Re: Intense Struggle Season 2! (Round 2: Infinity Express)
02-23-2011, 11:08 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by bobthepen.
Parent’s gift
It was a winter’s night. A bespectacled man shuffled about in his study. On his desk sat a small wooden box, crudely crafted. His hands were not used to that sort of work. A fresh fire warmed the room and illuminated shelves of books, thick volumes, although he would admit to not having read most of them.
A tiny creak caught the man’s attention as a pair of small hands cautiously cracked open the sturdy door. As he turned about, the flickering light from the fireplace revealed tense lips and furrowed brow, but the expression softened as he watched the small girl peek her head into the imposing room.
“Did you call for me?” The girl asked. It was uncommon for her to enter the study, and her eyes, filled with uncertainty, locked on the man with the gold-rimmed glasses.
“Of course!” He answered warmly. “Come in…I have something to give you.”
He added the last part hesitantly, but the child’s curiosity was already peaked. She glanced around expectantly as the man reached for the wooden box. He held the cedar container in his hands, turning it over a few times, considering exactly what it was he was about to give.
“It’s a precious gift you’re about to receive,” he muttered, turning the box around again, “Honestly, I wasn’t certain if you were ready for it, but I suppose it really is time.” Carefully he handed the small box to the child. She gleefully opened the lid, and an azure light illumined her awestruck face.
“It’s uh…” the man stammered, but the joyful exclamation of the eight year old child interrupted his explanation.
“It’s beautiful! I didn’t think I was ever going to get one! Oh thank you so much!”
Setting the open box off to the side, she wrapped her tiny arms around the man; her face pressed against his chest. The man, however, barely forced a smile as he stared at the glowing pendant he had gingerly placed in the hand-carved box.
“It’s your responsibility now. Please, ” he said, “ take care of her.”
--------------------
Spirits Monologue
Those words, that charge, echoed in the Spirits consciousness. Lillian was its responsibility, its duty. In the two years it had spent guiding and guarding the small child the Spirit had found that it was not enough to simply ensure the curious girl’s safety. Of course there was no law or requirement stating that the Spirit had to do even that, but something about Lillian spoke to the Spirit in a manner no words could convey. The nature of the child and her guardian resonated with one another in such a way that the Spirit truly desired the best for the lighthearted charge. They were very much kindred spirits. Had the Spirit the ability to speak, to laugh and run and grow alongside Lillian, they would probably have made excellent friends, the sort of friends that no matter how long they were apart, upon meeting again they’d find their friendship had grown ever stronger.
However, that was not the way of things. The two were separated by a gulf far wider than time or place. The Spirit could not run, could not laugh, could not speak. It could not be a friend to the bright-eyed girl on whose arm dangled the pendant to which it was bound. And so, the Spirit was resigned to the role of protector and counselor, to do the best it could to stave off the evils of the world.
But how was it supposed to protect Lillian from evils even the world could not contain, evils which reached beyond the veil to pluck the child from her home and sentence her to death by creatures and dangers of which the Spirit could never have known? The Spirit had once considered itself an unbreakable shield for Lillian, but in the face of such monstrosities, it knew it was powerless.
Not only that, the Spirit itself was far from unshaken by its too recent exposure to the potential hideousness of the universe. When the legion of creatures, the swarm of that metal labyrinth descended upon them, the Spirit could sense an evil deeper than their gnashing teeth and slicing claws. The torment of their combined essences, the terror and fury at all things which were not their own howled in an unceasing cacophony perceptible only those denizens of that other plane in which the Spirit resided. The unyielding pressure of their frustration bore down on the Spirit. It felt how badly they suffered, how greatly they wished to end their existence, yet how their twisted bodies forced them towards self-preservation, channeling their loathing into rage.
Those creatures were monsters, but they were created by something more monstrous, something which cared nothing for their well being, something which saw their existence as mere toys or garbage, something which was not all unlike the being that had captured an innocent girl and forced her to participate in this distortion of a game. A terrible, unthinkable fear resided deep within the Spirit. How far was Lillian, how much evil could she bear, before this being turned her into a creature not unlike those beasts?
It had not happened yet, however. The critical moment had not come, and perhaps it would never come. Lillian was not alone. There were those around her that did not wish her harm. Some even, it seemed, wanted good for her. While this gave the Spirit some hope, it could not be certain. How could it know these strangers? How could it find out what they would do when pressed? The Spirit longed to ask them, those who Lillian flocked to, Will you care for her? Will you protect her where I cannot? How far are you willing to go?
The Spirit longed to ask these questions.
But the Spirit could not speak.
And the Spirit said nothing.
--------------------
Burden’s Stories
Lillian and Burden had traveled through several cars before meeting up with Marcus. They were all cargo cars, like the one before them, and contained boxes, crates, and containers of all manner of shapes and construction. A box is a box, however, and Lillian quickly lost interest despite flamboyant labels and foreign trappings.
It was not entirely the boxes’ fault for failing to grasp the young girl’s attention. Burden, that orange-gutted, ever-grinning dreamer, had, surprisingly, a great deal of stories to tell, and there was little else that could capture Lillian’s imagination like a story.
Now most storytellers (at least inexperienced ones) would have found themselves quite frustrated in telling a tale to Lillian. Before finishing a “Once upon a time” the story would have been taken entirely away from them, Lillian’s imagination having already begun forming the fanciful world and filling it with colorful characters that may have nothing to do with the tale or moral the storyteller wished to impart. Midway through a tale, Lillian would interrupt, shaking her head, saying, “I know you said she had [this] but wouldn’t it be lovelier if she wore [that]?” or “No no, that can’t be what happened. It is too tragic,” (or more often) “ It isn’t nearly tragic enough.” Needless to say, her interjections often earned her the scorn of those telling the story. In class she would be forced to sit in the back of the room, arms crossed, and face pouting like a muzzled pup.
Burden, however, seemed to know just how to tell a story to the young girl, either that or he had no other way of telling it. Between every word and detail the frog-like dreamer left ample space for the vibrant imagination of his audience to take hold, grow, and create. Most listeners (at least inexperienced ones) would have found waiting between pauses and “hmmmm”’s unbearably boring, but Lillian relished in the free-reign the slow-paced speech allowed her. In fact, it would be fair to say that the story he told did not belong to him at all, but to Lillian.
“I once saw a Tree,” he began, his words barely above a yawn, “it spread across the horizon.”
Lillian instantly saw the tree as well. Huge branches far larger than herself, larger than even the car they stood in, reaching endlessly in all directions. On each branch sprouted countless sprigs, splitting and separating to make room for the leaves. And oh the leaves! Broad rich green leaves that didn’t block out the light, but simply filtered our all the harshness, leaving that warm comforting green and gold that wrapped around you like a familiar blanket.
“Many cared for that tree.”
Of course! A tree so vast and so gorgeous could never stand to be alone. Out of the bark of the tree Lillian saw elves and nymphs and deer and all sorts of creatures arising to tend to it. Some of the craftier ones began to build nests while others simply perched among the branches or basked in the warm green light. She heard the sounds of playful creatures frolicking in one of the many crisp, clear, dew-drop pools. Perhaps an elk, reaching to take a drink would suddenly find itself drenched in the playful splashing of winged nymphs. It would shake off the drips and trot casually to a bright spot under the canopy to dry away its cares. Oh, and of course there would be fairies. Though Lillian didn’t care to think about fairies much at the moment she was certain that--
“But the tree left them.”
What? “left them”? How does a tree simply go away? What about the creatures and the pool and the warm welcoming light? Before Lillian could reject the idea she could already see the wearied and frightened faces of the forest fairies. The sleep barely wiped from their eyes, they awoke to the harsh hateful light the tree had once filtered so pure and refined. Now their wings were dry and cracked, tears streaming down their cheeks.
Lillian gasped. The face of the fairy she had seen so clearly was none other than Dekowin’s. She knew Dekowin had nothing to do with that tree, but the image combined with the memory began to bring back her tears.
“Is this what you lost?” Burden asked, breaking from his story.
Lillian checked herself. She was facing a large crate with a colorful logo on the top. She shook her head.
“No, it’s not this.” She said, sorrowfully, unable to tell the sweet Burden that what was lost would never be recovered. “What happened next? What did all the people do?”
Burden let out what sounded like a sigh, “They tried to bring it back.”
Lillian listened, doing her best to push aside any thoughts of Dekowin or fairies.
“But they could not. They made new trees, but they were not the world tree, though they tried to be.”
Lillian thought of the new trees. Trees that had never seen how great or beautiful the first tree had been, only knowing of the stories of it, or knowing whatever trees can.
“It must have been very hard,” she said.
“Yes,” Burden continued, “They wished to cover the world. That longing hurt the trees…until they were trees no longer.”
“What had they become?” Lillian asked, confused.
“I do not know. That dream ended long ago.”
Meeting with Marcus
They continued together, Burden telling Lillian more stories of his dreams. There was a world filled with metal creatures and flashing lights where a silver king ruled uncontested; a story of a strong warrior beautiful but tragically betrayed; a creature born from planets in the stars, but forced to live alone. With each story Burden’s grin grew wider--the sluggish creature apparently enjoying himself and the time he was spending with the child. Burden paused, and as Lillian begun to think of sharing one of her own stories, the door behind the pair flung open. A large black-toned man with a formidable rifle stared them down. His eyes studied the pair closely, focusing intently on the orange-gutted Burden. Gradually, he lowered his weapon.
“Hey, there, Lillian. Right? You remember me?”
Remember him! How could she forget? This was the man whose hateful firing ended the life of her friend (...as much of a friend as Dekowin had been). Dekowin was gone and now he was here greeting her as if he had done nothing! She glared at the mercenary, her little fist clenched tight around her bracelet’s charm as she began to wish many not-so-nice things upon the armored man. The Spirit, flustered at this sudden shift in thought, tried its best to calm Lillian and at the very least succeeded in convincing her to listen to what the man had to say.
“My name’s Marcus. Uh…. who’s your friend?”
Lillian glanced back at Burden. The lanky frog-man did not seem perturbed by the man’s presence, though the wide grin from earlier had lessened. To one not familiar with Burden’s expressions, his face would have seemed quite content, though Lillian (and the Spirit), noticed something thoughtful in the dreamer’s barely upturned smile. Burden’s eyes reflected Marcus clearly, his dull, scratched armor, his impatient stare, and the armed rifle held close to his side.
The glance was telling, but brief, and Lillian quickly returned her glare to Marcus.
“His name’s Burden.” She replied.
“Hi, Burden.”
“Hmmmmmmm…Greetings…” was the drowsy sounding reply.
