The Grand Battle S2G1! [Round Six: Eddelin City]

He snapped his fingers to start time again, and prepared to leave. There was no way he was letting the contestants lay a finger on him this time.

He glanced across the street, and snapped his other fingers, the ones which stopped time in a different direction. He glanced across the street again.

Huh. Must've been imagining things. There was an insubstantial hand on his shoulder, insubstantiating its way through a fair bit of his torso, before it all froze solid and shattered.

Not quite sure what to make of this, the Observer slowed everything down again, time enough to groan inwardly that his bout with the contestants had kept him sharp. He picked through the slivers of time until he found her, snuck in like a spectro-temporal splinter through the tiniest moment of his inattention.

Composer's eyes were a blazing duality, white-hot rage and frigid cold . More startled than he should've been at the destruction of his corporeal form, Observer could've been forgiven for coming up short on ideas.

Then, he fucking punched her.

It was about as effectual as you'd expect, though the Composer at least obliged by coalescing into something capable of looking murderous. Condensed down like this, she hurt to look at the way sunlight glared off snow.

"How dare you," she hissed, her constituent souls murmuring in agreement. Observer raised an eyebrow, and rolled down the sleeve on his punching arm.

"You're, uh, going to have to have to fill me in here," he said. The crystalline shards of the Grandmaster still drifting about the frozen scene halted, disintegrating with a screech and a hurricane roar. The Observer weathered another outburst of mostly-superficial assault, more out of courtesy than anything. When it abated and he opened his eye again, the Composer-hued cloud had settled about Xadrez, crackling in accusation.

Observer gave half a nonplussed shrug, before wait, no.

Oh yeah!

--

Xadrez, unaware of any attention he might have been receiving, was having more trouble with this Final Round business than he cared to let on to Jen. He toyed with the dagger instead, trying to rebuild some semblance of a mental map on the obsidian. Jen peered over her mug, staring more at the knife than its movements.

"Did Arkal make you a new one?"

What

no

I found this one in the Place

He sounded vaguely offended, curling his fist a little to block Jen's sight of it with his arm.

This is the

well

a

masterwork blade of Saber, the Forgelord

losing my original was an amateur error

one I do not intend to repeat

Escaping the Fates' ministrations unlike the likes of you, I’m not handed second chances ad infinitum to rectify mistakes

Jen stuck her tongue out, lapping at her drink for that essential extra dose of juvenile petulance. Xadrez ignored her, taking the dagger in both hands and glaring at it.

There is no benevolence, nothing redeemable to be found in the Grandmasters' ranks

No good comes of those who could perceive a universe's majesty and thence aspire to a roost where all that becomes a mere curiosity

a toy

I'm- he glanced up, giving Jen a look that might’ve been trying to seek affirmation. Jen stared back over the rim of her mug.

increasingly certain that we made the wrong choice

I've no love for the rock yet in silence we were made complicit to his suffering, and for whose concept of order? Another omnipotent entity's

Despite the lives lost over those sixty-four battles, the innumerable more in the amalgam's conquest

the culmination was a multiverse, restored

all but one known Grandmaster, the rest dead or stripped of influence

I should note the Silver Hand's Network, even with devious goals, was responsible for the majority of Grandmaster deaths across Kracht's many timelines

these memories lay bare as such, Xadrez sighed, letting a sleeve shimmer, and I cannot do Kracht the small dignity of knowing what is now his true pain

From where we stand, back in our present, he's already died

He entered this battle knowing he was going to die

After those innumerable cycles retrofitted by causality again and again to challenge the Amalgam

this time with no spark of hope in uncertainty that his efforts would not be undone

For what

For 'the stability of wider reality' spat the tactician.

For perpetuity of a rotten system

Its upon such 'stable' ground that the strong overpower the weak, a place without subtlety or trickery

A lesser man would've denied all those memories

I would've, he growled, glaring at Jen, and I've little doubt you would likewise attempt to invalidate them

Yet here we are

He did all that was asked of him

With no assurance his death this death was worthwhile

"What's happened’s happened," Jen finally said, but Xadrez wasn't listening. He'd frozen, the point of his dagger partway through a fingertip, staring off and away.

