Fetzen
Circ@Nate1008 Circ has a post coming up, then after that it's up in the air. Gattsu has something brewing in his mind as well.
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Saudade, Glasslands (formerly Tunis)
The stoic visage of Ali III Ibn al-Husayn looked back at Nuberu from weathered parchment, the portrait’s features loosening into a wide, displeased look as Nuberu vigorously worked with the material. He frantically scuffed the portrait’s hemp against the twisted frame of a short bench until he could rip the painting to shreds. Offering his condolences to the late Bey, Nuberu stuffed the fabric into a pair of oversized boots he’d scavenged earlier.
He’d lost track of how long it took him to arrive in Tunis. Long enough that he’d been barefoot until the mottled grey of his soles left a splattered trail of olive cruor. The sight of the beam consumed him, pushing him past the brink of total exhaustion. Only the very real threat of dehydration released him from his fugue.
The soft glow of a fire burning in a waste bin he’d pilfered from the Bardo Museum’s administration offices comforted Nuberu as he slipped the boots on over fresh bandages, lacing them with care. Reflecting on his luck of stumbling upon a crashed helicopter he’d converted into his shelter while attempting to access the museum’s roof, Nuberu felt a tinge of hope.
It had been his second day in Tunis, having depleted what little reserves he’d left that air traffic controller tower with in Tripoli, when the midday sun was serendipitously caught by the sullied steel of a rooftop water tower. Like a moth to the flame, Nuberu braved the flooded foundation of the museum.
Even through the muck he was taken aback at the skill and majesty of the mosaics that had been carved by a master’s hands thousands of years prior. Transfixed at the expertise he realized he was the first to marvel at these works in over three decades. A heavy pang struck his chest and he moved on, wading through fetid ankle-deep waters as he approached the stairs that would change his fortune.
Although he knew it would eventually be worn away by the toxicity of his being, he relished in the now unfamiliar feeling of man-made clothing. Dressed in the salvaged remains of a Russian Hind crew’s uniforms, Nuberu leaned forward to inspect his newfound canteen’s contents when the bottom of his stomach fell out.
Wh-where is my ring…?
Searching for the ring in a panic, he tumbled forward through the comfort of the cabin into a fuliginous abyss where he fell, perception molding the darkness into byzantine polders expelled by stygian depths. Obsidian mounds protruded from brackish waters where bloated figures bobbed languidly. This labyrinth was flanked by an anachronistic skyline that flew by Nuberu; the rich white and sapphire of the Ennejma Ezzahra contrasted by the stark remains of Carthiginian ruins as they melted against a tangerine aurora atop the Mediterranean.
The landscape continued to streak past Nuberu in a viridian blur and inexplicably the distant form of Mt. Diaba appeared in his eyeline; austere planes meticulously accented with bands of green looming ever nearer. The pain in Paola’s voice as she cried out in protest when the Council delivered his fate bubbled up from the depths of his psyche. Conjuring her face gripped him in cold terror. He shot past the now shrinking mountain into another tenebrous void.
Weightlessly he tumbled through the dark, chest heaving when he was struck to his very core by a baneful magnificence that screamed across the cosmos, tearing space in its wake. Motes throbbed in sonorous contempt, precipitating the malice that struck the Earth with a horrendous boom that startled Nuberu awake.
Nuberu’s nails were dug into the thick hides he’d dozed off under, eyes adjusting to the predawn gloom. His breaths came in short gasps while the cabin of the helicopter juddered against the cocoon of marble and concrete that enveloped it. A fine mist of rain came in through the crater in the museum’s ceiling, drops suspended in an errant beam of twilight. Pushing the furs aside, he sat upright with a bolt and fished through the pockets of his new field jacket.
It’s got to be here. It’s got to- graças a deus.
Gently caressing the tantalum ring with his thumb, Nuberu took a deep breath when another peal of thunder caused a clatter of crashing marble. He cursed at himself, anxiety having hammered his emotions into an uneven edge. Enclosing the ring with the jerk of a zipperhead, Nuberu settled back against a bundle of cushioning he’d ripped from the pilot’s seat he’d found mostly embedded into a mosaic of slaves serving wine during a Roman banquet.
The thunderclap had nearly expended itself when he heard the panicked screams of someone in mortal danger. Nuberu scrambled up the inclined cabin of the helicopter towards the open cargo bay. Pulling himself up by a length of secured cable, he rolled over onto the rooftop just in time to regret his decision.
High above Saudade the muted wings of enormous raptors beat the night’s sky into submission. Clutched in their gleaming talons were the unmistakable shapes of two humans. Their pleas for death grew fainter as the monstrous avians soared towards the shattered ruins of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul.
Hours later
What am I doing… I’m no hero…
The charred sling of a grimy Vityaz-SN dug into Nuberu’s shoulder as he tried to quietly navigate his way through the cathedral’s rubble-strewn courtyard. Each step registered as a dull ache, the potent cocktail of adrenaline and morphine efficiently combating the pain he felt. He adjusted his hold on the firearm, inspecting it dubiously. Does this thing even fire? He wished he’d been brave enough to test the weapon earlier but couldn’t risk exposing his presence. Maybe I should go. They’re probably dead by now…
Soft cries of distress spilled out from the cathedral’s inner sanctum and Nuberu cursed internally, stepping through the threshold. Had it not been for the sling he would have dropped the Vityaz. The wide chamber that had once been filled with the light of a thousand candles, penitent heads filling the pews was now supplanted by visceral horror, dominated by the treacly, gnarled trunk of a towering acacia. Rotting carcasses were impaled upon massive thorns along its splayed branches.
The cries had come from a crumpled form half submerged in a viscous sap that bubbled menacingly. A pungent vapor hung thick over the pool as the body tried desperately to raise its arm. Abruptly their torso was crushed with a sickening squelch as one of the monstrous strigidae landed with an inaudible pounce. The ashen horror of its tripartite beak exploded in a shrill cry of rapture as it split the thorax in two with a powerful kick that flung caustic sap in a wide arc.
Nuberu watched on in horror as it devoured half of the gore it created in one disgusting gulp. As viscera and sap pooled at the tapered ends of its mighty wings, Nuberu noted the odd composition of the monster’s feathers; they gleamed like anodized titanium and seemed to be covered in a type of patina. He began to slowly back away when he noted two minuscule apertures focusing on him; posterior eyes protruded from the covert feathers along its mantle.
Merda!
Lustrous pools of deep amber the size of manhole covers glared at the intruder in its territory. Nuberu unloaded the Vityaz in a panic, completely missing his mark, before dashing down a hallway adjacent to the vestibule he’d just passed through. The Broxa’s rampaging form crashed through the rotting wood of an aged confessional then slammed into the stone archway. It desperately snapped its triadic neb, slavering gluttonously until its frustrations grew to a fever pitch. The raptor let loose a deafening screech that disoriented Nuberu as he struggled in vain to cover his ears. If he’d been able to hear over its incensed din, his heart would have sank at the number of calls that came in response.
The stoic visage of Ali III Ibn al-Husayn looked back at Nuberu from weathered parchment, the portrait’s features loosening into a wide, displeased look as Nuberu vigorously worked with the material. He frantically scuffed the portrait’s hemp against the twisted frame of a short bench until he could rip the painting to shreds. Offering his condolences to the late Bey, Nuberu stuffed the fabric into a pair of oversized boots he’d scavenged earlier.
He’d lost track of how long it took him to arrive in Tunis. Long enough that he’d been barefoot until the mottled grey of his soles left a splattered trail of olive cruor. The sight of the beam consumed him, pushing him past the brink of total exhaustion. Only the very real threat of dehydration released him from his fugue.