The two began to converse a bit, but Lillian cared little about their conversation. She had been having a perfectly wonderful time before Marcus came in to sour things. And now he was talking to Burden! Wasn’t Burden aware that when your friend is angry at someone it’s only proper to be angry at them yourself? The Spirit would be quick to remind Lillian that she was a frequent offender of this social rule, though Lillian would have just dismissed it. Instead the Spirit decided to reveal another bit of information it had been withholding.
Ahead. People.
To Lillian, “People” meant “Not Marcus” and “Maybe Sarika,” so she decided to head off. She stiffened her back, put on her best frown, and dramatically stomped out of the room to make certain everyone knew she was not at all pleased with the present company.
--------------------
Marcus followed behind Burden cautiously. Normally when heading up the tail end of a group, he could trust the others to alert him to any danger ahead, but when your group consists of a little girl and some frog monster, he couldn’t be too sure. The car was a sleeper car, with a narrow hallway alongside private quarters. Upon entering, he saw Burden standing, unmoving. Lillian was nowhere to be seen.
Aw shit, Marcus thought, what if he had already eaten the girl? That would solve a headache for Marcus, but bird lady would be pissed. Although if that were the case, they would probably have all been teleported to God-knows-where since that’s apparently how this stupid game works. No, most likely Lillian had already moved ahead to the next car, leaving the two of them behind.
Marcus tightened his grip on The Retribution. He still had little idea of what to expect from this frog-creature. He seemed sluggish enough, but Marcus had enough experience to not let his guard down at first impressions. He advanced a couple of steps, watching Burden for some kind of reaction, but the grinning amphibian made no movement, just stood, staring into one of the private sleeper rooms.
“She in there?” Marcus asked.
“Hmmmmm…” was the eventual reply, “no one is in here, only shells of those in a dream.”
“What?” Marcus cocked his head to the side and took several steps forward. He kept enough distance between himself and Burden to react, but managed to peer into the cabin Burden found so fascinating.
“Just some creatures under their sheets,” Marcus observed, “you know them or something?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps I know them very well.” He added, “I wonder where they are now.”
Great, thought Marcus. First the robot tries to kill him, then the girl gets mad at him, and now some metaphor-spouting frog is blocking his way.
“So do I have to solve some sort of riddle to get to you move on or something? Because, in case you didn’t know, there is a homicidal robot somewhere back that way, and I’d rather not meet up with him again soon.”
“Hmmmmm” Burden yawned as his grin grew wider. Marcus waited for more of a response, but received nothing. Well, he was in no mood to play around. He raised Retribution to his shoulder and pointed to it.
“Burden,” Marcus said, “do you know what this is for? It’s--”
“I have seen many of those,” was the reply.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Many of these? Where?” If this train had an armory, that could give him a serious advantage next time he ran into Charlie.
“In my dreams.”
“Great. Very helpful. Thank you.”
The raised eyebrow turned into rolled eyes. Marcus was not one for metaphors or convoluted speech. Words were just another action, and he preferred his actions direct, always with a goal in mind. At least this is what he told himself. A hardened mercenary, his creed defined who he was, what allowed him to survive. Anything beyond that was simply a risk. Though he would never begrudge a friend a drink, or a night with good company, and maybe a romance novel--but that was only once and no one had seen and it wasn’t even that good anyway.
Regardless, Marcus had little time for Burden’s sedated dialogue, and he would have interrupted and pushed the wide-mouthed creature aside if it wasn’t for the fact that, in Burden’s eyes, Marcus could see an image of the Retribution with an almost unnatural clarity. That curiosity alone allowed Burden enough time to start speaking once more.
“It is a messenger, Maarcus,” he spoke, dragging out the ‘a’ in Marcus’ name. “Many carry them, but the message is never the same.”
No, this is a gun, and it means that I don’t have to put up with pointless frog-riddles. was what Marcus would have liked to say, but in truth this was not the first time he had heard someone call the Retribution a “messenger”. It had been long ago, and he couldn’t recall most of that night but did remember thinking it true at the time.
Burden filled his pause with a long “mmmmmmm...” and finished with, “What message do you carry, Maarcus?”
Marcus stared at the frog man for a moment, then replied flippantly, “Let’s keep moving.”
“Hmmmmmm,” he turned away from Marcus and stepped out of the car.
Marcus took a step and paused, glancing back at Retribution, then returning to the direction of Lillian and her companion.
“...damn it.”
--------------------
Lloyd and Reudic
There, now I just have to wait for the directional system to destabilize. Lloyd smirked triumphantly at the computer terminal. It was a patchwork job, but it was doing just what he expected. Across the car from him, Reudic hung motionless.
What’s his deal? Lloyd mused to himself. He’s just gotten a mass of information on an unfamilar world and culture and it’s doing nothing with it! It’s just hovering there, content to use its sudden wealth of knowledge for nothing more than fixing a speech impediment. If I was given that much insight...but Lloyd had been given that insight. Time and time again though countless stories and distorted plots. Lloyd had done everything from turning whole societies on their heads, to crashing neighborhood bake sales. Each time he’d enter a new story and know exactly what he was supposed to do, and then figure out exactly what he could do to watch the story crumble around him. Yet here was Reudic, in the exact same situation and it seemed perfectly content to follow along whatever plot lay before it.
Maybe he just doesn’t know. Maybe he needs a little push. Lloyd had a knack for giving characters “a little push”.In a Victorian romance, he’d start talking to the heroines about women’s rights. In a courtroom drama, he’d convince an innocent man of the benefits of a plea bargain. In a sea voyage, he’d show the captain the wonders of stamp collecting. It hardly took any real difficulty. Just introduce a flat character to something they had never considered before, and soon enough their actions cause the plot to crumble without any help from Lloyd. Of course Lloyd never felt guilty for this. They were all underdeveloped and single minded; he just rounded them out a bit.
Now Reudic, here was a character that was fully flushed. The details on his vines, his dangerous smell, all were very real and very unnerving to the protagonist. He appeared, however, apathetic, uncaring aside from basic survival. What was apathy if not lack of an opinion? From Lloyds experience, that was all you needed to receive that gentle push.
“Hey Rudy,” Lloyd began, “do you really plan to try and help that Reinhardt guy out?”
The viridioflorian’s vines slithered around Reudic’s core.
“If an opportunity presents itself, yes.”
“But how can you know you’re not just falling for somebody else’s scheme? All you’ve heard was some kind of transdimentional message. You can’t know anything about the guy.”
“If his message is false hope then I will pursue my original plan.”
“Which is?”
“Survive until the final round.”
Lloyd nodded. So he’s a survivalist...a passive survivalist. That may be enough, but I’d like a bit more.
“The final round huh? What do you think will happen then? You’ll get to go home? That our ‘grandmaster’ will grant you a wish?”
“How the Grandmaster will treat the winner is unknown, but given the constraints of this contest, that is the longest I could survive.”
“Oh come on. You expect me to buy that’s all you’re hoping for? To just live a few more hours? If I survive until the final round, I’d travel. Real places, none of that “Journey through Reading” crap you see in the forwards. The whole multiverse would be a giant playground!”
“I do not see the appeal.”
“But there has to be something you’d want to do! A nice, warm, quiet spot, saved just for you. A place where you are free to do as you will, without anyone shoving you about in some contest or plot?”
Reudic said nothing, but it was a vulnerable silence. Lloyd smiled internally. It was rare for a character to hold secrets from him; it made the challenge much more exciting.
“Do you know how many times I’ve found myself being bossed around by narrators and storytellers who never gave a moment to consider what I wanted to do? ‘Lloyd Conrad: Your name is Ishmael. Get on this boat.’ ‘Lloyd Conrad: Go see dinosaurs then run away.’ ‘Lloyd Conrad: Seduce this maiden then off yourself because she looks like she’s dead..’ Now, when I’m finally free of those oppressive narratives, I hear this: ‘Lloyd Conrad: Kill seven strangers and guess at what happens next.’
“I’ll tell you something.” Lloyd sat himself on a counter next to Reudic. “Who do you think a story belongs to? The Narrator? The Readers? No! It belongs to the characters. We are the ones who have to put up with every inane detail, every stifled conversation, every pointless command and plot point that serves no other purpose than to ‘develop character’ or ‘tell a morale’. Well I have a morale for you: There is no ‘Happy Ever After’. When the book ends, it just starts all over. And that is exactly what this battle will do. It will start over. Even if you win, you’ll just find yourself pushed around again, forced by someone else into their scheme that cares jack-diddly about you.”
The vines continued to coil and serpentine around Reudic. He’s listening, Lloyd thought, he may not realize it, but he understands.
“And your solution is to derail a train?” Reudic finally replied.
“Nah.” Lloyd shrugged. “I’m just biding my time. This train has stations it can dock at in other worlds, but you have to input highly complicated access codes to get there. From what I can tell, the people who have those access codes aren’t here anymore.”
“So why bother?”
“Because I have to. If I don’t add just a little chaos, chaos I put in motion, then everything will go according to narrative. We can’t have that. You gotta rock the boat before it can capsize.” He added, “Actually, you’d probably be the best for this.”
Reudic let go of the overhanging post and lowered itself onto the floor.
“You assume that I would care.”
“Of course you’d care!” Lloyd could not let this slip away. “If you refuse to change your story, everything will just repeat itself! You’ll never survive, you’ll never be left alone. You’ll...” but Reudic had already left the room.
Dang it. Lloyd shook his head.That was too forward. This is much harder when you don’t know everything about someone. Well, he returned to the console, at least the seed was planted.
--------------------
Exedric
“THEY WHAT!?”
Davis Drucker, CEO of Exedric’s security division, slammed his stubby palm down on the open file on his desk. He had not yet read the contents, but his chief R&D officer had just provided a rather concise summary of the thirty page report entitled: “Propensity of AI-CH4 Operation Beyond Accepted Protocol”.
“We knew that accelerated performance was a possibility of an untested AI system,” the researcher responded. “But you did say you wanted the best available.”
“Yes! The best available for KILLING THINGS! Not for…” he pulled out a photo from the file. “THIS! What is this?”
“That’s...a…a painting, sir.”
“And why are my hunterbots painting!?”
“Well, really it’s just that one. Others have taken up design, sightseeing, architecture…”
“Aaaaargh!” Drucker hurled the rest of the file into the researcher’s face, then paced over to the office window. From the window he could see the city, vast skyline full of unique designs, towering structures and hovering buildings. It comforted him knowing his company owned most of it. He wrapped his hands behind his back and stared down at the citizens below.