No

How would-

Xadrez glanced at Jen, seemingly collected himself, then scanned his surroundings for something inorganic to slice into pieces. He settled for cutlery; found time in his urgency to carefully score the metal, bending the knives and forks into angular coils. The tactician shuffled them around, put them back, reviewed his robes, stared at the dagger for another while, and shuffled the pieces round again. That done, he scratched at his temple with the dagger-tip while glaring across the table, giving Jen one of his more transparently calculating looks.

Jen licked cream off her nose in response. Xadrez narrowed his eyes, jammed the dagger in his trapezius, and made for the exit.

in the unlikely event you style your excursions in some worthwhile fashion, contact me

I have inquiries to make


---

It felt like the metaphorical eternity ago, but yeah. That's right. When the Observer got the whole "run a second season" idea in his head, he went back to his homeworld. See how the place was faring, maybe grab that Chrome Witch from the legends if nobody had figured out how to permanently kill her.

On review, Observer remembered why he'd left. The place was falling apart at the seams; he hadn't planned on killing Scout with his escape, but she certainly hadn't survived all those eons to contest his intrusion.

Or, you know, running off with one of her demigods. He figured why not save the Mirrorlands for an All-Stars round or something?

Right, right. So yeah, Scout here was pretty rightfully pissed, because-

Hang on.

Shit.

The Observer made a move to run, but ice crystallised around all the edges of his vision. He raised an exasperated hand at the hissing Composer, his sleeve cracking.

"Ok, if we're going to do this, can I at least get my battle moving again?" He gestured at Jen and Xadrez; the shoal of souls flickered in a way that made them look a little less inhuman. It paused, blinked, and took a deep breath, though best as Observer could tell it didn’t have any discernible anatomy. A critical glare jumped from Jen to the Observer.

"What risk does she pose to Xadrez?"

Observer blinked. "Some? None? Last I checked, they're both more interested in trying to kill me."

"...Fine. We'll settle this in the Conservatory."

"How about hell no?" countered Observer. "Back to my office."

The Composer hacked up some rather derisive noise, to the tune of glaciers calving. "And have your coward self slink off through another incompetence-induced hole in reality? Unlikely."

The Observer made a futile gesture. "Look, do you want to lecture me, or kill me?" The Composer snarled, and whirled about as though seeking an exit, hissing some agitated litany to herself and trying not to look at her fellow Grandmaster. The Observer tried rearranging his physical form a bit, to see if she’d slice it apart again, and took the reknitting of his lapels as a good sign.

“I just thought of a place. Follow me.”

---

Xadrez drifted the streets of Eddelin, keeping half an ear out for the piece he'd tossed Eselt's way before following Jen. By the cut of his robes, some of the New Battleopolis rounds had featured shades not of other battlers, but of persons from the contestants' pasts. Arkal would have seen his sons a final time there, usually before Kracht was shaped into a sword and the Ovoid dredged up a legion and ascended, Arkal's human-traitor blood fuelling the transaction.

Xadrez had had a hand in that; berated himself as his immediate justification was to dismiss it as a rock's memory. One thousand memories. One million misplaced loyalties. A doubt crept into Xadrez' head; that if this iteration were the terminus, the one where causality finally broke the right way, why had he still wasted so much time beneath the Ovoid's banner?

What heft, in the end, had his fate - his allegiances? What sway, a moon upon its sun?

The spirit's piece-keeping led him to a large building, mythical beasts and heroes of legend carved upon its facade. A theatre, guessed Xadrez, mostly with the confirmation that Eselt had just taken a back entrance. Xadrez would've followed Koule with the sword, but for his worrisome finding.

He wasn't sure, when Kath stepped from behind a serpent-frescoed pillar, whether what he felt was relief.

"That didn't take you," said Kath. Xadrez decided to not mention the chess piece she still carried, passing her a fresh one instead.