The soft glow of a fire burning in a waste bin he’d pilfered from the Bardo Museum’s administration offices comforted Nuberu as he slipped the boots on over fresh bandages, lacing them with care. Reflecting on his luck of stumbling upon a crashed helicopter he’d converted into his shelter while attempting to access the museum’s roof, Nuberu felt a tinge of hope.
It had been his second day in Tunis, having depleted what little reserves he’d left that air traffic controller tower with in Tripoli, when the midday sun was serendipitously caught by the sullied steel of a rooftop water tower. Like a moth to the flame, Nuberu braved the flooded foundation of the museum.
Even through the muck he was taken aback at the skill and majesty of the mosaics that had been carved by a master’s hands thousands of years prior. Transfixed at the expertise he realized he was the first to marvel at these works in over three decades. A heavy pang struck his chest and he moved on, wading through fetid ankle-deep waters as he approached the stairs that would change his fortune.
Although he knew it would eventually be worn away by the toxicity of his being, he relished in the now unfamiliar feeling of man-made clothing. Dressed in the salvaged remains of a Russian Hind crew’s uniforms, Nuberu leaned forward to inspect his newfound canteen’s contents when the bottom of his stomach fell out.
Wh-where is my ring…?
Searching for the ring in a panic, he tumbled forward through the comfort of the cabin into a fuliginous abyss where he fell, perception molding the darkness into byzantine polders expelled by stygian depths. Obsidian mounds protruded from brackish waters where bloated figures bobbed languidly. This labyrinth was flanked by an anachronistic skyline that flew by Nuberu; the rich white and sapphire of the Ennejma Ezzahra contrasted by the stark remains of Carthiginian ruins as they melted against a tangerine aurora atop the Mediterranean.
The landscape continued to streak past Nuberu in a viridian blur and inexplicably the distant form of Mt. Diaba appeared in his eyeline; austere planes meticulously accented with bands of green looming ever nearer. The pain in Paola’s voice as she cried out in protest when the Council delivered his fate bubbled up from the depths of his psyche. Conjuring her face gripped him in cold terror. He shot past the now shrinking mountain into another tenebrous void.
Weightlessly he tumbled through the dark, chest heaving when he was struck to his very core by a baneful magnificence that screamed across the cosmos, tearing space in its wake. Motes throbbed in sonorous contempt, precipitating the malice that struck the Earth with a horrendous boom that startled Nuberu awake.
Nuberu’s nails were dug into the thick hides he’d dozed off under, eyes adjusting to the predawn gloom. His breaths came in short gasps while the cabin of the helicopter juddered against the cocoon of marble and concrete that enveloped it. A fine mist of rain came in through the crater in the museum’s ceiling, drops suspended in an errant beam of twilight. Pushing the furs aside, he sat upright with a bolt and fished through the pockets of his new field jacket.
It’s got to be here. It’s got to- graças a deus.
Gently caressing the tantalum ring with his thumb, Nuberu took a deep breath when another peal of thunder caused a clatter of crashing marble. He cursed at himself, anxiety having hammered his emotions into an uneven edge. Enclosing the ring with the jerk of a zipperhead, Nuberu settled back against a bundle of cushioning he’d ripped from the pilot’s seat he’d found mostly embedded into a mosaic of slaves serving wine during a Roman banquet.
The thunderclap had nearly expended itself when he heard the panicked screams of someone in mortal danger. Nuberu scrambled up the inclined cabin of the helicopter towards the open cargo bay. Pulling himself up by a length of secured cable, he rolled over onto the rooftop just in time to regret his decision.
High above Saudade the muted wings of enormous raptors beat the night’s sky into submission. Clutched in their gleaming talons were the unmistakable shapes of two humans. Their pleas for death grew fainter as the monstrous avians soared towards the shattered ruins of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul.
Hours later
What am I doing… I’m no hero…
The charred sling of a grimy Vityaz-SN dug into Nuberu’s shoulder as he tried to quietly navigate his way through the cathedral’s rubble-strewn courtyard. Each step registered as a dull ache, the potent cocktail of adrenaline and morphine efficiently combating the pain he felt. He adjusted his hold on the firearm, inspecting it dubiously. Does this thing even fire? He wished he’d been brave enough to test the weapon earlier but couldn’t risk exposing his presence. Maybe I should go. They’re probably dead by now…
Soft cries of distress spilled out from the cathedral’s inner sanctum and Nuberu cursed internally, stepping through the threshold. Had it not been for the sling he would have dropped the Vityaz. The wide chamber that had once been filled with the light of a thousand candles, penitent heads filling the pews was now supplanted by visceral horror, dominated by the treacly, gnarled trunk of a towering acacia. Rotting carcasses were impaled upon massive thorns along its splayed branches.
The cries had come from a crumpled form half submerged in a viscous sap that bubbled menacingly. A pungent vapor hung thick over the pool as the body tried desperately to raise its arm. Abruptly their torso was crushed with a sickening squelch as one of the monstrous strigidae landed with an inaudible pounce. The ashen horror of its tripartite beak exploded in a shrill cry of rapture as it split the thorax in two with a powerful kick that flung caustic sap in a wide arc.
Nuberu watched on in horror as it devoured half of the gore it created in one disgusting gulp. As viscera and sap pooled at the tapered ends of its mighty wings, Nuberu noted the odd composition of the monster’s feathers; they gleamed like anodized titanium and seemed to be covered in a type of patina. He began to slowly back away when he noted two minuscule apertures focusing on him; posterior eyes protruded from the covert feathers along its mantle.
Merda!
Lustrous pools of deep amber the size of manhole covers glared at the intruder in its territory. Nuberu unloaded the Vityaz in a panic, completely missing his mark, before dashing down a hallway adjacent to the vestibule he’d just passed through. The Broxa’s rampaging form crashed through the rotting wood of an aged confessional then slammed into the stone archway. It desperately snapped its triadic neb, slavering gluttonously until its frustrations grew to a fever pitch. The raptor let loose a deafening screech that disoriented Nuberu as he struggled in vain to cover his ears. If he’d been able to hear over its incensed din, his heart would have sank at the number of calls that came in response.
Xepabul District, Allure City (formerly Salamanca)
“Sorry for that technical hiccough true believers, but the Allure Combat League is back online!”
Thousands of heads turned reflexively as titanic screens inset into the polished sandstone of the Gran Circo winked to life. The rotund and rosy cheeks of Zrboe Heyanga dominated the image, a tiny slate pinstripe bowtie peeking out from beneath layered glistening chins.Thick beads of opalescent sweat were dabbed at with a square patch of Vurqilian silk, its hydrophobic properties repelling the fluid. The plastiwool of Zrboe's periwinkle jacket grew damp as he waited a beat for the crowd below to fall into an expectant murmur.
“We’re here with one of our top contenders and Xepabul favorite, Jalro Fa’nämön. Jalro, you’re coming off a three match streak and that last victory over H-”
Tapered fingers pressed softly against Zrboe’s speech bulbs, separating with a thin thread of mucus. Prismatic hexagons of light danced playfully along the length of Jalro’s lustrous saxe mane. Jalro struck a pose, left fist raised to the heavens and was met with a cascade of rose-tinged sparkles from above. A pair of cam-drones whorled around the rooftop pavilion, broadcasting his lithe form to an eagerly awaiting public.
“Zrboe… Oh, my sweet little epigone. If you were impressed with that Velocity Jaldrop wait until you see what I’ve got planned for Masi Squiza this upcoming Erentil!” Plani-glass grains hummed as they shifted along the visible spectrum with a subtle wave, flushing Jalro’s attire to a scintillating amber. “When I hit him with a Lightspeed Jalbomb they’ll be scraping what’s left of Masi’s sense-sacs from the interior of that wreck he calls a mech.”