“Do you know why this is a bad for us?” Drucker sighed. “The government has taken great care--we have taken great care--to make certain that as both technology and demand increases, there will always be a defining line between people and the things they make. It’s about superiority. It’s about control.”
He gestured to the streets, as he continued his monologue. “They all need a bit of superiority. They all need a bit of control. Take that away from them, threaten what little power they have and they will fight back. And how would they fightt?” Drucker turned towards the researcher. “The government! They’re the ones who’ll be knocking down our doors, ready to take our heads if word of this gets out. Hundreds of hunterbots spread throughout the galaxy, any of which could go rogue at any time because someone made them a tad too sentient. Not to mention the possible information leaks these things could cause! That alone would be enough for bastards to try and kill us! Why…”
“Pardon my correction, sir,” the researcher interrupted. “But there aren’t ‘hundreds’ of hunterbots with this issue, only those with the new AI. About two dozen, I believe.”
The CEO furrowed his brow, confused, “Well, then…destroy them.”
“If I may, sir,” the researcher said. “The combat efficiencies of these units are beyond all previous models, AI-CH4 is quite effective. My team has developed a kernel program that theoretically, could subdue these…impulses…as long as a primary objective is in place, with minimal impact to their combat efficiency.”
Drucker gazed down to the file on the floor, then slowly walked back to his desk and sat down.
“Only two dozen?” he asked.
“Only two dozen.”
“And you’re certain we can keep tabs on them?”
“Absolutely.”
The CEO steepled his stubby fingers and looked up at the researcher. Drucker knew profit required risks, and he was a man who loved his profits.
--------------------
CH4-12-L13
Optics failing. Thermal interference. Motion limited. Mechanical obstruction. Targets: two. MISSION INCOMPLETE.
The attacks stopped, briefly. Audio sensors picked up conversation. Surrounding noise prevented interpretation. Two heartbeats registered. Charlie lunged and made contact, but not with the target. Something blocked his path. The heartbeats were muffled, moving farther away. Another foreign object was stuck to his tail. MISSION INCOMPLETE.
From the moment Dekowin’s death resulted in transportation to a new locale, Charlie’s systems determined that, given current data, completing the assassination of the Republic Chancellor required changing locations until a direct route to the primary target could be established. This entailed the execution of the remaining “contestants”, and thus made them his targets.
Of course he knew the probable futility of this plan; however, there were no practical alternatives. Until he could state with certainty that ‘The Chancellor is dead,’ MISSION INCOMPLETE would continue to plague his consciousness. Some small segment of his programming wished to give up, accept defeat, perhaps even end his existence; but whenever those suggestions began to appear, his thoughts would degrade, taking away whatever aspects made him Charlie and replacing it with MISSION INCOMPLETE.
Audio processing finished. Adjusted for background noise. Replaying:
Target label K: “I leave for ten minutes and you somehow find a bomb. Honestly, you guys are a real handful.”
Target label S: “Yeah yeah. Well we need to get rid of it. You have a teleportation spell or something?”
K: “Oh I can do better than that.”
S: “Hey!”
K: “Freezing Ray!”
S: “Tell me before you decide to chunk a bomb! Oh crap he’s charging! Shut the door shut the door!”
End of recording coincides with impact against obstruction.
They stuck a bomb to his tail? It could go off at any time, and now they were getting away. In his current state he probably would not survive the blast. MISSION INCOMPLETE. No he could still catch up, but if he waited…MISSION INCOMPLETE. He could try to disarm MISSION INCOMPLETE. Manipulate the MISSION INCOMPLETE. If only he could MISSION INCOMPLETE process MISSION INCOMPLETE could end it MISSION INCOMPLETE MISSION INCOMPLETE MISSION INCOMPLETE….
--------------------
Sarika and Karen try to not die
Sarika waited for Karen to finish the barrier spell on the car door. She wasn’t too comfortable with the idea of a bit of steel and a little magic being the only thing that separated them from an angry robot with a bomb on his back. Future-sight said the door stayed intact, however far into the future she was looking at least.
“You’re sure that can hold him?” Sarika asked.
“I would think so,” Karen replied, sliding her staff into a holster on her back. “Barrier spells like this are meant to reinforce the air around you to weaken enemy blows. I’ve never tried using it on steel before, but I think the effects improve with the material. Though I don’t think I’ll be able to cast much more of these unless I get a good rest.”
The train car tumbled once more. Sarika caught herself, though the constant shifting was making her ill.
“We should head back,” Karen said. “Wait for that bomb to go off. Maybe enjoy some of the…”
*THUD* Something, apparently Charlie, slammed against the reinforced door. Sarika blinked. The door was still intact in the future. *THUD* From what she could tell, Karen’s spell would keep it in place for a while. *THUD* Actually, the very fact that the door was still there meant the bomb didn’t affect this area. *THUD* Maybe that barrier was stronger than she thought.
*THUD* *THUD* *THUD*
A quick series of armor slamming against steel echoed through the car, increasing in intensity and frequency. Sarika supposed Charlie was getting frustrated. As she turned to peek through the other door, just to check on the remaining cars, the slamming stopped.
“Looks like it held pretty well!” Karen smirked “I guess he’s stuck back…”
“We need to leave, now.” Sarika interrupted, and rushed towards the door.
“What? What do you see?”
The feathered seer motioned to the ceiling-turned-wall, “Pretty soon this is going to have a huge robot sized hole in it, blown in from the outside.”
“But how could--?”
*thud* *thud* *thud*
The slamming of metal on metal started up once more, but against somewhere other than the sealed door. Karen’s eyes widened in understanding as the sound of a buzzsaw emanated from the captive robot’s room. Quickly the two rushed though the door and into another passenger car. They continued racing through the car, but an unexpected roar engulfed the room and the train rocketed upwards just before Sarika reached the next door. Karen tumbled backwards through a pair of chess playing arachnids as Sarika caught herself on the chair of a well dressed slime mold browsing through the daily paper.
“So what was your plan before you stuck a bomb to him?” Sarika shouted down to Karen over the rocket-like roar.
“I jammed my sword through his chassis!” Karen shouted back, as she climbed through the various passengers. “It’s infused with about a hundred fireball spells! One more, and it will overload!”
“What do you mean ‘overload’?”
Karen shrugged, “Supernova?”
She reached the top as Sarika stared at her incredulously.
“You gave--Ack!”
The train twisted backwards causing the pair to land, backs against the ceiling-floor.
Sarika continued. “You gave a sword that explodes on contact with fire to a robot with a flamethrower?”
Karen frowned. “Does he have a flamethrower? I couldn’t remember!”
“Lets go!” Sarika shouted. The distinct sound of a buzzsaw ripping through metal screeched behind her as sparks flew in her periphery.
The two ran into the next car, slamming the door behind them. Sarika blinked, and quickly shut her eyes again. Nothingness. Whatever was about to happen would take out this car. The train spun around once more--This time the floor was the floor. Not missing the chance, Karen and Sarika sprinted to the next room. Sarika looked into the future again. This car was destroyed as well? She didn’t see anything engulfed in flames so she could only assume it was the briefcase-bomb and not the sword-bomb that caused this.
Karen rushed past Sarika, but the seer grabbed hold of her. Something wasn’t right. When she found the bomb, she knew it took out the car it was in, but the cars ahead of it were safe. How many cars were between her and the others now? Five? Six? They had attached the bomb to Charlie so…
“We can’t keep running!” Sarika explained, “We froze the bomb to Charlie and he’s following us. If he chases us to the end, the bomb will take out everyone.”
“Wait...my bomb or your bomb?”
“Why does that mat--”
“I’d probably had to have knocked out five guys to fly it this well!”
“I don’t even want to know what you mean by that. How are the girls doing?”
“Oh they’re still running, Charlie’s chasing them though.”
“He’s what!? I told you to let me know what was happening!”
“Shhhhh! Shh shh shh! I think they can hear us! Hey ladies can you hear us?”
Both Lloyd and Marcus’ voice boomed through the walls of the train. Sarika glanced back worriedly at the shut door.
“Lloyd! Where are you?” Karen shouted. “Can you see Charlie?”
“Sorry!” Lloyd’s voice echoed back “Can’t hear you. I’ve only got a visual. Marcus and I are up in the cabin. He’s activated the emergency thrusters and managed to stabilize us, so we have a nice ride ahead. Oh, Charlie is clawing his way into the car behind you and has these glowy red lights on him. I guess he’s pretty mad. Anyway we’ll see which ever one of you makes it in the next round!”
“What!?” Karen screamed back at the intercom
“What! Lloyd, let me see that!” Marcus’ voice shouted. “Sarika. Karen. Move ahead into the next car and listen to me.”
Sarika and Karen exchanged glances and hurried into the next car, making sure the door was shut behind them. Through the roar of the thrusters they could hear a clamor of buzzsaw and chaingun as the enraged Charlie blindly tore through the obstacles in his way.
Marcus’ voice continued, “I think I’ve found the controls for disconnecting the cars, but I’m not sure which one disconnects what. I need to you let me know what will happen if I activate one.”
Sarika nodded. If Marcus disconnected the car separating them from Charlie, then everything in this car would be fine. If he didn’t, then Charlie would find them, the bomb would go off and the car wouldn’t exist anymore. A simple, albeit life-threatening plan. Sarika blinked.
“Here we go!”
There was nothing, just empty blackness and the glimmer of rails in the far distance.
“No!” Sarika cried out, flailing her arms.
“Alright try number two.”
The car suddenly materialized, its future having changed. The shift in momentum ripped through the seer’s head, but the room was inact, so she signaled for Marcus to disconnect the car. Turning around to check the car more thoroughly, she screamed. The vision of her fragile form impaled under Charlie’s claw forced her to change back to present-sight.
“There goes the caboose!” Lloyd shouted.
“Karen, come on!” Sarika motioned for the role-player to advance to the next car. Okay, she thought, if we disconnect the car we’re on, we die by explosion. If we wait in one car too long, we die by killer robot. Disconnecting a car far behind us looks the same as disconnecting the one right behind us. There was only one way to know for sure. Switching back to future-sight, Sarika braced herself against the exit door and peered through a small viewport. Visions flew past her, blood covered walls, an expanse of nothingness, a blinding inferno. Her head reeled from the constant changes in momentum. From floating in space, to racing to her death, she struggled to keep her focus.
Suddenly she saw it, the car around her intact and looking out into a view of the black beyond.
“Yes! That one! Flip that one!” she shouted and flapped her wings.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“That’s a yes!”
A solid KA-CLACK sprung from the other side of the door. As Sarika blinked, she saw the car behind her fade off into the distance.
