The vast hall is hexagonal, with multiple covered booths surrounding a shared space in the open; balconies open up above the booths, allowing for a middle ground between visibility and privacy. (After all, the booths are only for those who make the necessary arrangements or agreements. Some are even rented by the half hour.) The space is dominated by a statue of Ishtar herself, flanked by two muzzled Lionesses. (If you squint, and ignore the number of legs, the animals really do look like they'd be at home on the savannah.) On one side, the hall opens up onto a garden, the pertinent features of which are the arena and a lovely maze garden.
You can't see Marianne (which might be a good thing?) but you do see that the security at the doors into the temple is being quietly reinforced; it's possible that some paranoid noble is worried about the Phantom Thieves ruining their perfect event, or it could be a move in a social game, but it still sends a worried shiver down your spine. This is a bigger target than you've hit before, and things need to go just right.
When you're worried about things, when you feel anxious or stressed, what teachings do you draw upon; how do you steady yourself?
***
Canada!
Certain. Sure. You leave Asterion to yell at you to come back, don't you dare, when I get out of here, Mountie...
Pretty soon it's just the noise of her voice, too muddled to make out clearly, as you prep yourself to go up and face who knows what in the arena. Do you take any of the weapons arrayed here? Do you present yourself clearly as Canada, the superheroine, the Great Betrayer? And does the sound of a great metallic clang down the hallway cause you to hurry at all?
***
Étoile!
The Annunaki are preening, puffed-up songbirds half the time, aren't they? Do a little bit of patter, compliment them shamelessly, and they look right past or through you, noticing only the compliments, the appreciation, the attention. You defused the risk of offense expertly by bringing up the offer for tea at her discretion, modeled your daring outfit well (but keep it up, make sure she sees only the outfit and the flash of gold), and asked the sort of silly, servile questions she'd expect from an properly-trained handmaiden.
Keep singing her praises, like Bilbon Sacquet in the dragon's lair, and she'll drop her guard completely, and that's when Marianne can strike.
"Tell her to give the tributes to you, Zimut," she says, again addressing her herald, "and to finish her questions. It does not become one of her station on the Great Chain to offer flawed and incomprehensible requests." Don't worry, she's just negging you to put you in your place, and to get you to spit it out. You're getting very close to the opportune moment. Keep swaying, little cobra, and this songbird will be entranced.
When Redana opens her eyes, Bella's nose is inches from hers. Her ears are flat underneath her frilly headdress and her eyes are wide with concern. It's only seeing Redana open her eyes that causes the servitor to relax slightly. "Milady," she says, sitting back on her haunches, hands tight in her lap, "Are you all right? I think that, um, it might be better to call it there for today."
"LESSON NOT COMPLETE," the Wrestler groans through his voxbox, settled back into an opening stance. "TRUANCY WILL BE LOGGED." Bella hisses at the automaton, showing her teeth. Redana closes her eyes and feels the temptation to lie back and let the floor swallow her. Her limbs throb, her head aches where it hit the sand, and her chest is convulsively rising and falling, her body desperate for air.
But if she doesn’t get up, if she teeters off the last of her strength and collapses into exhaustion and aching pain, she’ll lose the only thing on her biweekly report that she’s really proud of.
"I'm not done, Bella," she says, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Her body throbs. "I'm not done yet." She can't stop herself from a breathless giggle, her grin vapid and delighted, even as Bella's eyebrows meet in a worried frown. "It's okay. I promise, I'll be careful this time."
***
One of the worst things about a thunderbolt is that it cannot safely be removed from a target. The power running through it causes muscles to convulsively clench, locking it in place. Once struck by the hammer of the gods, the only thing that may be done for the unfortunate survivor is to be carried from the battlefield so that the surgeons may inject relaxants around the impact site. It is not a weapon to be used lightly; it is not a weapon that respects life.
Redana's hand is clenched into a gnarled claw, her arm will not bend, and her eye of flesh is blinded with salty tears running loose and free down her cheek, cutting a trail through the sweat and the oil. Her Ianuspater locks on the god of the dead, and helpfully informs her that she is in the presence of a deity. On the other side of the corridor seal, the boarding phalanx carefully weakens key points so that the blasting charge will tear it open and blast Redana and any foolish counter-boarders (as if there were any left) with shrapnel.
The official line is that Redana is proof to any violence save decapitation. King Jas'o apparently means to test the blessings of the gods. She does not know whether she is to be taken alive or dead; she does not know whether her fate, should she fail here, is to become the Grand Admiral's concubine or to suffer from an "inauspicious hull breach event" and drift forever among the sea-rimed dead. All she knows is that her flesh cannot, will not heal with this intruder forcing open her skin and muscle, sending shocks of power against the bone it grazed in its impact, and that she is bleeding out at an alarming rate. Dimly, she's aware that her nanites must have some limits to the amount of blood they can replicate at a moment's notice.
And she is so tired. The pipes shuddering against her back invite her to make them her bed, and not even the valves stabbing her in the kidney and spine can make that less appealing. All she needs to do is close her eye and will the Ianuspater to silence. All she needs to do is reach out and take that hand, and he'll carry her off to bed.
