Re: Grand Battle S3G1! (Round Three: Caelo Ruinam)
12-12-2012, 06:11 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
Lady Midday was not precisely an omniscient or an oracular figure—if she were, she might have noticed the inevitability of her own defeat and demise, programmed into the fabric of her universe—but one doesn’t get into her position without at least a degree of affinity with causality, a twinkle in the eye suggesting a capacity to see beyond one’s immediate surroundings. This sixth sense, though apparently no good for catching people sneaking into her bedroom, attuned her to a rapid confluence of portentous events.
Event the First:
The heat from the Flux Core was beginning to singe the the pages of the Caelo Ruinam Operator’s Manual as Gareth laid it to the ground in front of him, reading by the bubbling light of the fortress’ power source. Gareth’s hair, for that matter, was also beginning to let off a bit of smoke. Tock, noticing the environmental danger to his teammate, stepped in front of the mana-active core, absorbing the emissions through his breastplate and releasing them from his ear in a cloud of steam. O’Keele kept to the rafters, bowstring drawn tight.
It was a simple spell to repair the pages of the Operator’s Manual, which had been shredded by a paranoid librarian and scattered all over the Grand Library. The spells contained within the tome, however, were more obtuse. Gareth looked over the runes three times and uncertainly began the chant that he thought would shut off the Core. “Caelus entirini quequiquuquolluque forty-nine nungol f∆ssø rui—”
Something large and feathery and acidic and extremely pissed-off burst into the control center and shrieked bloody murder. Gareth swallowed the spell in his throat, hacking up a green glob of mana phlegm that sprouted legs and began begging for death in the voice of an infant. O’Keele loosed his bow. The arrow glanced off the dracodactyl’s skull, coming just an inch wide of right-between-the-eyes and denying the battle a speedy resolution. Tock whirled around and transferred the thaumathermal energy he was absorbing into his fist, winding up for his signature right hook.
Jetsam landed on the floor in front of Gareth, surveying his situation. He still hadn’t quite pushed this body to its limit, he felt. Now, he would probably need to.
The traveler charged. Battle was joined.
Event the Second:
Nearly anybody with a soul can tell a dead body from a live one just by looking at it. For Baghim, however, the moment of Alex’s death was something beyond that. Her body—and, more to the point, her intrinsic self—had been his canvas for the entire time they’d been journeying together. He’d always been there to strengthen her and fix her up whenever she needed him, and she’d protected and supported him in turn. The bond they shared was a thing of parts—he was her confessor, her doctor, her therapist, her friend, and, most intimately of all, he was her personal magician. When her soul left her body he could see it as easily as he could hear the snap of her neck breaking and Sir Dorukomets muttering ”No, no, no, no, no, no” while cradling her body. When she died all his fingers went numb and all the Gods went silent.
Still, there were protocols to be observed in this situation. And Baghim was a Cleric, capital-C, liaison between the sublime and the grotesque, envoy of the heavens to the battlefield. Shaking, he raised his staff.
A sphere of radiant light appeared around Alex’s body, pushing Sir Dorukomets away. Alex floated into the air, and her chainmail-and-leather armor faded away, replaced by a long white dress accented in green runes. Baghim tilted his staff downward, and the body drifted to the floor and through it, her passage marked only by a faintly radiant rune marking the ground.
The consecration complete, the cleric readied for battle. Runes flickered in the air around Huebert and Tor like lightning, bolstering their armor, raising their heart rates, enhancing their weaponry, and curing them of all negative status conditions.
In Tor’s case, this instantly dispelled the lingering influence of the kalamritul. Everything snapped into focus. Memories of his subjugation and humiliation in the previous round came flooding back to him. He experienced a surge of anger and irritation that he struggled to suppress until the present tensions resolved themselves.
Baghim made eye contact with the octopus as she took up her own chanting and gesturing, harmonizing with him, setting the stage for the inevitable combat. Before Tor began rifling through the item bag again, before Huebert fired his rifle at Dorukomets, before Tykidu took to the air and dove, the cleric and Gimeri had already realized the battle in words and songs, in dead languages, undead languages, stillborn languages and languages that never existed at all. The conflict became material in the form of a story, one with larger-than-life characters, one in which actions and consequences play out in metaphorical rather than literal terms, one in which the good guys always win. The stories clung to the walls and to the flesh of the combatants and to the space between the shafts of light streaming in from the skylight, and they spoke to anyone who would listen.