--------------------
Lillian meets Reudic
While Marcus worked to gain control of the train, Lillian found herself snugly secured against Burden’s orange-tinted gut. Whenever the train jostled a bit (such as when Marcus twisted it upside-down), Burden would slide or fall and take the impact with a gentle thump. He suffered quite a few thumps before the train leveled out, but if they affected him at all, Lillian could not tell.
There was another creature in the car with them. Lillian suspected she had seen it before but could not quite place where. It seemed more plant-like than anything else. Large vines with menacing thorns wrapped casually around fixtures in the car. The creature had no face, much like a rosebush would have no face, though the vines seemed to entangle more tightly around its center. Lillian would have assumed it was simply a plant, with its thorn covered tendrils and deceptively sweet smelling flowers. It moved, however, much more like an animal, and Lillian thought she had seen one of the others speak to it earlier.
At the moment, the train was flying quite smoothly and Lillian realized it was actually a quite comfortable place to be when you were not flying about and changing directions every few seconds. She had heard Lloyd and Marcus yelling something about ‘disconnecting cars’ and someone named ‘Charlie’ who was apparently not in a very good mood. She refused to pay much attention, however, on account of who was speaking.
Burden released Lillian with a dull “There you go”, and the curious girl approached the barbed stranger, despite the Spirit’s reservations.
“You don’t know that,” she muttered to one in her charm. “He’s probably quite friendly. Perhaps he even knows Burden. Besides...” She trailed off, keeping her thoughts to herself. At least he’s not Marcus.
Lillian stopped a few steps away from the vine-creature. The scent of those flowers were even more wonderful up close! Perhaps it will let me make a bouquet, she thought. Shame for all of those thorns, though, if it wasn’t for them it would be a much more attractive creature.
Meanwhile, the Spirit watched uneasily. There was not much to sense from the creature. It seemed to care little about anything, though there was some turmoil working within it. What worried the Spirit worse though, was that this creature was in fact a contestant in this ‘battle’. If the Spirit recalled correctly, it possessed a capacity for illusion and was predatory by design. Up until now, the others had acted either protective or indifferent towards Lillian, but most of them had once been young themselves and sympathized with the still small girl. This one shared none of that compassion. However it would act towards Lillian would be cold, impersonal, and unfeeling.
“Hello, my name is Lillian.”
The vines shifted casually, loosening their grip on the now stable train.
“What is your name?” Lillian continued.
“We have already been introduced. You are either confused or amusing yourself.”
The creature spoke! Quite well, in fact. The crisp articulated tone originated from somewhere within its thorn-guarded center. Lillian smiled, somewhat relieved. For a moment she had thought this creature might only talk by writing. While she was an excellent reader, holding an entire conversation though pen and paper would have been exceptionally tedious.
“I do feel like I should know you from somewhere,” Lillian responded, “but we have definitely not been introduced. I don’t even know your name!”
“Do you mean to say that you have not introduced yourself? I am familiar with the custom but I believed it was sufficient for a third party to preform the formality.”
“I mean to say that I have never seen you before and, as I said, I do not know your name!”
“I see...”
The creature trailed off as Lillian waited impatiently for a response.
This is hardly what I expected. I mean, I’m not certain what I expected from a talking rose bush but I figured it would at least show the courtesy to introduce itself. The Spirit sensed Lillian’s frustration and suggested casually that the child return to more pleasant company. Lillian would have done just that, had the creature not decided to respond at last.
“My name is Reudic Otsaceae. Yours is Lillian Finch. Had I been more aware of human states of consciousness at the time, I would have recognized that you were sleeping during our introduction. Though, it is unexpected that the others would not have explained our situation to you.”
Lillian stared dumbfounded at Reudic.
“How did?” she stammered. “What situation?”
“We are to fight to the death.” was the callous reply.
Lillian shook her head. “I...I don’t understand.”
“A being who did not identify himself transported each of us from our homes, and instructed us to kill one another until a single survivor remained. We then received an introduction and were transported to a testing facility. I assume you woke up sometime after this. When the creature called ‘Dekowin’ was killed, the requirement for that round was satisfied and we were then transported here. I am uncertain why you were not aware of the message our captor offered us upon entering the train.”
“I...” Lillian’s began to feel dizzy, far dizzier than she did when the train was tumbling. Instructed to kill? Dekowin...requirment? But how did...why didn’t...I... Lillian fainted, although briefly. The Spirit caught her limp body and eased her into a sitting position in front of the viridioflorian. The charm-bound protector had known Lillian would find out, though it dearly hoped she would not. It had thought, perhaps somehow, she could still be spared this truth, that the protection and love of her village and family had been ripped so cruelly from her. If this was all simply an adventure, simply a fairy tale, Lillian would remain unscathed. The Spirit had prepared itself to protect the child from all manner of assaults Reudic could impose, but it had no means of guarding against this.
--------------------
Marcus’ apology
The mercenary leaned forward in his pilot’s chair. Through the monitor, Marcus watched the lights from the disconnected cars fade away into the distance. A quick course correction had moved the train away from its latter half which continued speeding through the frictionless void. Now it was simply a matter of waiting for the bomb to go off and keeping the train steady.
Next to him, Lloyd sat, reclined with feet up on the dashboard, casually twirling a pen in his hand while he waited for the next round to begin. Turning to the monitor, Marcus flipped through the rooms, checking on the others. Sarika was crouched on the floor, bracing herself with her staff, while Karen rummaged through her pockets, taking note of her inventory.
Must have been rough on her, Marcus thought. She just looks so fragile...though she is more dependable than anyone else here. I’ll have to make it up to her later.
The screen flipped forward a few cars. There, the stoic Reudic hovered motionless, supported by a few vines. Kneeling on the ground nearby was Burden, a spindly hand placed gingerly on Lillian’s back. Marcus studied the young girl. She looks...shellshocked. Probably smacked her head on something, oh well.
The mercenary switched off the monitor and directed his attention towards piloting the train through the vast fields of the void. The task was too tedious, however, and his mind drifted back to the distraught looking girl.
No, she shouldn’t have hit her head. That ghost or whatever would take care of that. Is she still upset about...
Marcus looked back at Lloyd, now doodling something on his palm. Karen was equipping herself. Sarikia was trying to manage what was probably a terrible headache. Everyone is preparing for the next round, trying to survive, wondering who we’ll have to kill.
For a moment, Marcus thought about their situation, what it meant, what was bound to happen, and what he had to say. He shook his head. This is going to sound so stupid.
“Hey. Everyone.”
Marcus’ voice echoed through the train. Neither he nor Lloyd could figure out how to shut off the intercom, so they had been simply keeping silent. As his rough voice addressed the train, Lloyd shot him an inquisitive glare.
“Listen,” he continued. “This whole ‘fight to the death’, it’s a sick joke. I’ve fought...I’ve killed...for a lot of different things: money, but also for pride, and if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you never take a job that stinks, and this job stinks the worst.”
Oh god this is going awful.
Lloyd raised an eyebrow, and Marcus hastily pulled the monitor between them, switching it on to show the curious faces of the others.
“What I mean to say is: I’m not taking part in this stupid game anymore. And I don’t expect any of you to ether. From this point on, we’re a unit. We’re all comrades-in-arms and I’m going to fight to make sure every last one of us makes it out alive!”
He thought he heard Lloyd snicker but he could hardly care. He barely believed what he was saying himself. This thing that was sending them across the multiverse was practically untouchable. If it wanted, it could simply obliterate them, or worse.
But then there was Lillian. He could see her glare through the viewing screen and he knew exactly what she must be thinking.
“Dekowin,” as he said the Volkhanbet’s name, Lillian’s glare intensified and a scowl, much less put on than before, covered her face. “She made her choice. She decided to kill or be killed. Honestly, I agreed, and if I had hesitated, it would be her here instead of me. I’m not sorry for what I did, but...I wouldn’t have it go down the same way, if I had the choice.”
On the montior, Sarika and Karen glanced awkwardly at one another. Lillian’s expression softened as tears began to flow down her tiny cheeks. The long finger of Burden wiped away a tear, and Marcus turned away from the monitor once more.
Lloyd watched him for a moment, shrugged, and returned to his doodle.
Welp, thought Marcus, there goes pride. He glanced back at the sobbing child. Damn, I hate kids.
--------------------
Burden’s farewell
Lillian tried to hold back the tears. She could not be angry at Marcus, though she wished dearly to be. She wanted someone or something to blame for what she now knew. The Spirit had told her what Reudic said was the truth. Why did it lie to her? Why didn’t it let her know sooner? Oh and Burden! Sweet, gentle dreaming Burden, who still did not understand, who could not understand. How could someone who dreams such wonderful dreams know what it is to be scared and alone and betrayed. What about the others? What about Sarika? Did she know? Was the woman with the soft comforting feathers meant to attack her as well?
Marcus had said it would not happen again. He said he would fight to keep from killing, from dying. Lillian hated those words. Before they were forlorn things meant to tell rotten jokes or sorrowful stories, but now they loomed above her with the gravity of a fate so very real, a fate she had already seen befall someone she would have called a friend.
“Why, Burden?” she sobbed. “Why is the world so terrible? Just when you’ve learned one horrid thing you find out there is another even worse!”
The warm low “Hmmmmm” emanated from the dreamer’s wide mouth. His grin was gone, and reflected in his eyes, the tear of the small girl glistened off his hand.
“I once dreamed of a wanderer,” his yawn-like speech began, “She carried a wooden cane. Someone asked her ‘What comes after the end?’ She pointed to the stars and said, ‘The End never ends.’.”
Lillian had stopped sobbing, listening to Burden’s story. She glared distrustfully at him.
“That’s a terrible moral. It’s too depressing.”
“Is it?” the frog-man hummed. “After that dream, every dream seemed a little bit brighter.”
The train car sat in silence. The rockets had been cut off, the intercom was quiet, and everyone was left with their thoughts.
After several long moments, Burden spoke again.
“It is time for you to go,” Lillian began to protest but Burden continued. “and time for me to sleep once more.”
“Will....will I ever see you again, Burden?” Lillian pleaded. “Or...is this the end?”
“Hmmmmmm, perhaps.”
Far off in the distance, on a train car speeding into nothingness, a bomb exploded.
--------------------
Charlie revisited
MISSION INCOMPLETE. They were gone now. MISSION INCOMPLETE. There was no way to catch up. MISSION INCOMPLETE. He analyzed the weight on his tail. It was about to MISSION INCOMPLETE. His optics were damaged. If he had time maybe he could repair them, though the sword was soldered to his side. He would not get that out alone. MISSION INCOMPLETE. He had a few thousand years left in his power supply, but to end like this? MISSION INCOMPLETE. I wonder, he thought, for a moment uninterrupted, if there was more time, what I would have done.
