, I'd know if it was. I knew before, remember? Admittedly that was partially because I could spot the inconsistencies, but trust me, Observer isn't the guy you want to go to for subtlety. His stink is allll over those carvings, but this one's all clean."

Gestalt turned its attention to the lone carving for a few moments. "I believe you referred to this formation as Eemp, Right, and Rong previously. I don't think you ever actually explained what it or they are, however; all I was really able to catch was apparently some power over fire and water. I'm rather curious as to the nature of this contestant."

"It's a weird one, for sure. They are, I guess. Eemp is basically a fireproof straw doll. Like a scarecrow, but with no arms. Right and Rong are dragon heads some wizard sewed onto the doll where its arms would go. Wizards, right? It was built to serve as a war machine, and it was a good one too. Benelea is looking a little silly without it's biggest asset right now, especially after it went on a little bit of a conquering spree. Anyway, dragon heads on a scarecrow. Very odd thing, fun to watch."

That threw the normally-unflappable golem for something of a loop; it had expected some sort of elemental construct or spirit, not... That. That thing. Necromantically-animated vacuums and dolls with dragon heads... The winners of other battles were turning out even more strange and confusing than the contestants in this one had been. All the more reason to get out of this before it had to deal with such bizarre monstrosities. Maybe this could be the start of an appeal to the Organizer's sense of tradition? It was worth a shot anyway.

"It seems like the winners of the other battles are rather more... unique than the comparatively-mundane survivors of this one. Perhaps it would be–"

Once again Gestalt's being was swallowed by cold, its senses dulled and its mind screaming. Clara turned to the boxes the same blank expression she had worn when chastising the schrotgolem the first time, the same expression that had graced her elderly features as she crushed Konka Rar.

"Look, let's not kid ourselves here. I know what you want. I can read you just as well as I can read the more humanoid members of these little games. I know what you're planning, and it won't work. There is no escape. Not through me, not through the Observer, not through Vyrm'n. Not through anything. The only way you'll end this thing with your life is if you kill the other two, or you kill the Observer. I'm not gonna lie, I'd love to see the latter happen. Shake things up, keep these kids on their toes. I might even give you a hand making it happen; some crazy god tore up some delicate spacetime lattices and yadda yadda, point being that there's a lot of confusion and uncertainty around these things right now. It'd be simplicity itself to redirect this battle's final round to somewhere he's not expecting. Wouldn't be much on top of that to give him a good kick in the knee, too, keep things more even. And let's face it, Observer's not top-tier grandmaster material by a longshot in any case."

"But don't go thinking that just because I'm helpful and talkative that I'm on your side or that I'm nice. Or especially that I'm stupid. I can see what you and your faceless friend are doing and what you want. I go along with it not because you're master manipulators or I'm just such a fantastic guy, but because it promises to be amusing and let's face it, I've got nothing to lose by going along for the ride."

The figure that was currently very difficult to think of as Clara turned back towards the rock golem and watched it placidly carving for a few moments. "You basically have two choices at this point, Gestalt. You can faff around here with me, pumping me for information that will almost certainly do you no good while you wait for that stupid genius to trip and land on his own epee, and while you do that the Executor and some other fiddly beings are gonna reestablish the battles' network and ruin any chance you might have had to get close to the Observer. Or, you can get out there now, finish off that useless fencer, and I can drop you right in with your dear grandmaster friend."

Gestalt realized it had been some time since it had been frozen in place; for several seconds now, it was simply the Organizer's words that had held it in place rather than his power. The synthesizer hummed for a moment, then spoke. "That... Is not much of a choice."

As the boxes retreated back towards the main chamber, a slow smile spread across Clara's face. This really was turning out to be fun, wasn't it?

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

Hmm.

Hmmm.

Consider this less a solid reserve and more of a personal note to post here some time in the near future.

Originally posted on MSPA by Opirian.

---

((On a main note, I'm still reading and I still say awesome, on a side note, I know its late but I thought I would bring this back for x-mas time from last year =D))

Show Content

Spoiler

((Made by Schazer))

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

Maxwell poked his head round the corner, starting visibly at the mound of black occupying the centre of the room. Having heard Clara's footsteps and Gestalt's boxes move out of earshot, he hadn't expected anyone down the Pitched Combat corridor. Vyrm'n struggled up, attention so keenly upon the man he couldn't feign ignorance and leave. He said something, but the blackness twitched and darted forward, a pseudopod wrapping round the hand resting on the doorway.

I can't hear anything anymore the rock keeps crying of hurt and desecration

She sounded tired. And distressed. And close to tears or murder. Maxwell had no idea how to respond, the undercurrents of the Faceless' barely-restrained thought rushing torrential. Then:

Did you kill the Karmist

Vyrm'n could've punched the man across the face, and left him less reeling. Maxwell was vaguely aware that he'd tried to back away from the Faceless, if only because her black grip upon his hand had become like unyielding stone.

"I- how did- let go of me!"

The shadow acquiesced, the man scrambling back and landing on the rubble-strewn floor in his haste. Vyrm'n lingered in the doorway, both aware there was no way he could outrun her.

"Wh-what difference does it make who's responsible?" Vyrm'n made no response; the man choked out a noise that might've been a forced laugh. "There-there's a whole world of people out there, somewhere, better off without him! Never mind us!"

The Faceless remained motionless, its atomic vision too overloaded with stone-song to discern much more than the distinction between rock, air, and Maxwell. He was shaking, silence mistaken for accusation, eyes fixed on an indeterminate piece of rubble that wasn't the pillar of stars, voice choked with tears.

"I can't convince myself any other way, Vyrm'n. I did everything but shoot the bastard, alright?"

Face in his hands, Maxwell continued on a diatribe Vyrm'n couldn't hear.

"I don't - I can't care less if it was just or right or even merciful to kill him - I shouldnt've done it - I shouldnt've had to do it – but what does that matter? It’s been done. I gave a man who wanted to die a shotgun, then watched him off himself. That’s all there was to it! Nobody’s fault that it’s beyond me to see that as best for everyone!"

It was only now that the shadow grew aware of Maxwell's words, even if it still couldn't hear them. Vyrm'n slithered round the broken, tormented man, looming wordlessly over him. He stared up into a million billion stars, trapped under miles of rock. Something about it seemed wrong to Maxwell, before he remembered a jagged wall, a barren field, and an endless sky - with nothing but a rift in space soaring across it with a painfully naïve man on its back.

He wanted to get out – no, he wanted Vyrm’n to get out. He couldn’t even wish for vengeance exacted against the Observer – only for the wordless slice of night to fly free amongst the stars again. Right now, it felt like the only suitably peaceful image in his head, and in his desperation, Maxwell clung to it.

"Please, Vyrm'n. I'm begging you. Kill me.” The words carried fear, but certainty. There might’ve been a protest forthcoming, but he sadly smiled it aside. “Wherever you’re heading, be it another battle to the death or to take down the Observer, I can’t help you. Me or my catastrophic failure to raise this sword against another. I can't even justify spilling my own blood, even if the only thing I can bring myself to destroy is - well, me."

“Happy to help.”

There might've been the tiniest laugh before the schrotgolem interrupted, but it was cut off by a cry of pain. Vyrm'n stiffened, sensed Gestalt, and darted between it and Maxwell. The schrotgolem would’ve sighed were it capable, instead opting to remove the dagger from the man’s side and plunge it, hilt-first, into the Faceless instead.

You heard him.

No. There has to be-

No. There is no other way. Time is of the essence. The longer we stall, the less the Organizer can do to twist the next round in our favour.

We can’t trust it

There is. No other. Way. He knows. Your stalling is making him suffer, and diminishing our chances. Get out of the way. I’ll make it painless-

Vyrm’n quivered; Gestalt’s mind retreated sharply as she called forth the Void, attempting to drag the schrotgolem in. She reasserted control immediately, swept up Maxwell, and darted down a corridor. Gestalt appraised the blatant eye gouged above the doorway for a moment, before unpacking a few more weapons and pursuing.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

Gestalt had shown in the past a propensity for the dramatic when the mood took it; wooden spiders had scuttled across a haunted field, glass eagles had soared through non-euclidean skies, numberless zombies had been felled by a silent whirling dervish. The fact that it chose not to indulge any such urges as it chased the fleeing Faceless might have been worrying to the pursued, were it not for the fact that Vyrm'n was in no state of mind to notice and Maxwell was unable to look backwards in the position he was in.

---

Anatomy had never been Maxwell's specialty, but he wasn't someone who wore the title of 'genius' lightly. He knew just what was happening in his newly-perforated torso with the stylish crimson gash, and that the best he could possibly hope for at this point involved words like "sepsis", "convalescence", and probably "colostomy". The fact that these were the sort of words he got if he was lucky... Well, it certainly wasn't making his desire for a mercy-killing any less prominent. He shifted uncomfortably in the amorphous grip of his captor-slash-savior, coughed, half-expecting blood to come out come on you know that only happens in the movies, your lungs haven't been punctured, and wheezed out "Vyrm'n, please..."

It immediately occurred to him that it would probably make more sense just to communicate empathically, since Vyrm'n was wrapped around him, but his every attempt to reach out to her mind was met with resistance and obstinacy. Maxwell's mind was shunted aside every time he attempted to approach hers, until he simply gave up and closed his eyes. This wound wouldn't be fatal for some time, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do now, and the pain was excruciating. He sighed and did his best to pass out from the blood loss.


---

Vyrm'n was significantly hampered by her cargo, and thus wasn't the fleeting bolt of night sky she ordinarily would have been. She was comparatively slow and fairly clumsy, and Gestalt was easily able to keep pace; coupled with the fact the dust in the air as well as the emotions permeating the entire cavern effectively blinded the faceless, while her pursuer's senses allowed it to see quite far in every direction at once in a setting like the temple, the chase should have ended quickly.

It didn't, though, primarily because of how thoroughly wrapped around Maxwell she was. Were things more ordinary for this sort of battle, Gestalt could have triggered traps as she passed, dropped rocks on her, turned the battlefield itself into an unstoppable weapon, but as it was, it had to finish off the pathetic fencer without unduly damaging Vyrm'n. It was a frustrating situation, and the golem honestly had next to no idea of how to go about things. For the moment, it simply chased her through the tunnels, harrying her with traps and shifting rock not offensively, but to lead her into a dead end.

Overall, it was quite an undramatic chase to watch. Maxwell was doing his best to pass out, Vyrm'n never made noise at the best of time, and Gestalt simply glided noislessly behind her, firing off the occasional spear-trap if she threatened to take a turn he didn't want. Anyone who could sense emotions or thoughts would have had a coruscating cacophony of conflicting notions, plans, and feelings to watch, but for most observers, it would simply be a dull, silent procession through winding corridors.

Eventually, Gestalt's persistent herding paid off, and the group arrived at the terminal chamber of some battle or other; no-one was paying enough attention to the walls to divine which one or what was happening. As Vyrm'n realized there was nowhere further to run, Gestalt raised a barrier of blades in the door, shards of the labyrinth brick interspersed in it to discourage flight.

"I'm sorry it had to come to this, Vyrm'n, and I hope you realize I did what had to be done when you are free the deleterious effects of this place."

She carefully laid Maxwell behind her, spreading her bulk out to form a wall around him, and waited for Gestalt to make the first move. Move he did, too, sending a volley of bladed weapons and vaguely-sharp knick-knacks her way. Most were swatted out of the air, and several were grasped with shadowy pseudopods; those she gripped were aggressively filled with the hungry void, which clamored and tried to pull the golem in. Gestalt had of course anticipated this, and pulled itself immediately from those weapons that were captured and kept up the assault on less guarded flanks.

This went on for some time, the pair stalemated, showing no signs of the balance tipping one way or another. And then something occurred to Gestalt, and it cursed itself for not thinking of it sooner.

---

Maxwell's breathing was slow and shallow: deep breaths simply hurt too much, and he wasn't trying to maintain consciousness anyway. In fact, as it had been for so much of this battle, continued sapience was nothing but an inconvenient bother. Rather than watch the battle, he simply went over simple mathematics and patterns in his head, hoping the monotony would distract him from the pain and his rotten conscience.

It was as he was counting up from three by adding the square of each number's lowest multiple that he noticed his collar tighten. He put it down to simply not realizing he had shifted position slightly, and thus had caused the fabric to go taut across his throat, but that explanation vanished quickly as his shirt continued constricting his airway. He began to reach a hand up to his neck, and whatever was causing the tightness apparently became aware that he had noticed; rather than continue its gently-increasing pressure, the fabric suddenly squeezed harder than a human hand ever could, completely closing off Maxwell's trachea.

He began to thrash in spite of the pain, opening his wound further, but there was nothing he could do to stop the choking shirt and he couldn't make a sound. He'd wanted to die, but not like this! As the world began fading at the edges of his vision, he wondered why Vyrm'n hadn't noticed his distress; perhaps the fight was simply occupying too much of her attention.

A sense of peace came over him rather suddenly, and for once he wasn't inclined to question whether it was his own mind or just the blood choke that was causing it. He was going to die, and he'd never hurt anyone again.

His last thought was as close to a prayer as he'd ever gotten, a near-wordless expression of hope for Vyrm'n. And Gestalt too, he supposed.

Originally posted on MSPA by cyber95.

---

The Observer was practically counting down to poor Maxwell's last breath. There was a full bag of popcorn sitting next to him, because he hadn't really thought about his inability to eat it while he was getting it in the first place. He wasn't too keen on the Organizer's interference, but it should prove to introduce some additional interesting... motivation, if anything. Oh my goodness, after that it seemed it was time for the final round! It seemed like he had been waiting a year for this time to come. Hopefully his place was still looking good for the occasion. It was to be a great finale to this, after all. Pile of junk or pile of... space. Who would win? More of a what would win in this case but nonetheless, it would be truly Grand.

Vyrm'n and Gestalt found themselves in their final location of the battle. They were in some sort of old fashioned entranceway, and if either of them were familiar with history, they might recognize it as a 1930's Earth style. Even with this knowledge, it probably would have been easy to be distracted by the six display cases on either side of the room. Each case contained the remains of one of their former competitors, or at least what was left of them. On one of the walls there was clearly space for a seventh display case.

"Welcome to my club slash bar!"
The Observer's unmistakable voice could be heard coming from everywhere and nowhere.
"This is the Dimensional Speakeasy. Anybody in the multiverse that knows how to get here is welcome to enjoy the classic style I've got going on, so I'm sure you'll see a lot of interesting types all around. Feel free to have a drink, try our games, or get in a barfight. I'm really hoping for that one. I suppose I should cut to the chase here, though. This is the final round, which should be obvious from the sudden shift and the contents of that display case containing your friend. Don't try breaking it, I've done a lot of work to make sure they'd stay in tact. Somewhere in here is my... office, let's say. I'll be waiting in there for you guys if you so desire to find me. Once you find me, it's up to you what you want to do. If you think you can take me, give it a shot. It's not going to be that easy, though. For one thing, this place is huge. I've had people get lost before and these are people that can traverse universes. They don't get lost easy. Speaking of them, I've given them the go-ahead to try and make your progress more difficult if they want. If they aren't up for a fight, try to stay clear, they're just here for the drinks and entertainment. I am running a business! Other than that, I don't think there's much I need to tell you! No hitting below the belts... I suppose neither of you have belts. I suppose that's it then. Adios, and see you hopefully soon. I'll be observing you until then."

The door behind them made a locking click. The only way to go was forward.

Show Content

SpoilerThe Dimensional Speakeasy! Guys this is it! The final round! This is the Observer's home, pretty much. He's turned the place into a 1930's style speakeasy because if his zoot suit didn't give it away, he has a certain fondness for that era. Beings from all around the multiverse come here, perhaps some of them familiar, and they might want to stop you from getting to the Observer. The main room is the Grand Lounge, recently renamed in commemoration of these events, and from there you can find hallways leading to probably thousands of smaller areas to hang out. Only the Observer knows the path to his office, but I'm sure you can find it eventually.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

Vyrm'n's awareness guttered violently as the ritual hold was broken, before an unstoppable need to give in to accursed human emotion won over. She snaked toward the glass, draping herself over the case as though pressing her ear to it in desperation - listening intently for any sign of that particular cacophony tied with this heinous, noisome snarl of flesh and motionless blood.

It was the same old noise. The same awful, awful noise, without that minuscule tone to tie it all together into something vaguely right. The black uncoiled. Vyrm'n charged at the glass again and again and again, oblivious to the night-sky-crossing crackle and deep resonant chime of the impervious glass. It was only when several minutes of this, along with the barrier's prickling paralysis surmounting her berserk grief, left the Faceless sprawled across the unbroken glass, that animal pain gave way to thoughts of vengeance.

Gestalt.

But the schrotgolem was gone. Only a Necropolitan shell, an ambulatory entranceway for something coiled and twisted and echoing with something far greater hidden to Vyrm'n's vision stood there. It tilted its head a little to one side, before speaking in a voice intended for a void, finding its way clear as a midwinter night's sky into the Faceless' muddied senses. Just like the Observer's.

"I've sent Gestalt off elsewhere. I'm not telling you where," the Organizer pre-empted, patient and pleasant (if only in tone), "until you're in less of a state to go and finish this battle off in an quick, messy, bludgeoning match to the death."

Vyrm'n tensed, still wrapped around the case ensconcing Maxwell. Another wave of crackling light passed across her as the glass protested. "Clara" laughed a little at the sight.

"You poor thing. You're not equipped to handle this at all, are you? You couldn't even weep over that human's corpse, let alone begin to rationalise why you want to. It's that mind of yours, is the problem." The Organizer beamed at the shadow as it slid warily over, grinning all the wider as it towered above, seemingly mesmerised by the Grandmaster's words.

"I don't know how I didn't notice before, but it's doubtless. You're just a sheared-off little homesick orphan fragment of one of them. The Entropics."

There must've been some weightier context thrown behind that final word, because Vyrm'n flinched as the dull, screaming cold Gestalt had been subject to slammed her in turn. To the Faceless, though, it was thought-marring, smooth white noise. Everything about the shadow craned toward the Grandmaster, hungering for more words. The Organizer raised a hand, thought for a moment, then ran it across the shadow's fluid, polished flank as it gazed into the stars with a look between pity and admiration.