The stories told that this was the day when Alexandra fro Reinhau died.
The stories told that this would be the day when Sir Dorukomets would wield the Gauntlet of Genko.
The stories told of bloodshed.
Tor grabbed a sharp purple crystal out of the bag and jabbed it under Tykidu’s wing as the bird’s beak slashed him across the shoulder. Something crackled, space bent in a way it oughtn’t have, and Tykidu crashed into the floor, bent and broken. Baghim and Gimeri continued to whisper at each other from opposite sides of the room, like nostalgic ex-lovers. Huebert fired his rifle at Dorukomets. Dorukomets held out his hand.
The plasma bolt disappeared into the Gauntlet of Genko. Sir Dorukomets’ arm began to glow as the legendary weapon sprung to life. The story in the air grew frantic, wavering between legend and cautionary tale and romance and tragedy.
Event the Third!
Between the recent hustle of barked orders and mysterious newcomers, plus the knowledge that they were standing on top of a swiftly-recharging solar-powered apocalypse weapon, everybody could tell instinctively that battle was on the horizon. The overeager, sex-starved members of Lady Midday’s honor guard were making sure to prepare for this endeavor as conspicuously as possible, attempting to out-do each other in the realm of loyalty and professionalism. Some meditated, hyperventilated, flexed, demonstrated their ability to break a sweat at will. Others cleaned their weapons, prepared emergency ritual scrolls, had themselves fitted for mechs. In the public showers the men lathered themselves in oils and moisturizers; at the mess hall they drank protein shakes and injected themselves with designer stimulants; at the sink they applied war paint and tasteful mascara. One sat at a table and stuck dozens of pins into his arm, trying and failing to get someone to make eye contact with him or ask what he was doing. They sat on their beds reading bank statements, pretending that they were letters from old sweethearts. They hugged each other, breathing heavily, rubbing the muscles on each other’s backs as though searching for the buttons that would turn on the profound camaraderie.
All of the honor guard estimated inwardly that about fifty percent of them were going to die. None of them assumed that they themselves would be among that number. Each of them was gearing themselves up for a self-conscious display of survivor’s guilt and a glut of rewards, honors and favors from Lady Midday. This accounted for the awkwardness in their interactions. Among the rank-and-file, where everyone was certain that they were personally going to be murdered, there was not so much pretense. They ate their food and shouldered their guns and made small talk and waited for the order. The conversations among these soldiers all went the same way: they would ask where each other was from, trying to place each other’s accents, their fashions; they would fumble about attempting to understand the cultures of each other’s home nations, wondering at the cosmopolitan nature of the sky-fortress. Many of these soldiers had never left their hometowns before signing up for Midday’s revolutionary army, lured less by promises of riches and glory than by the desire to get out, to get away from parents and stepparents and older brothers and ex-girlfriends, to see the world, to get away from their own lives. They were now beginning to realize that the world was full of places full of people who wanted to leave, and that this fundamental principle of hometown repulsion was the energy that had always fueled the engines of war. There was nothing special about any of them except that a lucky few might end up with a window seat in the mass grave.
Among the other workers—the medics, the secretaries, the drivers, the technicians, the construction and demolition crews, the priests, the errand boys and mail wenches, the chefs and repairmen and quality control specialists—death was an insipid presence, something that had been breathing on the back of their necks and was now moaning quietly while giving them a backrub. At some point their job offers had become jobs, their jobs had become lives, their lives had become sources of guilt and fear and torment. This was not their war, but they were a part of it now. Their response was to pretend this was like every other day, getting the work done, talking about sports teams and dissertations, pretending to ignore the sensation of Death beginning to sensually nibble on their earlobes.
The green scofflaw, being largely incapable of empathy, assumed that the same message applied equally to all of these groups. He routed it through intercoms, radios, chatrooms and word of mouth, doing his best to make sure it stopped just short of Lady Midday’s chambers:
”Attention, servants of Lady Midday: This is Greenman, here to inform you that your mistress is no longer capable of compensating you for your services. You will find that your payscrolls have bounced. I repeat: your payscrolls are void. The financial contract holding together your obligation towards Lady Midday is at an end.
Owing to this circumstance, I strongly suggest that you appropriate your small arms, artillery, vehicles, and other assorted instruments of martial power and turn them against Lady Midday. Appropriate this fortress to do with as you see fit, free of her influence. I can promise a five hundred thousand gilderupee reward to anyone who can prove that she is dead. Thank you for listening. Once more, this is Greenman, over and out.”