Parent’s gift
It was a winter’s night. A bespectacled man shuffled about in his study. On his desk sat a small wooden box, crudely crafted. His hands were not used to that sort of work. A fresh fire warmed the room and illuminated shelves of books, thick volumes, although he would admit to not having read most of them.
A tiny creak caught the man’s attention as a pair of small hands cautiously cracked open the sturdy door. As he turned about, the flickering light from the fireplace revealed tense lips and furrowed brow, but the expression softened as he watched the small girl peek her head into the imposing room.
“Did you call for me?” The girl asked. It was uncommon for her to enter the study, and her eyes, filled with uncertainty, locked on the man with the gold-rimmed glasses.
“Of course!” He answered warmly. “Come in…I have something to give you.”
He added the last part hesitantly, but the child’s curiosity was already peaked. She glanced around expectantly as the man reached for the wooden box. He held the cedar container in his hands, turning it over a few times, considering exactly what it was he was about to give.
“It’s a precious gift you’re about to receive,” he muttered, turning the box around again, “Honestly, I wasn’t certain if you were ready for it, but I suppose it really is time.” Carefully he handed the small box to the child. She gleefully opened the lid, and an azure light illumined her awestruck face.
“It’s uh…” the man stammered, but the joyful exclamation of the eight year old child interrupted his explanation.
“It’s beautiful! I didn’t think I was ever going to get one! Oh thank you so much!”
Setting the open box off to the side, she wrapped her tiny arms around the man; her face pressed against his chest. The man, however, barely forced a smile as he stared at the glowing pendant he had gingerly placed in the hand-carved box.
“It’s your responsibility now. Please, ” he said, “ take care of her.”
--------------------
Spirits Monologue
Those words, that charge, echoed in the Spirits consciousness. Lillian was its responsibility, its duty. In the two years it had spent guiding and guarding the small child the Spirit had found that it was not enough to simply ensure the curious girl’s safety. Of course there was no law or requirement stating that the Spirit had to do even that, but something about Lillian spoke to the Spirit in a manner no words could convey. The nature of the child and her guardian resonated with one another in such a way that the Spirit truly desired the best for the lighthearted charge. They were very much kindred spirits. Had the Spirit the ability to speak, to laugh and run and grow alongside Lillian, they would probably have made excellent friends, the sort of friends that no matter how long they were apart, upon meeting again they’d find their friendship had grown ever stronger.
However, that was not the way of things. The two were separated by a gulf far wider than time or place. The Spirit could not run, could not laugh, could not speak. It could not be a friend to the bright-eyed girl on whose arm dangled the pendant to which it was bound. And so, the Spirit was resigned to the role of protector and counselor, to do the best it could to stave off the evils of the world.
But how was it supposed to protect Lillian from evils even the world could not contain, evils which reached beyond the veil to pluck the child from her home and sentence her to death by creatures and dangers of which the Spirit could never have known? The Spirit had once considered itself an unbreakable shield for Lillian, but in the face of such monstrosities, it knew it was powerless.
Not only that, the Spirit itself was far from unshaken by its too recent exposure to the potential hideousness of the universe. When the legion of creatures, the swarm of that metal labyrinth descended upon them, the Spirit could sense an evil deeper than their gnashing teeth and slicing claws. The torment of their combined essences, the terror and fury at all things which were not their own howled in an unceasing cacophony perceptible only those denizens of that other plane in which the Spirit resided. The unyielding pressure of their frustration bore down on the Spirit. It felt how badly they suffered, how greatly they wished to end their existence, yet how their twisted bodies forced them towards self-preservation, channeling their loathing into rage.
Those creatures were monsters, but they were created by something more monstrous, something which cared nothing for their well being, something which saw their existence as mere toys or garbage, something which was not all unlike the being that had captured an innocent girl and forced her to participate in this distortion of a game. A terrible, unthinkable fear resided deep within the Spirit. How far was Lillian, how much evil could she bear, before this being turned her into a creature not unlike those beasts?
It had not happened yet, however. The critical moment had not come, and perhaps it would never come. Lillian was not alone. There were those around her that did not wish her harm. Some even, it seemed, wanted good for her. While this gave the Spirit some hope, it could not be certain. How could it know these strangers? How could it find out what they would do when pressed? The Spirit longed to ask them, those who Lillian flocked to, Will you care for her? Will you protect her where I cannot? How far are you willing to go?
The Spirit longed to ask these questions.
But the Spirit could not speak.
And the Spirit said nothing.
--------------------
Burden’s Stories
Lillian and Burden had traveled through several cars before meeting up with Marcus. They were all cargo cars, like the one before them, and contained boxes, crates, and containers of all manner of shapes and construction. A box is a box, however, and Lillian quickly lost interest despite flamboyant labels and foreign trappings.
It was not entirely the boxes’ fault for failing to grasp the young girl’s attention. Burden, that orange-gutted, ever-grinning dreamer, had, surprisingly, a great deal of stories to tell, and there was little else that could capture Lillian’s imagination like a story.
Now most storytellers (at least inexperienced ones) would have found themselves quite frustrated in telling a tale to Lillian. Before finishing a “Once upon a time” the story would have been taken entirely away from them, Lillian’s imagination having already begun forming the fanciful world and filling it with colorful characters that may have nothing to do with the tale or moral the storyteller wished to impart. Midway through a tale, Lillian would interrupt, shaking her head, saying, “I know you said she had [this] but wouldn’t it be lovelier if she wore [that]?” or “No no, that can’t be what happened. It is too tragic,” (or more often) “ It isn’t nearly tragic enough.” Needless to say, her interjections often earned her the scorn of those telling the story. In class she would be forced to sit in the back of the room, arms crossed, and face pouting like a muzzled pup.
Burden, however, seemed to know just how to tell a story to the young girl, either that or he had no other way of telling it. Between every word and detail the frog-like dreamer left ample space for the vibrant imagination of his audience to take hold, grow, and create. Most listeners (at least inexperienced ones) would have found waiting between pauses and “hmmmm”’s unbearably boring, but Lillian relished in the free-reign the slow-paced speech allowed her. In fact, it would be fair to say that the story he told did not belong to him at all, but to Lillian.
“I once saw a Tree,” he began, his words barely above a yawn, “it spread across the horizon.”
Lillian instantly saw the tree as well. Huge branches far larger than herself, larger than even the car they stood in, reaching endlessly in all directions. On each branch sprouted countless sprigs, splitting and separating to make room for the leaves. And oh the leaves! Broad rich green leaves that didn’t block out the light, but simply filtered our all the harshness, leaving that warm comforting green and gold that wrapped around you like a familiar blanket.
“Many cared for that tree.”
Of course! A tree so vast and so gorgeous could never stand to be alone. Out of the bark of the tree Lillian saw elves and nymphs and deer and all sorts of creatures arising to tend to it. Some of the craftier ones began to build nests while others simply perched among the branches or basked in the warm green light. She heard the sounds of playful creatures frolicking in one of the many crisp, clear, dew-drop pools. Perhaps an elk, reaching to take a drink would suddenly find itself drenched in the playful splashing of winged nymphs. It would shake off the drips and trot casually to a bright spot under the canopy to dry away its cares. Oh, and of course there would be fairies. Though Lillian didn’t care to think about fairies much at the moment she was certain that--
“But the tree left them.”
What? “left them”? How does a tree simply go away? What about the creatures and the pool and the warm welcoming light? Before Lillian could reject the idea she could already see the wearied and frightened faces of the forest fairies. The sleep barely wiped from their eyes, they awoke to the harsh hateful light the tree had once filtered so pure and refined. Now their wings were dry and cracked, tears streaming down their cheeks.
Lillian gasped. The face of the fairy she had seen so clearly was none other than Dekowin’s. She knew Dekowin had nothing to do with that tree, but the image combined with the memory began to bring back her tears.
“Is this what you lost?” Burden asked, breaking from his story.
Lillian checked herself. She was facing a large crate with a colorful logo on the top. She shook her head.
“No, it’s not this.” She said, sorrowfully, unable to tell the sweet Burden that what was lost would never be recovered. “What happened next? What did all the people do?”
Burden let out what sounded like a sigh, “They tried to bring it back.”
Lillian listened, doing her best to push aside any thoughts of Dekowin or fairies.
“But they could not. They made new trees, but they were not the world tree, though they tried to be.”
Lillian thought of the new trees. Trees that had never seen how great or beautiful the first tree had been, only knowing of the stories of it, or knowing whatever trees can.
“It must have been very hard,” she said.
“Yes,” Burden continued, “They wished to cover the world. That longing hurt the trees…until they were trees no longer.”
“What had they become?” Lillian asked, confused.
“I do not know. That dream ended long ago.”
Meeting with Marcus
They continued together, Burden telling Lillian more stories of his dreams. There was a world filled with metal creatures and flashing lights where a silver king ruled uncontested; a story of a strong warrior beautiful but tragically betrayed; a creature born from planets in the stars, but forced to live alone. With each story Burden’s grin grew wider--the sluggish creature apparently enjoying himself and the time he was spending with the child. Burden paused, and as Lillian begun to think of sharing one of her own stories, the door behind the pair flung open. A large black-toned man with a formidable rifle stared them down. His eyes studied the pair closely, focusing intently on the orange-gutted Burden. Gradually, he lowered his weapon.
“Hey, there, Lillian. Right? You remember me?”
Remember him! How could she forget? This was the man whose hateful firing ended the life of her friend (...as much of a friend as Dekowin had been). Dekowin was gone and now he was here greeting her as if he had done nothing! She glared at the mercenary, her little fist clenched tight around her bracelet’s charm as she began to wish many not-so-nice things upon the armored man. The Spirit, flustered at this sudden shift in thought, tried its best to calm Lillian and at the very least succeeded in convincing her to listen to what the man had to say.
“My name’s Marcus. Uh…. who’s your friend?”
Lillian glanced back at Burden. The lanky frog-man did not seem perturbed by the man’s presence, though the wide grin from earlier had lessened. To one not familiar with Burden’s expressions, his face would have seemed quite content, though Lillian (and the Spirit), noticed something thoughtful in the dreamer’s barely upturned smile. Burden’s eyes reflected Marcus clearly, his dull, scratched armor, his impatient stare, and the armed rifle held close to his side.
The glance was telling, but brief, and Lillian quickly returned her glare to Marcus.
“His name’s Burden.” She replied.
“Hi, Burden.”
“Hmmmmmmm…Greetings…” was the drowsy sounding reply.