"Oh, no wonder you can't cope. You've got a scared little mind - no, something scrambling through the facsimile of a mind - caged and raised within a lone universe, while everything else about you is equipped for something far greater.

"There's a disconnect, Vyrm'n, and it'll tear you apart until-" here, the nun's grin faltered a little, right after black eyes flicked past Vyrm'n's shoulder analogue "-no. Apparently, it's not my place to help you with that, entertaining as it'd be. I've certainly set you up, though. Gestalt went that way. Dearest."

The spell was broken, but Vyrm'n lingered for a few moments more before shuffling off in the direction the Grandmaster had indicated. "Clara" watched the retreating Faceless until it turned a corridor, cleared her throat with a look of irritation, rolled her neck - then crumpled to the floor as something humanoid, mist-formed, and intangible stepped forward out of her, unfolding a little as it extricated its larger form from the elderly undead's little frame.

The Organizer, features still definable only by their featurelessness, divested the motionless Clara of the purple fedora, placing it on his own head. There was no flashy hand-waving or finger-snapping to preclude the seventh glass case flickering out of existence, nor the unconscious Necropolitan appearing within its confines as it began existing again.

Only now did the Grandmaster indulge himself in theatrics - he paced with mistimed footfalls over to the nun, placed an insubstantial hand upon the ineffectually sparking barrier, and tipped his hat to her before vanishing with a grin.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

As usual, the last remaining pair of survivors from the second grand battle were immobilized and struck dumb as they appeared in their newest arena. As usual, they were treated to a brief description of the newest rounds features and perils. As usual, they were released from their intangible bonds as the mental voice of their captor faded. It's not quite ubiquitous for one contestant to immediately fly into a violent fury as soon as they're released, but it's certainly frequent enough to be called typical. The usuals and typicals stopped there, though: for one, it's by no means normal for the wordless barrage of rage and violence to be directed against the scenery rather than another contestant or hapless passerby; for another, rarely does another entrant simply watch silently and unmovingly as their compatriot or competitor release their wrath. Even more uncommon was the presence of a grandmaster not in charge of the battle, especially one casually watching the proceedings.

As Vyrm'n continued her fruitless attack on the display, Gestalt watched dispassionately; it intended to wait until she wore herself out or realize how foolish she had been and was being, and to be there to engage her when she did. This plan revealed fairly well its understanding of emotions in general and the faceless's psyche in particular. It was fortunate for the schrotgolem (and a number of other interested parties) that the Organizer had taken an interest in ensuring that this battle didn't become, well, a battle. Or at least a straightforward battle like the one that promised to occur if Gestalt sat where it was until Vyrm'n turned her attention to him. With no real fanfare, the being inside Clara's shell sent him elsewhere, then stepped towards the rippling avatar of entropy.

---

One moment, the golem had been patiently waiting for Vyrm'n's choler to die down while idly examining the small, largely-featureless entry hall they had been dropped in; the next, and with no warning, it found itself in an enormous room, carrying the vague knowledge that it was here for its own good. The new room was substantially larger than the last; for that matter, it was substantially larger than a football field. Despite its size, the ceiling was quite low, and ordinary vision was obscured by a considerable haze in the air that could charitably be called "smoke". For all the expansiveness, it felt quite cluttered: there were hundreds of tables scattered about the colossal floor, with drinkers, diners, and gawkers seated at them in surprising numbers; at the farthest end of the room was a bar, being tended by something Gestalt couldn't quite make out but that certainly wasn't human; uncountable doors lead in and out of the place, many of which didn't seem to have any kind of mechanism to operate them. In spite of all the interesting and distracting things for the curious golem to look at, it found its attention drawn inexorably to a woman sitting alone at the nearest table, not least because she began addressing it as soon as it appeared.

"Well theah ya ah!" she effused, accent thick enough to float lead on. "I was beginnin ta wondah whethah he was gonna getcha heah at all!" She paused for a moment, taking a long drag on a cigarillo, then continued. "The name's Frances, but you get ta call me Frank. Daddy's brought me here ta help things along a little, right?"

Gestalt was taken rather aback, but after a moment its new voice purred out "I'm not sure who you or your father are, but–"

Frank rolled her eyes. "Not my fathah, ya rube, my daddy. The lilac fellah that broughtcha heah. He's got plans, alright, and he needs ya not to getchaself lost an' killed and all that. Yer a real odd bird, he says, butcha gotcha uses. Now come on, we got places ta be."

As she spoke, the little spirit had been taking her in in greater detail; it was probably only a being like Gestalt that would have noticed it without having it pointed out, but Frank's fingers were all made of wood, cleverly interlocked to give the appearance of normal joints. So, for that matter, were her arms and shoulders and legs, and in fact all of her. Her face was an exceptionally-complicated series of tiny, sliver-thin plates of wood in an ingenious layout that let her realistically express any emotion she needed to. Were it not for the fact that she had what appeared to be a will of her own (and a point about the urgency of their situation), Gestalt could have spent hours exploring her mechanisms. As it was though, the golem simply vocalized a sigh and muttered "I suppose this is no worse an idea that cooperating with the Organizer in the first place."

"I knew we'd getcha on the trolley! Now come on, let's ditch these high hats. We gotta see a man about a dog." She stood up and began moving towards a nearby wall, then turned back towards her charge and gave it a playful smack on the lid. "And don't think I didn't catch ya sneakin' a peak at the chassis!"

If Gestalt had any idea of what half her slang meant, or in fact any appreciation for wordplay, it might have enjoyed the pun. As it was, the schrotgolem simply wondered how Frank could possibly have known what or where its attention was focused at any given time while it followed her demurely towards the door.

Once through, the pair began trudging through branching corridors, filled with more bizarre, mismatched doors, Frank idly chatting about nothing in particular. They occasionally passed another patron, some of which seemed surprisingly normal given the setting, but most of which gave off an impression like the one Gestalt got from being around the Organizer. While Frank and her tagalong did gather the occasional look, none of the beings they passed seemed interested in stopping them or talking, which suited Gestalt fine.

However, after only a minute or two of walking, a door opened in front of the pair, and a strange figure stepped out. It was clad in a zoot suit much like the one favored by the Observer, and in fact its head was a similar one-eyed, largely-featureless globe, but the rest of the humanoid frame seemed to be composed of random bits of other organisms, favoring mollusks and arthropods. Frank sniffed and moved as though to pass it, but it held out an arm and pushed her back.

"Well, hello there 'Frank'," it clicked, quote marks clanging. "What a happy coincidence, finding you here."

The woman's wooden face curled into an angry sneer. "Mind ya potatoes, ya ugly 'munc. I got biggah fish ta fry."

"Look," came the mouthless reply. "you must know that you haven't escaped his notice, and he has no intention of letting you go through with this. Your options are to abandon this foolishness, or to die here."

"Ha! Ya slay me, 'munc."

"That's the intention." With that, a firearm materialized in in what could perhaps be called a hand, but might more rightly be referred to as a claw. "I've been looking forward to this."

Frank dropped into an aggressive stance and grinned. "Likewise, pal. It nevah gets old that you little fleshnuggets think ya can stand up to a real construct." She glanced briefly at Gestalt and effused, "Come on, little buddy, let's show him what for."

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

The Faceless slither-trudged through the mess of corridors, consistent only in awful, non-euclidian chorus. It took a little longer than Vyrm'n would've admitted to realise the Organizer had lied to her - it was hard to tell with all her senses shutting off, but she was pretty sure Gestalt hadn't come this way.

There was an ornate door - perhaps stolen from a monastery somewhere - and discussion behind it which halted as the speakers sensed the Faceless. Some footsteps and a creak might've been nice, but the denizens of this establishment had no need for such fripperies. There was only the briefest moment where Vyrm'n felt like she was being watched, before it was accompanied (as tradition and expectations dictated) by the presence of someone. Someone now stood in Vyrm'n's path, a humanoid standing less than a metre tall on four stumpy legs. Its head was a featureless sphere nestled between its hunched little shoulders, the whole golem seemingly made of thick, jointless glass. Beneath it, cyan mist slithered over and under itself, like an overstuffed vase of semisolid snakes.

One tendril escaped from the glass hull like a tail, looming over (spherical) head like a scorpion's as a bulb sprouted on the tip of it. Vyrm'n tensed a little as the fog-rose extricated itself from itself, a perfect ring of reality-rending teeth glittering inside its black hole of a mouth.

"You're lost, aren't you, little fragment?"

Vyrm'n just dithered between consciousness and Void in response.

"Hmm. You must be one of the contestants in the boss's competition." The flower addressed the door, after a moment's consideration. "Hurry up and come out here, Paris. She's harmless enough."

The door opened. A man stepped timidly out, dressed from masked head to toe in black. The holeless mask bore only a stylised blue rose that was a little eldritch round the edges, between where one would assume Paris' eyes were. Where his polished black hand rested insecure against the iron doorhandle, a curl of smoke rose as the metal melted.

"Over here," the jar of vines snapped. Paris' head jerked up at the noise, and he stalked uneasily to the creature's side, one hand leaving a trail of blackened wallpaper as he went. A second vine slid out of the glass doll's shoulder, catching the man by the forearm and tearing him from the wall.

"Paris. He constructed this vessel for me. You may call me Jessamine. Paris, this is Vyrm'n. She's here for the Observer's final round."

Neither Vyrm'n nor Paris moved or spoke during these introductions, despite the latter dealing with Jessamine running a tendril over and around his mask. The vine-vessel tolerated the awkward silence for an age belying her impatient tones, before gnashing her teeth at the Faceless with ill-disguised frustration.

"Don't you have a little poltergeist or something to hunt down?"

Vyrm'n radiated a powerful sense of not caring. Jessamine hissed, finally eliciting a reaction from her servant. Paris cringed, one hand reaching out for a wall to cling to.

"This is ridiculous. I've got enough on my plate without babysitting an Entropic shard. Paris." He didn't quite stand to attention, but his head snapped around again at his name. "Take my key and take Vyrm'n somewhere a little more interesting."

The man raised a half-hearted hand in protest, but froze as the rose on his mask glowed white-hot. Jessamine ignored her servant's trembling. "I don't like this vessel. I'll be using the centipede, so tidy this one up."

The creature vanished with a klein-bottle slither. Vyrm'n lacked the energy to form an opinion of Paris, who just stood smoking at the seams for a while before twitching and lifting his head.

The man seemed to stare at the Faceless - if the rose sygil (which was now coiling upon itself into a blue-white briar sunburst) allowed that - before he snapped round and began moulding the discarded glass shell. It melted into a sizable lump under his wordlessly confident hands, each caress working away at the molten mass of red. Paris gripped what remained of it in one hand, then palmed it from sight and glanced at Vyrm'n. Without a clear order from his master, he seemed liable to freeze up again, but tore his debatable gaze away and took a few trepidatious steps for a door.

He opened it. The brass handle dripped from his jet-black fingers, and sizzled as it hit the ground. Vyrm'n deliberated for a minute, then slithered in the opposite direction. She got about ten metres before the man shuffled past her, one hand still glued to the wall, and opened the next door down for her. Music and murmuring trickled out, not that Vyrm'n was in a state to hear either.

Paris gave no impression he was demanding the Faceless be agreeable; save for a vague confidence knowing he had a single manageable task to complete he gave off no impression of anything at all.

Vyrm'n appraised her new companion coldly, then wordlessly entered.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

Frank didn't seem to have any weapons on her person, or even a way to protect herself; it seemed like the patchwork abomination should have been able to easily gun down Frank and her charge before they could get more than a few feet towards him. Such an expectation would have been quickly dashed by Gestalt though, as the golem simply plucked the bullets out of the air as soon as they were fired. The firearm's retorts soon faded as its chamber emptied, and the Observer's minion found that its head was surrounded by a halo of shells and bullets, its targets unscathed and its ammunition lacking. It took a few halting steps backwards before turning to flee in earnest; the wooden woman finally moved, sprinting with unnatural speed towards the escaping "munc". "I'll take it from heah, kid."

As she ran, the joints in Frank's right arm and hand spread, revealing that they were held together by some kind of wire; she lashed the extending limb at her target, sweeping its legs out from under it and winding the now-snakelike appendage around the writing monstrosity. Gestalt calmly slid behind her, watching as she bore down on the bound amalgamation; if the golem had a face, it would have been impassive as blades emerged from Frank's free hand and began gutting and dismembering the creature. The screams that issued from no visible orifice died down soon enough; after a few moments of silence, Gestalt's electronic voice purred, "Who and what was that?"

Frank stood up, her arms returning to their usual configuration, and pulled a handkerchief out of the very definitely dead monster's pocket. As she began wiping various unknowable ichors from her 'skin' and clothes, she grinned and dismissed the question with a cheery "Nothin' you need ta worry about!".

"I would really rather know, Frank. I am allowing myself to be a pawn in whatever metaphorical game of chess these grandmasters are playing, and while I don't demand to know the strategy of the players, I would like to know where the other pieces are."

"You really know how ta stretch a metaphowa, don'tcha? Alright, I'll give you the skinny, but let's walk and talk. Places to be, places to be."

Without waiting for a response, she dropped the sullied handkerchief and began striding away, pristine as ever. With no other option, the train of boxes slithered behind her, slightly heavier with the addition of a pilfered pocketwatch, a new shoe, and a tommy gun with nothing to fire.

"That baby grand back theah's what we call a homunculus. 'Munc fa short, get it? Lotta the swells around this kinda social club use 'em ta do the sort of thing they don't wanna be seen doin themselves. Nothin' classy about stabbin' somebody, all the class in tha worlds in gettin' somebody ta do it for ya, right? So they make these little extensions of themselves, right, send 'em out to do the messy stuff, the unglamorous stuff, while they get to sit cool and omnippatint up in the bahs. Make 'em look enough like 'emselves to get the point across without just bein a tacky copy. I'm surprised ya didn't catch that, actually. Ol' 'Servah ain't got a whole lotta creativity."

"No-one in my battle ever actually saw the Observer. He was always a disembodied voice, and the carvings in the last round weren't particularly representative."

"Ya don't say? Huh. Actually, in a lotta ways, they've fallen outta style. Not gonna boah ya with what passes for politics among the kinda things that hang out heah, but the short version is that at first, only the really big guys used 'muncs. Like I said, it was a style thing. Well, the little guys with somethin' ta prove stahted usin' 'em too, tryin' ta look like they was in the big leagues too, and soon the real powahful ones had moved on, and 'muncs stahted to be tacky. Theah's still a good few things out theah that use 'em, since they can definitely be useful and some people just can't let go of a thing once they staht it. Like our old pal the Observah! If I read the boss right, 'Servah's got some kind of attachment to them or somethin', somethin' about how he came to be. I dunno, not really my thing, not really my place."

Gestalt digested this all for a few moments before responding, simultaneously snatching a few things from the walls. "So you're saying that this creature was a servant of the Observer, sent to carry out his will because it would be unfashionable or unsporting to simply crush our plans of rebellion himself?"

"Yeah, somethin' like that."

"So, he's aware of what we're doing?"

Frank stopped and turned to look at the golem. "Look, kiddo, I don't think you're really thinkin' about what words like "omnipresent" and "omniscient" mean. Shuwa, there's degrees, and shuwa, 'Servah ain't at the top of the heap, but you're way outta your league heah. Ya ain't a squishy little human or nothin', but there ain't nothin' nearly special enough aboutcha to put you even close to the level of even the lowest of the low who come to this bah. Ya ain't gettin' nowheah because you managed to hide ya plans or because you're so dang clevah. Ya gotta chance because these guys think it's funny or entahtaining to watch ya flail."

She paused for a moment to light up another cigarillo and take a drag. Gestalt wondered in the back of its mind where the smoke went. "The only advantages you got ah pragmatism and, and this is important, knowin' just how weak you ah by comparison. You gotta know yourself, because theah's no way you got the time or the mindspace to know ya enemy heah. Plus you got that starry wild cahd, but you really gotta know when to play her, and how."

Gestalt continued in its still silence. Frank's speech had strongly reminded him of the one Clara's mouth had delivered to Konka Rar. There was no ire, no taunting, just a cold statement of the facts and the sheer certainty that the listener had some very inaccurate ideas about itself. Frank was right; it was easy to make plans, to plot against the unseen foe while fighting against allies that were roughly on one's level. And it was easy to fall into the trap of thinking that the coming battle would be like those that had come before it. Easy to believe that since the Organizer so clearly derided his fellow grandmaster, the Observer would be a pushover.

It was so easy to be an ant with plans to kill a planet. A star.

And yet, even through these realizations, there was no sense of dread, or desire to change course. Just the knowledge that what was going to be done had to be done, regardless of the potential outcome, and that hubris was both the enemy and the weapon to be wielded. The greatest threat to every contestant and grandmaster in these twisted games was overconfidence.

"I... Understand."

"See? I knew ya was smaht. None of that silly brain mattah to go messin' with things eithah. I needja ta keep that stuff with ya, because I think ya entropic friend mighta forgotten. I think she mighta forgotten a lotta stuff, and you need ta remind her."

Another drag, with no exhalation.

"In tha meantime, theah's some otha stuff we gotta do while ya heah. Some othah people you gotta meet. Some of 'em might even be alive aftah we talk to 'em!"

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

The doorhandle's click was less a retort, and more a nervous interruption which was swiftly swallowed by the mist. Paris seemed to reach out into it as he shuffled blindly along ahead of Vyrm'n, until by accident or measured steps he stopped in the circular room's centre. His questionable gaze snapped around again to the Faceless, who returned it with sullen mistrust.

Vyrm'n glanced around, noting the uncertain, intermittent flickers of consciousness in the deeper recesses of the chamber. Whoever was there didn't seem to be all that there. She shivered, and turned as one with her guide at a grunt and startled snarl.

The creature responsible, cowled in a cloak with shadows a little too deep to conform to logic, scrambled to its feet and stomped out of the shadows to accost the pair. The mist moved differently around him, coiling semi-tangible as though it jostled to be close. It scattered like breath on a cold morning as he snarled at the black-clad man.

"You! The hell d'you think you're doing, waltzing in here with that Entropic like you own the-"

The man spluttered to a halt, dspite Paris' lack of response. At most, there might've been a twitch of the head, but certainly no animosity. With an impotent growl, the figure took a step back, then turned smartly and headed for the door.

"Forget it. I was leaving anyway."