Well met, your majesty

Blame my movements to date for the order of these questions but

When by your estimation did we last meet

And how have you been occupying yourself

"Been chasing a bunch of tributaries since you left me high and dry in that beige-sky zoo." The maid had procured some nice leather armor, Xadrez guessed crocodilian from the scutes, with some magical tracery that implied it folded away when she swam. She also sported a pelt of some unfortunate animal or another, forelimbs wrapped around her throat.

I'm

truthfully pleased to hear that

you've certainly matured if you put your mind to conquest before petty revenge

no, Xadrez sighed, or he might've been chuckling- it makes this decision of mine appreciably less agonising

my goal my motive behind all these fetters and obligations an end to the grandmasters, I must exploit both pools of my resources

the material- he motioned to Kath, flicked his hand in a wider arc toward the city at large, until his fingers rested on the hem of his robe. He hoped the tense lines of his arms were concealed in the cloth, that Kath didn’t see his brain tick over and settle into the most comfortable truth he had. -and the

erm

less material

and the latter makes it very clear

That youre my

the multiverses

my best hope to see slain a grandmaster or seven

Xadrez extracted his knife, traced out his sleeves again. Beyond a few key threads wound around each finger, the bulk of it was the history of his battles- no, Kracht's first battles - the hundreds of thousands of Observer-led fights where Xadrez to varying degrees of consistency kept fucking everyone over.

And in all those openings, not a single Grandmaster died. The midgame and endgame, certainly, but those self-styled gods played on boards where single pieces were battlefields again, mass graves for the like of Xadrez and Jen and Arkal and all the rest.

After Kracht won (check the back of the collar for care instructions), through the multiversal chronology of All-Stars and All-Stars All Stars, Kath's queendom-then-empire became a recognised, if peripheral, force in the Multiverse's politics. She marched off to her own All-Stars eyes blazing; left a ghost of a ghost as regent. Died out there, somewhere, but not before (statistically, usually) killing off another Grandmaster.

Xadrez hesitated, still. This was Kath, after all. Rules were, obviously, made to be broken in accord with a higher order of rules, but guilt was eternal. You needed foundations somewhere, and five was the fewest moves in which you could promote a pawn. He almost asked himself what other choice he had, before realising he'd hover outside this theatre until someone important died of old age.

He straightened, pulled out the dagger.

Kath, slightly more attuned by now to her general’s mannerisms, watched as Xadrez closed his other hand into a fist, pulling tight the four threads wrapped around his fingers. He traced them up his forearm through the weave with his knife, a myriad false histories splitting and fluttering down into a pile of golden fibres. His sleeve was now cut raggedly off at the shoulder, an emaciated arm trailing four sparkling threads. Xadrez, still working silently, gathered up the spare cloth he’d cut, fashioning it as best he could. The result was more a circlet than the crown he’d been aiming for, but he’d gotten the color right.

“And that’s your idea of a coronation gift?” Kath asked, somewhat understandably bored by this point. Xadrez shrugged.

It is not so much the shape as the substance

You would not be privy to it from the perspectives gained with this crown, being from all of those battles in which you were not yet an Agent

and yet-

“-I’m the special one,” Kath snapped. “All the other times the Grandmasters find me later. Old news, General.”

-Right, Xadrez didn’t quite avoid a stunned pause, yes

The fates decreed deicide your birthright your highness whenether I serve by your side or not

I’ve witnessed it, satisfied in turn the terms by which I agreed to be your willing soldier

So he said, a little more softly, proffering the crown a little, urging Kath to step into place. She looked sceptical, but a glint across her eyes and a divination curled up in a sneer assured her this wasn’t a trap. Just a ghost, clawed hands clinging to something - anything - familiar. The queen shrugged, took the step forward, and Xadrez placed the circlet upon her head.

this my formal recognition

of a life debt forged, ratified across timelines in devils blood

between the rightful queen and her general

until their ends or the grandmasters

and let us not pray but strive instead that it be the latter before the former

Kath tolerated the crown for all of half a minute, before plucking it off and twisting it twice about her wrist. “You done? Good. Let’s get, then, we’ve got less than an hour before the lecture.”