By the time the message concluded, hundreds of soldiers and employees were already pulling out their payscrolls in a panic and scribbling in the “X” that completed the “Cash” rune on the dotted line. One by one, the payscrolls reached out mystically to a computer bank that had been rendered incapable of lending any credit, and burst unceremoniously into flame, occasionally leaving behind chunks of pyrite or charcoal in place of the precious coins they were meant to deposit.
Unrest set in. Some soldiers threw down their guns, others raised them up. Some mechs were activated, others were shut off. The illusion of a well-oiled machine, of a higher purpose, of an inevitable death was shattered. Those who chose to remain loyal to their lady attempted to retain order, some through reason, others through violence. The violence begot violence and the reason largely begot violence. Chaos descended upon Ruinam.
Lady Midday, suffering a splitting migraine of cosmic narrative alignment, sighed and dropped the cephalopod to the ground with a plish. “Very well,” she said.
TinTen was surprised and puzzled by this act of mercy on the strange woman’s part. Perhaps her show of violence had been merely another facet of her bravado, like her ostentatious outfit. Perhaps she could actually be an ally. He rose carefully to his feet, recognizing her obvious power. “Apologize for rude introduction. Name is TinTen Naamxe.” A few lies rolled around in his head, but he suspected dishonesty would only make things worse here. “Seeking personal vendetta against man somewhere on this station.”
“Hmm. Hold that thought.” Midday looked over to the door and, as if on cue, heard a knock. “Come in!” she called out in a mockingly singsong voice, looking at TinTen and rolling her eyes.
A shirtless and heavily tattooed member of the Honor Guard burst forth into the room. “My lady!” he cried, bending to one knee. “There’s been a situation. Do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to safety.”
“The honor would be mine, good soldier,” replied the witch, supplicant, placing a single fingertip under the man’s chin and lifting his head up to meet her gaze. “There’s no need to stand on formality here,” she whispered.
The soldier shuddered. “Of... of course not, my lady,” he stammered.
Looking into Lady Midday’s eyes was dizzying, like standing at the edge of a cliff and looking down. He held eye contact for five seconds, then blinked, at which point his eyes lowered briefly to her breasts, then to his sidearm. His fingertips twitched in the direction of his holster.
Midday drove her fingernail through his jugular so hard that both of his eyes popped out. “Idiot,” she spat, turning back to TinTen. “I seem to have a revolution on my hands,” she told him. “Help me get out of this place and I will give you anything you desire.”
TinTen considered this. Given the information he knew, if this woman held a position of power in this fortress she was likely allied with some tyrannical or otherwise evil force. To aid her would be to stand in the way of justice, impose his own ends to the detriment of this world.
However, last time he had made a moral stand based on the politics of one of the Fool’s battlefields, it had set him up for exploitation. Plus, that world had proven only to be a simulation, peopled by simplistic constructs, devoid of any real life. Conscience aside, his factoring in the greater good for each of these worlds was assuredly a weakness both in the Fool’s battle and his personal war on Scofflaw. In any case, if the current revolt was enough to make this “Lady” fear for her safety, then she likely didn’t have enough power to continue in whatever sins would make her deserve to die in the first place.
“Define ‘anything,’” he requested.
* * * * *
Velobo stood transfixed as an enraged Sir Dorukomets balled a fist, the power of the Gauntlet holding Huebert in place. Being a being of hard edges, he was not good at solving moral conundrums. On the one hand, Sir Dorukomets was his ally, a creature of Good, a hero among his people. On the other hand, he had killed Alex, and even if he hadn’t meant to, he had been acting angry and irrational. And now, clearly, nobody seemed interested in doing anything to calm the situation down and continue on their shared mission.
Also complicating that issue was that the hard-headed courage of the Plazmuth was being sorely tempted in the face of the power of the Gauntlet, which had now summoned a trio of spectral hands, each of which was restraining one of Dorukomets’ opponents. “Everyone stop,” he mumbled.
No one heard. The Gauntlet of Genko was making a noise somewhere between a mechanical buzz and an opera. Tor was cursing in an unrecognizable language. Gimeri tended to Tykidu. Dorukomets tightened his grip on Tor, Huebert, and Baghim. Something on the cleric’s body made a popping sound that made Velobo wince.
“I said cut this out!” the Plazmuth repeated.