“So you’re saying that Masi has no chance against you this Erentil?” Zrboe’s dorsal flagella quivered with delight, the air around him growing electric as Jalro plucked one of the cam-drones from its flight path. Deep pools of coral stared longingly into the lens, the light within them spiralled as it pulsed to a rhythm emanating from Jalro. The intimacy of the moment was punctuated by throngs of fans squealing. “I’m saying there’s no place for a rundown slob like Masi in the ACL, baby!” He released the cam-drone with a flourish and it buzzed away excitedly.
“Strong words from a strong contender. Now let’s check in with S’Xani Utron back at Xepabul Tower with official remarks from Fimiendel Vericlat-” Zrboe’s remarks, and life, were cut-short when he was suddenly crushed by a careening spheroid. The cam-drones continued to roll as they distanced themselves from the carnage, panning out to show the panicked throng of Jalro’s entourage fleeing through crashing debris. Production assistants and a handful of Allureans lucky enough to have won behind the scenes passes were transfixed by the visceral horror before them.
The spheroid shuddered and with a partial bounce a pair of stubby legs were expelled from its shape with an echoing twang. As the cam-drone autocorrected the image to account for the smoking wreckage, an enormous eye was suffused from the orb’s epicenter.
Long, thick lashes fluttered flirtatiously at the camera as the spherical being launched itself at the cam-drone, grasping it firmly with tri-clawed manipulators that burst out suddenly. The drone’s lateral hydrazine thrusters fired sporadically, causing it and its impromptu rider to meander through the air, the magnified image of a cyclopean gaze jostling on-screen in the background. Ckøst, scourge of the New Varda Concordant and defiler of Kenor’s Landing, held the cam-drone firmly in place as it began to sensually grind its rubbery cornea against the unblinking lens. Its pace grew frenzied, tear ducts twitching repulsively before expelling a viscous orange fluid that a serpentine tongue lapped up greedily.
“Mmm Ckøst hasn’t seen himself in so long! So much Ckøst, such fun!”
Oversized incisors jostled in their sockets as the tongue returned to the wet ruin of Ckøst's mouth. The thrusters on the cam-drone began to sputter in the wake of Ckøst’s aroused assault and began to lose altitude when it suddenly erupted mid-air by a concussive blast of condensed sound. With a bloom the Gran Circo sent out a small fleet of cam-drones to cover Jalro’s defiant posturing from every angle as the smoke began to clear.
Jalro’s plani-glass attire throbbed in rapid tempo as it assumed a more martial aspect, hollowing itself along his extremities to better channel vibrations. His left arm was extended outwards with his pointer finger leading the plummeting interloper. Seven swirling prisms of light bathed Jalro in a rainbow effect. They then began to condense into a thin beam at his fingertip while he amplified his voice through a subtler application of his abilities, his words loud enough to be heard over the chaos.
“Chumps belong behind the camera, not in front of it!” The crowd’s cheers were lost in the eruption of light and sound that struck Ckøst and sent its form crashing through miles of downed satellites, interstellar wreckage, and the occasional congregation of shanties before bursting through the neon slurry that was the leftover biowaste from the ACL’s last free Libuschan chili day. Jalro beamed triumphantly at the cam-drones, hovering high above the Gran Circo with a vermilion shimmer. His hair whipped back as he let loose a thunderous laugh, soft motes of golden light dreamily suspended around him. “A fitting grave for someone so trashy!”
The projected image of Jalro was replaced with that of an oozing mound of mucilaginous greens and yellows, pocked with the occasional undigested Koroxian gristle or still squirming djrowm from the moons of Poxu Prime. The heap steamed in the unfamiliar, alien star above that was slowly being tinged purple. A wave of subconscious dread washed over the crowd as their attention turned skyward. Minds human or extraterrestrial alike were frozen in dread as the astronomical nightmare of a colossal Cnidarian passed in front of the sun, a flotilla innumerable in strength traveling in its wake.
Unnoticed, the hummock quivered violently before beginning to collapse in upon itself as it was hungrily devoured by an emerging effulgence in the refuse. Narcissism incarnate, a translucent eidolon of Ckøst rose from the filth. An intricate network of ghostly capillaries were pushed to the construct’s surface that throbbed with the pressurized waste pumping through them. Suspended within the muck was Ckøst, his lonely, lovely eye glaring at Jalro whose attentions were turned elsewhere. This infuriated Ckøst further, the mouth of the radiant apparition narrowing into a nozzle that spewed a stream of highly pressurized waste as Ckøst threw a mid-air tantrum. “Ckøst is most important! Ckøst will not be ignored!”
Stil in a stupor, the feculent stream was already upon Jalro when he instinctively clapped his hands together just as he was met by the blast. The impact of his hands generated a bass wave that pulsed through the bodies of everyone in a 5km radius, their sensory organs nearly rupturing as their bowels (or analogous system) bubbled sickeningly. Meanwhile, Jalro was explosively ejected from Xepabul with a glimmering trail of distressing reds and alarming yellows that was closely followed by an enraged Ckøst, traveling in a discus shaped like a flattened version of himself.
Waves of concussive force rippled Jalro’s plani-glass armor as he ricocheted off a spindly spire of Ridulian crystal, creating a high frequency note that Jalro rode while firing scintillating saffron spheres at Ckøst. Not to be out-done, the disc that bore Ckøst inflated comically as a series of miniature Ckøst began to trickle down from a single point creating a chain along what became a dense spiked weight. Ckøst swung the flail at Jalro wildly, each missed strike creating untold destruction as the two’s battle took them through many of Allure’s regions as they continued south.
Ckøst, incensed beyond rational thought, began to indiscriminately launch a volley of miniature explosives in its likeness. They screamed through the air, prepared to crumble an entire mountain range in the vague hope of striking one who had the audacity to take focus away from itself. Jalro's plani-glass condensed along his arms creating powerful subwoofers and revealing his lithe and naked form to the frigid surroundings. Jalro began to feel a micro-dimensional tear as his vibrations reached their apex, channeling all of the force into his arms. The two glared at one another, prepared to end everything as the sun’s light began to return to its normal yellow.
Suddenly, both were struck down from the heavens with a blur of resplendent jade, their faces still locked in aggressive scowls that slowly grew slack. Between two smoking craters knelt a humanoid form, swathed in an aura of coruscating emerald. “Sorry to be so rough, but Jemha Autonomous Zone is under my protection and I’m late for a meeting.”
“Sorry for that technical hiccough true believers, but the Allure Combat League is back online!”
Thousands of heads turned reflexively as titanic screens inset into the polished sandstone of the Gran Circo winked to life. The rotund and rosy cheeks of Zrboe Heyanga dominated the image, a tiny slate pinstripe bowtie peeking out from beneath layered glistening chins.Thick beads of opalescent sweat were dabbed at with a square patch of Vurqilian silk, its hydrophobic properties repelling the fluid. The plastiwool of Zrboe's periwinkle jacket grew damp as he waited a beat for the crowd below to fall into an expectant murmur.
“We’re here with one of our top contenders and Xepabul favorite, Jalro Fa’nämön. Jalro, you’re coming off a three match streak and that last victory over H-”
Tapered fingers pressed softly against Zrboe’s speech bulbs, separating with a thin thread of mucus. Prismatic hexagons of light danced playfully along the length of Jalro’s lustrous saxe mane. Jalro struck a pose, left fist raised to the heavens and was met with a cascade of rose-tinged sparkles from above. A pair of cam-drones whorled around the rooftop pavilion, broadcasting his lithe form to an eagerly awaiting public.
“Zrboe… Oh, my sweet little epigone. If you were impressed with that Velocity Jaldrop wait until you see what I’ve got planned for Masi Squiza this upcoming Erentil!” Plani-glass grains hummed as they shifted along the visible spectrum with a subtle wave, flushing Jalro’s attire to a scintillating amber. “When I hit him with a Lightspeed Jalbomb they’ll be scraping what’s left of Masi’s sense-sacs from the interior of that wreck he calls a mech.”