Before the what

“Before the thing that’s going to be your first job as my tactics-man, unless I find a better use for you. The point’s brute force won’t work, right? So, you tell me why we should learn about Sanjegoria before going off and killing some Grandmasters.”

Xadrez was disoriented more than anything. He considered for a moment arguing, convincing Kath to take this more seriously, but he couldn’t be sure. Too many unknowns, and his liege had offered only one line of inquiry. Xadrez narrowed his eyes, tried to instil some suspicion into the draw of his knife.

To begin my inquiries then

who or what is Sanjegoria

---

The Composer was arranged, for lack of a more evocative word, atop a roof to a temple of Cynisca. Observer couldn’t read her posture, made as she appeared to be of a drifting spire of spectral vortices with her usual head on top of it. He offered a waxed-parchment cup in what he hoped was general area an arm might emerge from. Her neck didn’t turn, but she sure as hell was staring at him.

“What do you think that is?”

Observer checked the receipt. “A… strained goat-milk raspberry latte with extra cinnamon. I don’t know about the little biscuit on top, though, the barista put it there and-”

“That,” hissed the Composer, “is not what I was talking about.”

“Well you refused to set foot into the cafe, and if I tried reading your mind and figuring out what you actually wanted you’d be offended at that as well-”

“The issue is not the beverage-”

“Then tell me what the problem is!” groaned the Observer. The Composer’s eyes flashed with anger, an “is it not obvious” rising like mist off her cloak, but she didn’t speak for a full minute.

“You.”

“You left me for dead after you orchestrated Saber’s murder and escaped to the multiverse. You lied to me, claiming you sought only a window through the Cloak to the multiverse proper, not a gaping rift.”

“Ok, look, I’m not going to claim that wasn’t me-”

“But it seems like so long you barely remember?” snapped the goddess. “Your ugly disembowelling of a universe barely alights upon your conscience? Would you have ever regretted what you did if I were not here right now?”

She hadn’t moved from her seated position, beyond a mock-curious tilt of the head, but there was a morbid stillness to her form that distracted the Observer long enough for something vaporous and hissing to snarl the last few words right beside his face. Observer furrowed his brow for the Composer’s benefit, to show he was thinking hard, and took a sip of his coffee.

“Would you believe me-” he waited for the sentient cold snap to stop breathing down his neck “-would, you believe me, if I said to you it was something I just had to do?”

The Observer inhaled sharply, predicting another outburst, but the air didn’t stab within his lungs. The icy mannequin had stood, some subtle shift in its demeanour giving an impression of animation, if not quite life.

She almost nearly smiled. “I would.”

“Wait.” Observer let go of his coffee, the better to make some futile finger motions to spot the non-existent double-negative. “You would?”

“If you were an Aspect of Origin - or, more correctly, a sub-Aspect which Saber split off from himself - then yes. I think I could rationalise your actions.” Observer remained politely silent, repeating the finger motion a bit slower, a wordless keep-talking. “Saber was Origin’s aspects of Creation and Synthesis, and when Origin saw how external forces made the world beyond the Forge inhospitable, I was - Scout was formed, from His aspects of Preservation and Protection.” Her words weren’t so much accented as Capitalised, faintly resonating in that way concepts stuffed into a single spoken word tended to do. “And you. You were an offshoot of Saber. Discovery. Clarity. Scope.”

“Saber constructed you, from the purest materials he had, his own Aspects. You were built with the express purpose to seek all that existed beyond my Cloak, and you performed that purpose unerringly. I doubt you’ve got any better explanation for why you did it?”

The Observer had to admit that no, he didn’t, though most of this was going over his head. The Composer had clearly done more research than him into the big glowy sun-substitute from whence they’d all come, which, you know, was understandable. He made a move to sit down on the roof (they were still on the roof, right?), and, facing no objections, plucked the Composer’s drink out of the air where he’d left it, and proffered it again.