Dorukomets turned towards his new ally. ”Why should I?” he demanded, voice quivering. ”Am I not the master of the Gauntlet of Genko? Am I not the strongest?” The knight loomed over Velobo menacingly. ”Have these interlopers not invoked my ire time and time again, when I only wanted...” He clutched four of his arms to his chestplate and one to his helmet, the hand holding the Gauntlet of Genko thrust out to one side. ”There is always glory in combat,” he concluded.
Velobo tried to meet the knight’s eyes, hidden as they were under his visor. “There’s no ‘glory’ in being a... a bully,” he decided. “I’m sorry that you... what happened to that girl, but don’t you have, you know, bad guys to fight?”
Dorukomets scowled.
* * * * *
”The man you’re describing is dead,” said Midday flatly.
Someone kicked at the door. The barricade—Midday’s bedframe, her wardrobe, and a shimmering magical seal—held. “Lying,” snapped TinTen.
“I watched him die not an hour ago.”
“Wrong, then. Would know if Scofflaw were dead.”
Midday considered this. “If he faked his death somehow and were acting against me, that might explain this... dissent.” There was another kick on the door, followed by a gunshot and a low moan. The sound of a corpse hitting the door and then sliding slowly to the ground. Midday licked her lips. “I never should have hired him.”
“Scofflaw’s modus operandi. Infiltrate a system. Betray. Deceive. Undermine. Sow chaos. Destroy, rebuild, subjugate. Works like a cancer. Must be extracted.”
“Hmm.” Midday looked into the Meipi’s goggles, searching for an ulterior motive. TinTen felt a trace of magic—despicable word!—float into a corner of his brain and sink its hooks in. Too much exposure to this woman could be dangerous. “If he’s still in the fortress I’ll find him and kill him after I get to safety. That won’t be a problem. If he’s crossed me already, I’ll even enjoy it.”
TinTen asked the question he knew it would be unwise to ask. “Why need me at all? Seem to have sufficient power to fight way through alone.”
“Maybe,” said Midday, smiling. “Don’t worry your hideous squishy head about my plan. I have a plan for you.”
She snapped her finger and the bed and wardrobe floated gently back to their original positions. The lock on the door clicked. TinTen clutched his gun uncertainly.
Lady Midday was not precisely an omniscient or an oracular figure—if she were, she might have noticed the inevitability of her own defeat and demise, programmed into the fabric of her universe—but one doesn’t get into her position without at least a degree of affinity with causality, a twinkle in the eye suggesting a capacity to see beyond one’s immediate surroundings. This sixth sense, though apparently no good for catching people sneaking into her bedroom, attuned her to a rapid confluence of portentous events.
Event the First:
The heat from the Flux Core was beginning to singe the the pages of the Caelo Ruinam Operator’s Manual as Gareth laid it to the ground in front of him, reading by the bubbling light of the fortress’ power source. Gareth’s hair, for that matter, was also beginning to let off a bit of smoke. Tock, noticing the environmental danger to his teammate, stepped in front of the mana-active core, absorbing the emissions through his breastplate and releasing them from his ear in a cloud of steam. O’Keele kept to the rafters, bowstring drawn tight.
It was a simple spell to repair the pages of the Operator’s Manual, which had been shredded by a paranoid librarian and scattered all over the Grand Library. The spells contained within the tome, however, were more obtuse. Gareth looked over the runes three times and uncertainly began the chant that he thought would shut off the Core. “Caelus entirini quequiquuquolluque forty-nine nungol f∆ssø rui—”
Something large and feathery and acidic and extremely pissed-off burst into the control center and shrieked bloody murder. Gareth swallowed the spell in his throat, hacking up a green glob of mana phlegm that sprouted legs and began begging for death in the voice of an infant. O’Keele loosed his bow. The arrow glanced off the dracodactyl’s skull, coming just an inch wide of right-between-the-eyes and denying the battle a speedy resolution. Tock whirled around and transferred the thaumathermal energy he was absorbing into his fist, winding up for his signature right hook.
Jetsam landed on the floor in front of Gareth, surveying his situation. He still hadn’t quite pushed this body to its limit, he felt. Now, he would probably need to.
The traveler charged. Battle was joined.