The two began to converse a bit, but Lillian cared little about their conversation. She had been having a perfectly wonderful time before Marcus came in to sour things. And now he was talking to Burden! Wasn’t Burden aware that when your friend is angry at someone it’s only proper to be angry at them yourself? The Spirit would be quick to remind Lillian that she was a frequent offender of this social rule, though Lillian would have just dismissed it. Instead the Spirit decided to reveal another bit of information it had been withholding.
Ahead. People.
To Lillian, “People” meant “Not Marcus” and “Maybe Sarika,” so she decided to head off. She stiffened her back, put on her best frown, and dramatically stomped out of the room to make certain everyone knew she was not at all pleased with the present company.
--------------------
Marcus followed behind Burden cautiously. Normally when heading up the tail end of a group, he could trust the others to alert him to any danger ahead, but when your group consists of a little girl and some frog monster, he couldn’t be too sure. The car was a sleeper car, with a narrow hallway alongside private quarters. Upon entering, he saw Burden standing, unmoving. Lillian was nowhere to be seen.
Aw shit, Marcus thought, what if he had already eaten the girl? That would solve a headache for Marcus, but bird lady would be pissed. Although if that were the case, they would probably have all been teleported to God-knows-where since that’s apparently how this stupid game works. No, most likely Lillian had already moved ahead to the next car, leaving the two of them behind.
Marcus tightened his grip on The Retribution. He still had little idea of what to expect from this frog-creature. He seemed sluggish enough, but Marcus had enough experience to not let his guard down at first impressions. He advanced a couple of steps, watching Burden for some kind of reaction, but the grinning amphibian made no movement, just stood, staring into one of the private sleeper rooms.
“She in there?” Marcus asked.
“Hmmmmm…” was the eventual reply, “no one is in here, only shells of those in a dream.”
“What?” Marcus cocked his head to the side and took several steps forward. He kept enough distance between himself and Burden to react, but managed to peer into the cabin Burden found so fascinating.
“Just some creatures under their sheets,” Marcus observed, “you know them or something?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps I know them very well.” He added, “I wonder where they are now.”
Great, thought Marcus. First the robot tries to kill him, then the girl gets mad at him, and now some metaphor-spouting frog is blocking his way.
“So do I have to solve some sort of riddle to get to you move on or something? Because, in case you didn’t know, there is a homicidal robot somewhere back that way, and I’d rather not meet up with him again soon.”
“Hmmmmm” Burden yawned as his grin grew wider. Marcus waited for more of a response, but received nothing. Well, he was in no mood to play around. He raised Retribution to his shoulder and pointed to it.
“Burden,” Marcus said, “do you know what this is for? It’s--”
“I have seen many of those,” was the reply.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Many of these? Where?” If this train had an armory, that could give him a serious advantage next time he ran into Charlie.
“In my dreams.”
“Great. Very helpful. Thank you.”
The raised eyebrow turned into rolled eyes. Marcus was not one for metaphors or convoluted speech. Words were just another action, and he preferred his actions direct, always with a goal in mind. At least this is what he told himself. A hardened mercenary, his creed defined who he was, what allowed him to survive. Anything beyond that was simply a risk. Though he would never begrudge a friend a drink, or a night with good company, and maybe a romance novel--but that was only once and no one had seen and it wasn’t even that good anyway.
Regardless, Marcus had little time for Burden’s sedated dialogue, and he would have interrupted and pushed the wide-mouthed creature aside if it wasn’t for the fact that, in Burden’s eyes, Marcus could see an image of the Retribution with an almost unnatural clarity. That curiosity alone allowed Burden enough time to start speaking once more.
“It is a messenger, Maarcus,” he spoke, dragging out the ‘a’ in Marcus’ name. “Many carry them, but the message is never the same.”
No, this is a gun, and it means that I don’t have to put up with pointless frog-riddles. was what Marcus would have liked to say, but in truth this was not the first time he had heard someone call the Retribution a “messenger”. It had been long ago, and he couldn’t recall most of that night but did remember thinking it true at the time.
Burden filled his pause with a long “mmmmmmm...” and finished with, “What message do you carry, Maarcus?”
Marcus stared at the frog man for a moment, then replied flippantly, “Let’s keep moving.”
“Hmmmmmm,” he turned away from Marcus and stepped out of the car.
Marcus took a step and paused, glancing back at Retribution, then returning to the direction of Lillian and her companion.
“...damn it.”
--------------------
Lloyd and Reudic
There, now I just have to wait for the directional system to destabilize. Lloyd smirked triumphantly at the computer terminal. It was a patchwork job, but it was doing just what he expected. Across the car from him, Reudic hung motionless.
What’s his deal? Lloyd mused to himself. He’s just gotten a mass of information on an unfamilar world and culture and it’s doing nothing with it! It’s just hovering there, content to use its sudden wealth of knowledge for nothing more than fixing a speech impediment. If I was given that much insight...but Lloyd had been given that insight. Time and time again though countless stories and distorted plots. Lloyd had done everything from turning whole societies on their heads, to crashing neighborhood bake sales. Each time he’d enter a new story and know exactly what he was supposed to do, and then figure out exactly what he could do to watch the story crumble around him. Yet here was Reudic, in the exact same situation and it seemed perfectly content to follow along whatever plot lay before it.
Maybe he just doesn’t know. Maybe he needs a little push. Lloyd had a knack for giving characters “a little push”.In a Victorian romance, he’d start talking to the heroines about women’s rights. In a courtroom drama, he’d convince an innocent man of the benefits of a plea bargain. In a sea voyage, he’d show the captain the wonders of stamp collecting. It hardly took any real difficulty. Just introduce a flat character to something they had never considered before, and soon enough their actions cause the plot to crumble without any help from Lloyd. Of course Lloyd never felt guilty for this. They were all underdeveloped and single minded; he just rounded them out a bit.
Now Reudic, here was a character that was fully flushed. The details on his vines, his dangerous smell, all were very real and very unnerving to the protagonist. He appeared, however, apathetic, uncaring aside from basic survival. What was apathy if not lack of an opinion? From Lloyds experience, that was all you needed to receive that gentle push.
“Hey Rudy,” Lloyd began, “do you really plan to try and help that Reinhardt guy out?”
The viridioflorian’s vines slithered around Reudic’s core.
“If an opportunity presents itself, yes.”
“But how can you know you’re not just falling for somebody else’s scheme? All you’ve heard was some kind of transdimentional message. You can’t know anything about the guy.”
“If his message is false hope then I will pursue my original plan.”
“Which is?”
“Survive until the final round.”
Lloyd nodded. So he’s a survivalist...a passive survivalist. That may be enough, but I’d like a bit more.
“The final round huh? What do you think will happen then? You’ll get to go home? That our ‘grandmaster’ will grant you a wish?”
“How the Grandmaster will treat the winner is unknown, but given the constraints of this contest, that is the longest I could survive.”
“Oh come on. You expect me to buy that’s all you’re hoping for? To just live a few more hours? If I survive until the final round, I’d travel. Real places, none of that “Journey through Reading” crap you see in the forwards. The whole multiverse would be a giant playground!”
“I do not see the appeal.”
“But there has to be something you’d want to do! A nice, warm, quiet spot, saved just for you. A place where you are free to do as you will, without anyone shoving you about in some contest or plot?”
Reudic said nothing, but it was a vulnerable silence. Lloyd smiled internally. It was rare for a character to hold secrets from him; it made the challenge much more exciting.
“Do you know how many times I’ve found myself being bossed around by narrators and storytellers who never gave a moment to consider what I wanted to do? ‘Lloyd Conrad: Your name is Ishmael. Get on this boat.’ ‘Lloyd Conrad: Go see dinosaurs then run away.’ ‘Lloyd Conrad: Seduce this maiden then off yourself because she looks like she’s dead..’ Now, when I’m finally free of those oppressive narratives, I hear this: ‘Lloyd Conrad: Kill seven strangers and guess at what happens next.’
“I’ll tell you something.” Lloyd sat himself on a counter next to Reudic. “Who do you think a story belongs to? The Narrator? The Readers? No! It belongs to the characters. We are the ones who have to put up with every inane detail, every stifled conversation, every pointless command and plot point that serves no other purpose than to ‘develop character’ or ‘tell a morale’. Well I have a morale for you: There is no ‘Happy Ever After’. When the book ends, it just starts all over. And that is exactly what this battle will do. It will start over. Even if you win, you’ll just find yourself pushed around again, forced by someone else into their scheme that cares jack-diddly about you.”
The vines continued to coil and serpentine around Reudic. He’s listening, Lloyd thought, he may not realize it, but he understands.
“And your solution is to derail a train?” Reudic finally replied.
“Nah.” Lloyd shrugged. “I’m just biding my time. This train has stations it can dock at in other worlds, but you have to input highly complicated access codes to get there. From what I can tell, the people who have those access codes aren’t here anymore.”
“So why bother?”
“Because I have to. If I don’t add just a little chaos, chaos I put in motion, then everything will go according to narrative. We can’t have that. You gotta rock the boat before it can capsize.” He added, “Actually, you’d probably be the best for this.”
Reudic let go of the overhanging post and lowered itself onto the floor.
“You assume that I would care.”
“Of course you’d care!” Lloyd could not let this slip away. “If you refuse to change your story, everything will just repeat itself! You’ll never survive, you’ll never be left alone. You’ll...” but Reudic had already left the room.
Dang it. Lloyd shook his head.That was too forward. This is much harder when you don’t know everything about someone. Well, he returned to the console, at least the seed was planted.
--------------------
Exedric
“THEY WHAT!?”
Davis Drucker, CEO of Exedric’s security division, slammed his stubby palm down on the open file on his desk. He had not yet read the contents, but his chief R&D officer had just provided a rather concise summary of the thirty page report entitled: “Propensity of AI-CH4 Operation Beyond Accepted Protocol”.
“We knew that accelerated performance was a possibility of an untested AI system,” the researcher responded. “But you did say you wanted the best available.”
“Yes! The best available for KILLING THINGS! Not for…” he pulled out a photo from the file. “THIS! What is this?”
“That’s...a…a painting, sir.”
“And why are my hunterbots painting!?”
“Well, really it’s just that one. Others have taken up design, sightseeing, architecture…”
“Aaaaargh!” Drucker hurled the rest of the file into the researcher’s face, then paced over to the office window. From the window he could see the city, vast skyline full of unique designs, towering structures and hovering buildings. It comforted him knowing his company owned most of it. He wrapped his hands behind his back and stared down at the citizens below.
“Do you know why this is a bad for us?” Drucker sighed. “The government has taken great care--we have taken great care--to make certain that as both technology and demand increases, there will always be a defining line between people and the things they make. It’s about superiority. It’s about control.”