“So you’re saying that Masi has no chance against you this Erentil?” Zrboe’s dorsal flagella quivered with delight, the air around him growing electric as Jalro plucked one of the cam-drones from its flight path. Deep pools of coral stared longingly into the lens, the light within them spiralled as it pulsed to a rhythm emanating from Jalro. The intimacy of the moment was punctuated by throngs of fans squealing. “I’m saying there’s no place for a rundown slob like Masi in the ACL, baby!” He released the cam-drone with a flourish and it buzzed away excitedly.
“Strong words from a strong contender. Now let’s check in with S’Xani Utron back at Xepabul Tower with official remarks from Fimiendel Vericlat-” Zrboe’s remarks, and life, were cut-short when he was suddenly crushed by a careening spheroid. The cam-drones continued to roll as they distanced themselves from the carnage, panning out to show the panicked throng of Jalro’s entourage fleeing through crashing debris. Production assistants and a handful of Allureans lucky enough to have won behind the scenes passes were transfixed by the visceral horror before them.
The spheroid shuddered and with a partial bounce a pair of stubby legs were expelled from its shape with an echoing twang. As the cam-drone autocorrected the image to account for the smoking wreckage, an enormous eye was suffused from the orb’s epicenter.
Long, thick lashes fluttered flirtatiously at the camera as the spherical being launched itself at the cam-drone, grasping it firmly with tri-clawed manipulators that burst out suddenly. The drone’s lateral hydrazine thrusters fired sporadically, causing it and its impromptu rider to meander through the air, the magnified image of a cyclopean gaze jostling on-screen in the background. Ckøst, scourge of the New Varda Concordant and defiler of Kenor’s Landing, held the cam-drone firmly in place as it began to sensually grind its rubbery cornea against the unblinking lens. Its pace grew frenzied, tear ducts twitching repulsively before expelling a viscous orange fluid that a serpentine tongue lapped up greedily.
“Mmm Ckøst hasn’t seen himself in so long! So much Ckøst, such fun!”
Oversized incisors jostled in their sockets as the tongue returned to the wet ruin of Ckøst's mouth. The thrusters on the cam-drone began to sputter in the wake of Ckøst’s aroused assault and began to lose altitude when it suddenly erupted mid-air by a concussive blast of condensed sound. With a bloom the Gran Circo sent out a small fleet of cam-drones to cover Jalro’s defiant posturing from every angle as the smoke began to clear.
Jalro’s plani-glass attire throbbed in rapid tempo as it assumed a more martial aspect, hollowing itself along his extremities to better channel vibrations. His left arm was extended outwards with his pointer finger leading the plummeting interloper. Seven swirling prisms of light bathed Jalro in a rainbow effect. They then began to condense into a thin beam at his fingertip while he amplified his voice through a subtler application of his abilities, his words loud enough to be heard over the chaos.
“Chumps belong behind the camera, not in front of it!” The crowd’s cheers were lost in the eruption of light and sound that struck Ckøst and sent its form crashing through miles of downed satellites, interstellar wreckage, and the occasional congregation of shanties before bursting through the neon slurry that was the leftover biowaste from the ACL’s last free Libuschan chili day. Jalro beamed triumphantly at the cam-drones, hovering high above the Gran Circo with a vermilion shimmer. His hair whipped back as he let loose a thunderous laugh, soft motes of golden light dreamily suspended around him. “A fitting grave for someone so trashy!”
The projected image of Jalro was replaced with that of an oozing mound of mucilaginous greens and yellows, pocked with the occasional undigested Koroxian gristle or still squirming djrowm from the moons of Poxu Prime. The heap steamed in the unfamiliar, alien star above that was slowly being tinged purple. A wave of subconscious dread washed over the crowd as their attention turned skyward. Minds human or extraterrestrial alike were frozen in dread as the astronomical nightmare of a colossal Cnidarian passed in front of the sun, a flotilla innumerable in strength traveling in its wake.
Unnoticed, the hummock quivered violently before beginning to collapse in upon itself as it was hungrily devoured by an emerging effulgence in the refuse. Narcissism incarnate, a translucent eidolon of Ckøst rose from the filth. An intricate network of ghostly capillaries were pushed to the construct’s surface that throbbed with the pressurized waste pumping through them. Suspended within the muck was Ckøst, his lonely, lovely eye glaring at Jalro whose attentions were turned elsewhere. This infuriated Ckøst further, the mouth of the radiant apparition narrowing into a nozzle that spewed a stream of highly pressurized waste as Ckøst threw a mid-air tantrum. “Ckøst is most important! Ckøst will not be ignored!”
Stil in a stupor, the feculent stream was already upon Jalro when he instinctively clapped his hands together just as he was met by the blast. The impact of his hands generated a bass wave that pulsed through the bodies of everyone in a 5km radius, their sensory organs nearly rupturing as their bowels (or analogous system) bubbled sickeningly. Meanwhile, Jalro was explosively ejected from Xepabul with a glimmering trail of distressing reds and alarming yellows that was closely followed by an enraged Ckøst, traveling in a discus shaped like a flattened version of himself.
Waves of concussive force rippled Jalro’s plani-glass armor as he ricocheted off a spindly spire of Ridulian crystal, creating a high frequency note that Jalro rode while firing scintillating saffron spheres at Ckøst. Not to be out-done, the disc that bore Ckøst inflated comically as a series of miniature Ckøst began to trickle down from a single point creating a chain along what became a dense spiked weight. Ckøst swung the flail at Jalro wildly, each missed strike creating untold destruction as the two’s battle took them through many of Allure’s regions as they continued south.
Ckøst, incensed beyond rational thought, began to indiscriminately launch a volley of miniature explosives in its likeness. They screamed through the air, prepared to crumble an entire mountain range in the vague hope of striking one who had the audacity to take focus away from itself. Jalro's plani-glass condensed along his arms creating powerful subwoofers and revealing his lithe and naked form to the frigid surroundings. Jalro began to feel a micro-dimensional tear as his vibrations reached their apex, channeling all of the force into his arms. The two glared at one another, prepared to end everything as the sun’s light began to return to its normal yellow.
Suddenly, both were struck down from the heavens with a blur of resplendent jade, their faces still locked in aggressive scowls that slowly grew slack. Between two smoking craters knelt a humanoid form, swathed in an aura of coruscating emerald. “Sorry to be so rough, but Jemha Autonomous Zone is under my protection and I’m late for a meeting.”
"... My people are not known for longevity and I wish to spend what time I have left in peace.”
Ayanda paused to consider the pygmy's words before responding, her tone full of warm understanding. "I am neither a messiah nor a prophet, despite what you may presume. When I invited you I did not intend to enunciate dogma and have you take up arms with us. No, my friend, you are a gentle soul who has seen much sorrow."
The rim of the largest vitrified pools widened to accommodate Ayanda as she sat at the water's edge. Her hand passed over its surface and in its wake the crystalline surface became multifaceted, each division depicting scenes playing out across Africa. She beckoned Ndakala closer with a gesture as the images congealed into one, that of an arboreal city bustling with life.
"My ambition in inviting you here is twofold; first, to be able to speak in the simple language of facts and clarity on behalf of my people, the people of Africa who resist Xanathan's tyranny, and secondly, to be able to express in my own way, the feelings of that mass of people who are disinherited—those who belong to that group maliciously dubbed "mutants"—and to state, even if I cannot make them understood, the reasons that have led us to rise up, all of which explains our interest in the Comte Foundation, the demands of our rights drawing strength in the clear awareness of our duties."