Event the Second:
Nearly anybody with a soul can tell a dead body from a live one just by looking at it. For Baghim, however, the moment of Alex’s death was something beyond that. Her body—and, more to the point, her intrinsic self—had been his canvas for the entire time they’d been journeying together. He’d always been there to strengthen her and fix her up whenever she needed him, and she’d protected and supported him in turn. The bond they shared was a thing of parts—he was her confessor, her doctor, her therapist, her friend, and, most intimately of all, he was her personal magician. When her soul left her body he could see it as easily as he could hear the snap of her neck breaking and Sir Dorukomets muttering ”No, no, no, no, no, no” while cradling her body. When she died all his fingers went numb and all the Gods went silent.
Still, there were protocols to be observed in this situation. And Baghim was a Cleric, capital-C, liaison between the sublime and the grotesque, envoy of the heavens to the battlefield. Shaking, he raised his staff.
A sphere of radiant light appeared around Alex’s body, pushing Sir Dorukomets away. Alex floated into the air, and her chainmail-and-leather armor faded away, replaced by a long white dress accented in green runes. Baghim tilted his staff downward, and the body drifted to the floor and through it, her passage marked only by a faintly radiant rune marking the ground.
The consecration complete, the cleric readied for battle. Runes flickered in the air around Huebert and Tor like lightning, bolstering their armor, raising their heart rates, enhancing their weaponry, and curing them of all negative status conditions.
In Tor’s case, this instantly dispelled the lingering influence of the kalamritul. Everything snapped into focus. Memories of his subjugation and humiliation in the previous round came flooding back to him. He experienced a surge of anger and irritation that he struggled to suppress until the present tensions resolved themselves.
Baghim made eye contact with the octopus as she took up her own chanting and gesturing, harmonizing with him, setting the stage for the inevitable combat. Before Tor began rifling through the item bag again, before Huebert fired his rifle at Dorukomets, before Tykidu took to the air and dove, the cleric and Gimeri had already realized the battle in words and songs, in dead languages, undead languages, stillborn languages and languages that never existed at all. The conflict became material in the form of a story, one with larger-than-life characters, one in which actions and consequences play out in metaphorical rather than literal terms, one in which the good guys always win. The stories clung to the walls and to the flesh of the combatants and to the space between the shafts of light streaming in from the skylight, and they spoke to anyone who would listen.
The stories told that this was the day when Alexandra fro Reinhau died.
The stories told that this would be the day when Sir Dorukomets would wield the Gauntlet of Genko.
The stories told of bloodshed.
Tor grabbed a sharp purple crystal out of the bag and jabbed it under Tykidu’s wing as the bird’s beak slashed him across the shoulder. Something crackled, space bent in a way it oughtn’t have, and Tykidu crashed into the floor, bent and broken. Baghim and Gimeri continued to whisper at each other from opposite sides of the room, like nostalgic ex-lovers. Huebert fired his rifle at Dorukomets. Dorukomets held out his hand.
The plasma bolt disappeared into the Gauntlet of Genko. Sir Dorukomets’ arm began to glow as the legendary weapon sprung to life. The story in the air grew frantic, wavering between legend and cautionary tale and romance and tragedy.
Event the Third!
Between the recent hustle of barked orders and mysterious newcomers, plus the knowledge that they were standing on top of a swiftly-recharging solar-powered apocalypse weapon, everybody could tell instinctively that battle was on the horizon. The overeager, sex-starved members of Lady Midday’s honor guard were making sure to prepare for this endeavor as conspicuously as possible, attempting to out-do each other in the realm of loyalty and professionalism. Some meditated, hyperventilated, flexed, demonstrated their ability to break a sweat at will. Others cleaned their weapons, prepared emergency ritual scrolls, had themselves fitted for mechs. In the public showers the men lathered themselves in oils and moisturizers; at the mess hall they drank protein shakes and injected themselves with designer stimulants; at the sink they applied war paint and tasteful mascara. One sat at a table and stuck dozens of pins into his arm, trying and failing to get someone to make eye contact with him or ask what he was doing. They sat on their beds reading bank statements, pretending that they were letters from old sweethearts. They hugged each other, breathing heavily, rubbing the muscles on each other’s backs as though searching for the buttons that would turn on the profound camaraderie.