He gestured to the streets, as he continued his monologue. “They all need a bit of superiority. They all need a bit of control. Take that away from them, threaten what little power they have and they will fight back. And how would they fightt?” Drucker turned towards the researcher. “The government! They’re the ones who’ll be knocking down our doors, ready to take our heads if word of this gets out. Hundreds of hunterbots spread throughout the galaxy, any of which could go rogue at any time because someone made them a tad too sentient. Not to mention the possible information leaks these things could cause! That alone would be enough for bastards to try and kill us! Why…”
“Pardon my correction, sir,” the researcher interrupted. “But there aren’t ‘hundreds’ of hunterbots with this issue, only those with the new AI. About two dozen, I believe.”
The CEO furrowed his brow, confused, “Well, then…destroy them.”
“If I may, sir,” the researcher said. “The combat efficiencies of these units are beyond all previous models, AI-CH4 is quite effective. My team has developed a kernel program that theoretically, could subdue these…impulses…as long as a primary objective is in place, with minimal impact to their combat efficiency.”
Drucker gazed down to the file on the floor, then slowly walked back to his desk and sat down.
“Only two dozen?” he asked.
“Only two dozen.”
“And you’re certain we can keep tabs on them?”
“Absolutely.”
The CEO steepled his stubby fingers and looked up at the researcher. Drucker knew profit required risks, and he was a man who loved his profits.
--------------------
CH4-12-L13
Optics failing. Thermal interference. Motion limited. Mechanical obstruction. Targets: two. MISSION INCOMPLETE.
The attacks stopped, briefly. Audio sensors picked up conversation. Surrounding noise prevented interpretation. Two heartbeats registered. Charlie lunged and made contact, but not with the target. Something blocked his path. The heartbeats were muffled, moving farther away. Another foreign object was stuck to his tail. MISSION INCOMPLETE.
From the moment Dekowin’s death resulted in transportation to a new locale, Charlie’s systems determined that, given current data, completing the assassination of the Republic Chancellor required changing locations until a direct route to the primary target could be established. This entailed the execution of the remaining “contestants”, and thus made them his targets.
Of course he knew the probable futility of this plan; however, there were no practical alternatives. Until he could state with certainty that ‘The Chancellor is dead,’ MISSION INCOMPLETE would continue to plague his consciousness. Some small segment of his programming wished to give up, accept defeat, perhaps even end his existence; but whenever those suggestions began to appear, his thoughts would degrade, taking away whatever aspects made him Charlie and replacing it with MISSION INCOMPLETE.
Audio processing finished. Adjusted for background noise. Replaying:
Target label K: “I leave for ten minutes and you somehow find a bomb. Honestly, you guys are a real handful.”
Target label S: “Yeah yeah. Well we need to get rid of it. You have a teleportation spell or something?”
K: “Oh I can do better than that.”
S: “Hey!”
K: “Freezing Ray!”
S: “Tell me before you decide to chunk a bomb! Oh crap he’s charging! Shut the door shut the door!”
End of recording coincides with impact against obstruction.
They stuck a bomb to his tail? It could go off at any time, and now they were getting away. In his current state he probably would not survive the blast. MISSION INCOMPLETE. No he could still catch up, but if he waited…MISSION INCOMPLETE. He could try to disarm MISSION INCOMPLETE. Manipulate the MISSION INCOMPLETE. If only he could MISSION INCOMPLETE process MISSION INCOMPLETE could end it MISSION INCOMPLETE MISSION INCOMPLETE MISSION INCOMPLETE….
--------------------
Sarika and Karen try to not die
Sarika waited for Karen to finish the barrier spell on the car door. She wasn’t too comfortable with the idea of a bit of steel and a little magic being the only thing that separated them from an angry robot with a bomb on his back. Future-sight said the door stayed intact, however far into the future she was looking at least.
“You’re sure that can hold him?” Sarika asked.
“I would think so,” Karen replied, sliding her staff into a holster on her back. “Barrier spells like this are meant to reinforce the air around you to weaken enemy blows. I’ve never tried using it on steel before, but I think the effects improve with the material. Though I don’t think I’ll be able to cast much more of these unless I get a good rest.”
The train car tumbled once more. Sarika caught herself, though the constant shifting was making her ill.
“We should head back,” Karen said. “Wait for that bomb to go off. Maybe enjoy some of the…”
*THUD* Something, apparently Charlie, slammed against the reinforced door. Sarika blinked. The door was still intact in the future. *THUD* From what she could tell, Karen’s spell would keep it in place for a while. *THUD* Actually, the very fact that the door was still there meant the bomb didn’t affect this area. *THUD* Maybe that barrier was stronger than she thought.
*THUD* *THUD* *THUD*
A quick series of armor slamming against steel echoed through the car, increasing in intensity and frequency. Sarika supposed Charlie was getting frustrated. As she turned to peek through the other door, just to check on the remaining cars, the slamming stopped.
“Looks like it held pretty well!” Karen smirked “I guess he’s stuck back…”
“We need to leave, now.” Sarika interrupted, and rushed towards the door.
“What? What do you see?”
The feathered seer motioned to the ceiling-turned-wall, “Pretty soon this is going to have a huge robot sized hole in it, blown in from the outside.”
“But how could--?”
*thud* *thud* *thud*
The slamming of metal on metal started up once more, but against somewhere other than the sealed door. Karen’s eyes widened in understanding as the sound of a buzzsaw emanated from the captive robot’s room. Quickly the two rushed though the door and into another passenger car. They continued racing through the car, but an unexpected roar engulfed the room and the train rocketed upwards just before Sarika reached the next door. Karen tumbled backwards through a pair of chess playing arachnids as Sarika caught herself on the chair of a well dressed slime mold browsing through the daily paper.
“So what was your plan before you stuck a bomb to him?” Sarika shouted down to Karen over the rocket-like roar.
“I jammed my sword through his chassis!” Karen shouted back, as she climbed through the various passengers. “It’s infused with about a hundred fireball spells! One more, and it will overload!”
“What do you mean ‘overload’?”
Karen shrugged, “Supernova?”
She reached the top as Sarika stared at her incredulously.
“You gave--Ack!”
The train twisted backwards causing the pair to land, backs against the ceiling-floor.
Sarika continued. “You gave a sword that explodes on contact with fire to a robot with a flamethrower?”
Karen frowned. “Does he have a flamethrower? I couldn’t remember!”
“Lets go!” Sarika shouted. The distinct sound of a buzzsaw ripping through metal screeched behind her as sparks flew in her periphery.
The two ran into the next car, slamming the door behind them. Sarika blinked, and quickly shut her eyes again. Nothingness. Whatever was about to happen would take out this car. The train spun around once more--This time the floor was the floor. Not missing the chance, Karen and Sarika sprinted to the next room. Sarika looked into the future again. This car was destroyed as well? She didn’t see anything engulfed in flames so she could only assume it was the briefcase-bomb and not the sword-bomb that caused this.
Karen rushed past Sarika, but the seer grabbed hold of her. Something wasn’t right. When she found the bomb, she knew it took out the car it was in, but the cars ahead of it were safe. How many cars were between her and the others now? Five? Six? They had attached the bomb to Charlie so…
“We can’t keep running!” Sarika explained, “We froze the bomb to Charlie and he’s following us. If he chases us to the end, the bomb will take out everyone.”
“Wait...my bomb or your bomb?”
“Why does that mat--”
“I’d probably had to have knocked out five guys to fly it this well!”
“I don’t even want to know what you mean by that. How are the girls doing?”
“Oh they’re still running, Charlie’s chasing them though.”
“He’s what!? I told you to let me know what was happening!”
“Shhhhh! Shh shh shh! I think they can hear us! Hey ladies can you hear us?”
Both Lloyd and Marcus’ voice boomed through the walls of the train. Sarika glanced back worriedly at the shut door.
“Lloyd! Where are you?” Karen shouted. “Can you see Charlie?”
“Sorry!” Lloyd’s voice echoed back “Can’t hear you. I’ve only got a visual. Marcus and I are up in the cabin. He’s activated the emergency thrusters and managed to stabilize us, so we have a nice ride ahead. Oh, Charlie is clawing his way into the car behind you and has these glowy red lights on him. I guess he’s pretty mad. Anyway we’ll see which ever one of you makes it in the next round!”
“What!?” Karen screamed back at the intercom
“What! Lloyd, let me see that!” Marcus’ voice shouted. “Sarika. Karen. Move ahead into the next car and listen to me.”
Sarika and Karen exchanged glances and hurried into the next car, making sure the door was shut behind them. Through the roar of the thrusters they could hear a clamor of buzzsaw and chaingun as the enraged Charlie blindly tore through the obstacles in his way.
Marcus’ voice continued, “I think I’ve found the controls for disconnecting the cars, but I’m not sure which one disconnects what. I need to you let me know what will happen if I activate one.”
Sarika nodded. If Marcus disconnected the car separating them from Charlie, then everything in this car would be fine. If he didn’t, then Charlie would find them, the bomb would go off and the car wouldn’t exist anymore. A simple, albeit life-threatening plan. Sarika blinked.
“Here we go!”
There was nothing, just empty blackness and the glimmer of rails in the far distance.
“No!” Sarika cried out, flailing her arms.
“Alright try number two.”
The car suddenly materialized, its future having changed. The shift in momentum ripped through the seer’s head, but the room was inact, so she signaled for Marcus to disconnect the car. Turning around to check the car more thoroughly, she screamed. The vision of her fragile form impaled under Charlie’s claw forced her to change back to present-sight.
“There goes the caboose!” Lloyd shouted.
“Karen, come on!” Sarika motioned for the role-player to advance to the next car. Okay, she thought, if we disconnect the car we’re on, we die by explosion. If we wait in one car too long, we die by killer robot. Disconnecting a car far behind us looks the same as disconnecting the one right behind us. There was only one way to know for sure. Switching back to future-sight, Sarika braced herself against the exit door and peered through a small viewport. Visions flew past her, blood covered walls, an expanse of nothingness, a blinding inferno. Her head reeled from the constant changes in momentum. From floating in space, to racing to her death, she struggled to keep her focus.
Suddenly she saw it, the car around her intact and looking out into a view of the black beyond.
“Yes! That one! Flip that one!” she shouted and flapped her wings.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“That’s a yes!”
A solid KA-CLACK sprung from the other side of the door. As Sarika blinked, she saw the car behind her fade off into the distance.