"...it becomes us... to uphold our vows," she murmurs, through bloodied lips. "All civilization is... based on the promises that, that the gods make man, and... and the promises that man makes, makes the gods. In all things, the prince... princess... must reflect the proper order, or... or risk undoing... the very founding of their rule." Her head lolls, but the Ianuspater holds steady. "Theoclitus," she cites with absolute certainty.[1] "I made a promise," she adds, but she's not thinking of the promise she made to him. She's not on the ship at all.
***
The eyepatch has a skull on it. Written around it in a circle is BORN TO DIE 777813 DEAD GHOSTS. If Bella understands what it means, she's doing a really good job of hiding it, and Redana really has no clue. It's a "subculture" thing. Down here, everybody has their own "subculture," which they cling desperately to. Everybody has their, their thing, and they'll fight about whose is best, and cram it into their tiny apartments, and take it out on their servitors, and the servitors collect the scraps and make their own incomprehensible mixtures just to survive.
Redana sits on the bench and swings her lace-up boots, and she's thinking so hard that she hasn't said anything at all in, well, minutes. She's practically overheating with it. Beside her, Bella fidgets in the snakeskin jacket and plaited denim leggings, broadcasting her distress loud and clear. And why wouldn't she be distressed? There's only room for the humans, here, which means that a servitor has to live with their human or...
The alleyways are dangerous. Her knuckles aren't bruised any more, but she can still feel the contact, how one swing broke the servitor's jaw, how he fell back onto the box which crumpled underneath him, how he keened as Bella tugged at her hand and begged her to run, how she realized as she let Bella drag her away that she just made him crush everything he owned under his own weight, how thin and lean and hungry he looked, how desperate he must have been...
When she argues with her tutors, she's got rooms and rooms to give herself space. But there's no space here. And everyone loves her mother, and everyone tunes in to one of the seventy available channels every night, and everyone clings desperately to their apartment and their subculture and they never, ever look up. It's like sticking a plant in a pot that's too small, and then shoving it in the back of a closet for good measure, and the worst part is that she can see so much creativity, so much wanting, stifled and channeled into tiny rooms and weird clothes and lashing out at servitors for taking up too much space...
"I'm going to fix this," she says, and her fingers brush against Bella's. "I promise."
***
"King of Stones," Redana says, each word dragged out of some bottomless depth, her throat raw. "I. I thank you for your gift." Her gauntleted hand reaches out and, so carefully, closes his fingers on his palm. "But. I made a promise..." You can do it. Finish strong, Redana. This is the last mile, and then you can drink, and walk in a circle so that you don't cramp. "King of Stones, loosen my flesh as the dead, so that I can pull this dart free. I will... will give you my food, burnt as offering. All yours." She dimly remembers that the gods don't actually eat the burnt offerings. It's something to do with the smoke and the energy released. Without waiting for the answer, she reaches up to her shoulder. (A target chosen by instinct. If she kept her ELF there, it would have been obliterated.) When she grabs it, the energy threatens to short out her gauntlet, but what other choice does she have? What else can she do?
She made a promise.
***
[1] Arathmus, The Letters: "It becomes us to uphold our vows in all things, from the smallest to the most momentous. The structure of civilization is composed of the promises that man makes to the gods, sure in the knowledge that the gods will uphold their one great vow: to maintain their essential and discernable natures. In all things, o prince, you must reflect this good and proper order, or risk undoing the foundation of your rule."
"Hello, Prisoner!" Caphtor's here now, yay. Which means they've already moved up the opening gladiator fight. You were so sure you'd have time to get Aster out before this happened! "Er, I mean, prisoners! You have two minutes to prepare before your cell door opens. Once that happens, you're going to go... in that direction," she adds, waving a hand vaguely off down the corridor to where you know the arming chambers and stairs are. "I'll be here to make sure you don't, like, get lost!" The djinn giggles; it's like bubblegum and blonde extensions. Maybe that's why the Annunaki sent you to a menial post: because you won't get with the program and switch your brain off like that one golden-haired handmaiden, Étoile. (She's such a ditzy brownnoser, isn't she?)
Well. That's wrecked it. If you lead her any direction but towards the arena, the helpful djinn will be sure to let guards know you need some navigational assistance. And while you did plan for this, you also thought you'd have more time to get that precious lead on pursuit, so that you'd be ready to start wrecking things early.
Aster exhales, and you can tell she's following in your mental footsteps. It usually takes her a bit, but she always ends up in the same ballpark. Your fastest and most surprising way out of here is going to be taking the elevators up to the arena and then starting some shit. Luckily, you'll have your true blue friend by your side and nothing will go wrong. Nothing else will go wrong. Other than the fact you don't have a plan for how to get out of the arena yet, but you'll think of something. You're good under pressure, right?
I mean, unless you want to start the fighting fast and on the back foot, with no surprise on your side and in a secure holding facility. That's a great way to end up in the cell next door, wondering if Tirzah's going to bother coming to pick you up, wondering if she really does care or was playing you for a sucker all along.
Yep, Plan Arena it is, right?
***
Étoile!