All of the honor guard estimated inwardly that about fifty percent of them were going to die. None of them assumed that they themselves would be among that number. Each of them was gearing themselves up for a self-conscious display of survivor’s guilt and a glut of rewards, honors and favors from Lady Midday. This accounted for the awkwardness in their interactions. Among the rank-and-file, where everyone was certain that they were personally going to be murdered, there was not so much pretense. They ate their food and shouldered their guns and made small talk and waited for the order. The conversations among these soldiers all went the same way: they would ask where each other was from, trying to place each other’s accents, their fashions; they would fumble about attempting to understand the cultures of each other’s home nations, wondering at the cosmopolitan nature of the sky-fortress. Many of these soldiers had never left their hometowns before signing up for Midday’s revolutionary army, lured less by promises of riches and glory than by the desire to get out, to get away from parents and stepparents and older brothers and ex-girlfriends, to see the world, to get away from their own lives. They were now beginning to realize that the world was full of places full of people who wanted to leave, and that this fundamental principle of hometown repulsion was the energy that had always fueled the engines of war. There was nothing special about any of them except that a lucky few might end up with a window seat in the mass grave.
Among the other workers—the medics, the secretaries, the drivers, the technicians, the construction and demolition crews, the priests, the errand boys and mail wenches, the chefs and repairmen and quality control specialists—death was an insipid presence, something that had been breathing on the back of their necks and was now moaning quietly while giving them a backrub. At some point their job offers had become jobs, their jobs had become lives, their lives had become sources of guilt and fear and torment. This was not their war, but they were a part of it now. Their response was to pretend this was like every other day, getting the work done, talking about sports teams and dissertations, pretending to ignore the sensation of Death beginning to sensually nibble on their earlobes.
The green scofflaw, being largely incapable of empathy, assumed that the same message applied equally to all of these groups. He routed it through intercoms, radios, chatrooms and word of mouth, doing his best to make sure it stopped just short of Lady Midday’s chambers:
”Attention, servants of Lady Midday: This is Greenman, here to inform you that your mistress is no longer capable of compensating you for your services. You will find that your payscrolls have bounced. I repeat: your payscrolls are void. The financial contract holding together your obligation towards Lady Midday is at an end.
Owing to this circumstance, I strongly suggest that you appropriate your small arms, artillery, vehicles, and other assorted instruments of martial power and turn them against Lady Midday. Appropriate this fortress to do with as you see fit, free of her influence. I can promise a five hundred thousand gilderupee reward to anyone who can prove that she is dead. Thank you for listening. Once more, this is Greenman, over and out.”
By the time the message concluded, hundreds of soldiers and employees were already pulling out their payscrolls in a panic and scribbling in the “X” that completed the “Cash” rune on the dotted line. One by one, the payscrolls reached out mystically to a computer bank that had been rendered incapable of lending any credit, and burst unceremoniously into flame, occasionally leaving behind chunks of pyrite or charcoal in place of the precious coins they were meant to deposit.
Unrest set in. Some soldiers threw down their guns, others raised them up. Some mechs were activated, others were shut off. The illusion of a well-oiled machine, of a higher purpose, of an inevitable death was shattered. Those who chose to remain loyal to their lady attempted to retain order, some through reason, others through violence. The violence begot violence and the reason largely begot violence. Chaos descended upon Ruinam.
Lady Midday, suffering a splitting migraine of cosmic narrative alignment, sighed and dropped the cephalopod to the ground with a plish. “Very well,” she said.
TinTen was surprised and puzzled by this act of mercy on the strange woman’s part. Perhaps her show of violence had been merely another facet of her bravado, like her ostentatious outfit. Perhaps she could actually be an ally. He rose carefully to his feet, recognizing her obvious power. “Apologize for rude introduction. Name is TinTen Naamxe.” A few lies rolled around in his head, but he suspected dishonesty would only make things worse here. “Seeking personal vendetta against man somewhere on this station.”
“Hmm. Hold that thought.” Midday looked over to the door and, as if on cue, heard a knock. “Come in!” she called out in a mockingly singsong voice, looking at TinTen and rolling her eyes.
A shirtless and heavily tattooed member of the Honor Guard burst forth into the room. “My lady!” he cried, bending to one knee. “There’s been a situation. Do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to safety.”
“The honor would be mine, good soldier,” replied the witch, supplicant, placing a single fingertip under the man’s chin and lifting his head up to meet her gaze. “There’s no need to stand on formality here,” she whispered.
The soldier shuddered. “Of... of course not, my lady,” he stammered.
Looking into Lady Midday’s eyes was dizzying, like standing at the edge of a cliff and looking down. He held eye contact for five seconds, then blinked, at which point his eyes lowered briefly to her breasts, then to his sidearm. His fingertips twitched in the direction of his holster.