Ndakala approached the elevated rim and peered over it, unable to contain his wonder at such casual use of the supernatural. The image of the verdant cityscape gave way to its canals crowded with dhows crammed to nearly sinking with dried mitmita, baobab bulbs and casks of tigray white honey, their psychedelic sails reflected in Ndakala’s astonished gaze.
"Our duties to buttress against the tragic background of events which are sadly undermining the foundations of our world. Creating one of chaos in which the human race is tom apart by struggles between the great and the not-so-great, attacked by armed bands and subjected to violence and plunder. It is a world in which Xanathan, eluding international jurisdiction, command groups beyond the law, which with gun in hand live by preying on others and organizing the most despicable kinds of trafficking.
We feel on our cheek every blow struck against every other man. Until recently, we have turned the other cheek. Xanathan have felt no tenderness in their hearts. They have trampled on the truth of the just. We can no longer afford inaction. Our eyes have been opened to Xanathan's cruelty and there will be no more blows dealt against us. It must be proclaimed that there will be no salvation for our people unless we reject completely all the models that all the charlatans have tried to sell us for millennia."
She stopped, her words taking root while his eyes flooded with tears. With a shimmer the image of the colorful canals was replaced with that of children laughing as they played outside of large classrooms, the patient and mindful eyes of elders watching over them. A heavy sigh from Ndakala brought about a comforting hand on his shoulder as Ayanda continued.
"That cannot be accomplished through force alone, and not all of those who I call my people are capable of defending themselves from such violence. Like you, many of them yearn to walk upon the earth, not lie beneath it. They busy themselves with the health of their community and themselves. It would do me a great honor if you would join them at Mzinde we Mitengo.”
“She’s right, we’d be damned pleased to have you with us. Anyone patient enough to deal with ‘Ms. Benson’ for longer than five minutes without strangling her would be great minding little ones.” Khethiwe approached the two, obviously staring at Ndakala in rapt anticipation. Ayanda turned away to peer at the Kichaka Siri, the idyllic image dissipating with the slightest of trembles.
"Mzinde we Mitengo is something I would very much enjoy to see in person," Ndakala's words were cut short when a deep rumble sent him stumbling off the pool's edge.
The tremors had gone unnoticed at first; the subtlest of vibrations passing through Marange’s substrata. But as Ayanda’s attention was drawn further north and her breathing began to grow strained, the shocks began to multiply in strength and volume before, with a sickening groan the mycological morass outside the Kichaka Siri was thrown into upheaval. Her limbs grew rigid as she was pulled by a riptide of alien life and human misery into a sea of psychic pain.
A viridescent grove manifested visually in her psyche, and with it came the sobs of a crowd standing in a light rain. Their torches hissed as they gathered around the bloated and ravaged corpse of a child and its killer, a monstrous crocodile that still shuddered as blood flowed from its wounds. A woman wails while struggling to pull her son's form from the beast's maw, the others stunned into silence until with one final snap the reptile bit through the spine and sent the woman tumbling.
The raw grief of the woman's screams sent Ayanda's mind fleeing into the burning waters of the Mediterranean Sea as galleys rained a firey death upon the fleeing fishermen of Leptis Magna. The heavy beating of war drums bludgeoned the inside of Ayanda's skull as the thick boot of a Vandal raider smashed against the skull of a crimson-robed patrician. Flecks of brain and bone marred pristine marble as the chorus of the dead and dying swelled to a mind-breaking crescendo.
The bile that rose in her throat was felt a dozen times over as Janissaries opened fire on a throng of Christians protesting the Sultan's devshirme. Their children wept as they were tied together then crammed into the enclosed back of a wagon. Ayanda fell to her knees in crude imitation of those shot, her eyes transfixed on the sunlight reflected off a Janissary's bhok.
A defiling beam had torn loose eons of empathic trauma and as her throat grew hoarse with her yells, so too did the continent scream in agony. Her mind recoiled and as it hastily fled to return to her body, Ayanda was overwhelmed by a maleficent presence that was festering within Marange. She had not felt anything like it's kind since she had first come to the mine, when it had served as a killing grounds.
The celadon moss of her imibhaco quivered erratically as she struck the floor in a crumpled heap. Ayanda expended the last of her energy sealing off Marange's barracks and training colosseum as the crystalline tunnels of the Kichaka Siri slammed shut into a sanctified cloister with an ethereal tinkling. Consciousness slipping from her grasp, she saw a shapeless pygmy walking asleep through mist, searching for his own awakening.
Ayanda paused to consider the pygmy's words before responding, her tone full of warm understanding. "I am neither a messiah nor a prophet, despite what you may presume. When I invited you I did not intend to enunciate dogma and have you take up arms with us. No, my friend, you are a gentle soul who has seen much sorrow."
The rim of the largest vitrified pools widened to accommodate Ayanda as she sat at the water's edge. Her hand passed over its surface and in its wake the crystalline surface became multifaceted, each division depicting scenes playing out across Africa. She beckoned Ndakala closer with a gesture as the images congealed into one, that of an arboreal city bustling with life.
"My ambition in inviting you here is twofold; first, to be able to speak in the simple language of facts and clarity on behalf of my people, the people of Africa who resist Xanathan's tyranny, and secondly, to be able to express in my own way, the feelings of that mass of people who are disinherited—those who belong to that group maliciously dubbed "mutants"—and to state, even if I cannot make them understood, the reasons that have led us to rise up, all of which explains our interest in the Comte Foundation, the demands of our rights drawing strength in the clear awareness of our duties."
Ndakala approached the elevated rim and peered over it, unable to contain his wonder at such casual use of the supernatural. The image of the verdant cityscape gave way to its canals crowded with dhows crammed to nearly sinking with dried mitmita, baobab bulbs and casks of tigray white honey, their psychedelic sails reflected in Ndakala’s astonished gaze.
"Our duties to buttress against the tragic background of events which are sadly undermining the foundations of our world. Creating one of chaos in which the human race is tom apart by struggles between the great and the not-so-great, attacked by armed bands and subjected to violence and plunder. It is a world in which Xanathan, eluding international jurisdiction, command groups beyond the law, which with gun in hand live by preying on others and organizing the most despicable kinds of trafficking.
We feel on our cheek every blow struck against every other man. Until recently, we have turned the other cheek. Xanathan have felt no tenderness in their hearts. They have trampled on the truth of the just. We can no longer afford inaction. Our eyes have been opened to Xanathan's cruelty and there will be no more blows dealt against us. It must be proclaimed that there will be no salvation for our people unless we reject completely all the models that all the charlatans have tried to sell us for millennia."
She stopped, her words taking root while his eyes flooded with tears. With a shimmer the image of the colorful canals was replaced with that of children laughing as they played outside of large classrooms, the patient and mindful eyes of elders watching over them. A heavy sigh from Ndakala brought about a comforting hand on his shoulder as Ayanda continued.
"That cannot be accomplished through force alone, and not all of those who I call my people are capable of defending themselves from such violence. Like you, many of them yearn to walk upon the earth, not lie beneath it. They busy themselves with the health of their community and themselves. It would do me a great honor if you would join them at Mzinde we Mitengo.”
“She’s right, we’d be damned pleased to have you with us. Anyone patient enough to deal with ‘Ms. Benson’ for longer than five minutes without strangling her would be great minding little ones.” Khethiwe approached the two, obviously staring at Ndakala in rapt anticipation. Ayanda turned away to peer at the Kichaka Siri, the idyllic image dissipating with the slightest of trembles.
"Mzinde we Mitengo is something I would very much enjoy to see in person," Ndakala's words were cut short when a deep rumble sent him stumbling off the pool's edge.