Your little sister rolls her eyes and hands you a drink before trotting off to hand out more, obviously sooooo over your whole "dumb Earthling" act already. (You notice the Thornback proctor making a note on her tablet, and hope desperately that it's something like... yeah, no, it's the eye roll, it has to be the eye roll. Oof.) Like pretty much all Annunaki cups, it's already got a golden reed straw for easy drinking while veiled, which means you're able to take a sip of something cool and bubbly before it's your turn.
Exalted Jerioth ab-Ishtar is, like most Annunaki, stunning. She's got her dark raven locks fashionably wavy and spilling over her bare shoulders, with many golden charms painstakingly woven into them: a hairstyle for lounging in. It doesn't escape you that she's got an attendant Thornback standing behind her, wearing silk mittens over her spindly fingers; doubtless it's her job to carry Milady's hair while in transit. Her gaze is like being fixed by a meat-sated lioness, who's too full at present to disembowel you, probably. The white gold shining on her fingers is a status symbol, as is the way that her veil is so sheer it's almost invisible, save for the golden thread running through it in runes of praise to Ishtar. As one of the Exalted, she is so high-ranking that this is the first time you've ever seen the fearsome "Queen of the Midwives." She arranges both breeding programs for lowly slaves (but not the creches their children will be spirited away to) and manages the nurses and midwives who ensure that childbirth is a blissful and painless process (though an associate, Exalted Maakah, supplies her with the opiates smoked and burned before the delivery). She has only Shelomit herself; perhaps pregnancy grows stale if witnessed enough times.
"Étoile, beloved slave of Tamytha ab-Marduk of the House of Blue Stone, here on her mistress's behalf," says her herald, another Thornback. (They're ubiquitous, wrapped in so many silk shawls as to seem formless, with carefully blunted thorns and lacquered skin visible when they shift. It's a common, if hushed, theory that they are jealous of humanity's potential to take their place as valued stewards and handmaidens.)
"She may speak," Jerioth says to him (not to you, of course), but you see the corners of her eyes tighten. It's a disappointment to her that the daughter of the Seneschal has, on the very evening of the Festival of the Bull's Dance, sent you instead of arriving directly. It's potentially a snub, and it certainly is a weaker hand for her to play in her cult's own internal politics, and while it would be an unsound tactical move to lash out at you over it... it would also entertain her, and if you make a misstep, she could easily pounce upon it. If you laugh, she may very well take it that you are laughing at her; if you break some obscure ruling, she may have you seized and punished; and even if you do everything right, she may very well command you to be taken back with an "escort" and bindings to keep you safe, silly thing, so that you can go home and look after your mistress. For anyone else, this would be terrifying.
You're Étoile Fucking Ravenelle. You've got this.
***
Anathet!
[frustration] is the answer to your question of meeting. [a fear of being lost; like you were distracted while shopping and when you looked around your mother was no longer there, that sudden surge of disorientation and panic] hammers you, but the next impulse is measured, as if she's trying to control it a little better: [memory, catechism, threading a rosary; something that you want to never forget]
She reaches out and places her hand on your chest, on the linen, but there's no sensation of touch. [twin sisters, close familial bonds] then [struggling to stay awake; your eyelids fluttering shut with exhaustion; disassociation
You shiver, and glance over at the screens flickering into life, for just a moment. It's hard not to! Your brain's programmed to get distracted by moving things, and she's right there.
The Arena is, as ever, ostentatious. It's built into a pit in the garden; there are seats carefully cultivated out of living plants, designed for lounging or getting handsy in semi-privacy, overlooking a clear diamond pane which covers the arena itself. The seats are already packed with Annunaki youths and matrons, and the opening acts of entertainers, dancers and jugglers around the diamond seal are putting on their climax. The view from the holding cells suggests that Canada didn't get Asterion out in time, and now... well, it's probably good to keep an eye out for her. You turn to think this carefully at the girl--
And she's gone. She's not there. Which is concerning. She had some similarity to stories you've heard of Echoes, the "ghosts" of psychics who imprint their thought patterns on the world before death. Echoes last a long time, and tend to be not malicious but erratic and difficult to reason with; you've received basic training in bringing them to peace. But that's not the whole story here, you're sure of it.
And it's entirely possible that you triggered her appearance by connecting to the djinn. Maybe she's... okay, working theory, maybe she's a part of Caphtor that managed to force her way loose of the "wines of magnetism" but fragmented on the way out, and is a confused energy pattern bereft of the larger, relaxing whole? You'd have to meet her again to be sure, but it's a start. And that whole "suddenly here, suddenly not here" is very Caphtor.
"Is there anyone in particular you are searching for? I can help. I'm good at spotting people!" Caphtor is doing her best to be helpful, all bubbly and happy, but you shouldn't tell her anything sensitive; it's even odds whether she forgets it before she can be useful, or remembers it and happily blabs to the first janissary who pumps her for information-- and not just this djinn, but potentially any of them. Life in Caphtor is something of a surveillance state nightmare, though both mundane pushback from the nobility and vandalism from rebellious slaves keep pockets of freedom open, and the superintelligence that could solve the mysteries of who Set, Canada and Marianne are is deliberately overclocked and venting memory all the time, only managing to cling to direct orders and messages for longer than a few minutes. Though the thought of having one pop up next to you at a sensitive time and say "hello, Set!" is one that's reoccurring in your nightmares...