Silence. Only when the slam of the door faded did the glassblower move, one hand raised to his mask, the other jabbed at the door. The mist entwined round Paris as well, congregating about his exposed hands, rendering them insubstantial white.

The mask shifted just enough for the man to take a long, deep breath. It wasn't that noise that made Vyrm'n turn around, but a violent shift in atomic song around the man. The mist's aural tone was aligning, rewinding, obscuring Paris beneath, until someone else stood in his place. It took all of Vyrm'n's concentration to sense the original, but she eventually gave up - though the shadow of a man still persisted. He wasn't gone, but someone else stood and sighed and turned to Vyrm'n in his stead and said,

"Right. I know we had an introduction before, but... well. I'm Paris. It's a pleasure to meet you, Vyrm'n."


"Was that another homunculus?"

"Aw, yah gettin' good at spotting 'em!" Frank casually kicked aside the dismembered pile of fur (and inexplicably, painted porcelain), folded her arm back into its compact form, and jabbed an amicable finger the way the pair were heading.

"As you mentioned, they do show a particular unity in form. Is this some way of weakening the Observer?"

"Nah, if it was duck soup as that Daddy wouldnta sent me on mah own. Gotta keep it on the down-low, last thing we need's Jessie ta be wise ta our plans."

"Jessie?"

Frank glowered at the name, dealing the 'munc' a final kick before setting off again.

"Yeah. Jessie. She's tha one tha' keeps this drum beatin', geddit? 'Servah might be the pretty face of it, sure, but Jessie's tha one you gotta be scared of if yer thinkin' o' trouble. An' before yah ask - nah, she ain't a munc. Nasty piece o' work, more like. Anythin' that's been going on in this gig for ages just means she's puttin' up with it."

"So, a construct like yourself?"

"Hah. Ah wish. Jessie's closah to a Gran'mastah than the likes of me."

Frank gave that a moment to sink in, before softening the blow a little. "Course, she's still no match for tha Observah, but tha's about where she's at. Which is why I don' wanna mess with her.

Now come on. No use worryin' about her til will gotta, right?"


Paris smiled shyly; extricated one arm from its bulky, leather glove; and placed a hand which wasn't black and white-hot to Vyrm'n. She was vaguely aware that the movement hadn't translated to the 'real' Paris; though the whole situation was vaguely remniscent of the Labyrinth Field's duality, which coupled with the memory of Maxwell was just plain distressing. What's happening

"I'm sorry for the clumsiness of it, Vyrm'n, but it's necessary. Mostly because, well, I don't speak... I just don't. And because... here's the one place we can talk without Jessamine overhearing us.

Which, when I need to convince you to kill the Observer, is critical."

you as well

"Yes," Paris said apologetically, "me as well."

Vyrm'n twitched a bit at that, but kept contact. He had a labourer's hand - calloused and stolid and oddly automatically personable. Quite at odds with the eerie, silent man who had conjured it up. With all these higher powers vested in his death, I'm surprised it's not a forgone conclusion yet

"Would... would it be any easier if I told you that it was?"

Foregone? Not really

But you're not the first, so why should I believe you

Paris sighed, like what he was about to say had the potential to cause him a lot of grief. "Because... Because I suppose what you want - more than anything else, I mean - is an explanation. Facts. Instead of riddles or vague clues or appeals to emotion."

...

"So: the simplest truth of all. You're going to fight the Observer. You've no choice in the matter, now. You've been a victim of circumstance since your descent, and this is just the latest catastrophe you're thrown into."

But how do you

"Right. This I'm awful at explaining no matter how many times Jessamine runs it past me, so would you be able to follow me instead? I have it right in my mind's eye, at least..."

Vyrm'n cautiously acquiesced, to an ever-oncoming plane of the Unseen, that which had never been observed. To either side of her extended a near-unbroken line of light, composed of a billion trillion points of consciousness, rushing perpetually forward in unison into the as-yet unObserved, unfettered future - perceiving the multiverse one infinitesmial fraction of a second at a time.

She turned, or perhaps Paris did and Vyrm'n simply followed, to take in the almost-as-infinite past. The plane on this side was liberally scarred by the present which had marched across it, almost fully lit with all the moments it had been witnessed.

Almost. At some points in time and space, whole patches had gone unobserved, creating gaps in the sea of light. More commonly, it was a lone point or a thin stripe of the Unseen - barely noticable, yet impacting clearly when viewed from afar.

Paris called his companion's attention back to the future, just as one point broke ranks from the present and dive-bombed straight into a larger patch of Unseen past. An observer, leaving nothing unobserved., almost mechanical in the way it hole-punched the dark patches into Existence.

And then the future, again, at Paris' insistence. Now that Vyrm'n searched a little harder, she could see it wasn't entirely unlit; points of light again broke ranks from the front line and this time leapt forward, pre-determining scattered points which the marching present eventually caught up to.

A past-piercer rejoined the line, at a point Paris seemed particularly interested in. Vyrm'n could see why - from his station extended a mess of points plotted into its distant future. What's more, points seemed to conflict or contradict each other, cascading into widely and still more widely felt repercussions-

They were in the Speakeasy again, the blissful sense of being so removed from everything rapidly deserting the Faceless. The white mist was cloying.

"The Observer's death... normally, a universe with this much riding on one choice would just split in two and be done with it. But, well, in his case, one universe wouldn't be enough. The stage has been set, if you will. Twice over. With repercussions to be felt the multiverse over.

It... escalated. Much too fast. Both sides rushed to secure the future that would arise from this turning point. We brought it upon ourselves, really."

What happens if I kill him

"You don't need to know that - I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure you've got no noble intentions here. All you need to know, Vyrm'n, is if you go and fight him, and get out alive, I'll help you escape the Speakeasy. You don't even have to kill him - I'll still help, that's a promise."

What good would that do

"You can hide-" insisted Paris, with an earnestness which caught Vyrm'n off-guard "-where nobody will find you if you don't want them to. A place you'd actually feel at home in.

Failing that, a place to recover until the Grandmasters come searching. In the Unseen."

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

Frank's general caginess bothered Gestalt rather a lot, but it had learned not to press with such beings. Or, at least, when to press. Despite being intensely curious about the nature of this 'Jessamine', as well as her motivations and abilities, the golem reasoned that now was not the best time to get nosy about it. Instead, it settled for exploring another avenue of information that had been niggling at it for some time.

"Yes, I suppose you're right. I have to ask, though. Who are we going to see, and why?"

Frank tossed her hair and huffed slightly. "Boy, yer just a barrel of questions, aren'tcha? Alright, I'll tell ya whatcha wanna know, but not right here, an' not right know. The walls got ears, ya know? I know ya can put two and two together."

Gestalt pondered for a few moments, putting two and two together as instructed. "Then..." it mused. "If I understand you, where can–"

"Look, okay, just clam up a bit and pretend like I know what I'm doin', okay? Sometimes it ain't even safe ta say what it ain't safe ta say, right?"

Gestalt shuffled its contents with annoyance, but had to concede she had a point. It was still difficult to adjust to the mindset it required to deal with beings whose senses outstripped his own by metaphorical miles, and whose power left even the gods in the dust; still, it hoped it was starting to get the hang of it, and took the hint from Frank, who grinned.

"Good. Now come on."

With a beckon from the construct, the pair moved off down the endless, labyrinthine corridors.

"I don't suppose it would be untoward of me to at least ask about the setting itself? This place seems rather... Spacially anomalous."

"Nah, we can beat our gums about that one. I s'pose you'd be in a prime position ta notice that, and ya might even be able to get the basics. I dunno, whatcha know about universes?"

There was silence for a few moments as Gestalt thought. What did it know about universes? It hadn't really been in a prime position to pick up a whole lot of metaphysical knowledge back in its own universe, and there hadn't been a lot of chances to pick up too much as it had been hurtled through others. Eventually it came out with "Not too much, I suppose."

"Mmm..." Frank clicked her fingers idly as she thought. "Well, if we gotta start at the baby level, we might not get too fah. Okay, imagine, uh... Imagine, like, a box. Er, no, that's not really... Maybe a bubble? I dunno, that might not..." Her face screwed up as she tried to force a square peg of knowledge into the round pinhole of Gestalt's vocabulary and experience, then lit up as something occurred to her. "Okay, imagine a piece of cloth, right? You an' all those wizahds in ya college an' all the peasants an' planets an' stahs, all of those ah the tiniest tiniest tiniest specks of dust on the tiniest specks of dust on that piece of cloth. And, uh, that cloth is ya universe, right?"

"Well," she continued, gesturing as they walked. "Then ya pick up all four cornahs and sew 'em tahgethah, so ya got a little pouch. All the little dust-specks, they can't tell whethah the cloth is curved or flat or nothin, theah so small. Like how ya can't tell the planet yer on is round, right? So ya got this pouch of cloth, it's all paisley all ovah, an' as fah as everyone in it's concehned, paisley's the only typa cloth theah is. Shuwah, they write books an' tell stories about what life would be like if the universe was plaid instead, or maybe if someone from tha paisley pouch found theah way into the plaid one, but paisley's all they really know."

"Now, you take the cornahs you sewed up, and you sew 'em onto the backside of anothah piece of cloth. Maybe this one's paisley just like the first one, maybe it ain't. Maybe it's paisley with little flowahs around the paisleys instead of dots, or maybe it's somethin' totally different. It don't mattah, though. The paisley pouch is fine doin its own thing, and it ain't affected by the othah one. Except, uh, some of them ah, but that's more like, the excepetion, and it don't mattah for the metaphowah anyway. And the specks in one pouch ain't aware of the othah pouch, unless they kno how to look fer it, and even then they can't move between 'em unless theah reeeal powahful specks."

"Anyway one pouch can have a whole lotta othah pouches attached to it, but no pouch is stuck on more than one othah pouch. Well, uh,mostly. And they don't overlap, you know, fa the most paht. So, each of these pouches is a universe, an' they mostly don't interact. 'Cept when they do. An' the big, powahful sorts can make 'em, a little bit, if they want. And they can move bits an' pieces of the universes around."

It had been a while since they had started this line of conversation, with no real interruption; Gestalt found this fairly odd, but simply continued following Frank's tortuous metaphor, trying to make some sense of it.

"An' so, from one of the biggest pouches, wheah ya can see a whole bunch of littlah ones if ya know how, someone like 'Servah comes along, an' he takes little bits of thread from a whole buncha pouches, and he pulls 'em togethah and makes his own new pouch. An' that's this place, right? It's like a normal pouch, only the patterns don't match so it's a little ugly and a little weird, and the stitching's not so good so ya can fall out if yer not careful. An' if ya fall out, yer not in some othah pouch, you end up wheah theah's no pouches at all. An' fer someone like, well, most anybody who ain't Grandmastah material or close, that's about the last thing you'll evah do. Uh, I guess that's about it! All that makes any nevahmind to ya, anyhow."

There was silence for a stretch as the schrotgolem absorbed the 'lesson', before its mechanical voice pondered. "You made rather a large deal about the patterns of the fabric, but I'm not entirely certain what their significance was."

"Oh, that! Well, that's, ya know, the laws of the universe, like. Yers has got magic an' wizards and so on, but that old sap ya offed a minute ago didn't have none of that. Totally dif'rent laws of reality, still stuck togethah."

There was a quiet clicking from no apparent source as Gestalt thought. "Then if things like magic are tied to the universe they come from, how was the lich able to cast as though he were still in his home? Have locales all been selected for their harmonious 'patterns'?"

"Yeaahh, an' –no, take the right heah– an' no. Theah's a lot more to grandmasterin' than pullin' specks into various pouches and pointin' 'em at each othah. Mostly ya'd nevah notice it, and wouldn't even be able to. But, uh, basically it's important to pick contestants from universes that ain't TOO dif'rent. Nobody's gonna stick a creachah from a place where gravity is a repulsive force in with a buncha people from wheah ya come from. Plus, the 'Mastahs make shuwah to bring along a tiiiny piece of everybody's home thread for 'em to stand on, so's mages can sling fiyahballs even in nonmagic universes an' you can exist in places that ain't got spirits. It's not that simple, really, but you get the basic idea, yeah?"

"Mmm."

Gestalt did get the basic idea, or at least got the basics of the basic idea. Or thought so. In any case, it probably wasn't worth pressing for more detailed or understandable information anyway, not only because it was largely unimportant, but because it wasn't sure Frank would be able to provide it. Besides, this had gone on much longer than it had intended, and had answered a number of questions it hadn't even meant to ask.

A few moments passed before either spoke again; when the comparativesilence was broken, it was once again by Gestalt's synthetic syllables.

"Frank," it mused. "It's been several minutes since we've been attacked, where before our last encounter we could barely make a turn without running into some sort of unlikely amalgamation in broad-shouldered pinstripes."

"Yeah, well, that ain't no coincidence. First off, 'Servah ain't really tryin' ta stop us. Like I said, it's more fun for them if ya fight back, right? Second, we're gettin' to a particular area of the club. The bosses have sort of a gentlemen's agreement, or should I say Gentlemen's, with a certain part of the clientele that they won't interfere too much with what goes on in certain places. Turn a blind eye sort thing, don't even come heah if they can avoid it. Makes things niceah all around. 'Specially fer us, and the fellah we're goin' ta meet."

Frank gave a mischievous little grin to her charge. "And I can tell whatcha thinkin', and yeah, that does mean it's okay to ask now."

"Well, then who are we meeting?"

"An old friend of daddy's. Calls himself The Diarist, but only cuz Historian and Chronicler was already taken. And let me tell ya, not many other "The"s heah more jokes than he does."

Gestalt clicked with annoyance. "Another Grandmaster? I'll be honest–"

Frank cut him off quickly. "Nah, the title's a fashion thing. Not a 'Mastah, not even on the same level. Inna lotta ways, even somebody like me's got more pull and more powah than he does. But we all got specialties, right? And this guy knows stuff, and more importantly, he knows how to help othah people know stuff. Whateveah stuff he wants 'em to know, more like. He's gonna be important to ya, even though you'll prob'ly only meet him fer no time at all. An' befowah ya ask, don't. See when we get there, right?"

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

Where’s that

“It’s… it’s not really anywhere, Vyrm’n. It’s the space between places.”

So, the multiverse where universes aren’t?

“… Maybe? That may be a gross simplification, but- but yes. You could think of it like that.” Paris frowned, his bulky glove threatening to engulf his face as he ran his hands through his hair. “It’s… dimensionless. Incomprehensibly vast. Spheres within spheres – never touching, yet there’s no distance between them.

But here’s the important thing. All beings, save the strongest of the Grandmasters, can’t last long out there – and even the powerful ones won’t linger. It’s-it’s inhospitable. Our perception can’t accept it. It gives up trying.”

And I’m just a piece of that, gouged off

“And hemmed in. Yes. Jessamine explained it to me, once. When the Observer mentioned the battle’s final round being in the Speakeasy. She said- she called you a fragment of a multiversal beast. An Entropic.”

I… I don’t recognise the name.

“It’s what people who understand the multiverse call your kind. Maybe you have your own name. Maybe it’s...” Paris smiled a bit. “Maybe it’s just a handle. For comprehension.”

…

What did you mean by hemmed in?

“Hm?”

What’s stopping me from running?

Paris stared uneasily up at Vyrm’n, frowning a little. The star-flecked black was concave, the Faceless gently listing into him. He sighed. “I don’t know. All I understand of the multiverse is of travelling it with Jessamine, and what she’s explained to me. You’d probably need an expert – if there were one for Entropics – to help you.”

“Anyway. I have to return to Jessamine – I confess all she wanted was for me to instil some purpose in you. What I’ve told you should be enough, that you can go and make your own inquiries. There’s no shortage of knowledgeable beings here-” Paris conspicuously held his breath at this point, his recollected visage dissipating and his hand searing black.

Vyrm’n tried to recoil, but the blue rose flashed in brilliant simultaneity with some kind of base perception slamming into her. She waited for her guide to stop dragging deep gasps of fog, stand, and replace his hand of flesh and bone upon the Faceless.

“And that's the key to the Speakeasy – or, at least, to finding something linear in it that can work for you.” Paris took another breath; it seemed to calm his nerves. “You stole it, begged it, fought me for it – it’s not important. Jessamine’ll either want it back, or she won’t. Not much the two of us can do about it, either way.”

The man slipped his hand back into the glove, lowering a mask that wasn’t quite on the agreed-upon plane of reality. He stepped round Vyrm’n, hands not quite regaining their unsure sway until one smacked and seized the doorhandle. The Faceless took her cue and left, without a word of promise or thanks. There was a moment’s consideration on Paris’ part as he wondered whether to wish Vyrm’n luck, but she was gone by the time he’d decided she wouldn’t have heard it anyway.

The dredged-up memory of a less broken past self slowly bled out as Paris watched, then pretended he still watched, the departing Vyrm’n.

Paris closed the door on the fog-den, turned away from the Faceless, and stumbled up the corridor His right hand singed a trail on the wallpaper beside him.

Show Content

SpoilerBlaaurgh, really not happy with this at all. Eh, if I'm in a writing rut only way to get it out of my system is with some wording. So suck it up.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

She found him, draped gracelessly elegant over a chair, in yet another smoky-ceilinged cavern. Originally lured in by the cataclysmic tones of a harp strung with the threads of some reality, Vyrm’n just lingered by the door when she caught whisper-sight of him. Watching. Listening. Recognition finally conquering incredulity.

His brooding didn’t waver from the strumming seraph atop the stage, until the Faceless snuck behind him. Without missing a beat, he extended a hand freshly liberated from its glove toward the shadow.

"I’m terribly sorry. Have we met?"

Yes, said Vyrm’n, and the Researcher’s eyes lit up.

"You don’t seem that surprised to see me."

The Faceless mentally shrugged. His research had always been proving the existence of – and consequently blasting a path to – the multiverse. Studying its true natives had been secondary, really.

The Researcher rubbed his collarbone, in the same habitual way one might rub their chin if they lacked a helmet to obstruct it. "Twenty-seven years. That’s how much of my life sentence I served before I could finally chase you out here. Twenty-seven years, after you vanished, after they found me guilty of your massacre. Not that I was counting, or anything."