The tremors had gone unnoticed at first; the subtlest of vibrations passing through Marange’s substrata. But as Ayanda’s attention was drawn further north and her breathing began to grow strained, the shocks began to multiply in strength and volume before, with a sickening groan the mycological morass outside the Kichaka Siri was thrown into upheaval. Her limbs grew rigid as she was pulled by a riptide of alien life and human misery into a sea of psychic pain.
A viridescent grove manifested visually in her psyche, and with it came the sobs of a crowd standing in a light rain. Their torches hissed as they gathered around the bloated and ravaged corpse of a child and its killer, a monstrous crocodile that still shuddered as blood flowed from its wounds. A woman wails while struggling to pull her son's form from the beast's maw, the others stunned into silence until with one final snap the reptile bit through the spine and sent the woman tumbling.
The raw grief of the woman's screams sent Ayanda's mind fleeing into the burning waters of the Mediterranean Sea as galleys rained a firey death upon the fleeing fishermen of Leptis Magna. The heavy beating of war drums bludgeoned the inside of Ayanda's skull as the thick boot of a Vandal raider smashed against the skull of a crimson-robed patrician. Flecks of brain and bone marred pristine marble as the chorus of the dead and dying swelled to a mind-breaking crescendo.
The bile that rose in her throat was felt a dozen times over as Janissaries opened fire on a throng of Christians protesting the Sultan's devshirme. Their children wept as they were tied together then crammed into the enclosed back of a wagon. Ayanda fell to her knees in crude imitation of those shot, her eyes transfixed on the sunlight reflected off a Janissary's bhok.
A defiling beam had torn loose eons of empathic trauma and as her throat grew hoarse with her yells, so too did the continent scream in agony. Her mind recoiled and as it hastily fled to return to her body, Ayanda was overwhelmed by a maleficent presence that was festering within Marange. She had not felt anything like it's kind since she had first come to the mine, when it had served as a killing grounds.
The celadon moss of her imibhaco quivered erratically as she struck the floor in a crumpled heap. Ayanda expended the last of her energy sealing off Marange's barracks and training colosseum as the crystalline tunnels of the Kichaka Siri slammed shut into a sanctified cloister with an ethereal tinkling. Consciousness slipping from her grasp, she saw a shapeless pygmy walking asleep through mist, searching for his own awakening.
It was during the mtyholi’s theatrical descent that Najwa calmly strode towards the demon in the shape of a broken man. The steady percussion of her boots softly echoed through the long-deserted waterfront while the soft fluttering of tattered cloth came to an end with the mytholi’s landing atop the water’s surface. She pushed on, the distance between the two steadily decreasing and only stopped advancing when It reached the water’s edge. Just over six meters, she reflected.
“Yes, girl. This is an appropriate place.”
Najwa’s arms rose in response, elbows tucked in while her fists leveled with her nose. Her hands were relaxed, ready to strike at any moment. Her eyes were fixed upon her opponent’s torso, taking in any slight shifts in its shoulders or hips as It settled into its unorthodox posturing. She estimated the club’s length and considered which angles would be preferred, while immediately growing wary of the mytholi’s leading left leg. Given the shift in his weight, she thought, a push kick wouldn’t be out of the question. But those missing toes could slow him down enough to...
She exploded forward and in one single bound shortened the distance between them by a third, forearms still up providing a strong defense. Another step and another meter gone and it was then that her knees bent slightly as she continued to charge forward. Just under three meters acquaints me with that nasty looking kirabhu. The height advantage that Najwa enjoyed became negligible as she pushed off her rear foot and entered the mytholi’s striking range. By keeping a lower stance during her advance she was prepared to slip or weave whatever angle of attack she could be met with by the weapon held aloft.
With another step she found herself moving past the immediate danger of the club and with an additional over-extended step she was within her own effective range. It was this step that Najwa stopped keeping her knees bent, and with her rising motion her left arm snapped forward, extending at the elbow in an alacritous jab that was meant to strike squarely at the mytholi’s chin. By not dropping her shoulder during the punch, she presumed its speed and unpredictability would rattle her opponent. The blow would be retracted immediately and as her body followed through with the over-extension of her foot, the preternatural balance she enjoyed stripped her of all worry as she finished her pivoting jab by repositioning herself outside of the mytholi’s leading left profile while having herself shifted into a southpaw stance, her leading right fist poised and ready to unload on her now crowded opponent.
“Yes, girl. This is an appropriate place.”
Najwa’s arms rose in response, elbows tucked in while her fists leveled with her nose. Her hands were relaxed, ready to strike at any moment. Her eyes were fixed upon her opponent’s torso, taking in any slight shifts in its shoulders or hips as It settled into its unorthodox posturing. She estimated the club’s length and considered which angles would be preferred, while immediately growing wary of the mytholi’s leading left leg. Given the shift in his weight, she thought, a push kick wouldn’t be out of the question. But those missing toes could slow him down enough to...
She exploded forward and in one single bound shortened the distance between them by a third, forearms still up providing a strong defense. Another step and another meter gone and it was then that her knees bent slightly as she continued to charge forward. Just under three meters acquaints me with that nasty looking kirabhu. The height advantage that Najwa enjoyed became negligible as she pushed off her rear foot and entered the mytholi’s striking range. By keeping a lower stance during her advance she was prepared to slip or weave whatever angle of attack she could be met with by the weapon held aloft.
With another step she found herself moving past the immediate danger of the club and with an additional over-extended step she was within her own effective range. It was this step that Najwa stopped keeping her knees bent, and with her rising motion her left arm snapped forward, extending at the elbow in an alacritous jab that was meant to strike squarely at the mytholi’s chin. By not dropping her shoulder during the punch, she presumed its speed and unpredictability would rattle her opponent. The blow would be retracted immediately and as her body followed through with the over-extension of her foot, the preternatural balance she enjoyed stripped her of all worry as she finished her pivoting jab by repositioning herself outside of the mytholi’s leading left profile while having herself shifted into a southpaw stance, her leading right fist poised and ready to unload on her now crowded opponent.
“Allure is a complex city…” Despite the cat’s droning, a flash of brilliance set Tartalo’s neural-weave processors racing. Vermillion ribbons of code coruscated along his augmented intraparietal sulcus as he created the rudimentary framework for what was to come while simultaneously forcing his way through layers of network control matrices and overriding several multi-factor physical authentications through the Falcata subroutines devised by that clever Babazorro.
<< Ekhi, download everything you can find once the Falcata is done cutting its way through. >>
<< Sir… These are… >>
<< Do it. >>
A sullen ping of confirmation. Tartalo took a moment to steel himself before continuing his interrogation.
“How disappointing what I am about to tell you must be, then. Ms. Iedereen certainly has ‘it’, if ‘it’ is a propensity for betrayal. Not only has she graciously agreed to our terms of unconditional surrender in exchange for formal recognition of her authority, but she has seen fit to provide us with more than enough information to delegitimize any claims of innocence you have tried to profess.
Quite clever this Ms. Iedereen is. At least clever enough to recognize the gravity of her situation. Now, do you doubt me? Or was your faith misplaced?”
No response from the restrained felid. Tartalo pressed on, sure of his strategy.
“Perhaps it is proof that you require. I can accommodate that.”
The interrogation chamber’s environs bloomed with activity in the purlieu of Merse and the Aldaré. Austere fuliginous panels sighed heavily as the chamber’s dimensions succumbed to a kaleidoscopic whorl before settling into the gestalt of a luxurious and expertly curated parlor. The stubby legs of a burgundy chaise lounge scuttled across lush Persian carpeting, fleeing the anachronistic fixture that Merse’s recumbent form presented. A shapely figure swathed in yellow appeared to be quite annoyed, but not at the jostling trot of her mahogany steed.