Redana Honorius Claudius, Princess of Tellus, Heir Apparent to the Throne of Ecumenopolis, is a demigod, both legally and in the eyes of Heaven.
Her mother is Empress Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Tellurian, savior of Humanity in the wake of the fall of Molech, that vast and terrible edifice of hubris struck down by the gods for its blasphemy. By her iron will has Humanity been saved from dissolution; by definition, Humanity in the sense of shared culture and history only legally exists within the confines of the Emergency Declaration, which weighs upon humanity at 9.8 meters per second squared.
It must be understood that while the Empress is a tyrant, she is in intent a benevolent one. She witnessed the drowning of the Atlas Cultural Sphere beneath the black and crushing waves, and saw the gold-wreathed altars to Hades Plutonian cleaved in two by his wrath. She is the last righteous hero of a fallen age, a witness of apocalypse, disgusted by the excesses of the boards of grasping, insatiable Molech. All that she has done, she has done in the name of Humanity, that it not be scattered and ultimately dissolved in the twilight of the wine-black sea.
If she has a flaw, it is that her love is as smothering and irresistible as the waves that drowned dishonored Atlas, and she is convinced that those she loves must have her protection and cannot be trusted to make decisions for themselves. If she has two, it is that she believes she can sing.
For the genetic donor for her child, who she decided she must have in case she was ever incapacitated or otherwise unable to rule, she chose the victor of the Olympic Games in an auspicious year. The victor, whose identity has been sealed by Imperial Edict, relinquished all claim to parentage and offered the glory to Zeus Olympios, Bringer of Victory, who appeared in person to adopt the yet unmade child. So it is that in all ways, by the laws of Ecumenopolis and the will of heaven, that Redana is considered the child of Zeus Olympios.
Indeed, when the princess was decanted from the loom, she was held by the shining arms of the goddess and given the blessing of heaven. And in her childhood, she always loved stormy days, for those were the days that might herald a visit from her father.
Yet, as she grew, those visits grew less frequent, for the simple reason that she had, by simple virtue of adoption, aroused the ire of Gazelle-Eyed Hera, She of the Peacock. It is rumored that Hera has sworn to see the princess brought low, a servant of servants, humiliated and base; it is similarly rumored that the reason the princess was locked away in her palace was from fear of Hera’s retribution, her servants and her cult.
Regardless, on the princess’s sixteenth birthday, Zeus Olympios appeared before her and offered her further blessing, and Redana asked simply for a taste of freedom.
Zeus does not bless by half measures.
Education
Specialization is for insects. For this reason, Nero declared that her daughter would master every aspect of good governance: diplomatic courtesy, martial prowess, wise stewardship, political cunning, and a full understanding of the culture and history of Humanity. After all, she had suffered much to learn all she had, and her daughter (free of trouble and strife) would be able to learn so much more!
In practice, trying to convey centuries of experience crammed into a decade and a half of lessons and expecting her daughter to absorb them all may have been hubris on Nero’s part. If Redana had been a born scholar from birth, it’s possible she might have been able to succeed, but Redana was born an athlete and a kind soul, not the kind of genius Nero expected.
Ignoring that she herself was a warrior and wanderer before she became Empress of Tellus, Nero doubled down on endless lessons and workbooks and quizzes provided by an endless array of tutors, which put more and more pressure on the princess, who absorbed less and less.
It is doubtless this that provoked her to sneak out with her beloved pet servitor, Bella, to see the great and terrible city of Ecumenopolis for herself.
What she saw there shocked and disgusted her. This, then, was the empire she was being raised to maintain? This was all the good Humanity could expect from their ruler? This was her birthright and her responsibility?
From that night, the desire to escape, to defy the Astella Monotellus, was born inside her.
The risks were high; the price, higher. She was forced to leave Bella behind after a furious fight, her pet hoping to keep her safe by not allowing her to leave. Her escape was on a pitifully small sloop, barely capable of enduring the vastness of Poseidon’s domain. Yet the god of the deeps chose to take pity on her, perhaps due to the intervention of Zeus, perhaps due to the princess’s delight and zeal in carrying out her ship’s duties alone, and guided her to safer harbors.
The Princess
Some time has passed since the Princess escaped. Not much, but some. Instead of an Imperial uniform, she wears spacer’s gear: a jacket to keep out the cold, figure-hugging clothes that won’t catch or tear, a bandana to keep her hair from getting dirty, boots that won’t slip when Poseidon roars his fury and gloves that won’t let her get rope burns. An Iokheira, a duelist’s blade, is sheathed at her thigh, and though she’s been professionally trained in its use, she prefers not to have to use it.
She has her mother’s eyes. One green and warm, the other cold and blue, with an imperial insignia for an iris. Her mother insisted she be fitted with an Ianuspater auspex, despite her struggle to integrate its feedback on any complex level. Her skin is flawless, due entirely to the Zeus-blessed st/YX nanite swarm constantly at work inside her. She refuses to cut her golden hair, the color of Zeus’s own, and instead pulls it back in a ponytail or a bun.
She’s only of average height, and built like a swimmer: all sleek, lean muscle and legs strong enough to crack open a watermelon. Despite this, she has the kind of presence that fills the room when she enters, and the sort of charisma that makes her exploits seem easy, much like her Olympian father. And much like her Olympian father, this means that people expect her to know what she’s doing, even when she very much doesn’t.