I’m sorry

"No, you’re not. Vyrm is." He sighed, breaking contact for a moment, unfolding from his seat with such languor as to make it almost elegant. Wordlessly, he spun; his gaze lingered for the briefest moment where one might expect a face on the shadow, before it took the rest in. He sighed again, hand extended again to the Faceless in invitation. She took it. "I mean it, Vyrm’n. I’ll admit, that was twenty-seven years of wondering what I’d done to betray you. Being the pathetic, bitter narcissist I was, with revenge my only motivation to live. You wouldn’t understand."

"But then!" He spun around, fervour in his eyes as he waved wildly round the room, still clamped hand in pseudopod with Vyrm’n - "I found all this. And even if I didn't have you to thank for leading me out here, it's given me - oh, it's put those years behind bars right in perspective, let me tell you!"

but

"Vyrm'n. I resent nothing. Nothing in that universe was or ever will be of consequence. It doesn't matter. The point is, I'm home. You're home. You don't need to win your Grand Battle to be sent home, you're already here!"

The Faceless remained unconvinced, despite her companion's grin. It faltered, just a little. "How about… if we just pretend none of it ever happened? Would that help?"

I don't-

"I-" he started, forcibly extricating his hand and using it to pull something from his pocket "-am Lucian. A scholar, here to discover what I may about the Entropics." Lucian pressed, gentle but insistent, a speaker into Vyrm'n's side as he strolled past her on his way to the door.

"I've heard a lot about you, Vyrm'n, and can't express my pleasure enough to meet you - and help you - today. Now please, come with me."

The speaker - smooth and round and nestled in her black, vague approximation of a hand, seemed to thrum with the sound of his words, resounding clearer into the Faceless. It lacked the muddied layers of thought and intention she'd find in contact, but in her tired disoriented mess of a world it struck brightly, unquestionably true.

And so, at least vaguely aware it was for all the wrong reasons, Vyrm'n followed her old master, back into the maze of corridors.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

Gestalt was rather taciturn for the short remainder of their trek; it slid silently on her heels, musing to itself and not speaking out of a combination of annoyance at her curtness and recognition that it probably wasn't necessary to completely analyze every fact in this place. There simply wouldn't be time to learn everything, and if the Organizer and his wooden thrall were to be believed, time was rather critical. If Frank recognized the aggressively chilly silence as such, she didn't show it, and continued striding along barely-Euclidean halls with the same cheer she always showed.

After only a few more minutes of travel, Frank put her arm out and the pair stopped. The door they were standing in front of wasn't particularly impressive or notable; had Gestalt come from a more modernized world, he'd have recognized it as the sort of cheap metal double-doors that frequently found themselves in schools, public buildings, and any other place with high foot-traffic and low budget. They were painted in a chipped grey-green and exuded an air of utter unimportance. Gestalt's new vocalizer whirred as it spoke, "This is where we're to meet this not-a-grandmaster?"

Frank nodded. "Yup. I know it ain't much ta look at, but then, neithah ah you, right? Stuff ain't always what it looks like, an' not all the people who hang around this place ah as big on showmanship as ya Grandmastah friends."

"Well, then if this is where we're to meet this Diarist character..."

The doors pulled open as Gestalt tugged invisibly on the handles, and the pile of boxes began drifting into the darkened room beyond. Frank's eyes widened as this happened, and she blurted out "Stop!" before the schrotgolem could enter.

The stack of crates gave off the impression of cocking a head impatiently towards the outburst, despite no physical motion being made. "What is it?"

"Look, uh..." There was a pause for a moment as the woman thought. "You remembah what I was tellin' ya about the cloths back theah? Well, this threshold's kind of a patch. It's–"

"We're entering another universe?"

"No, look, lemme finish, alright? It's not so much goin' to another universe as, say, another area of this one, but with different laws. And, uh, at the same time affecting another patch on a different piecea cloth by what we do on this one. Look, the word quantum comes up about twelve times in the next sentence, and I don't want to have to explain it and you probably couldn't understand anyway. Please, just come on and stop pullin' threads. Er, I mean like, stop overthinking things, this doesn't have anything to do with the universe metaphowah. Just a figyah of speech."

The boxes bristled. "Fine. Then why did you stop me?"

"Oh, uh, right, you neahly made me fahget. Right, uh, crossin' the threshold might be a bit problematic for a thing as diffuse as you. I dunno if it'd be safe like you ah; you might get cut in half or somethin'. Spiritually, I mean, not justcha boxes. I figyah it'd be best ifya putchaself into just oneayah things and let me carry ya."

Gestalt rustled for a few moments. "Is your accent getting thicker?"

"Maybe. I dunno, it doesn't mattah. Just pick somethin' and get in it."

There were a few more moments of silence before something hovered out of a box and landed in Frank's hand. She looked at it for a moment before saying anything; it was about six inches long, made of brass with one glass tip, and covered in small tubes, pipes, and gears.

"This thing looks pretty ridiculous. What is it?"

Gestalt extended its influence into the speaker for a moment and answered "A token from the late Professor Rexxcer. It just projects a concentrated beam of light out that end. It's useful for indicating things that you can't reach."

Frank didn't say anything, but her expression demanded an explanation.

"It's to remind me of why this barbaric competition must be stopped at any cost."

"Awful sentimental for a pile of junk, but whatevah you gotta do."

The golem withdrew completely into the steampunk laser pointer without responding. Frank shrugged, then stepped into the open double-doors. The sensation was quite indescribable to anyone who hasn't been upside-down, inside-out, and incorporeal all at the same time, so there's no point in expounding; it was simply highly unusual and borderline-unpleasant, and it happened in the space of a microsecond before fading away. The blackness before the pair faded into a twisted, improbable library; the hallway behind faded to blackness.

And as Frank's foot descended towards the floor, the shoe on it unravelled, spinning outwards and fading into the air. Her stockings followed suit, as did her dress, her undergarments, and even her hair and facial features. In moments, she was a plain, featureless, vaguely-feminine wooden figure; however, even before the last of her clothes and features faded away, new ones began forming, spinning themselves out of thin air. Even her build became thinner and bonier, her face becoming harder and more heavily-lined. An understated blue-grey ensemble formed, topped by a greying bun and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

Gestalt had no way of communicating its surprise, but the woman pre-empted his question. "I share many properties with my patron. One of the most notable is his tendency to reflect that which surrounds him; however, while he takes on superficial traits of the sentients he gets near, my appearance, and to some extent personality, are influenced by the subconscious expectations set by my physical surroundings. In short, I become what one might expect a woman to be wherever I am, often to the point of near-caricature."

Given that explanation, Gestalt was rather surprised with the blandness of the new shape; sure, the room they'd entered was a library of sorts, and this stodgy-looking shape fit "librarian", but... It didn't really fit with the 'of sorts' part. Shelves climbed up walls, books hovered in midair, shelves came out of other shelves sideways, enormous stacks of books curved unnaturally, spiralling towards walls and ceilings... It was a library in the sense that parts of the Escherscape had been a cathedral. With that in mind, Gestalt considered that either the setting was somehow hiding its normalcy, or Frank's new guise had more to it than was readily apparent.

Lost as it was in its thoughts, the little laser pointer nearly missed what was said next. "You're free to interact with the objects here now that we've crossed the threshold, but be ready to relinquish them when we leave. Once you have established some mode of communication, you may refer to me as Ms. Dorcy."

After a bit of thought, Gestalt pulled a book from the shelf and had it glide alongside the newly-christened Ms. Dorcy. The book was unlabeled and entirely handwritten, but it had several instances of every letter, so it served its purpose; the golem didn't bother absorbing its contents, but simply started pulling words and letters out (ripping pieces of the pages out to do so) and floating messages across its companion's vision.

How loNg do you Expect to bE here

"Very briefly. Why?"

wondeRiNg iF I should aTtempt to build an ArsEnaL

"I suggest you don't. It would be pointless in any case, but we shouldn't encounter any need."

During the brief conversation, the pair had been moving through the labyrinthine shelves, Ms. Dorcy striding confidently towards some goal she seemed to have in mind. Rather than press for more information and risk raising her ire (or at least annoyance) again, Gestalt simply sat silently in her hand, towing the book behind them.

Some minutes later, a desk came into view. The floor around it, and the desk itself, were stained with ink; a dark, indistinct figure sat at the blackened table, eight arms constantly writing in the tomes that hovered around it or dipping quills messily into the inkwells that littered the desk's surface. It didn't look up as the wooden woman approached, and barely spared her a glance as she confidently stated "I am here, Diarist."

There was a pause where the only sound was the scratching of nibs on parchment, then a wide maw opened in the thing's chest. "Then get on with it. What do you want?"

Dorcy pulled a wry face. "A little decorum wouldn't be out of place. In any event, you know what I'm here for, and if you would like us to leave with the maximum possible expeditiousness, you won't bog things down with your less-than-charming misanthropy."

Presumably-the-Diarist grunted and stood up on four spindly legs; its books stayed in midair, bobbing gently, and it walked to a nearby shelf, quills still clutched in hands and dripping ink all the while. "Fine. You've got two choices. Let me find where I put them."

While the Diarist's hands slid over volumes and shelves, apparently looking for a specific book, Gestalt floated another message to its chaperone.

whaT is HE talkIng about

what chOices does he meAn

"I told you, the Diarist is an expert in memory implantation and alteration. We're going to use his expertise to encourage that Faceless to fight the Observer as we want her to. As it is, she's unlikely to cooperate, as I understand it."

The laser pointer jerked as Gestalt recoiled.

thaT's monstrous

vyrm'n is mY only AlLy my oNly frIend

Ms. Dorcy looked down at the brassy apparatus. "And out there in the endless worlds are uncountable others with friends and allies of their own who will be torn from their lives and killed for the pleasure of cackling Grandmasters. Don't lose sight of what matters; one casualty, regardless of how important she is to you personally, is inconsequential. You brought this body with you just for that purpose; remember Reccxer, and realize that one more sacrifice is worth preventing countless others from experiencing the same tragedy."

There was yet another pause, before a few shreds of paper weakly fluttered up to form yes. The librarian nodded grimly and clutched the laser pointer tightly for a moment in a gesture of reassurance, then looked back up at the Diarist. She opened her mouth as though to hurry him along, but noticed that he was already lumbering towards them, two books in hand.

"Alright," he growled, "like I said, two choices. You can either implant memories of personal cruelty at the hands of the Observer; she'll blame him for the ravages of sentience, for being torn from the Entropics, everything that's gone wrong for her and a lot of things that didn't actually happen."

Here, the Diarist dropped a neat blue tome on the desk before continuing. "Or, you can just erase everything. Revert her to a primal shard of matter-hating fury. From what I can gather, everything she is stems from being bonded to some sentient. This'll sever that bond, leaving her the near-mindless being she was meant to be."

The Diarist let a ragged, slender black volume hit the desk next to the blue one, clearly waiting for a decision. When none was immediately forthcoming, he snorted with irritation. "I've done my part. Pick one and get out of here."

The many-limbed creature plopped itself down by the desk again, resuming its ceaseless writing. The Organizer's thrall and the golem she had in tow stood stock-still while the latter thought.

this

this iS still a horRible prOspect

which should I Pick

Ms. Dorcy shrugged. "You'll have to decide that yourself. I won't be able to hold your hand through this whole situation, nor do I have any desire to. Decide what you think you can best use and what you can best control, and make the choice."

The voice faded and the air filled once more with quill noises. Even if it had had a voice with which to agonize, Gestalt would likely have kept its apprehension and torment to itself as it mulled over its options. Eventually, a wooden hand twitched and a brass cog clicked.

A small red dot appeared on the cover of the black book.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

Ms. Dorcy snatched up the book with a nod of thanks to the Diarist; the incessant scritching of quills interrupted with only a reciprocating grunt. They turned to leave, to Gestalt's relief, but stopped at the threshold. His guide raised their loot to what might've been a handheld laser-pointer's eye level.

"Once we return to the Speakeasy, you'll have to sequester this on your… person."

Gestalt barely avoided physically recoiling from the book. mUst I

"While Jessamine remains capable of detecting motions down to ripples of mere thought within the Speakeasy, concealing a displaced segment of an alternate reality - even one as - mutable as the Diarist's – is a necessity. So yes. You must. The alternative," continued Ms. Dorcy, batting aside Gestalt's coalescing words, "is fighting through every agent and homunculus she has at her disposal before we reach Vyrm'n."

and wrAppiNg mySelF RoUnd That wREtcHed THinG wiLl shiELD It?

"Would you like truth? It'd merely stall our detection. However, with the assistance of my associate, that will hopefully ensure we locate the Faceless, before Jessamine locates us. Now please, transfer your essence to the book."

She gave Gestalt a moment, before slipping Reccxer's laser pointer into a pocket and opening the door. The transition itself was far less unpleasant for the schrotgolem - though whether that was through familiarity with the sensation; or the nature of its particular vessel, or the greater discomfort of trying to accept this tool of callous murder as part of itself; was hard to say. The less said about the Diarist, the better; thought Gestalt. He busied himself with somewhat fastidiously getting all of his boxes in order while Ms. Dorcy got on with the business of being Frank, finally tucking away the ragged little book (and the laser pointer). Concealing the tome was somehow more unpleasant than simply being the book in Gestalt’s entirety; it dually felt like a self-impaled splinter and a pit in its non-existent stomach.

"Right," exclaimed Frank brightly, with an enthusiasm Gestalt found jarring, "how’s about we ankle, and find ahselves a Faceless?"

-----

"I still don’t know how the hell you found my office," Lucian begrudged, closing the door behind him, "but it makes my job easier, so I’m not complaining."

Vyrm’n was pleased with herself for being of use to Lucian, but restrained it to a gentle hum of her speaker while toying with the new piece of apparatus lodged in her bulk. Little arcs of something - vaguely tangible and not entirely unpleasant to her senses - danced from the irregularly plated sphere to the comm device. Lucian had called the contraption some kind of "collation grid" - at least, that was what she caught of its name - the physics of which went well over Vyrm’n’s uncomprehending but nonetheless attendant head. From what she gleaned, it was a battery for her speaker, and one whose edges were fuzzy against her black - quite unlike any other material she’d dealt with.

Lucian stood around for a bit - bristling a bit with equipment he'd himself picked up without explaining its purpose to his companion - as though expecting Vyrm'n to pick a location. There was a disappointed air to him when, checking his wristwatch after a minute of the Faceless simply standing expectantly, he told Vyrm'n to follow. She slipped into personable step behind him like a shadow, missing the brief spasm across his face of something unreadable.

"Where are we going?"

"It’s… a friend of mine. If you’ve nowhere else to be, I suppose. They’ve got something to help you with this mad plan. Of yours."

"I already met Paris," responded Vyrm’n, her voice synthetic and amicable. Things finally seemed to be going right. "He was the one that gave me the key. It was how I located your office. He gave it to me after he told me… What's wrong?"

Lucian's friendly façade had crumbled away into so much emotional rubble, besmirching the feet of something resigned and angry at being exposed. "Vyrm'n, did you seriously get approached by that grovelling little bitch of the Madam's and not think to-"

"Do you mean Jess-"

"Don't. Say her name. And don't. Interrupt me." Lucian swore under his breath. Lucian swore louder, after he'd paced around a bit and shot a glare at the wounded Faceless. "Look. Vyrm'n." Lucian sighed, swore again, and paced around a bit more. He checked his watch, came as close to pinning Vyrm'n to the wall with concentrated anger as he was capable, then marched off - knowing full well she'd follow.

"Lucian, what's wrong-"

"I tried. That's my fucking problem. No, wait. It's that masked freak's what's fucking wrong." The man spun around mid-furious gesture, still not halting his hasty gait to gods-knew-where. "I lose my office. Right. After. The creep hands me a note, saying you're showing up!"

"But he said-"

"I don't care, Vyrm'n," snarled Lucian. He ripped back his sleeve to read the time again, before doubling back to the crossroads they'd just passed and taking a left. "If Paris knows, it's only so long before the bitch-in-chief does too. And once she knows, we're all fucking dead. Christ, Vyrm'n." The Faceless just mutely followed, clinging to the vague familiarity of the situation with quiet desperation.

-----


Gestalt was struggling to keep pace with its guide – it may have been fanciful thinking on the schrotgolem’s part, but it felt like reality itself was growing distressed with this destructive little scrap being dragged through it. It was reminiscent of Vyrm’n, a little.

"Ya alrigh’ theah, little guy?"

Gestalt said nothing, but waved a baton in what it hoped was an indifferent manner. Since his speaker had started intermittently muttering in a low, foreign tongue - which did to Gestalt whatever the spectral equivalent was of one’s hair standing on end - it had kept it muted. Frank solicited a sympathetic noise, promising it wouldn’t be much further.

"Heah we ah," chirped Frank (too soon for, while simultaneously) to Gestalt’s relief.

It was the atrium again. Nothing much had changed –well, Vyrm’n wasn’t there, but Gestalt couldn't have been certain whether she'd stay by Maxwell's side or fall prey to distractions. If the schrotgolem was going to be honest with itself, it was glad she wasn't here.

He glanced around the room again, searching for changes more subtle than a night-sky smudge's disappearance.

"Clara…?"

The wooden woman gave Gestalt a moment, before joining him next to the seventh case. The nun was sitting up against the barrier's walls, though her channelling trance still persisted. "That the one who invited my daddy in?"

"She – yes."

"Yeah, then she's goin' ta be most copacetic right theah behind the blue, 'specially when Vyrm'n arrives." Frank nodded, placing a hand on a box. The box. The one Gestalt felt like leaping with into a fire. "Maybe you don't realise, but you showah owe a lot ta this bird. It ain't mah job to know mah onions about the rules thah likes o' my daddy or 'Servah play by, but I'm pretty showah if it weren't for your friend here, I couldn't be heah helpin' you aither."

"Ah think you owe it tah Clara to do everything you can."

Gestalt said nothing.

"Yah Faceless friend's nearly heah. Ah'll get the door."

Three knocks. There was no apparent time between Frank's voice and the three raps; there was nothing that needed to be done or thought or said in the space. Space. Gestalt glanced up absently; the sky beyond the glass-domed ceiling was black. Not sky. Not space. No stars or saviours or even a beckoning shoal of Faceless. Nothing.