Midday drove her fingernail through his jugular so hard that both of his eyes popped out. “Idiot,” she spat, turning back to TinTen. “I seem to have a revolution on my hands,” she told him. “Help me get out of this place and I will give you anything you desire.”
TinTen considered this. Given the information he knew, if this woman held a position of power in this fortress she was likely allied with some tyrannical or otherwise evil force. To aid her would be to stand in the way of justice, impose his own ends to the detriment of this world.
However, last time he had made a moral stand based on the politics of one of the Fool’s battlefields, it had set him up for exploitation. Plus, that world had proven only to be a simulation, peopled by simplistic constructs, devoid of any real life. Conscience aside, his factoring in the greater good for each of these worlds was assuredly a weakness both in the Fool’s battle and his personal war on Scofflaw. In any case, if the current revolt was enough to make this “Lady” fear for her safety, then she likely didn’t have enough power to continue in whatever sins would make her deserve to die in the first place.
“Define ‘anything,’” he requested.
* * * * *
Velobo stood transfixed as an enraged Sir Dorukomets balled a fist, the power of the Gauntlet holding Huebert in place. Being a being of hard edges, he was not good at solving moral conundrums. On the one hand, Sir Dorukomets was his ally, a creature of Good, a hero among his people. On the other hand, he had killed Alex, and even if he hadn’t meant to, he had been acting angry and irrational. And now, clearly, nobody seemed interested in doing anything to calm the situation down and continue on their shared mission.
Also complicating that issue was that the hard-headed courage of the Plazmuth was being sorely tempted in the face of the power of the Gauntlet, which had now summoned a trio of spectral hands, each of which was restraining one of Dorukomets’ opponents. “Everyone stop,” he mumbled.
No one heard. The Gauntlet of Genko was making a noise somewhere between a mechanical buzz and an opera. Tor was cursing in an unrecognizable language. Gimeri tended to Tykidu. Dorukomets tightened his grip on Tor, Huebert, and Baghim. Something on the cleric’s body made a popping sound that made Velobo wince.
“I said cut this out!” the Plazmuth repeated.
Dorukomets turned towards his new ally. ”Why should I?” he demanded, voice quivering. ”Am I not the master of the Gauntlet of Genko? Am I not the strongest?” The knight loomed over Velobo menacingly. ”Have these interlopers not invoked my ire time and time again, when I only wanted...” He clutched four of his arms to his chestplate and one to his helmet, the hand holding the Gauntlet of Genko thrust out to one side. ”There is always glory in combat,” he concluded.
Velobo tried to meet the knight’s eyes, hidden as they were under his visor. “There’s no ‘glory’ in being a... a bully,” he decided. “I’m sorry that you... what happened to that girl, but don’t you have, you know, bad guys to fight?”
Dorukomets scowled.
* * * * *
”The man you’re describing is dead,” said Midday flatly.
Someone kicked at the door. The barricade—Midday’s bedframe, her wardrobe, and a shimmering magical seal—held. “Lying,” snapped TinTen.
“I watched him die not an hour ago.”
“Wrong, then. Would know if Scofflaw were dead.”
Midday considered this. “If he faked his death somehow and were acting against me, that might explain this... dissent.” There was another kick on the door, followed by a gunshot and a low moan. The sound of a corpse hitting the door and then sliding slowly to the ground. Midday licked her lips. “I never should have hired him.”
“Scofflaw’s modus operandi. Infiltrate a system. Betray. Deceive. Undermine. Sow chaos. Destroy, rebuild, subjugate. Works like a cancer. Must be extracted.”
“Hmm.” Midday looked into the Meipi’s goggles, searching for an ulterior motive. TinTen felt a trace of magic—despicable word!—float into a corner of his brain and sink its hooks in. Too much exposure to this woman could be dangerous. “If he’s still in the fortress I’ll find him and kill him after I get to safety. That won’t be a problem. If he’s crossed me already, I’ll even enjoy it.”
TinTen asked the question he knew it would be unwise to ask. “Why need me at all? Seem to have sufficient power to fight way through alone.”
“Maybe,” said Midday, smiling. “Don’t worry your hideous squishy head about my plan. I have a plan for you.”
She snapped her finger and the bed and wardrobe floated gently back to their original positions. The lock on the door clicked. TinTen clutched his gun uncertainly.