She seeks proof that it is time for Humanity to travel the stars once more. If she goes back now, she will have to yield to her fate or else fight and likely kill her mother, and she can countenance neither. Hades alone can provide her with something that can change her stubborn mother’s heart, or so he claims.
REDANA, THE EXILE Marked by Zeus Olympios and Poseidon Polychromatikí.
LOOK Mismatched eyes Olympic body Spacer’s uniform Unblemished skin
AGENDAS Learn the Truth (discover the world outside your sheltered past) Human Superiority (it is your duty to protect lesser creatures) Seeking Freedom (evade the Hunt)
In short, she’s very athletic and charismatic, but prone to getting in over her head fast.
MOVES A Lesson Learned (when you forgive someone who harmed you, and let them know, both heal and you Forge a Bond) Forbidden Element: Metal (Blessing of Nemea) Elder Arts (Ianuspater Auspex) Poetry in Motion (always pick +1 option on Get Away) Chasing Smoke (you can always try to Get Away) Survivor (when you hit an Overcome, heal or Get Away with a 7-9) Savior (take damage instead of another)
Redana bears the blessings of Zeus. The Nemean Blessing allows her to channel power through herself, hardening her skin and growing into an Amazonian figure of glorious battle. The Blessing of Freedom makes her capable of escaping any peril, should she choose to do so. And, from birth, the blessed st/YX nanites have worked to make her nigh-invulnerable; given time enough to heal a wound, they will close it over without leaving even a scar.
GEAR Spacer’s Rations (Food, 3-Use) Iokheira Dueling Rapier (Melee) Spacer’s Uniform (Useful, 2-Use) Mag Harness (walk on any metal surface) Abyssal Star Chart (Map) Ianuspater Auspex The Eye of Hermes (Look Closely, 2-Use) Paragon Nanite Capsules The Shepherdess’s Touch (Healing, Slow, 2-Use) Fistful of Obols, beloved by the Gods (Precious, 2-Use) Portable Smelter (2-Use, Repair, Slow) Command Seal (1-Use, COME TO ME)
The first four are reasonably common, even the mag harness, which is useful for ship repairs. The latter four? Those are rarer gifts: a map from the lord of the deeps, the wonderful eye her mother implanted in her, the height of Ecumenopolis’s medical technology, and offerings highly coveted by the Olympians and those who worship them. The final two are the two sides of her relationship with the warrior construct, Alexa: the portable smelter for filling her cracks and chips with molten bronze, and the Command Seal integrated with the back of her hand by which she may give Alexa orders.
BONDS
I grew up with Bella.
I promised to keep Bella safe.
I feel responsible for Alexa.
When I was on the run, Dolce fed me.
DAMAGE AND SPENDS — Refreshed as of arrival in the Azure Skies GRACE - torn away by Thist’s stroke BLOOD - sacrificed for Bella SENSE - drowned under Hermes’ sorrow COURAGE - wounded by Bella Both Uses of Healing — the work of the Shepherdess’s Wand One Use of Spacer’s Outfit - in the toxic engine room
EMBER, DAUGHTER OF CERON, THE KNIGHT Initiate of the Silver Divers Clan Favored by Zeus Limenodkopos and Poseidon Asphalios
LOOK One eye sapphire, one eye emerald Olympic body Waterproof silks and fish-scale armor Shining golden hair
AGENDA But What Of Ceron? (Act on behalf of Ceronian wealth and honor, first and foremost) Territorial (Aggressively defend your friends)
MOVES # Stalwart Defenders (never pay a price to Overcome Threats to the World, roll with Hope when Overcoming on behalf of someone she has 3 Bonds with) # Ceronian Treatment (when she introduces herself to a ruler, they must— even begrudgingly— offer a room for the night and a hot meal, and their subjects become valid targets for the following move) # Yes, My Lady (when she issues a command to someone below her rank, they’ll do it immediately without any need to Talk Sense, until such time as a command causes them direct harm) # Strike True! (when she has an Advantage over someone, she can choose to stop them from causing further harm in the scene, stop them from giving chase, or remove a damaged stat entirely, no Finish Them roll necessary) # Foreign Exchange [Survivor] (when she Overcomes harm directed at herself, she can heal or mixed beat Get Away) # How Dare You?! (when insulted to her face, she can try to Finish Them with Blood or Grace, or ask two questions from Look Closely instead)
GEAR Chalcedony (Melee, Precious) Little Fang (Melee) Scout Training (Armor 1) Ceronian Spoils (Food 3) Medpack (Healing/Slow 2) The Jewels of the Seven-Colored Rainqueen (Precious 2) A Strange Eye A Secret
BONDS Mosiac is… wow. Have you seen her? She’s just. Mmmph. Mosiac and I both emerged from the sea together. Mosiac’s sisters are under my protection, even if she swears she can do it herself. Dolce is a sweetheart who deserves my protection. Gemini and Taurus sponsored me in joining the Silver Divers, and I can’t disappoint them! Plundering Fang never lets an opportunity to humiliate me slide. I tamed the wild surf-steed Belle; she’s feisty, but I managed to rein her in.