“I guess it’s a frappe now. If you still want it.” The Composer gave him one of her clearer expressions (the long-suffering kind), then deigned to fold herself into a sitting position. She took the cup, lifting the lid off the top and glaring at the contents.

“I’m sorry,” he finally managed. “It seemed like a great idea at the time, I guess. If I’d known you were going to get arbitrarily kicked out as well to chase after me-”

“So you’re sorry you got caught?”

“Wait, no, I-”

“It’s fine,” she snapped, closing her eyes and internally counting slowly. “It’s - it’s fine. I didn’t come here to kill you, simply to air my grievances. I was-” the Composer caught herself there, glancing at her fellow Grandmaster, reminding herself that this wasn’t tea with the Cultivator. “I don’t trust our colleagues to not use my history against me, and until I was informed you were responsible for my eviction, I’d been well prepared to forget my past life.”

“They were probably hoping you’d rip me apart in a blind rage,” said the Observer, sipping at his coffee and avoiding the Composer’s pointed stare. “Which I’m grateful you’re not doing. So thanks, or something.”

“You have the Cultivator to thank for that,” hummed the Grandmaster. “She convinced me that, in the long run, I’d be no happier having killed you for your past transgressions.

The Observer drained his drink, and stood. “So, an apology was all you wanted?”

“For ruining my old life, that will do.”

“Uh, right. Well, sorry then, again, but I’d really best-”

“That,” she said, “does not excuse the issue of Xadrez.” The Observer wilted, sighed, and sat back down again. “He was a personal favourite of mine amongst the souls I promoted, and even you could see my right to treat this a personal affront.” The Cloak unfurled again as she said that, but settled back into shape. “Of course, I’ve decided to not seek retribution, yet… his existence, his status, as a Battler; it’s an unpleasant dilemma.”

“Scout says save him, rip me apart for subjecting him to this at all; you say I’ve got too nice a face to do that?”

“Your face is irrelevant. If I stepped in to spare him this fate on the feelings of a dead god, then we’ve come full circle to using my past as precedent to disrupt the order.”

The Observer shrugged, trying not to sound too flat-footed without his usual jovial mask on. “Your choice, really. I mean, this might’ve been a better discussion to have, you know, before it hit the final round. If I switched him out for someone less objectionable now, it’d be pretty anticlimactic, get what I'm saying?” The Composer looked for a moment like she was thinking really hard about whether to be offended by that, before sighing. He hastened, “He’s trying really hard to find a way to kill me, if that’s any consolation. The last two? The Organizer’s goons had to hold their hands - uh, pseudopods? Metaphorical hands. Whatever. anyway, getting them to put their dukes up, that was the real battle.”

He got one raised Grandmistrous brow for his efforts, a very deliberate sip at her coffee which didn’t quite hide her smirk. “Good. I hope he succeeds.”

“I’m not allowed to take offence there, am I?”

The corners of the Composer’s mouth twitched. “No.” She rested her cup on a roof tile, let the frost creep up the sides and cement it in place. “I’ve said all that I came here to say, so I'd be best be off, but for one question.”

“Hm?”

“Does he know it’s you?”

The Observer’s attention wavered, and he shook his head. “I don’t ever remember meeting anyone important from the Cloak, other than you. He thinks you-” a blank stare “-he thinks Scout got pulled out of reality by another Grandmaster, and is fighting in another battle somewhere.”

“...Keep it that way. I’m not risking infighting just to extradite him, but he’s owed that much.” The Composer uncoiled gently, drifting in something that wasn’t quite a direction. Observer took the hint and stood up to see her off.

“So,” he said, a little hesitant, “I’m forgiven then? I don’t have to spend every conscious moment waiting for a knife in my back?”

“You have a colleague’s word that I won’t interfere.” The Composer stood, disintegrating like a stray vortex of wind, a genuine, arctic smile. “Forgiveness, though? Observer, I’ll forgive you when you’re dead.”

She vanished with a hiss and a howl, leaving Observer alone on the rooftop holding an empty cup. He wasn’t rightly sure whether that had gone well or not.