Her eyes, teeming with malice, were fixed on the imposing figure that stepped into Merse’s periphery as the intricately carved tentacles of an eastlake parlor table anxiously inched its way out of his path, an opaque alembic teetering dangerously with its motions. Pursed lips parted, and with an agitated tone she addressed the operative while undoing the clasp of her petite coach bag.
“If you’re going to force me to wash my dirty linens in public, you could at least make yourself useful and go about gettings things prepared.” With a soft grunt she removed the framework of a large archway out of her purse and dropped it to the floor with a muted thud.
“In Allure, there are territories which abide by the law, while others don’t,” she continued, returning to the contents of her bag. “Order was maintained out of the fact that opposing factions never openly collaborated against the state. I had other means of keeping the peace but due to unforeseen circumstances, I must play the situation with more finesse.” The woman turned, withdrawing a can with a no-sign stamped over a human figure. She gave the air between her and the operative a few furtive sprays before going on.
“To keep that peace, I suggest making the best of a dire situation and present both of our peoples with a proper bogeyman.”
Merse’s perspective retreated as the operative moved past then knelt through the bottle’s mist, lifting the archway with ease as a modulated voice tinged with curiosity responded. “Go on.”
“You’ve already got them in custody. I can arrange a meeting of very particular parties that might serve to resolve our current crisis.” Margaret rose from the chaise lounge and crossed the room like a volitant canary, stopping to nibble on a quivering cake that oozed a viscous green fluid. She dabbed at the taut crease of her mouth with the corner of a fuschia handkerchief. “All parties involved would happily present a unified front against our deposed shyster, and with the cat in the bag all it should take is a bit of incrimination.
“You can guarantee their cooperation?”
“Darling, nothing is ever guaranteed. Do you suppose I woke this morning eager to go about conspiring? I can hardly hold the need for evidence against you, though. Allow me to illustrate how… popular your captive is with the rest of Allure’s citizenry.”
Margaret returned to the chaise and undid the clasp of her purse once more, this time producing the ornate ivory receiver to a rotary phone, the reflection from its polished brass inlays reflected infinitely along a series of jasper decanters along high shelves that lined chartreuse colored walls adorned with tangerine neo-grecian motifs that undulated dizzyingly.
She gave a soft cough before speaking into the transmitter, watching the operative construct the archway with a penetrating gaze. “How do you do, Mr…” Her words were cut short by a deluge of expletives that audibly burst from the receiver for all to hear.
“THAT FUCKIN’ CAT.. MY BOTTOM LINE. I’VE GOT THREE.. FULL OF FRIJJANS.. THEIR CREDITS WHEN THE WHOLE CITY GOES BELLY UP.”
“I understand your displeasure, given the circumstances. But how would you like to finally be free of Merse? Don’t answer. Just gather your composure and prepare for an all-black affair.”
Returning the handset to its cradle, Margaret rose once more and let out a “HOWARD” in curt exclamation. The minuscule form of a young boy clad in blue overalls blinked into existence in the spot that Merse occupied in nauseating superposition before they stepped forward, oblivious to the rippling effect. He had an archway similar to the one the operative was constructing in tow, already curiously aware of what was transpiring.
“No need to yell, love. You’ve got my…. supppppppppport in h-h-hangiiiiiiinggg the cat-cat-cat-cat-cat out to drrrrrrrrrrrry.” Cherubic features collapsed upon themselves, creating an atramentous absence in the center of Howard’s face. The entire parlor seemed to be heaving with heavy breaths while the landscape of a schooner sailing atop crimson waters sprang to life, sanguine mists flecking felid fur. Perception became ultimate gamble as the walls began to close in on Merse’s restrained form. Tartalo’s voice bubbled up through the distortion created through the careful application of memetic agents.
“Your time is nearing its close. If there were ever a time for full disclosure, now would be it.”
<< Ekhi, download everything you can find once the Falcata is done cutting its way through. >>
<< Sir… These are… >>
<< Do it. >>
A sullen ping of confirmation. Tartalo took a moment to steel himself before continuing his interrogation.
“How disappointing what I am about to tell you must be, then. Ms. Iedereen certainly has ‘it’, if ‘it’ is a propensity for betrayal. Not only has she graciously agreed to our terms of unconditional surrender in exchange for formal recognition of her authority, but she has seen fit to provide us with more than enough information to delegitimize any claims of innocence you have tried to profess.
Quite clever this Ms. Iedereen is. At least clever enough to recognize the gravity of her situation. Now, do you doubt me? Or was your faith misplaced?”
No response from the restrained felid. Tartalo pressed on, sure of his strategy.
“Perhaps it is proof that you require. I can accommodate that.”
The interrogation chamber’s environs bloomed with activity in the purlieu of Merse and the Aldaré. Austere fuliginous panels sighed heavily as the chamber’s dimensions succumbed to a kaleidoscopic whorl before settling into the gestalt of a luxurious and expertly curated parlor. The stubby legs of a burgundy chaise lounge scuttled across lush Persian carpeting, fleeing the anachronistic fixture that Merse’s recumbent form presented. A shapely figure swathed in yellow appeared to be quite annoyed, but not at the jostling trot of her mahogany steed.
Her eyes, teeming with malice, were fixed on the imposing figure that stepped into Merse’s periphery as the intricately carved tentacles of an eastlake parlor table anxiously inched its way out of his path, an opaque alembic teetering dangerously with its motions. Pursed lips parted, and with an agitated tone she addressed the operative while undoing the clasp of her petite coach bag.
“If you’re going to force me to wash my dirty linens in public, you could at least make yourself useful and go about gettings things prepared.” With a soft grunt she removed the framework of a large archway out of her purse and dropped it to the floor with a muted thud.
“In Allure, there are territories which abide by the law, while others don’t,” she continued, returning to the contents of her bag. “Order was maintained out of the fact that opposing factions never openly collaborated against the state. I had other means of keeping the peace but due to unforeseen circumstances, I must play the situation with more finesse.” The woman turned, withdrawing a can with a no-sign stamped over a human figure. She gave the air between her and the operative a few furtive sprays before going on.
“To keep that peace, I suggest making the best of a dire situation and present both of our peoples with a proper bogeyman.”
Merse’s perspective retreated as the operative moved past then knelt through the bottle’s mist, lifting the archway with ease as a modulated voice tinged with curiosity responded. “Go on.”
“You’ve already got them in custody. I can arrange a meeting of very particular parties that might serve to resolve our current crisis.” Margaret rose from the chaise lounge and crossed the room like a volitant canary, stopping to nibble on a quivering cake that oozed a viscous green fluid. She dabbed at the taut crease of her mouth with the corner of a fuschia handkerchief. “All parties involved would happily present a unified front against our deposed shyster, and with the cat in the bag all it should take is a bit of incrimination.
“You can guarantee their cooperation?”
“Darling, nothing is ever guaranteed. Do you suppose I woke this morning eager to go about conspiring? I can hardly hold the need for evidence against you, though. Allow me to illustrate how… popular your captive is with the rest of Allure’s citizenry.”
Margaret returned to the chaise and undid the clasp of her purse once more, this time producing the ornate ivory receiver to a rotary phone, the reflection from its polished brass inlays reflected infinitely along a series of jasper decanters along high shelves that lined chartreuse colored walls adorned with tangerine neo-grecian motifs that undulated dizzyingly.
She gave a soft cough before speaking into the transmitter, watching the operative construct the archway with a penetrating gaze. “How do you do, Mr…” Her words were cut short by a deluge of expletives that audibly burst from the receiver for all to hear.
“THAT FUCKIN’ CAT.. MY BOTTOM LINE. I’VE GOT THREE.. FULL OF FRIJJANS.. THEIR CREDITS WHEN THE WHOLE CITY GOES BELLY UP.”
“I understand your displeasure, given the circumstances. But how would you like to finally be free of Merse? Don’t answer. Just gather your composure and prepare for an all-black affair.”