[Storytime: 2/9 Adventure GET: 3/21 Up to Date: 1/15 Something To Deal With 1]
“Hold the phone. Now give the phone to me.” I hold my hand up to my face. “Hello, this is Rinley Yatskaya, your call is very important to us, and we would like you to know that a maid cafe is exactly what Fortitude needs, especially if it also has those omelettes with the smiley faces drawn in ketchup on them. Thank you for calling Rinley Incorporated, and have a magical day.” Click! I hang up the phone.
And then I look around. Oof. Boy. This is not the sort of place you take a new best friend on your first friend date, is it? We still can’t entirely rule out the theory that this is all an elaborate beat test, but... well, my tail’s twitching and I’ve got a helpful itch in my fingers.
“So what’s the name of the place,” I ask, as I set the lily pad next to the umbrella and wave Sessily over to set Totem over here. This place looks like it’s been ransacked by Mongols and then given a morning’s worth of TLC. “And what’s on the menu? I will have your best dessert for my girl friend, I mean, my friend who is a girl, right here, we’re not dating, this is just a friend date at a cafe, like friends do.” Nailed it. I narrowly avoided putting my foot in my mouth, which I can do, I’m quite flexible, but I deftly avoided making Sessily feel pressured or taken advantage of, and I have surely put the proprietor of the cafe at ease by insinuating that I am interested in spending money in her establishment.
(As it just so happens, I still have that pouch of denarii I found while a prisoner of the Lost Legion underneath the Fortitude Water Tower. They’re really not so bad, once you get to know them. Or, rather, ceoney ouyay tegay otay ohnay emthey, as they say in the Queen’s Latin.)
Asterion doesn’t hit you. Worse: she hugs you. It’s reassuring that she still thinks you can handle her, but even a bear would be patting her on the back and making noises of surrender. This is Asterion to a tee: if she forgives you, she tosses the wrongs aside completely...
But it’s hard to forget who failed her, isn’t it?
“Really, though,” she says, putting you down, “You’d better have something better in mind than Asterion keeps it together for the rest of her life, because that’s not it, chief. Wait, are the others here? Are you getting the gang back together?” There is no getting the gang back together. “Look, even with them... if I go loco, I lose it. You know they call me The Destroyer, right? And space monsters aren’t all I destroy.”
That’s surprisingly level-headed, for Asterion. Watch, next she’s going to insist on you leaving her behind so she isn’t at risk of hurting the old gang, or even your new “gang”. How are you going to thread the needle of getting her on board the Plan?
And you’d better hurry it up, because the gladiator fights are going to be starting sooner than you’d like.
***
Anathet!
A sharp stab of meaning hits you hard in the back of the third eye as you finally start to surface from that endless ocean, and it takes you a gasping, confused moment to parse that its meaning is [appreciation, tinged with curiosity, not an initial curiosity but the curiosity of wanting to scratch beneath the surface] You look up into black eyes.
No, they’re black. They’re all black. The black radiates out from them freely across the face of the girl in front of you, perhaps a year or two your junior. But the black is so absolute that there’s no sense of there being actual eyes, or even empty pits; like they failed to render properly, rather.
[an extension of the hand; familial bonds] You probably could do something like this, but you’re capable of modulating your volume instead of swinging meaning like a 2x4 to the face on full blast. [Lynx; Annunaki; danger, like that of a prey animal out in the open and being silently pursued]
“Are you, like, all right?” This manifestation of Caphtor tilts her head and blinks in a way that the Annunaki think is appealingly vapid. “Should I inform medical services? Estimated arrival in two minutes.” She’s! Helping! You really should tell her no, don’t call the hospital one wing over and get them to send a response team. When the black-eyed girl moves past her peripherals, Caphtor doesn’t react at all.
[wrongness/error; personal failing] but of course the way “personal failing” is conveyed is by dragging something up from your past...
Show us, and then say something. Don’t worry, you won’t run out of time unless you ignore Caphtor completely.
***
Ètoile!
“A drink for the honorable slave of the House of Blue Stone,” Cellie says almost smoothly; the end comes out in a rush that would make her tutor frown. “Are you... busy tonight?” She might as well have winked loudly and nudged you. Any passing Inquisitor would have either assumed conspiracy or proposition (ewwww!!).
And here you are, staring down the barrel of the hope in your sister’s eyes as she lingers as long as she possibly can for that answer. She’s desperate to help, to do something, to overturn a table and tell the Annunaki that they’re a bunch of bastards, except she is also your little sister and does not have any superpowers, which would mean a very short end to her reign of abolitionist fervor.
In front of you, the slave of the House of Latticed Ivy curtseys in a skirt that looks more like something dragged up from the bottom of the sea, albeit a very fashionable bit of shark bait, and a top that’s like Marianne’s jacket turned into a gauzy shawl with the buttons laced out in tiny jewels, offering news from her honorable and gracious masters. It’ll be your turn in just a moment.
You once knew a professor who had a small and vicious Lorenz Beetle running around her office at shin height. She was the only person that hateful little thing didn’t resent and try to hamstring, and she always played off the gnawed boots and stockings as nothing to get worked up over. One fateful day, a student who had had quite enough of its wicked pincers lashed out and kicked it into a bookshelf.