It barely registered to Gestalt that the atrium's exits into the speakeasy had warped – there were only the great double doors, and the one entranceway guarded by Frank. She was talking to someone; his words terse, impatient; she let him and his Faceless in. Gestalt turned mentally to face Vyrm'n, though his boxes did not move. A kind of primal insistence – a struggle to stomach – smouldered away within the pages, written but unread. Their oblivious audience had arrived – and the words demanded to be rallied and read, marching line by ink-black line into oblivion, carrying Vyrm'n with them.

This was necessary. This was awful. This was callous and merciful and unconscionable and desperate and damning and so very, very, cruel.

Vyrm'n didn't say anything, but Gestalt imagined he could feel the atoms dancing where she listened - their songs wavering shy when they noticed, for the first time, an observer. Her gaze made that burnt-edged space in the schrotgolem - where it had laid the book after tearing out its non-existent heart – shake. Trembling under scrutiny. Trembling in anticipation.

Gestalt wanted to say something. To placate, perhaps – even rationalise or apologise. He couldn't find the strength. There was only the book, which had emerged from the depths of Gestalt's regret without warning into spectral, formless hands.

As if on cue, gunfire burst from the doorway Frank guarded, interspersed with the shrieks of the freshly impaled. Gestalt studied the jittering stars a final time, then turned to a man he didn't recognise.

"Let her go."

Lucian shook his head. "She's all yours. Hurry up."

"Let. Her. Go."

A single knife staggered up, flew at the man. He parried it easily with a raised fist, a device in his hand spitting out an arcing shield of blue. Vyrm'n twitched, but moved no further. Her consciousness phased in and out, lurking just beneath the surface of the Void. Unable to flee Lucian. He gestured to the Faceless, humourless gaze flickering to the sounds of fighting.

"She'll kill you."

Gestalt considered, then slid across the room from the duo as far as he could, boxes lined against the huge double-doors.

"Let her go."

The man prepared to protest, glanced over at Frank in the doorway - blood, ichor, and other pleasant reminders of Lucian's "squishy biology" up to her forearms - swore, and slammed a button. Without pause, Vyrm'n lunged straight for the schrotgolem, the cracking of tiles underblack masked by distant bullets. Gestalt just stared for one of those seemingly-endless moments at the featureless cover-

"Get on with it!"

-and flicked it open.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

Screaming. A plea so desperate it had torn out its own throat, its own words, and dashed them regimental across the page like so much starless, Entropic blood. Everything else was trivial, rendered inconsequential by the screams of reality itself. Worse, it wasn't even the cry as it fell from a single mortal wound, but something agonised. Drawn-out; as each piece was extracted and laid in neat lines right in its pain-hazed line of sight. Only able to stop when it had no strength or lungs left.

Gestalt didn't recognise the book's language; could barely wrap its mind around the syllables before it spat them out; couldn't remember uttering that first awful word – one no less terrible than the others, save for the fact it had condoned the rest of them tumbling out unbidden. Each page and paragraph and sentence bled into the next, an entire ocean of words to hide the dead beneath. Trying to read one wave from the next was impossible; to the schrotgolem, understanding only reached as far as sensing the shifting tides. Line after line, its language was intoned - by a speaker and spirit cracking under its absolute weight - but only a sliver comprehended. The language of reality. A language capable not only of describing everything, but more crucially proficient in describing everyhow. A language of links and consequence, of fate and preposition. All things – all places, objects, people – suspended or ensnared in a web of context. Of interrelation. The language of atoms and multiverses, and nothing in between.

Vyrm'n's language, in fact, though she'd abandoned the snarl in favour of sanity and settled for knowing only the nouns – all those suspended by the struts or tethers she'd forgotten how to see. And even then, those of the here and now. Or, as the book was conceding (before it reaffirmed true oblivion) the there and then.

Gestalt was vaguely aware of all this, though it all seemed to fly simultaneously above and below it. It was reading a present even as the Diarist primed it for disproving. The preamble to the dissertation. To destroy it, one had to absolutely know what it was they were destroying. An odd courtesy extended to that which was going to die.

Life. A mind. An abandoned, skeletal scaffold wreckage of a mind, and the spark of life that had found a home in it. A home with its history crafted so that it would withstand the necessary destruction, and impart it then to its new inhabitant. It was unique, and a labour of strange, amoral love.

That spark was being extinguished - pounded into submission beneath wave after inky wave. Or perhaps it had never been dredged from the depths of the ocean. Gestalt wasn't sure. It might've simultaneously been both. The schrotgolem was slowly returning to itself, albeit reluctantly. Its very consciousness seemed viscerally aware of what it had unleashed – the dichotomy and illogic ripping as their herald read - and shied from it as though it had tainted the vessel in its passing.

The book served to define the real. Gestalt knew this. It had read it in the book was the book or the two were conjoined to bring forth something else that tried - despite its nature - and failed to be neither. The real needed an anchor - reference in a self-spun sea. A champion, perhaps. One mind to know its contents as real, and preach it to the world.

Ideas were so easy. Manifesting them, harder. The Diarist took rightful pride in his ability, though he still found the hamfisted practical applications of his art distasteful. It was a strange aside, but one the author had deemed necessary. More context. More reference. More binding.

Footnotes. An epilogue. Reaffirming the place and the time and the circumstance of this little segment. The feeling Gestalt had previously, of tangling, burred and snagging on the Speakeasy's reality, simultaneously intensified and faded. Weaves were aligning, threads or lines of words lying side by mistrustful side. Meshing. Coming right. The schrotgolem felt violently ill, as though its senses were telling it that it was in two-and-a-half places at once

________________


________________


________________

________________

_______________
_______________

_______________
_______________

Static.

It took Gestalt a good few moments of reorientation to re-place itself in the real – no, it'd almost forgotten, this murdered taunting shell of a real – world and find, to its surprise, that the noise persisted here as well.

Vyrm'n loomed over the pile of boxes, frozen perhaps at the apex of a crushing slam. The cosmos still tracked slowly across her, but Gestalt didn't recognise the hissing, black sphere in her chest. It sent out a cautious tendril; feeling only the uncaring massiveness of a place which swallowed universes whole, the schrotgolem retreated. Gestalt huddled against the enormous double doors; the sphere fell out and was silent.

"Vyrm'n?"

Silence. So rudely interrupted by the screeching deaths of Homunculi some ways off, and Lucian's choked laughter. Unable to contain himself, the man stared incredulous at Gestalt.

"You don't even realise what you did." His grin, unsmiling, wavered a little as he tossed a snigger in Frank's direction. "You fucked up, Frank."

Another contraption extracted, unfolded, and waved from head to toe. Lucian ignored Gestalt's demands – ignored the schrotgolem altogether - guiltless contempt in his eyes as the ring which encompassed him began to spin. The Organiser's servant could spare only a hateful glance in Lucian's direction, bullets ricocheting off her raised arms.

"Frank, you knew I only promised to help until Vyrm's memory was put to rest."

There was no malice or apology to the man's voice. He merely inclined his head to Gestalt, and vanished with an ozone-smelling crack. The metal hoop fell to the ground, spinning on its edge until arrested by a glass-encased tendril.

Jessamine extracted her snaking, quilled form from some indeterminate point above where Lucian had stood only seconds prior. She landed on skittering, needly feet, cracking some component of the teleportation device in her claws.

"My master told me not to intervene," hissed the creature. Her contempt dripped less from her pincered jaws, than from the air congealing around Gestalt itself. With no preamble, the schrotgolem found its very essence impaled upon those talons, being lifted screaming voiceless dredged from its boxes from itself and it was almost vicious merciful when Jessamine finally tossed Gestalt across the atrium, kicking the boxes after it.

The Speakeasy's guardian glanced at Frank, still pinned by the door as she cut through swathes of the Observer's minions. The servants' gazes met – Frank's expression darkened; the glass-hulled monstrosity tittered with a previously-unheard glee.

For now, business.

Jessamine raised a claw, scrutinising the still-motionless Faceless – then charged with a speed that was too unobservable to truly call frightening. Gestalt, trembling and groggy and in actual, exotic pain, pulled itself together just in time to curl up screaming again as the book tried to split its mind in two.

The Speakeasy seemed to warp and crack about the Faceless, two realities snapping and biting and clawing at Gestalt's insides for escape. For the briefest moment, the schrotgolem found itself scattered and diffused between them both-

<font color="#FFFFBF">The transfer had been arrested by the Diarist's meddling Jessamine rose calmly to her feet it should have been its nature to seize the first approaching foolish mind between where she had started and stopped a Faceless was writhing but it was written rewritten that it had never bonded never could never would slashed in two hot spines of glass burrowing piercing burning the black it had snatched as they all do at her briefest murderous touch and the moment missed in the turn of a head or page it repelled the noise

and Jessamine finally struggled to her feet, a few quills snapping where they'd pierced the double-doors. A crack running down one leg lengthened with an unpleasantly reminiscent noise, a smoky blue tendril or three slithering out, shrugging the glass shell away.

Vyrm'n still hadn't reacted, but a sort of dull animosity tinged the nothingness. No comprehension precluded it; the Faceless simply lunged for the Speakeasy's proprietor. She darted out of the way again with reality-breaking speed, but the shadow seemed to predict Jessamine's movements, jack-knifing every which way as only a beast without knowledge of gravity or inertia could. Jessamine snarled. The Faceless' pursuit continued, unabated.

Gestalt slithered behind Reccxer's glass case, the book and its promise thumping away like a headache with every narrow miss. The schrotgolem paused as it neared a tireless, furious Frank. Her expression was grim, but it changed to alarm when she glanced a second time at her companion.

A smooth, featureless slab of a door was shimmering into existence behind the schrotgolem. It seemed to pause, waiting for the lull in Jessamine's desperate dance to fade, before swinging smoothly open.</font>

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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Show Content

SpoilerWell, here we go, the long-awaited post a month in the making and just over 5000 words. It doesn't really seem commensurate with the time spent, but honestly most of what took so long was a combination of not having time (with things like weddings and moves) and not having the mental energy (with things like most of my relatives' houses burning down).

So now it's done and here it is; Schazer and I did a lot of planning for this post, and by the time I realized we had tried to incorporate too many events in it, it was too late to break it up much. There were still more things I had intended to include, but this post is already a little bloated.

Enjoy, I guess.

In contrast to the door's elegant swing and perfectly-smooth surface, the figure that stumbled out of it was decidedly unimpressive. Paris's smoky black form stood uncertainly in the atrium as his entry faded behind him, a mundane and unimpressive figure against the chaotic tableau of Frank's battle against the dwindling homunculi, Jessamine's assault on Vyrm'n, and the aftermath of Lucian's near-betrayal. A glassy head-analogue turned towards the new arrival, and Jessamine's eerie voice keened out "Excellent timing, for once. These things are threatening the order of the speakeasy itself. Help me settle everything; the boss's game is just going to have to take a backseat."

Paris took a step backwards, then another; his hand came up as though to rub his masked cheek, then hesitated as he thought better of the unconscious gesture. As Jessamine dodged another jinking lunge from Vyrm'n, the nervous glassblower shook his head slowly and backed up another few steps. The proprietress's shriek of rage was a palpable force as well as an ear-splitting noise, although Paris himself was the only one really affected by the sound. "What?! You worthless little thrall, grab those boxes or–"

Jessamine's raving was interrupted by another oddly-determined attack from the wheeling Faceless above her; Paris continued moving backwards, charred hands shivering with fear, head still shaking as though the mere act of dissent would kill him as soon as he stopped. Eventually, he backed into a wall; with nowhere else to go and no more reason to wear his mark of subservience, he slowly reached up to his rose-emblazoned hood. It smoked gently as he tugged it off, then hurtled sideways as it was unceremoniously discarded. The mask met the wall and undramatically fell to the floor, unheeded by all. Paris's lidless eyes stared out at the world for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, a terrified grin cracking papery skin and setting sores to weeping. "You broke me, Jessamine."

His courage bolstered by his erstwhile mistress's inability to retaliate while dealing with Vyrm'n, Paris took a hesitant step forward and continued "You lied to me, you tricked me, and you broke me. You know what you did, what you forced me to do, what it was like. And now I'm going to help break you." He bent down, grabbing a crustaceous chunk of flesh that had been flung across the room during Frank's fight with some homunculus or other; it burst into flame after a moment, and he hurled it towards the glassy tyrant, more for effect than out of any belief that it would be effectual. "You are going to burn."

It was at about that time that Frank turned back to face the atrium and the people in it; her limbs were still extended, her clothes and imitation skin were smeared with all manner of undefinable gore, and she'd been struck by bullets in several places, but there was no hint of commotion behind her and her face was twisted into an expression of nearly manic glee. "I knew we wasn't gonna see this finished withoutcha dead and gone, Jessie, but I nevah figyahed even ya monkey'd turn on ya. Serves ya right, you old bitch."

Jessamine was near the center of the atrium, hemmed in on all sides by hostile beings that, while clearly beneath her, made it difficult to pick any one of them off. There certainly wasn't anywhere to go that would give her a a better position; Frank very firmly guarded the exit, and there was nowhere to go through the double doors, even (or perhaps especially) for someone like Jessamine. Gestalt was huddling next to Frank; it wasn't overtly threatening, but for some reason even approaching the quivering little spirit would have made Jessamine's eyes water if she'd had any. Attacking the schrotgolem just the once had been painful enough, and it worried her that she didn't know why. Fortunately, it was still basically harmless, making no move to attack or aid the others, simply clutching its corporeal parts to itself and doing the spiritual equivalent of rocking back and forth on the balls of its feet. Paris, the little worm, was hesitantly advancing on her, but for all his rage and dramatics he'd be able to do little to her but cripple her shell a little bit; if it weren't for the dogged attention of the irascible faceless, she'd have shown him what 'broken' really meant by now.

No, the pair that were really worth worrying about were Frank and Vyrm'n; the former certainly didn't have power or abilities anywhere near on Jessamine's own level, but her knowledge could make her dangerous and, more importantly, she would probably prove an excellent distraction from the true threat that was the Entropic shard, or even reverse the roles be able to take lethal advantage of Jessamine focusing on Vyrm'n. There was a brief stalemate while everyone present waited for someone else to make a move; the lull was filled by the proprietress's voice, which hissed "Paris, you have one more chance to destroy those crates, then give me your key, and I won't make the rest of your miserable life so wretched that you'll pray that I get bored and give you to the Tormentor."

A sneer further twisted the heat-ravaged lump of flesh that Paris was forced to call a face, and he wheezed in a way that might have been a laugh. "You're too late. Threaten all you want, but Vyrm'n has the key now. Good luck getting it back." He cracked his knuckles in a way that was probably supposed to be threatening. "Not that you'll be around long enough for it to matter."

Jessamine probably would have laughed here had she been a more organic being, but as it was a palpable aura of sneeringness radiated from her glass hull. She didn't bother to respond with any kind of taunt or statement of her confidence; from her perspective, it would have been like assuring the beetle that just bumped into her that she was going to squash it. There was no point.

Instead she simply lunged, unnatural speed propelling her across the room towards Paris, whose human reaction times barely afforded him the chance to raise his hands. Fortunately for him, there were others in the room with speed and abilities that rivaled Jessamine's, at least in some respects. Anyone with perception that could follow the proprietress's movements would have similarly been able to see Vyrm'n billow and streak towards her or notice one of Frank's limbs extending and whipping upwards. Jessamine herself saw, and had predicted, Vyrm'n's unsubtle attack; she sidestepped nimbly, still on course for Paris, needly legs and glass barbs raised aggressively.

However, Jessamine hadn't been the only one with the foresight to predict how the near-mindless Vyrm'n would react; Frank's bladed arm had been whipping through the air towards the proprietress's new path before she even set herself on it. Jessamine barely had time to become aware of the attack before avoiding it too, and her less-than-elegant dodge sent her sprawling in a tangled mass of glass and smoky blue. Frank's swing continued, her other limb moving in in a pincer attack, but Jessamine righted herself faster than Frank had expected was possible and lashed out; wood and metal splinters flew through the air as the Grandmasters' servants collided, Jessamine exuding an air of smug superiority as Frank's face twisted into a hateful grimace.

This momentary tableau, however, faded almost immediately: Vyrm'n, still moving through the air with the disorganized elegance of something that had no time for trivialities like gravity, smashed into Jessamine's silicate shell. There was a very faint material thud, but it was drowned out by the psychic presence of words read in the Diarist's voice and a soundless shriek of anguish from Gestalt. Vyrm'n was rebuffed, spiraling through the air in whatever passed for confusion inside the mindless mind of a lost Entropic, while Jessamine recoiled from the touch of the abyss and the sheer force of Vyrm'n's assault. Though Jessamine was quickly losing extremities and the entirety of her hull was showing cracks and Frank had just had both of her arms rudely shorn off, Gestalt was the single being most visibly affected by the bout; despite having moved little and participated less, the little schrotgolem was quivering in terror and agony, its condition clearly exacerbated every time Vyrm'n collided with Jessamine.

As the glass chilopod that housed the proprietress stumbled backwards from the Entropic's lunge, Paris crept along the wall; while Jessamine's attention was on the wheeling blackness above and the reconstituting puppet before her, he moved as silently as he could to her side. Frank spotted his gambit and lashed out with broken wires and blades simply to keep Jessamine occupied; the proprietress sidestepped neatly, leaving Frank clawing at nothing but wood paneling, and drew herself up as though to sneer. Her taunt was cut off before it even began, though, as Paris took the opportunity to send his hand plowing through the beautiful sculpture he had so recently created.

Jessamine screamed. The floor sizzled as drops of superheated glass rained down on it. Several of Jessamine's legs clattered and tinkled as they left her body and smashed on the wood below. Glass groaned and creaked as the proprietress retaliated, flailing with her rear segments until they struck Paris and sent him flying. There were several very organic cracks and pops as Paris met the wall, and a soft thud as he reached the floor. Frank gasped.

There were a few small wisps of the blue fog that occupied Paris's creations evaporating into the air, but it was clear that Jessamine's essence wouldn't be destroyed by a mere hull breach. The now-very-unbalanced shell tottered slightly but stayed standing, fury radiating off it hotter than the glowing glass that peppered the floor around it.

"I've been careless." The words weren't bellowed or shrieked, but rather hissed out of the air like the breeze that heralded a biblically-proportioned storm. "But you troublemakers will find that I don't make the same mistake twice. And you will find..."