Returning the handset to its cradle, Margaret rose once more and let out a “HOWARD” in curt exclamation. The minuscule form of a young boy clad in blue overalls blinked into existence in the spot that Merse occupied in nauseating superposition before they stepped forward, oblivious to the rippling effect. He had an archway similar to the one the operative was constructing in tow, already curiously aware of what was transpiring.
“No need to yell, love. You’ve got my…. supppppppppport in h-h-hangiiiiiiinggg the cat-cat-cat-cat-cat out to drrrrrrrrrrrry.” Cherubic features collapsed upon themselves, creating an atramentous absence in the center of Howard’s face. The entire parlor seemed to be heaving with heavy breaths while the landscape of a schooner sailing atop crimson waters sprang to life, sanguine mists flecking felid fur. Perception became ultimate gamble as the walls began to close in on Merse’s restrained form. Tartalo’s voice bubbled up through the distortion created through the careful application of memetic agents.
“Your time is nearing its close. If there were ever a time for full disclosure, now would be it.”
Cascading chaff borne from the fearsome impact above pelted the pool around Najwa, spurring her into action. Filling her lungs with air, she sent herself beneath the water’s surface with a powerful stroke of her arms. The throb of Najwa's pulse was steady in her ears, legs propelling her further into the lightless depths when a mighty force reverberated through the pool.
The water around her churned furiously in the fallen pillar’s wake, and as it sunk it struggled in vain against her strength. With a resonant thud it hit the pool’s basin and she cast her obfuscated gaze upwards, the sunlit aperture undulating through the refraction. Even at her current depth, she could feel the warm tinge of sunlight from above where the mytholi no doubt was preparing its next attack.
Her outburst had put her at a disadvantage and Assad’s words bubbled up to her through the fog of memory. “Your strength will always be overwhelming, habibi. Do not let it be used against you.”
Minutes passed. Najwa focused on the sensations bombarding her when she took notice of slight disparities in the water’s temperature and pressure. She swam over to the site of the pillar’s impact and pressed her palms against its breadth.
Through the stone she could feel the rush of water being pulled through fissures in the concavity’s foundation. There at the nadir of a sunken piscina did Najwa fasten herself to a protrusion on the pillar through the use of a carabiner attached to her war-belt. Using her boots to anchor herself as best she could against the pillar, Najwa began to smash her fists against the basin with concentrated strikes.
The first few blows caused the fissures in the strata to deepen, fresh fractures appearing each time fist met earth. On the fifth strike the foundation of the pool exploded outwards in a frothing rush of stone and water that battered Najwa as she was pulled through. With a supine splash she fell into the shallows of an embankment along a languid hypogean river, hungrily taking in air rich with diversity.
Superficial lacerations tingled in the cave’s high humidity as she rose to her feet and took stock of her new environs. Najwa could make out the delineation of a deteriorating settlement further up the embankment as her eyes adjusted to the low light. Far off she could hear the familiar roar of rushing waters and chittering of troglofauna. Nostrils flared and Najwa was met with the heady perfume of loam and lotus.
Scattered about where she’d fallen were the majority of her war-belt’s contents, a casualty of being ripped away from the pillar. Recovering a flare from the detritus, Najwa lit it with a quick strike and threw it uphill. The sheathed blade remained steadfast against the small of her back as she climbed, the ground slick with guano.
Upon reaching the settlement’s edge, Najwa realized the architecture as reminiscent of the destroyed temple above. But while the temple above might have once had iconography depicting acts of self-reflection and worship, what details remained here told a different tale. In the shifting red haze of the flare did she approach a relief carved into the rockface that dwarfed her.
Her fingers brushed along the relief's surface as she made sense of the tale that remained. A figure, armed with five weapons at the edge of a forest. The figure confronting a monstrous being that towered the trees. The last remnants of the relief depicted a great battle between the two. Unlike Marange, a place of life and warmth deep underground, this was a place of cold and death. A tomb meant for a monster.
Najwa's fists crashed against one another with a splash of prismatic light, a telekill field radiating from the reinforced knuckles of her combat gloves.
"Come, demon! Come so that I may return you to your tomb!"
Her voice echoed through the cavernous chamber, laden with the threat of violence. She was prepared to kill.
The water around her churned furiously in the fallen pillar’s wake, and as it sunk it struggled in vain against her strength. With a resonant thud it hit the pool’s basin and she cast her obfuscated gaze upwards, the sunlit aperture undulating through the refraction. Even at her current depth, she could feel the warm tinge of sunlight from above where the mytholi no doubt was preparing its next attack.
Her outburst had put her at a disadvantage and Assad’s words bubbled up to her through the fog of memory. “Your strength will always be overwhelming, habibi. Do not let it be used against you.”
Minutes passed. Najwa focused on the sensations bombarding her when she took notice of slight disparities in the water’s temperature and pressure. She swam over to the site of the pillar’s impact and pressed her palms against its breadth.
Through the stone she could feel the rush of water being pulled through fissures in the concavity’s foundation. There at the nadir of a sunken piscina did Najwa fasten herself to a protrusion on the pillar through the use of a carabiner attached to her war-belt. Using her boots to anchor herself as best she could against the pillar, Najwa began to smash her fists against the basin with concentrated strikes.
The first few blows caused the fissures in the strata to deepen, fresh fractures appearing each time fist met earth. On the fifth strike the foundation of the pool exploded outwards in a frothing rush of stone and water that battered Najwa as she was pulled through. With a supine splash she fell into the shallows of an embankment along a languid hypogean river, hungrily taking in air rich with diversity.
Superficial lacerations tingled in the cave’s high humidity as she rose to her feet and took stock of her new environs. Najwa could make out the delineation of a deteriorating settlement further up the embankment as her eyes adjusted to the low light. Far off she could hear the familiar roar of rushing waters and chittering of troglofauna. Nostrils flared and Najwa was met with the heady perfume of loam and lotus.
Scattered about where she’d fallen were the majority of her war-belt’s contents, a casualty of being ripped away from the pillar. Recovering a flare from the detritus, Najwa lit it with a quick strike and threw it uphill. The sheathed blade remained steadfast against the small of her back as she climbed, the ground slick with guano.
Upon reaching the settlement’s edge, Najwa realized the architecture as reminiscent of the destroyed temple above. But while the temple above might have once had iconography depicting acts of self-reflection and worship, what details remained here told a different tale. In the shifting red haze of the flare did she approach a relief carved into the rockface that dwarfed her.
Her fingers brushed along the relief's surface as she made sense of the tale that remained. A figure, armed with five weapons at the edge of a forest. The figure confronting a monstrous being that towered the trees. The last remnants of the relief depicted a great battle between the two. Unlike Marange, a place of life and warmth deep underground, this was a place of cold and death. A tomb meant for a monster.
Najwa's fists crashed against one another with a splash of prismatic light, a telekill field radiating from the reinforced knuckles of her combat gloves.
"Come, demon! Come so that I may return you to your tomb!"
Her voice echoed through the cavernous chamber, laden with the threat of violence. She was prepared to kill.
@Nate1008 feel free to join the discord and let us know your ideas for joining.
RP Summary
This story takes place on an alternate version of Earth, called Earth-F67X, set several decades in the future after a first and violent contact with alien life known as the First Contact War. As a result of fighting off the alien -- specifically, the "Val'Gara" -- invasion and with help from other, friendly aliens, Earth made remarkable technological advances. However, the war scarred the African continent with severe radiation and biohazards that made necessary its subsequent quarantine. Xanathan Industries, an alien megacorp that works in conjunction with Earth's government, controls much of the non-irradiated parts of Africa. The remainder is left to guerrilla groups and mutants. This RP involves the interaction between Xanathan Industries and the mutants.
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