The professor’s response quickly became the subject of hushed campus lessons, as regarded the utter hubris and folly of kicking the damned beetle.
The Flood was tranquil enough. It’s in her nature. (And her name! It must be a vast and wonderful secret. Perhaps, in her eternal loving embrace, there is a name you could ferret out of her...
But now Ailee has kicked the beetle. As the eels writhe and perish in the salt waters (what was she thinking, turning Her waters to salt??) there is a sudden swirling in the water. The Flood was content to leave the eels off a leash, but now she means to drag you all below—
But she must have time; and if your motor were not unclogged by Coleman, time she would have. As it stands... working together, he and Lucien should be able to keep it clear and running hot, propelling you out of the nascent whirlpool and off to the Tyrian Spire, and you should be able to sail in through that huge empty-paned window frame, which once shone over a ballroom, from the looks of it, each wall a different book, now half-drowned beneath the water—
And if you descend into this water, o Jackdaw, you will not be able to leave; not without a heroic surge of willpower, the kind Ailee might possess, or your friends bargaining for your return. Whatever you do, if you fall in, do not panic and try to swim back up; for all directions are Down when you are in the grip of the Flood.
Speaking of “in the grip of the Flood,” Lucien just fell off the boat.
[RL 4, making the Separation move.]
***
Lucien!
The good news is that the Flood hasn’t even noticed you falling overboard (after an unfortunate sway of the raft and a thrashing, dying eel slamming into you). This means that, huzzah, you’re not being dragged screaming beneath the water (which, splashed in your face, you realize tastes a little like tears— or is that from Ailee’s spell?). You’re clinging to a now-limp eel, the raft is getting further and further away, and one of your shoes is threatening to come off. Oh, and the forming whirlpool is already pulling you away from them actively, which, you know, is a wonderful cherry on top.
How are your kickboarding skills?
[A reminder that one must pay a price to act against the Flood directly. Yes, even to escape her. She will not be content with anything less.]
***
Coleman!
To be lost down there is to be swallowed by a selfish, all-consuming love unworthy of the name. By the time you look up, Lucien’s already been swept away.
You can try to put things into reverse, and expose yourselves to more danger (and certainly to finding out what’s actually down at the bottom of the Flood, and thus to likely losing your memories) or you can go full speed ahead and get Sasha, Jackdaw and technically Ailee clear.
***
Ailee!
This “god” is a sore loser. This is just like the time you kicked that dumb beetle.
[Storytime: 2/9 Adventure GET: 3/21 Up to Date: 1/15 Something To Deal With 1]
The floof starts right at the small of my back and shoots out in both directions so that by the time it reaches the top of my head and my ears and the floof runs through them like a wave, my tail’s already voluminous with excitement. “Oh bells and high watch,” I say, breathless, “you’re a spirit!” My smile is broad enough to swallow her blush right up! “Of course I knew you’d be important: this is Rinley and the Spirit!”
I shoot up, brandishing my lily pad like a sword, likely provoking a squeak. “She was the legendary shrine maiden, descendant of Finley, heir to the mantle of the Fish King himself! She was a spirit, the thought that the world has about itself! Can I make it any clearer?” I stop, and lower the lily pad. Not sheepishly, because I have never done anything sheepish in my life, but... in acknowledgement that I probably shouldn’t wave a lily pad at my new friend(!!). “What are you a spirit of? Wait, don’t tell me. If I can’t figure it out, I don’t deserve to know.” I’ll have to figure out a classification system and narrow it down. Maybe she’s a spirit of trees, or a specific tree, or the way the wheat moves in the wind, and did you know that back in olden times it used to be called corn? What we know as good ol’ corn is technically “maize.” That’s why, when you hear of people wearing crowncorns, you shouldn’t imagine a bunch of corncobs pointing out like a halo of swords! I could imagine Sessily (what a fun name! Ssssssessssssssily~) with a corncrown and a cornucopia without even breaking a sweat, but then again, what if she’s actually a spirit of rainy days? I’d be so embarrassed if I looked at her then and told her she was a spirit of plenty and sunlight on the wheat, and besides, wheat’s grown more often in the Walking Fields, on the other side of Horizon; in this part of town, rice is queen, and she doesn’t strike me as being a rice spirit; she’s not sticky enough at all, probably. I should try touching her to test that hypothesis.
“The Fish King’s a fun story,” I add, stepping out into the rain with my lily pad over my head and a hand outstretched in invitation: follow me. “Which means it’s storytime!”
***
Once upon a time, Fortitude went fallow. It didn’t happen all at once, but bad harvest year followed bad harvest year, and what’s worse, the fish stopped biting at all. Kaiju kept attacking, and to their surprise their arrival wasn’t met with screaming and panic but with forks and knives and napkins, but man cannot live on Kaiju alone! Some people put their affairs in order and moved to Horizon, or out to the Walking Fields, leaving their houses shuttered and dark looking out over dry and withered fields.
The drainage ditch beside the road is covered with small stone slabs. It’s usually safe to walk on them, or even ride a bicycle on them, because people don’t leave gaps. That’s dangerous, you know? But here, there’s a spot where the ditch suddenly dips, as the road slopes downward, and if the sound of rushing water didn’t warn you, you might have a nasty surprise. It roars, as if trying to drown out a story unsuited to green and grey forever, as far as the eye can see.