Nearby, Paris was clawing his way back up into a sitting position, his touch setting small fires across the wallpaper and his legs buckling as he tried to hold his weight on them. "That I've been in charge of this place since before any of you existed for a reason!"

As her sentence ended, Jessamine's voice finally did reach a furious scream. With her characteristic blinding speed, apparently unfettered by the damage her shell had accrued, she hurtled towards Paris; Vyrm'n sped towards her once again, but her rear legs came up and batted her away, sending the faceless careening into one of the Observer's display cases and eliciting the sound of two realities grinding against one another from Gestalt. The schrotgolem cried out again, actual tangible pain flooding the body it didn't have, confused impressions of two scenes overlaying themselves on one another in its mind and the droning of indecipherable words filling its perception.

Frank waffled for only fractions of fractions of seconds, wondering whether to try to intervene to save Paris or to take the opportunity to continue repairing herself, but even that microscopic slice of time was too much. Before she could raise her shattered arms, Jessamine was upon her erstwhile servant, wicked glass spikes nailing him in place; before the blood from his new wounds could even reach the floor, legs had come up and speared his heart, his lungs, and his brain. Before the light of life had faded from his lashless eyes, she twisted and sent him skidding across the floor. The lump of flesh that would only be Paris for the space of a few more gasping breaths came to a stop at the feet of Gestalt's boxes.

Gestalt dragged itself from its tortured reverie as Paris's lifeless head came to rest. It blearily took in the shattered body and the blood still dripping from Jessamine's claws; it watched as Vyrm'n gathered herself up and began circling around the dome above, a wheeling streak of night with no personality or plan; it lazily followed the shrapnel that was once part of Frank's arms as it gathered itself towards her.

Its so-recently acquired speaker crackled to life, smooth synthesized voice now emulating haggardness and barely-concealed agony. "He's dead."

Jessamine turned slowly, watching her three surviving opponents carefully and gingerly getting used to movement with so many of her legs removed. "Of course he's dead. You're all going to die. You knew you were going to die." She scoffed, advancing slowly, new gait forcing her to sway hypnotically. "Insignificance always breeds such illusions of grandeur."

Gestalt, apparently ignoring her, spoke up before her last sentence even finished. "They're all dead."

It was fairly clear it was referring to the six contestants that had passed before it: not only was there no-one else it could reasonably be referring to, but the cases surrounding their remains had begun shaking. By this point, Jessamine's attention was clearly focused on Gestalt; her forelegs were raised as though poised to strike, but she stayed near-motionless, waiting for someone else to make the first move so she could take advantage of their attack. Frank took the time to continue allowing her limbs to re-weave themselves, matter leaping from where it sat or coming into existence as she directed it. Vyrm'n spun above it all, a ball of instincts without a mind to guide it.

"This isn't right."

The scene was still again as Gestalt's borrowed voice quieted, save for the continued rattling of the deceased contestants' displays. No-one wanted to make the first move, certain that their opponents would be able to take advantage of whatever they did. Gradually, a dull groan arose; it was the sound of glass or stone being pushed to its breaking point and beyond, and it filled the speakeasy's antechamber, riding a painful crescendo until it became a painful and palpable force. Everyone's attentions turned to the glass cylinders, watching the unbreakable substance trying to split from itself.

With a final mineral keening, cracks rocketed across the display's surfaces; less than a second after the first split had appeared, the glass exploded outwards, coruscating halos of shards blossoming and rocketing through the air. The swarming splinters descended on Jessamine, who haughtily made as though to swat them away. Much to her surprise, the glass proved no more breakable for her than it had for Vyrm'n, and she was helpless to redirect it; waves of glittering shards fell on her, nicking her shell and sending her scuttling backwards. Neither of Vyrm'n and Frank were able to do anything productive through the swarm of glass, but Jessamine seemed to be quite trapped in any case, and was taking gradual damage with no apparent recourse.

As she was backed into a wall, Jessamine stoped her instinctual flailing; she couldn't damage the glass itself or physically swat it aside. Of course, the obvious thing to do when confronted with an implacable weapon was to break the hand holding it: she slashed, letting her essence seep out past the mere matter of her shell, and caught Gestalt's being in her claws; she ripped and tore, sending waves of fragments clattering to the floor as the spirit holding them up was bisected and rebuked.

Even for a being of Jessamine's nature, it was difficult when bound to a physical form to fight an opponent who attacked from 360 degrees, and gaining ground against Gestalt was proving problematic with her damaged shell; even as she cut its tendrils back, more arose and picked up the glass it had dropped. She could feel every time she ripped into the golem that it was taking a tremendous effort of will for the little construct to maintain its assault; more worryingly though was that every time she clawed at the spirit, she could feel something trying to pull bits of her into what felt like the Interstice. Each time she attacked, the pull was just the tiniest bit stronger; before long, she was losing tiny fractions of her essence to whatever void Gestalt was bound to.

As for Gestalt itself, the fight was a blur of overlapping realities, blinding pain, and whispered voices. It could feel itself coming closer and closer to falling back into nonsapience as the rush of sensations threatened to overtake rational thought, but it steeled itself and kept fighting. Though Jessamine's shell was clearly sustaining damage, albeit gradually, it was all in the form of rather minor cracks; it was becoming clear that Gestalt wouldn't be able to keep its sanity gathered for long enough to overwhelm her, and neither Vyrm'n nor Frank were able to do anything as long as it was keeping the proprietress pinned.

In fact, Vyrm'n had already taken to lunging for Jessamine periodically; she was no more able to penetrate the cloud of glass than she had been able to break through the displays at the beginning of the round, but in the absence of a true mind or personality to base her own around, she was filled with urges by the Speakeasy's key. Without the rational thought to make plans and take advantage of her potential allies' actions, she was reduced to simply swooping at Jessamine, every fiber of her questionable being screaming to kill, completely ignoring the intervening obstacles.

As Gestalt felt itself teetering on the brink of collapse, an idea occurred to it: as the Faceless rocketed towards Jessamine once again, Gestalt pulled itself out of an area of shards, forming an empty column between Jessamine and Vyrm'n. Jessamine looked upwards, well aware of the assault but unable to push through the glass and without time to remove enough of Gestalt to escape. The blackness slammed into the fractured centipede: time stood still for an instant as Jessamine was sundered; stars rippled and glittered in concert with the twinkling of Gestalt's impenetrable cloud of slivers and Jessamine's crumbling body.

And then reality caught up with itself and several things happened at once. There was a flash and a cacophonous roar of simultaneous words, and Vyrm'n was flung away from what remained of Jessamine; the proprietress was tossed in the opposite direction, broken body shedding glass and her blue, smoky essence spilling out into the air; Gestalt's speaker roared to life unbidden, shrieking and shrieking with an agony that the unliving should never have cause to express. Glass rained down and boxes clattered as the golem lost its grip on itself, Jessamine's sundered hull mixing with the remains of the display cases as her true self rose from the wreckage. A bluish cloud formed, hissing and baring vaporous teeth.

Jessamine was too competent and pragmatic to indulge in foolishness like a villain's monologue under normal circumstances, but the shivering, all-consuming rage she was wracked with seemed to be clouding her judgement. As she hovered and diffused, she spat disconnected words and phrases, incoherent with impotent fury. Flight wasn't a very high priority of hers in any case; it wasn't as though the assembled cretins had any way of truly damaging her, so there was no harm in letting her displeasure be known.

For some seconds, the only physical movement was Vyrm'n's uncertain circling and the writhing of Jessamine's essence. The only spiritual movement was Gestalt shakily gathering itself up and gathering itself around its physical limbs. After a time, there were a few quiet pops as Frank rolled her shoulders and flexed her newly-reformed arms; with a grin, she stretched and shot a glance at what was left of Jessamine.

"Well, sweetie, ya gotta know we can't letcha make it outta heah."

Sneering mouths formed, too full of choler and confidence to avoid the cliche. "Oh? And how do you intend to stop me?"

Frank lit up another cigarette and gestured to the pile of boxes. "Grab her, kiddo."

Gestalt rose, not bothering to bring its tools with it; it was having trouble comprehending the world around it for all that it seemed to be looking at two at once; it was having trouble following Frank's logic or thinking at all through all the exotic pain and the whispering voice of the Diarist; it was no longer even sure of its senses of self or purpose. In a word, Gestalt felt broken, and with no reason to disobey, it continued to follow Frank's orders. A coruscating wave of psychic colors washed over Jessamine's phantasmal form; anyone with the sight to see spirits would have been able to watch a writhing ball of tendrils and shapelessness thrashing around the room, the visual cacophony of Gestalt doing its damndest to subdue the implacable blue that was Jessamine.

It was clear it wouldn't be able to do so for long.

Judging by Frank's expression, though, that wouldn't particularly matter; her amused grin spread to a wicked smirk, and her right arm lanced across the room, fingers splaying then wrapping around one of the crates Gestalt had bothered to possess again. With inhuman speed, she whipped the box upward; with uncanny precision, it hurtled towards Vyrm'n. The Faceless didn't even seem aware of its approach, and made no effort to dodge.

Vyrm'n was an unimprinted Faceless now; by her very nature, she should absorb the first shred of sapience she encountered and form her being around it. But the same hand that had torn Vyrm from the Entropic shell she'd been bound to was still wrapped around the newly-blanked slate, swatting away anything that would threaten to imprint on her with a roar of words and a throbbing of space. That hand swung once again as Gestalt's box collided with Vyrm'n, screaming in a language none present consciously understood but all felt the meaning of. Reality was once again bifurcated, twin existences splitting from one another as the Diarist's power overwrote what was. Gestalt was split with them, forced to stretch between every path that deviated from the one the book insisted it stay on, consciousness and being spread thin through time and space and notion.

And Jessamine, entangled as she was in the roiling cloud of schrotgolem, was pulled between universes as well; she, however, lacked the anchoring given Gestalt by its description in the book and its hand in the reading, and as the chasm of being opened to stretch Gestalt further, she was pulled into it. There was no dramatic scream, no scrabbling to stay within reality, no invectives or curses; all there was was a flash, a brief thunder of spacetime, and then quiet. Gestalt and Vyrm'n were flung away from each other – the former to quiver in anguish and the latter to pinwheel in confusion – and Jessamine was gone, lost in the cracks between realities.

Frank, apropos of nothing, blew a smoke ring.

"I figyah that's pretty well sorted, then."

For several moments, that was all that happened; Vyrm'n was certainly in no state to move events forward, and Gestalt could do little but scream silently as it was further pulled taut across the multiverse and the Interstice. Frank herself seemed content to wait, smoking and grinning, until someone else spoke up. With force of will it never thought it had or needed, the golem slowly pulled itself together, shutting out the whisper of space and focusing on the present. Its present.

"Is… Did that…" Several more seconds passed before Gestalt could form a coherent sentence. "What just happened? Is Jessamine dead?"

Frank nodded. "Dead's a funny word when ya talk about people like ol' Jessie, but she's shuwah wishin' she was. No way she can bothah us evah again, anyway."

Part of the schrotgolem desperately wanted to know more, to ask about the whys and hows and wherefores, to dissect this whole situation and absorb it like it so often did when encountering a new tool, but… Most of it just wanted to be done. It wanted to make the Observer pay, it wanted to avenge everything that had been done to Vyrm'n and Clara and Samuel and Maxwell. It wanted the pain to stop. Rather than press the issue or pump Frank for information, it simply returned to slowly gathering up its pieces, collecting and cataloguing shards of display case and items from Paris's person.

"What now?"

Frank took a long drag before answering; before she could open her mouth, though, Vyrm'n lunged towards her. The already-leggy woman's limbs stretched and sprung, launching her across the room and nimbly righting her as Vyrm'n smashed into the wall. It seemed that following Jessamine's death or exile or disappearance, whatever it could be called, the Faceless was no longer driven by the key inside her to lash out solely against the avatrix of the Speakeasy. Their common enemy destroyed, the mindless Faceless could see no need not to tear the golem and its guide apart.

Gestalt pushed itself upright, lids once again springing open with something approaching their original alacrity; rather than spew forth bludgeons and blades, though, this time the crates were emptied of rope and fabric and chains. It was clear that it intended to ensnare Vyrm'n rather than fight her this time; Frank's expression made it clear that she didn't expect this to play out like Gestalt did, but she said nothing. The Faceless lunged again, stars streaking angrily through the dead air of the speakeasy.

A web of odds and ends wove itself as she approached, flinging itself towards her as she hurtled closer to the boxes. Tendrils of trash wrapped themselves around the bolt of darkness, and… Once again, the Diarist's work tore them apart, Gestalt dropping its net as pain shot through its being and Vyrm'n barreling away from the collision. Without the Speakeasy's key screaming into her core, Vyrm'n saw no reason to stay: there would be things to destroy elsewhere, impetuous, needling matter to pay retribution to everywhere, and it would likely not repel her at every turn the way the boxes and their contents seemed to. With no fanfare, she burst through the doors that lead to the Speakeasy proper and disappeared into the maze of tangled realities.

"Damn," muttered Frank as Gestalt once again gathered its strength and self. "I figyahd that might happen, but I was hopin' she might not bolt so fast. Ah well, that's why a gal makes a plan B, yeah?"

Every time Vyrm'n was repelled from bonding, Gestalt's speaker had begun muttering louder and louder; at this point, it was difficult to make the actual words heard over the portentous chanting, so the golem switched it back off and pulled out the notebook once again.

what then

what is plan b

"Simple. I go find the the little runnah and make shuwah she finds 'Servah alright. You do whatevah you want in the meantime, then come runnin' when I letcha know."

wouldnt it be easier for me to simply stay with you rather than necessitating message relay

"No offense, kiddo, but I know this place a lot bettah than you, and I got ways ta get around you wouldn't be able to follow. Just trust Auntie Frank, right? She ain't steered ya wrong yet."

The golem resigned itself to following more half-instructions, shuffling its contents with mild annoyance and the spectral equivalent of a migraine headache.

perhaps you are right

how will you reach me when the time comes

Frank threw up her hands. "Does it even mattah? Look, I'll let ya know, and you'll know when I do. Stuff like that, it's situational. Gotta stay flexible, and there's no time ta tell ya all the ways I might letcha know. Now I got stuff to do, and the longah you sit heyah jawin' with me, the hardah they get to do."

She turned to leave, and said one last thing over her shoulder before vaulting after Vyrm'n. "If ya really want some company, I suggest ya wait until the old broad in the cornah wakes up. Can't be that long!"

And with that, she was gone. Gestalt surveyed the room around it, glancing over the destruction and corpses that littered the floor before settling on Clara's prone form. Technically, it supposed she counted as a corpse as well, even if she was a remarkably ambulatory one. Crates glided across the floor, leaving trails in the glass and forming a semicircle around the entranced nun. Gestalt lifted her body by the clothes and propped it up against the wall, and began waiting for her to awaken and ruminating on what to do and what had happened.

It spent the next few minutes in silent contemplation of many things, but eventually focused on Lucian. The way he had used Gestalt for his own means. The way he had discarded Vyrm'n as soon as she was reset. The way he had tacitly sided with the Grandmasters as long as he could do what he wished. He was callous and manipulative, and he had gladly done the things Gestalt had been forced to do out of necessity. He was a monster.

But he was also apparently human.

He didn't seem to have the power of Jessamine, or even Frank; he was just an interloper in the Speakeasy, a willing accomplice to multiversal murder but without the power of his peers or the means to save himself. Gestalt arranged Paris's body in as close to the funerary position of its world as it could remember and reflected on the battle against Jessamine; "close to a Grandmaster", she'd been called. Well, she hadn't been able to stand up even to the four of them; what chance did a frail tinkerer like Lucian have? There was nothing Gestalt needed to be doing right now, and punishing the unfeeling hangers-on of this despicable cabal seemed to be the best thing it could do.

It shook Clara, but her head merely lolled, her channeling trance persisting. It shook more roughly, then waited a minute and shook again, but still she wouldn't wake. With recklessness born of fury and guilt, it summoned up what knowledge and Karmic powers it had left from its bonding with Samuel and reached into Clara's brain; it pushed, firing neurons and stoking glands, and the nun jerked, screaming.

The resultant seizure lasted mere moments, after which the old woman groaned and clutched her head; Gestalt pulled her upright, soothing her long-inactive limbic and adrenal systems, and began writing in midair with the glass that littered the room.

clara

i need your help

justice must be done

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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Reserved

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

"I anticipated something like this," grumbled the Diarist, tossing Mrs Dorcy a plain key. "That's for personal use only. If you must seek refuge in my domain, you're to wait in silence until your master retrieves you."

"Understood."

"Don't expect charity like this often. It's merely so I remain in your master's good graces."

The servant smirked, but the Diarist's myriad limbs had already returned to writing. A quill flecked ink as he waved a dismissal. "I'd have expected no less of you," retorted Mrs Dorcy.

Frank leaned against the Diarist's door, working her shoulders with trepidation as she tried (and failed) to dislodge the dread that had settled in there. It had been creeping in since Jessamine's death (marked less by a sound than a sensation subtle and jarring as the prickle of stone splitting), growing only worse while she distracted herself with the Diarist's ever-caustic company.

Jessamine was dead. That should've been cause for celebration, but for her servant's meddling. Paris' blindness and its crutch - gifts both from his mistress, and Paris had bequeathed the latter to the Faceless. The Speakeasy's veneer might've been the Observer's aesthetic ideal, but the mundane machinery (mundane as the workings of a pocket dimension could be) had fallen into the neurotic, meticulous, murderous talons of Jessamine. She maintained that machinery in her own image - that of a monster constantly commissioning a new face for itself. But Jessamine was dead. And her servant (also dead) had, with deliberate cunning or not, palmed off the last vestiges of the proprietress's influence to something which hated structure and intention and order on a level so deeply personal as to be subatomic. If Frank wanted to think about it like that.

Point was, things were about to get bent out of shape. Frank (sensitive as she was to the context of any place she might find herself) felt it like an aching in her joints. The ache was like a lack-of-pulse; the never-beating non-existent heart of something whispering in her knuckles and shoulders and neck about what was going to happen. Whispering away with its heart in its throat.

Frank shivered a bit. The key in her pocket had stopped tugging in a tangible direction, now more along the tune of somewhere that had done much in the last few moments to make itself quite distant. She ran.