--------------------
Lillian meets Reudic
While Marcus worked to gain control of the train, Lillian found herself snugly secured against Burden’s orange-tinted gut. Whenever the train jostled a bit (such as when Marcus twisted it upside-down), Burden would slide or fall and take the impact with a gentle thump. He suffered quite a few thumps before the train leveled out, but if they affected him at all, Lillian could not tell.
There was another creature in the car with them. Lillian suspected she had seen it before but could not quite place where. It seemed more plant-like than anything else. Large vines with menacing thorns wrapped casually around fixtures in the car. The creature had no face, much like a rosebush would have no face, though the vines seemed to entangle more tightly around its center. Lillian would have assumed it was simply a plant, with its thorn covered tendrils and deceptively sweet smelling flowers. It moved, however, much more like an animal, and Lillian thought she had seen one of the others speak to it earlier.
At the moment, the train was flying quite smoothly and Lillian realized it was actually a quite comfortable place to be when you were not flying about and changing directions every few seconds. She had heard Lloyd and Marcus yelling something about ‘disconnecting cars’ and someone named ‘Charlie’ who was apparently not in a very good mood. She refused to pay much attention, however, on account of who was speaking.
Burden released Lillian with a dull “There you go”, and the curious girl approached the barbed stranger, despite the Spirit’s reservations.
“You don’t know that,” she muttered to one in her charm. “He’s probably quite friendly. Perhaps he even knows Burden. Besides...” She trailed off, keeping her thoughts to herself. At least he’s not Marcus.
Lillian stopped a few steps away from the vine-creature. The scent of those flowers were even more wonderful up close! Perhaps it will let me make a bouquet, she thought. Shame for all of those thorns, though, if it wasn’t for them it would be a much more attractive creature.
Meanwhile, the Spirit watched uneasily. There was not much to sense from the creature. It seemed to care little about anything, though there was some turmoil working within it. What worried the Spirit worse though, was that this creature was in fact a contestant in this ‘battle’. If the Spirit recalled correctly, it possessed a capacity for illusion and was predatory by design. Up until now, the others had acted either protective or indifferent towards Lillian, but most of them had once been young themselves and sympathized with the still small girl. This one shared none of that compassion. However it would act towards Lillian would be cold, impersonal, and unfeeling.
“Hello, my name is Lillian.”
The vines shifted casually, loosening their grip on the now stable train.
“What is your name?” Lillian continued.
“We have already been introduced. You are either confused or amusing yourself.”
The creature spoke! Quite well, in fact. The crisp articulated tone originated from somewhere within its thorn-guarded center. Lillian smiled, somewhat relieved. For a moment she had thought this creature might only talk by writing. While she was an excellent reader, holding an entire conversation though pen and paper would have been exceptionally tedious.
“I do feel like I should know you from somewhere,” Lillian responded, “but we have definitely not been introduced. I don’t even know your name!”
“Do you mean to say that you have not introduced yourself? I am familiar with the custom but I believed it was sufficient for a third party to preform the formality.”
“I mean to say that I have never seen you before and, as I said, I do not know your name!”
“I see...”
The creature trailed off as Lillian waited impatiently for a response.
This is hardly what I expected. I mean, I’m not certain what I expected from a talking rose bush but I figured it would at least show the courtesy to introduce itself. The Spirit sensed Lillian’s frustration and suggested casually that the child return to more pleasant company. Lillian would have done just that, had the creature not decided to respond at last.
“My name is Reudic Otsaceae. Yours is Lillian Finch. Had I been more aware of human states of consciousness at the time, I would have recognized that you were sleeping during our introduction. Though, it is unexpected that the others would not have explained our situation to you.”
Lillian stared dumbfounded at Reudic.
“How did?” she stammered. “What situation?”
“We are to fight to the death.” was the callous reply.
Lillian shook her head. “I...I don’t understand.”
“A being who did not identify himself transported each of us from our homes, and instructed us to kill one another until a single survivor remained. We then received an introduction and were transported to a testing facility. I assume you woke up sometime after this. When the creature called ‘Dekowin’ was killed, the requirement for that round was satisfied and we were then transported here. I am uncertain why you were not aware of the message our captor offered us upon entering the train.”
“I...” Lillian’s began to feel dizzy, far dizzier than she did when the train was tumbling. Instructed to kill? Dekowin...requirment? But how did...why didn’t...I... Lillian fainted, although briefly. The Spirit caught her limp body and eased her into a sitting position in front of the viridioflorian. The charm-bound protector had known Lillian would find out, though it dearly hoped she would not. It had thought, perhaps somehow, she could still be spared this truth, that the protection and love of her village and family had been ripped so cruelly from her. If this was all simply an adventure, simply a fairy tale, Lillian would remain unscathed. The Spirit had prepared itself to protect the child from all manner of assaults Reudic could impose, but it had no means of guarding against this.
--------------------
Marcus’ apology
The mercenary leaned forward in his pilot’s chair. Through the monitor, Marcus watched the lights from the disconnected cars fade away into the distance. A quick course correction had moved the train away from its latter half which continued speeding through the frictionless void. Now it was simply a matter of waiting for the bomb to go off and keeping the train steady.
Next to him, Lloyd sat, reclined with feet up on the dashboard, casually twirling a pen in his hand while he waited for the next round to begin. Turning to the monitor, Marcus flipped through the rooms, checking on the others. Sarika was crouched on the floor, bracing herself with her staff, while Karen rummaged through her pockets, taking note of her inventory.
Must have been rough on her, Marcus thought. She just looks so fragile...though she is more dependable than anyone else here. I’ll have to make it up to her later.
The screen flipped forward a few cars. There, the stoic Reudic hovered motionless, supported by a few vines. Kneeling on the ground nearby was Burden, a spindly hand placed gingerly on Lillian’s back. Marcus studied the young girl. She looks...shellshocked. Probably smacked her head on something, oh well.
The mercenary switched off the monitor and directed his attention towards piloting the train through the vast fields of the void. The task was too tedious, however, and his mind drifted back to the distraught looking girl.
No, she shouldn’t have hit her head. That ghost or whatever would take care of that. Is she still upset about...
Marcus looked back at Lloyd, now doodling something on his palm. Karen was equipping herself. Sarikia was trying to manage what was probably a terrible headache. Everyone is preparing for the next round, trying to survive, wondering who we’ll have to kill.
For a moment, Marcus thought about their situation, what it meant, what was bound to happen, and what he had to say. He shook his head. This is going to sound so stupid.
“Hey. Everyone.”
Marcus’ voice echoed through the train. Neither he nor Lloyd could figure out how to shut off the intercom, so they had been simply keeping silent. As his rough voice addressed the train, Lloyd shot him an inquisitive glare.
“Listen,” he continued. “This whole ‘fight to the death’, it’s a sick joke. I’ve fought...I’ve killed...for a lot of different things: money, but also for pride, and if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you never take a job that stinks, and this job stinks the worst.”
Oh god this is going awful.
Lloyd raised an eyebrow, and Marcus hastily pulled the monitor between them, switching it on to show the curious faces of the others.
“What I mean to say is: I’m not taking part in this stupid game anymore. And I don’t expect any of you to ether. From this point on, we’re a unit. We’re all comrades-in-arms and I’m going to fight to make sure every last one of us makes it out alive!”
He thought he heard Lloyd snicker but he could hardly care. He barely believed what he was saying himself. This thing that was sending them across the multiverse was practically untouchable. If it wanted, it could simply obliterate them, or worse.
But then there was Lillian. He could see her glare through the viewing screen and he knew exactly what she must be thinking.
“Dekowin,” as he said the Volkhanbet’s name, Lillian’s glare intensified and a scowl, much less put on than before, covered her face. “She made her choice. She decided to kill or be killed. Honestly, I agreed, and if I had hesitated, it would be her here instead of me. I’m not sorry for what I did, but...I wouldn’t have it go down the same way, if I had the choice.”
On the montior, Sarika and Karen glanced awkwardly at one another. Lillian’s expression softened as tears began to flow down her tiny cheeks. The long finger of Burden wiped away a tear, and Marcus turned away from the monitor once more.
Lloyd watched him for a moment, shrugged, and returned to his doodle.
Welp, thought Marcus, there goes pride. He glanced back at the sobbing child. Damn, I hate kids.
--------------------
Burden’s farewell
Lillian tried to hold back the tears. She could not be angry at Marcus, though she wished dearly to be. She wanted someone or something to blame for what she now knew. The Spirit had told her what Reudic said was the truth. Why did it lie to her? Why didn’t it let her know sooner? Oh and Burden! Sweet, gentle dreaming Burden, who still did not understand, who could not understand. How could someone who dreams such wonderful dreams know what it is to be scared and alone and betrayed. What about the others? What about Sarika? Did she know? Was the woman with the soft comforting feathers meant to attack her as well?
Marcus had said it would not happen again. He said he would fight to keep from killing, from dying. Lillian hated those words. Before they were forlorn things meant to tell rotten jokes or sorrowful stories, but now they loomed above her with the gravity of a fate so very real, a fate she had already seen befall someone she would have called a friend.
“Why, Burden?” she sobbed. “Why is the world so terrible? Just when you’ve learned one horrid thing you find out there is another even worse!”
The warm low “Hmmmmm” emanated from the dreamer’s wide mouth. His grin was gone, and reflected in his eyes, the tear of the small girl glistened off his hand.
“I once dreamed of a wanderer,” his yawn-like speech began, “She carried a wooden cane. Someone asked her ‘What comes after the end?’ She pointed to the stars and said, ‘The End never ends.’.”
Lillian had stopped sobbing, listening to Burden’s story. She glared distrustfully at him.
“That’s a terrible moral. It’s too depressing.”
“Is it?” the frog-man hummed. “After that dream, every dream seemed a little bit brighter.”
The train car sat in silence. The rockets had been cut off, the intercom was quiet, and everyone was left with their thoughts.
After several long moments, Burden spoke again.
“It is time for you to go,” Lillian began to protest but Burden continued. “and time for me to sleep once more.”
“Will....will I ever see you again, Burden?” Lillian pleaded. “Or...is this the end?”
“Hmmmmmm, perhaps.”
Far off in the distance, on a train car speeding into nothingness, a bomb exploded.
--------------------
Charlie revisited
MISSION INCOMPLETE. They were gone now. MISSION INCOMPLETE. There was no way to catch up. MISSION INCOMPLETE. He analyzed the weight on his tail. It was about to MISSION INCOMPLETE. His optics were damaged. If he had time maybe he could repair them, though the sword was soldered to his side. He would not get that out alone. MISSION INCOMPLETE. He had a few thousand years left in his power supply, but to end like this? MISSION INCOMPLETE. I wonder, he thought, for a moment uninterrupted, if there was more time, what I would have done.