[b]Canada![/b]

“...I got you,” Jason says. And that’s when Caphtor [i]bing![/i]s right in.

“Elevator service resuming,” she says, a little more focused than usual; Caphtor is focusing attention here. “When you exit, janissaries will helpfully escort you to your accommodations. Thank you for your service, and remember that all must find their link in the chain.”

The elevator descends smoothly; Jason grabs the sword and stands, keeping its point low; he’s keeping it between you and him, better safe than sorry, but at least he seems willing to consider fighting his way out with you, not against you.

And then the door slides open smoothly and relief flows through you. These are some of the janissaries the Seneschal lent for security, and you are sure, recognizing them but not recognized, that every one of the laser muskets they’re carrying had a spent power pack locked into the stock.

They think they are armed. You know they are not. They stand before you, scaled and furred (and in one case, thorned), all in the royal red and gold livery of Marduk. “Leave the arms in here,” their leader, a burly Salamander sergeant, says to you. Muskets are held not pointed at you, but low-pointed in your general direction. It’s six against two, and there’s no way you can lose.

***

[b]Set![/b]

You get [[i]hesitation; the fear of hurting a small and foolish animal[/i]] from her, which isn’t very flattering, but one supposes you started the kitten analogy. As you enter the room, she draws on herself, taking a deep breath and rallying around a thought— but she is afraid. You can tell that even without her hammering it into your head.

And then she turns a water hose on your brain and slams it into a wall. The information stream is incomprehensible; everything is broken and jagged and glitching out and wrong and wrong and wrong and wrong and wrong and

You’re on your knees, hands on the floor. When you raise your head, there’s no black-eyed girl, just Marianne and a very confused Annunaki in a ruined dress and a troll who hasn’t reacted at all.

Thank goodness for your training; it’s what lets you straighten your mind, bring order to a confused array of thoughts, and keep walking forward instead of curling up into a ball and turning your brain off.

Mark Hopeless as you piece yourself back together.

***

[b]Marianne![/b]

The cigarette falls from your numb fingers. Set walked in here with an eyeless girl. The eyeless girl looked at Set, they shared a moment, and then the eyeless girl exploded. She exploded into shapes you did not see with your eyes; they simply triggered the parts of your brain that recognize things. The eyes said: there is not a girl there. Your brain said: mandibles, and wings, and teeth, and darkness, the absence of light, the fumbling for the light switch in the middle of the night, and the shadow of the wings stretched from wall to wall.

Set, what did you [i]do?[/i] That was... that was a Spirit of the Heart, a monster like Marianne, but level 99 where Marianne is, oh, perhaps 30 if we are generous with your training grind. And the part of you that is Marianne surges into a savage sort of joy, flooding you with that revolutionary fire as if fanned by a bellows, the urge to tear down the haughty and the proud, [i]liberté, unité, égalité![/i].

Mark Angry; there is no room for silly little Étoile in the flood of Marianne, not now. You can taste the hot blood of the oppressor like a coal between your teeth!