---

"Gestalt, dear, wait." Clara's voice ricocheted around in her skull like a bullet; she winced. "What..." happened. The scene the nun woke up to certainly needed an explanation.

Gestalt wanted nothing more than to hang, draw, and quarter Lucian without delay, but Clara's confusion couldn't be ignored. The schrotgolem was lost in thought for a moment, trying to figure where best to start.

you summoned a grandmaster it finally began. it offered to send us to a place we may confront the observer if

if we agreed

The schrotgolem's attention slunk along the line of plinths, like a gaze averted. Clara's rested on Maxwell, several feet away. There was silence for another while.

"... well? Did it make good on its promise?"

The words still drifted out, just as measured and sparkling; a betrayal to Gestalt's epiphany.

no

There was no outward dejection, which stung the schrotgolem even worse. it was always it seems the observers intention that this be our last location

his domain

"Did it help at all then?"

Gestalt couldn't say. Or didn't want to. The book twisted sharply at the schrotgolem's essence; not in the brain-splitting manner when Vyrm'n had clashed with Jessamine, but reminiscent of it. Gestalt dully supposed she'd collided into some unfortunate further off. Considering the clientele, it was hard to muster much sympathy.

if you are fine to move can we please leave

ive had enough of this place

Clara did her best not to glance at the bodies; Gestalt noticed the motion anyway. "I'll be fine. I'd still like to know – justice? I can understand guilt over what happened to Maxwell, but I don't think a vendetta with a second Grandmaster will solve anything-"

i know

An invisible fist slammed the scattered glass, a jolt rippling across the glittering blue. Gestalt immediately regretted it. It sighed, and traced a tendril through again, parting the shards to surface its message.

maxwell is another victim of the grandmasters yes

but his death or vengeance for it makes confronting those monsters no easier

i want justice for vyrmn

there is a man here

lucian

it could be said he was responsible for her being

much by his own design she trusted him he abused that trust and was responsible for destroying that being

i know it doesnt change anything doesnt stop the battles doesnt stop the killing

but

we have enough self styled gods in the grandmasters thinking they can declare who should live or die

if we tolerate their mortal admirers and emulators among our number we will never ever best them

Much of the glass rose, coalescing, around the boxes like a spiral galaxy. One sharp, glittering arm picked up the black orb Vyrm'n had dropped, considering, before packing it into a box.

"Gestalt..." Clara halted, seeing full well how hypocritical yes

i realise it

but even if i cant be at peace with the fact i can understand its my place to die here and vyrmns to fight on

so why shouldnt i pile these unconscionable crimes upon myself before the inevitable

Clara, under any other circumstances, would've tried to dispel her companion's resignation. Still - as much as it was beyond her to not help the little spirit - flickers of something, somewhere else she'd seen or been during her trance had felt so... important. An inexorable need to be somewhere else. Somewhere with somebody in need of her help - an actual somebody, with sorrows and fears and motives Clara didn't need to invert her worldview to get a grip on.

There were other places to be.

The nun wordlessly found her feet, and her book. The lack of any text upon the blank spread (which bookended chapters in her holy tome) the book had flown open upon just reinforced the meaninglessness of it all. Clara whispered her spirit-lens spell, and took a good long hard look at Gestalt. The golem was devoid - drained, it seemed - of any rage or grief or fervour. She saw only overwhelming exhaustion, and that near-universal grim defiance of the living staring down impending death.

Most telling was that indelible obstinance. It was the determination of the living, but not for its own life - that would've been oh-so familiar to Schleier's nun - but for someone else's. She sighed, undid her scrying-spell, and clutched Beginnings and Ends to her tightly.

"All right. If you're determined to see this through - for Vyrm'n, I suppose - I'll help how I can. Only if you've really, truly given up hope, though."

The schrotgolem would've been amused, but for the ink-black hole where its heart should've been. It ran a few exploratory tendrils of consciousness across the wall Paris had entered through, then yanked at something it wouldn't have messed with in any other situation. A bare hallway - a service corridor - stretched beyond the fresh, improbable wound in the wall.

ive done all that i can

i have more conviction now in my need to do this than i have hope left for a miracle

---

It didn't take long.

Unbeknownst to Gestalt, the Speakeasy was shrinking - the safely traversible reigons of it, anyway. The rot - the entropy, so speak - started in its innumerable dark corners and empty rooms, warpping unobserved from conventional (albeit non-Ecuildean) space into Entropic ideal. As the dimension's inhabitants and their various eyes fled, the process accelerated, leaving every door Gestalt brushed against steeped in something intangible and dread-inducing.

Almost every door.

They were all the same uniform slabs to Clara, pockmarks of braille where the handles should've been the only distinction between them in the glow of her conjured light. The schrotgolem's presence lingered on one; seeking out that insidious, sentience-hating corrosion beyond; then failing to find it, pulled the door without hestiation.

Sighs of fog slithered out, tangling about Gestalt's boxes as it tentatively explored the gloom. It heard footsteps, breaking into a run, and pursued it silently with a trio of knives. A sharp twang and crackle sent one blade wheeling under a bench, but the noise did the exact opposite of dissuading the schrotgolem. More sharp implements winged ahead through the mists, boxing its quarry into a corner. It was only after several moments of slowing action, as both parties sniped and swiped to an eventual standstill, that Lucian called through the fog.

"I surrender."

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

"You SURRENDER?!"

Gestalt's speaker shrieked to life, its furious question borne on a wave of unintelligible eldritch chanting and moaning; as the mechanized scream faded, the muttering behind it only rose in volume, echoing with fragments of the schrotgolem's syllables. Lucian was aurally surrounded by voices bombarding him with "REND" and "YOU" and "END", backed by the otherworldly descriptions of the Diarist's book. Even as the speaker howled, Gestalt's weapons wobbled in midair; establishing another connection with the hateful tome, even accidentally, had sent pain lancing through the golem. It was too spread across too many alternate realities, and the book had been forced to do far more than it had been designed for; coupled with the Speakeasy's gradual disintegration and already-patchwork nature, the mounting spacial instability sent a spiderweb of invisible cracks spiraling through the air and floor and walls. The mist vanished, leaking out beyond reality, and Gestalt came face-to-faceless with its quarry.

"Yes," Lucian said simply, doing his level best to appear calm and collected under the onslaught of sound and fury. "I surrender."

He dropped some complex piece of gadgetry that he'd been holding off the golem's attacks with and raised his hands, taking a step forward.

"You've bested me, and I can do nothing else."

For a moment, Gestalt struggled to turn its speaker back off; even unpowered, the chanting continued, albeit mutedly and without ghosts of the golem's own outburst floating through the sea of noise. A coruscating wave of glass shards rose from a box, swarming around the tinkerer and coming dangerously close to flaying him then and there. After a sufficiently-threatening series of near-misses, bits of the glass broke off from the cloud and arranged themselves.

and what makes you servant of the grandmasters user of the contestants callous beast unthinking selfish mongrel believe you deserve the mercy of surrender

Before the sentence could complete itself, Lucian opened his mouth to speak; before he could raise his voice, the glass still hovering around him pressed inwards, and he wisely chose to wait.

did vyrmn have a chance to surrender did i

did anyone caught up in your playmates your idols your protectors games

we could surrender only to long death and callous laughter

why should you be afforded anything better worm

"Gestalt–"

Clara put a hand on his rearmost box and raised the other one placatingly, but the schrotgolem rattled and vibrated with rage and shook her off. Still woozy from her trance and forced seizure, still struggling to focus on the present instead of the internal feeling there was somewhere and -when else to be, she pressed on nevertheless.

"Gestalt, you came here to seek justice, not–"

"And justice will be what I find!"

Apparently unbidden, the speaker had clicked back to life, Gestalt wailing over a cacophony of furiously-reciting spectral readers.

"Justice for Reccxer!"

The glass whirled and descended, nicking Lucian and hemming him in.

"Justice for Cabaret!"

With every word, the spacial distortions emanating outwards from the golem splintered farther.

"Justice for the Sunset, for Samuel, for Galus, for Maxwell!"

It was obvious that Gestalt had no intention of seriously harming Lucian yet; the maelstrom of twinkling death was carefully controlled and merely tore delicately at his skin and clothing, leaving him bleeding and screaming and pinned to an ever-cracking wall.

"Justice for every being with blood poured on their hands from on high, justice for my own crimes and those who brought me to them!"

Lucian fell to his knees as he found a long needle of unbreakable glass embedding itself in his eye.

"Justice that–"

The shards fell to the floor. Clara, grim determination plastered across her tired face, pulled her glowing hands backwards, taking Gestalt with them.

"Then give him the mercy that he could never give you. Even if his death saves those to come from a fate like ours, peeling his flesh away and breaking his body will do nothing to avenge or repay those who came before."

She released the spell, but kept her hands raised just in case. Gestalt curled its way back into its now-familiar shell, silent save for the book's reaffirmation of its enforced reality.

"Justice is blind, not cruel. This," she said, gesturing to the stricken man in front of them. "Is no kind of justice."

Even looking at him, Clara couldn't have noticed what Lucian was doing; to her, it seemed like one of his arms had simply fallen across himself as he had collapsed. Before she could notice he was very slowly reaching towards a pocket, she'd returned her attention to Gestalt. Lucian's fingertips slid under a hem, causing him to wince as his lacerated skin rubbed against the rough fabric; as Clara wordlessly waited for Gestalt to respond, those fingertips brushed against the cool metal of the detonator.

Without him willing it to, Lucian's arm suddenly retreated from the pocket, whirled backwards, and slammed against the wall; he howled in pain, attempting to tug it away, but it steadfastly refused to move. The blood pooling on his skin and at his feet rose and twisted, forming itself into coiling, ropy words.

did you think i couldnt see you

did you think i wouldnt know about your devils bargain

With no warning, the black orb Gestalt had apparently-absentmindedly picked up after the confrontation with Jessamine launched itself from the box it had been nestled in and impacted with Lucian's chest.

you are a monster lucian

but more than that you are a fool

Lucian felt his jaw clamp shut and his throat tighten; Gestalt clearly wanted no interruptions.

you think everyone as snivelingly self serving as you dont you

you took advantage of the trust you forced on vyrmn

you rigged her with an explosive

you planned to <font size="4">bribe me with victory wither her murder

to save your cowardly life

just by holding your unholy tool your shy knife i can see every cog and circuit every intention and meaning every moment of its past

and i can see the blackness where your soul should be

but you

you cant even see beyond your own nose

you must have known i had done what was done out of love and hatred and necessity

but to you there is no motivation but the self

you are an animal in a mans clothing and under the trappings of civilization you hide the terrified heart of a blind mewling whelp

Lucian struggled to right himself, but Gestalt leaned heavily on his muscles and bade them still themselves. He thrashed, but could not rise or speak.

i could make every bone in your body splinter under your own weight or your blood rise in your throat to drown you

Lucian's eyes widened and his breath struggled to quicken; Clara began preparing another spell, but hesitated as the speaker roared again, Gestalt's this-time restrained purr nearly indecipherable over the backing of the extraspacial chorus.

"But I will not, because I am not you, and I have been reminded why I never will be."

Clara dropped her spell, but remained wary; the muttering was beginning to emanate not just from the speaker, but from everything around the group. The fractures in reality that had filled the room were gradually widening from invisible anomalies none present could perceive to visually and tangibly obvious cracks around the edges of the tiny dimension.

"Know, as you die, that you will not be the last. Know that your fate was unfairly fair, and be grateful to me that you will go softly into the abyss."</font>

"Mmmnnnggg!"

"For the first time in your coward's life, have some dignity, Lucian."

Gestalt didn't bother even with the theatrics of the pop of a snapped neck; it simply withdrew from Lucian, stopping his heart, setting his lungs still, and soothing his brain into inactivity. The man was quietly turned off, and felt nothing.

For several beats, there was nothing but the susurration of voices struggling to be heard as Gestalt forced the speaker back off. The room around the surviving pair throbbed in time with the heartbeat of wounded space; it wasn't peaceful, but it was as close as the golem expected it would ever experience again.

As it quietly repacked itself, it realized it had been some time since it had felt the stabbing icy burn that accompanied Vyrm'n's collision with another sapient; perhaps she was too far away to transmit it, or perhaps she had run out of patrons to obliterate. Was Frank herding her somewhere? Without the energy to wonder, Gestalt simply closed the lid on its last box and mentally turned to Clara. Glittering messages spelled themselves out in the small handful of glass it had let unpacked.

when i asked for your help i intended that you should help me find the man who had wronged vyrmn wronged me

i suppose it seems i never needed it although i had little way of knowing how the speakeasy and its new proprietress would make that so

but i am fortunate you were here

you saved me from becoming even for my last moments that which i so despise which i so desire to see wiped clean from the multiverse

Clara thought for a moment as the last words disintegrated. "Did I?"

The glass rose again questioningly, but Clara continued.

"I of all people know that sometimes, the only way to make room for life is through death, dear. Heavens above could tell you that. And it certainly seems that Lucian and those like him need to be shown through the Veil so those they leave behind can prosper, but…"

The nun turned away, biting a lip and organizing her thoughts. "Just because I stayed your hand doesn't mean I changed you."

Gestalt reeled, mentally and physically.

what do you–

"Maybe it was a moment of weakness. Everyone loses control. Maybe all I did was hold your hand through your darkest time. These battles could bring out the worst in anyone, in everyone! You could be forgiven for a lapse into madness when all the impotence you were saddled with since your abduction was finally lifted and a target presented itself for vengeance.

But more truthfully, it seems like this callousness has always been in you. The first time I saw you you had let go of reason and were a whirling ball of violence. Since then, you've done your damndest to rebel on those who brought you here, only to kill those close to you in an attempt to make your way to those above. You've played into their hands, and ensured their game was an entertaining one to watch."

The boxes shook as Gestalt struggled to respond. Many of the same things had occurred to it, the same thoughts beckoning it to end itself or all back into the welcoming arms of nonsapience. But–

i did what had to be done what else could happen that could threaten the grandmasters

"What else did you consider?"

there was

The glass spun and reformed into the same two words several times

there was

there was

there was only ever one way

"Why?" Clara threw her hands up. "Because another Grandmaster told you so? Because you never stopped to think of any other ways? Because this was easy?"

easy

you have the gall to tell me that killing a man who held the whole worlds future in his mind was easy

that making the sacrifice of the only being i ever considered a friend was easy

i have borne the burden of these sins not because they are easy but because no one else should have to

what right do you have to tell me i am wrong to assure me the souls i have broken could have been left whole

what of your own grandmaster did you sit idly by watching as those he chose to die fell at others hands and assure yourself it was okay because you were not the one holding the blade

what

would

you

"HAVE

HAD

ME

DOOOOOOOO?!"

Reality groaned under the stress and both Gestalt and Clara looked away from each other to see the black roof above splintering into something beyond blackness. Gestalt could sense the rooms beyond following suit under the combined strain of Vyrm'n's mindless will and the schrotgolem's own destructive presence, and it could sense that this one was only barely being held together by the same force that was pulling it apart. The sound of a universe disintegrating resolved slowly into the rhythmic thud of... applause.

Even with no hands bringing it forth, the applause rose to a stunning crescendo, filling the room and nearly drowning out the sounds of tortured words. Clara clamped her hands over her ears as it became a physical force, and Gestalt's boxes vibrated sympathetically and skittered randomly across the filthy floor.

"Well done. Well done indeed."

In the space between instants, he appeared, beaming as only those with no mouth can; the Observer raised a hand and the applause silenced itself.

"She's right, you know. You have made this little contest quite an entertaining success. A constant cavalcade of betrayal and passion! A bloody battle to death and beyond! A spectacle, and a good one at that. I love it!"

He snapped theatrically, and Gestalt felt the speaker fade into nonexistence, the recitation it had been broadcasting fading moments after.

"Unfortunately, all this fantastic drama and bloodshed is going to have to end with a little bit of an anticlimax. Disappointing, really, but I can't let you and your little diary there completely destroy what's left of my establishment." He paused for a moment. "Or the clientele!"

Desperate and filled with the terror of facing down an annoyed Grandmaster, Gestalt's mind spun. hurriedly, it raised its glass:

so you would see all your work and effort from orchestrating this entire battle collapse and end on a dull flat note

"Hum. Manipulation's not really your strong suit, is it? Still, you're on the right track. No, I'm not going to just make you vanish. How boooring would that be?"

The Observer straightened his tie and cracked his knuckles.

"Besides, nothing's quite as exciting in this business as the big showdown between the last contestants and the almighty Grandmaster! It's almost a tradition, and it's certainly got that tragic appeal of a desperate last stand. And let me tell you, I am one hell of an entertainer."

With no more prelude than that, the cyclopean Grandmaster lazily extended a finger towards Clara and Gestalt, a bolt of searing light springing from the fingertip; it was all Clara could do to raise a shimmering golden barrier in time. The light hit her wall and diffused; the wall itself shattered, and Clara was flung backwards as the feedback rom the Organizer's attack traced its way along her spell and into her body. He laughed, shrugging.

"Maybe I'm going to have to pull my punches even more, huh? Don't put this all on me now, you have to fight back competently too!"

As Clara groaned and tried to convince herself she couldn't smell burning flesh, she struggled upright; Gestalt, for its part, had opened one of its boxes and raised several unassuming shards of what appeared to be white pumice. Weaving them through the air, the golem spread them through the room and attempted to move them erratically enough to confuse whatever tracking the Grandmaster had. At the same time, it raised more weapons – as well as a handful of items that seemed to have no relevance to the conflict at hand – and made threatening gestures.

The tableau stood still for several moments, reminding the golem strikingly of the fight with Jessamine; no-one wanted to move until someone else did first. Perhaps fortunately, the Observer didn't seem to have his servant's patience; obviously unfortunately, he outmatched her power by leagues. He lashed out again, hand sweeping through the air and waves of dark energy swelling behind it and launching themselves at Gestalt. The golem formed a shield out of unbreakable glass and took the opportunity to lunge with its weapons.

The attack was obviously a feint, of course; Gestalt had no illusions that simply chucking knives and spikes at a being like the Observer would ever accomplish anything. All it hoped was that the desperate gambit would momentarily distract him, allowing the real assault with the Labyrinth Bricks to land. Unfortunately, the knives were deflected by an instantly-raised forcefield that surrounded the Observer on all sides, and Gestalt was forced to simply drive all the bricks home at the same time, hoping they could overcome the field, rather than taking advantage of a blind spot.

After a grinding noise and greenish sparks scattering across the room, the shards of brick did astonishingly penetrate the barrier, holes spreading outwards until the entire thing collapsed. The Observer raised a surprised eyebrow, now having expected something so mundane and spawned in reality to have any effect on his shield, and sent a wave of force outwards to repel the slivers before they could touch him. They scattered, gouging holes in the walls and floor, and allowing more of whatever surrounded the Speakeasy to seep in.

Clara, aware that she'd been largely ignored for several seconds as Gestalt occupied the Observer's attention, began chanting and gesturing as quietly and subduedly as she could; though she had a dozen invocations for banishing or binding demons and other otherworldly creatures, she had little hope that any of them would prove successful against something like a Grandmaster. This was going to involve some improvisation and delicate tweaking of magic she only barely understood; she bit her lip nervously and tried to shrink back from the fight.

Gestalt gathered its shards back up at the same time it launched another wave of assorted spiky objects, desperately trying to keep the Observer's attention divided and confused. Spinning wheels of glass deflected perfunctory attacks and scythed towards their source; bits of matter-shredding brick carved through whatever defenses the Observer raised; clouds of worthless garbage rose to conceal the nature of Gestalt's attacks and machinations. It seemed to be a stalemate at first glance, but Gestalt was rapidly losing many of its tools as they were destroyed by the Grandmaster's unfathomable energies. Only the brick and the glass didn't seem to be depleting, and it was unlikely those alone could sustain the fight.

The golem simply didn't know what to do. Its entire plan had banked on being a distraction as Vyrm'n destroyed the beast nothing else seemed capable of harming, but she was nowhere to be found. Frank's promises seemed and plans had seemed to come to nothing, and with them Maxwell's death and the deaths of all those that fell before him. Gestalt would die here as it had known it would, but without having accomplished anything and with the crimes of its plot buried with it in an extraspacial grave.

Even as that moroseness overtook the little golem and made its attacks falter slightly, a sliver ring interspersed with golden glyphs inscribed itself around the Observer's feet. Surprised, he looked down, allowing Gestalt to blindside him with a handful of brick shards; the shoulder of his perfectly-tailored zoot suit was shredded, and with it part of his own shoulder. An expressionless snarl crossed the one-eyed face, and incandescent ichor seeped out of the wound and into the suit.

"That's enough playing around then."

The Grandmaster clenched his hand, and all the brick slivers crumbled to powder and evaporated. He made as though to step towards Gestalt, but was halted as his foot crossed the glowing threshold beneath him.

"You have got to be kidding me!"

His enormous eye darted over to Clara, who was kneeling on the ground, furiously scribbling across the floor and her arms with both hands; her eyes glowed gold, and every syllable she recited formed out of silver light in the air in front of her before vanishing. The Observer could see the tangle of spells she'd woven around herself and him and into the very fabric of his domain, but even through her furious effort he nearly laughed.

"Do you really think this can hold for more than a moment?"

The old nun's head slowly shook from side to side as she continued her spellcraft. It was a very resigned gesture, and The Organizer raised a hand to wipe the meddling magic away. However, proving that one didn't get into the position of a true Grandmaster by being stupid, he hesitated; if she knew she would only pointlessly delay him by seconds, why would she have chosen this course of action rather than one that might have actually had a chance of harming him or saving herself? He squinted, following the trails of abjuration and enchantment, time slowing down so that microseconds ticked by like hours as he absorbed the result of her efforts.

And gasped.

The old bitch had tied the circle into the spacial rifts that Gestalt and its foolish use of the Diarists's cursed blessing had created. If he tried to smash her spell, it'd tear the entire Speakeasy open and dump everything in it into the Timeless Interstice before even something with a Grandmaster's power could escape; if he tried to nullify or cancel it, it would become unbalanced and tear itself apart as though he'd attacked it himself. There was no way she should have had the power for an undertaking like this or the ability to power a spell with the Void. It made no sense.

Granted, there was no way she could outmatch him if he slowed down and gradually pulled the wretched spell apart –*and it wasn't as though Gestalt would truly be able to harm him while he worked –*but the sheer ignominy of being forced to spend so much time engaged in a battle of tedium with a contestant that wasn't even his... It was nearly as bad as the bumbling Director and his embarrassing near-defeat at the hands of a backwater nincompoop and a vacuum cleaner. His eye narrowed further, seeking for some mistake or weakness he could exploit to send his manabound cage tumbling down without destroying himself and his entire demesne, but the entire thing had been executed with a keen perfection even the care of undeath shouldn't have lent the old woman. It seemed he had no choice.

As the Observer set about the arduous process of pulling magical threads, Gestalt was regrouping what it still had available. Every fragment of soul-shearing brick had been utterly destroyed, including the ones it hadn't even been using in the assault. The glass was still fine, but it was unlikely to have the power to do any harm. Gestalt was gradually coming to the very same conclusion that the Observer had come to moments ago: there was nothing it could do to the Grandmaster, and all Clara was accomplishing was insuring the pair of them would suffer inordinately when their furious captor was released from his improbable bonds. It was as though–

Glass and metal clattered to the floor as pain lanced through the golem's spectral form. The cracks in the walls rasped dangerously, and the ceiling above swirled with the dark potency of the beyond; even with no source, the words of power rose again, so loudly and distinctly that individual fragments of meaning could be heard over the obscene rabble of sound. It seemed that the book was even rewriting itself to account for the changes it was in the process of bringing about. More imminently relevant than the words themselves though was the event they heralded: several more jolts of unbearable agony surged through Gestalt, each one coursing through it and every iteration of it it had smeared across uncountable alternate versions of the Speakeasy, each one degrading this Speakeasy further. The Observer, finally tasting the first real shred of fear or worry he'd experienced in perhaps an eternity, frantically sped his work at Clara's trap: if he made a mistake, oblivion; if he took too long, likewise.

And then, after a dozen more nerve-wracking, space-wrending throbs of rewritten truth that left Gestalt scrabbling to gouge out eyes it didn't have– a shimmer, a door opening, a streak of black, a cackled "Have fun, kiddos!", wooden fingers sealing the air behind them.

The room around hadn't done something so dramatic or visually obvious as breaking into discrete chunks that floated through the void, but it certainly seemed to be threatening that or disintegration. The walls were gradually losing themselves, top-down, to whatever was beyond the multiverse; the floor moaned in the language of nothing, at once bidding the atoms that remained not to lose themselves and shoving them towards that oblivion; there simply was no ceiling, nor anything where it should have been. And into that fragile balance barreled a being that wanted nothing more to topple everything that remained into itself.

Vyrm'n charged towards the Observer, who by accident or design was the closest to her entrance. Hemmed in and elbow-deep in delicate reality-manipulation, it was all he could do to duck the hateful amalgam of void and fury; she wheeled and he pressed himself against the invisible confines of his cage; she jinked and he jerked away. Time, already malleable and beaten, slowed again to a crawl with every near-miss and barely-deflected charge. But even lashed to the floor and facing down the avatar of entropy that was all that stood a reasonable chance of destroying him, the Grandmaster would not be harmed. It was another terrible reminder of the futility of rebellion, Gestalt thought dreamily as its mind threatened to vanish entirely under the Diarist's revisions; every sacrifice was made to an uncaring god, or one who didn't exist. There would be no victory, and every being in every reality would gradually disappear by eights. They'd lost, and they'd lost for everyone.

It feebly tried to raise a weapon, to raise a word, but it couldn't fight through the droning. That horrible feeling that had come with concealing the book seemed to fill its entire being, save that part that was being threshed by the pain it had caused. The tool that had promised salvation had ultimately done nothing but doom its wielder and erase its champion. Poor Vrm'n.

Rational thought and desire for planning draining away, Gestalt summoned all its will and lifted the book above its boxes. Its cover glowed faintly in the dun, sourceless light, and the golem brushed a curious tendril across its pages. Meaning and meaninglessness rushed into its mind once again, words of consequence and power describing in intimate, unholy detail a world that no longer was and the ones that had replaced it as it died. A twisted dramatis personae filled every conscious space Gestalt had left; all were bit parts and supporting characters save for the one, dark protagonist, and a timeless litany that described her in every possible detail roared across the schrotgolem's reality.

Suddenly, surrounded by the chanting nun, the embattled Grandmaster, and the starry bulk that sought to break them all, understanding struck Gestalt. Energy filled it as a plan coalesced and it raised the book higher, rifling through the pages. One ink-stained leaf stood straight up from the spine, unconscionable prose livid against the creamy parchment, straining to escape its bindings.

Why did it take me so long to do this?

The page pulled free, sending the abyssal tongue that filled the air cascading into gibberish; a dozen more followed it, then a hundred, until the entirety of the Diarist's gift was whirling like a flock of literary magpies around the empty cover. After moments, most of them fluttered to the ground; several, though, rose nearly to the level of the ceiling. None were paying attention to the book's defiling or the spiritual hand that had accomplished it: the life-or-death assault of the Faceless on her erstwhile tormentor was more salient to those present. Even had they been watching, though, none would have been able to discern why Gestalt had selected those pages among all the others to cast into the spaces between the worlds.

The Interstice claimed them, and their influence began to fade from the multiverse. Without any given piece of the book, all the others would have eventually fallen: its narrative had been an entire house built of keystones, and its collapse would have been catastrophic for all the players that had inhabited it. But Gestalt needed only moments, and the Diarist's work had been so carefully created that it could have been literal ages before it truly fell; Vyrm'n was immediately affected, and spun backwards across the remains of the room, quivering and writhing in midair.

Reccxer's light was hurriedly thrown after her; as it struck her glittering "skin", she fell still. As she did, so too did what had remained of Gestalt's limbs.

The Observer returned immediately to his escape; he was curious, of course, as to what had happened, but it was rather more pressing to be alive to figure it out later than to explore it right now. Clara herself was fighting valiantly to undo the damage he was doing to her improvised dimensional barrier, but she simply couldn't keep up; it was weakening, and in time it would fall and she'd be too drained to continue fighting. Their struggle continued for what could have been minutes or hours, Clara bitterly refusing to give an inch she could keep, until a shape rose behind the Observer.

And, for the first time, it truly was a shape; throughout the battle, the Faceless had largely remained amorphous and fluid, but a perfect sphere of blackness had risen from the floor. Stars glittered across its surface in sympathy with the confusion that roiled below it. The creature reached out, its surface unmarred, ghostly black tendrils coalescing and fading in the air; it recoiled as matter and light pressed in around it, simultaneously disgusted and pained and thrilled and curious. A world called to it, cajoled it, rejected it, and it spun dejected in midair, exploring and retreating at once.

Then one of its coiled, ephemeral limbs brushed across the Observer, and a torrent of memories and emotions rose from its unseen and unseeing core, a lattice of minds and urges it could not consciously find nor understand. The creature was filled with fear and loathing, and the twin desires to kill and to escape reared in the forefront of its perceptions. The song of space and unspace rose around it, at once drowning out and melding with its primal urges, and it spun literally as its mind did figuratively. Everything was so confusing, but behind that facade of incomprehensibility was a comforting sense of of safety and order. It lurked beneath the surface, at once close as the air and so distant as to be unreal.

The fact was that the creature could feel it though, and it was determined to find a way there. It whirled around the room, new senses reaching out and pulling back as everything around it beckoned and pushed it away; finally, as the Observer could only watch, entangled in a once-mortal woman's spell, the creature's tendrils brushed across the cracks in the Speakeasy's fundament left by Gestalt. Stars glowed brightly on its surface for a moment before disappearing again, and it wedged its limbs in the break

and

pulled.

The tortured dimension buckled and popped, a gaping rift opening as the creature struggled. The invisible membrane that had separated the dissolving room from the ravages of the unknowable tore, leaving a hole too black for darkness; gleefully, the sphere launched into the beyond, disappearing in instants, reveling in what it knew in the core of its core to be home.

Behind it, the last vestiges of the Speakeasy gave up the ghost. Clara's spell unravelled as the delicate balance it had been built on disappeared, and reality around her and the Observer fell piecemeal into the very force she'd spent so much of her energy and self maintaining. Instantly freed, the Grandmaster bounded across the room, straining beyond his mere physical form to seal the gash left behind. A few tense heartbeats later, what had seemed to be a certain end to the Speakeasy and everyone in it was merely an ugly, lumpy scar in midair. With a relieved sigh and a wave, the Observer made that too fade away.

There was more silence, this time truly quiet. It was eventually broken by the rustle of fabric as Clara struggled exhaustedly to stand up. Her rise seemed to remind the Grandmaster of her presence, and he turned towards her.

"Oh. Right."

Unburdened now by a desire for showmanship or any real care for a conclusion, he didn't even bother to point or snap or wave. Clara simply collapsed, molecules pinging away from each other before she could hit the floor. She was gone in less than a second, and the Observer turned back to the blank spot where the breach had so recently threatened to swallow him up.

Well, he supposed, he pretty much had one contestant left. It was basically still his contestant, anyway, at some level. It was gone, sure, into a realm even he had next to no power, but... Given time, he could find it. Him? Her? Was it still a her? And it wasn't as though time was of any concern. What was more pressing was making sure news of this actual, successful escape didn't spread too far. That would be embarrassing, and worse... Could prove problematic. It wasn't as though All-Stars was his only concern anymore.

Still, there was time, always time. For now, to regroup. The Observer mentally reached out, finding all the scattered remains of his once-proud Speakeasy and pulling them together. He supposed he'd need a new Jessamine too, which was a pity; she'd been a real lucky find. There were always more out there, though, and maybe this next one wouldn't have such... Changeable humors. One thing at a time. Or, more accurately, one time for everything.

---

"Clara."

She couldn't see, couldn't feel herself or anything outside, couldn't even hear but was nevertheless aware of the voice that filled her or perhaps was her entire being.

"Clara Jungfrau, Mother Superior, Slate Emissary of Schleier. You have done your duty admirably; even guided and empowered by my own hand, few could have accomplished for even moments what you managed."

She was filled with a sense of peace and contentment and approval. It was utter bliss. If this was to be the entirety of her after-afterlife–

"But your work is not yet complete."

---

"Well, wasn't that interesting!"

It wasn't a question, of course, and didn't remotely sound like one. The piecemeal pattern of the speaker's voice made inflection difficult to discern in any case, but there was certainly no interrogativeness there.

"A real first, I'd say. A series of real firsts! I shudder to think how bland things would have been if we'd not stepped in."

Ms. Dorcy shrugged noncommittally. "I can't speculate on that, sir. Our interference began before the final round even began; it's impossible to extrapolate any course of events with no beginning."

The Organizer sighed and waved one of his currently-numerous arms. "You're never much good to gloat with when you're like this. I've had more fun scheming with that dry little twig, Talis."

Something about this seemed to strike him as extremely funny, and Ms. Dorcy patiently waited for his gales of mismatched laughter to subside.

"Why did you pick this little place anyway?"

"I predicted – correctly – that the schrotgolem's emotional state and inexpert use of the tome would, coupled with the fortuitous mistake made by Jessamine's servant, lead to an Intersticial breach. The safest place to observe the results from was a dimension only tangentially connected to the Speakeasy, and the Diarist has repeatedly proven himself a safe and reliable ally."

The Diarist himself barely restrained a snort at "ally", but continued busying himself with his books.

"Well done, then."

There were several instants filled only with the scratching of quills.

"Too bad the Observer survived, but we can always see to it he doesn't survive the next one. Might not even have to do it ourselves once we let all this incompetence slip to some of our less friendly acquaintances."

Ms. Dorcy didn't respond for a moment, but eventually murmured, "Of course, sir."

"Hmph. So dry," The Organizer shrugged. "Alright, well, don't you have some other things to be doing now?"

"I should say she does."

---

The antechamber was one of the few rooms that had survived; maybe it was luck, or maybe it was because of the room's unusually careful sealing against the ravages of forces and beings that wanted nothing more than the absorb all that hateful matter into the gaps between threads. Maybe it was just a better story that way.

It was empty now; where in the past there had never been a moment it wasn't filled with muffled voices and the sound of raucous revelry from beyond the great double doors, now there was no-one to drink or laugh or plot. Someone had removed Paris's corpse and all the glass Gestalt hadn't already absorbed; the burns and blood smears and spacial distortions had been removed and smoothed over; the glass cases that had once held the remains had been replaced by a semicircle of plinths.

On the first, a pyramid of magnetically-sealed metal canisters was stacked; each was carefully labeled in a neat, looping hand with green ink. They bore names describing various unstable isotopes and exotic forms of matter, each paired with a small group of body parts. A bow tie was delicately balanced on the smallest, topmost canister, and several handwritten journal pages were arranged in a fan at the pyramid's base.

The second bore a sneaker and some more journal pages. It was easiest to focus on those things, rather than the ghastly reconstruction above them. A vaguely humanoid figure of shattered bones and pulped flesh, studded with metal scraps and charred at the edges, towered above the shoe; it spared the world a look at its doubtless-ghastly visage by hiding it behind a mask printed with a roughly-feline face.

The third display was among the least-horrifying of the bunch; it was simply an enormous, futuristic, and yet somehow cobbled-together-looking suit of armor or exosuit. It loomed darkly but nonthreateningly, seeming less like a corpse than a museum curiosity.

The fourth returned smoothly to the realms of gore and fear. On it was quite obviously a man in a once-fine, now-bloodied suit who had had most of his head shorn off – then carefully reconstructed, inasmuch as such was possible – with a shotgun. Or perhaps had seen fit to do it himself, judging from the angle.

The fifth was decorated with a dismembered humanoid; while the torn limbs had been placed back where they would have gone on a living man, all were missing huge chunks of flesh, and tattered intestines spilled out of a ragged spacesuit.

The sixth was nearly serene by comparison, merely showcasing a man who could be thought to be sleeping, were it not for the discoloration and bruising from strangulation. He was leaning on an epee, looking for all the world as though there was nowhere he'd rather be.

The last, somewhat larger than the others and with the other six arranged around it, was stacked blandly with boxes. A number of items of presumable import were arranged around the base of the plinth, none seemingly with any connection to the others. In the mind of the one who had put it there, it was close enough to the truth to count, and a harsh reminder of what was and was not possible.