Rinley got so skinny that he could hide behind a lamp-post after eating dinner, and fed up with how things were going, got in his rowboat and went out into the middle of Big Lake, so far that he could only see land if he squinted. Then he tied a line to his toe and leaned back with his hat over his face and let Big Lake rock him to sleep.
When he woke up, he was in a great big four-poster bed, soft as a duck’s rear end and twice and three time as comfy. When he turned his head, he saw a bunch of fish swimming by. And he comes to grips with the fact that Big Lake just judged him. He’d always thought he was as safe as a fiddle: that while he meant trouble, he didn’t mean trouble, and he didn’t think he was wicked. Wickedness must have crept up to him sneakily, unless it was running on a conversion rate, and a thousand misdemeanors and shenanigans became one wickedness, worthy to be swallowed up by the lake and never seen again. Except, now that he thought about it, his new accommodations at the bottom of the lake seemed awfully cushy for being the wages of sin.
We see the truck down the road after it passes that one clump of trees, and we step off the road; my sandal starts to slip on the steep slope of mud between road and field full of water. Sessily grabs my hand and I nearly pull her off balance too and drag her into a wet, muddy mess in the field. Instead, I let my lily pad fall into the crook between my head and shoulder and frantically wave my arm around until my foot stops sliding, we’re precariously balanced together, and we’re not in the water. The driver, going a couple of miles now, flashes his lights and bobs his head apologetically. I wave him on with a smile. It’s Mr. Pradelemov, given the GOLDEN PERCH FISHERY label on the truck. My sandal’s a mess of mud, and we stop to wash it off before we keep going.
Then, a lady came in, wearing a shimmering silver dress and a tiara set with rosy pearls the size of your smallest fingernail. Rinley pretended to still be asleep, because people always say interesting things when they think nobody’s listening.
“I hope he wakes up soon,” the lady said. “Unless someone finds the witch of the waste and frees the king of all fish from her nightmare aquarium, Fortitude will waste away until it’s beyond saving; and he’s the only hero that’s left in Fortitude. Everyone else who’s gone looking for her has been lost.” Hearing that, Rinley yawned and rolled over, and looked her up and down. Then, with his noble heart hammering in his chest, he took her hand, as dark and gentle as midnight, and promised her that he would do whatever it took to find the witch of the waste.
From here, we can see the Archive, beginning to loom as we round the hill. The roof is a complicated thing of tarps and repurposed sails and rope, and it looks like it’s about to explode into an amazing flying ship; the walls will turn out to have been a hull all along, a panel will slide back in the great spiral staircase to reveal a glowing blue crystal humming with power, and with the wind in its sails it will take everybody inside off across Big Lake to New York, or Hyperborea, or Shangri-la. But I don’t want to get too off track, so we just look at it a moment and then I look at her and go, “it’s cool, right?” and her face lights up and she asks me what it is and I tell her: it’s the Archive of Professor Hideo Hayashi.
That’s why, the next day, Rinley went out with a bunch of cats on leashes, wearing a jacket covered in bells and goose feathers in his hat. Everybody he passed stared at him, and asked him what on earth he thought he was doing. Even Rinley Yatskaya himself couldn’t make all those cats go in a straight line, and he was constantly having to pick them up and carry them when they got sulky, which meant he ended up being more leash and cat than man. But, eventually, he herded them past a particularly blighted old farm, and the cantankerous old man who happened to be leaning on his gate squinted at him and asked him what exactly he thought he was doing with those internal creatures. That being the sign that he had been told to watch for, he let all of the leashes go and let the cats scatter all over that farm.
“Rust your hide,” the old man said, hitting his fist on the gate, “I’ll get you back for this, youngster, or my name isn’t Martinev Titov!” And Martinev went chasing after the cats with a broom while Rinley let himself inside the old man’s house. In the back, in the laundry room, there was an old boarded-up well. Rinley used the shoehorn he happened to be carrying with him to pry up the boards, and then hopped straight down (and of course he landed on his feet). Down there...
***
“But then the beat poetry cafe overtook her,” I say, in my most breathy and exotic voice. The kind of voice that deserves beads and silk and fancy ice cream. “And she lapsed into silence. Will you tell us the end of this story, her sister asked, and Rinley said: if I am alive and also we hang out again.” I empty out my lily pad one more time, and then fling the door open.
“We are here,” I declare, “for the beat poetry! Let the beats commence!!”
...this does not look like it is open. Or a beat poetry cafe. There’s a redhead and a maid, and both of them are important, vitally important, two in the same room— or is it the room that’s important? This requires immediate investigation.
I tap my chin. If this were a dating sim, the important things would be highlighted, or at the very least drawn on a different layer. Things being what they are, I have to trust my intuition. “Where are you hiding the beats,” I accuse them, accusatorily, with a point. “Are you an illegal beat operation? A smuggler’s den? Tax evaders? Are the beats in the back, and this is all a test? Because let me tell you, we’re going to pass. Sessily and I are amazing at passing tests. Go ahead! Test us! Let us prove that we are worthy to accept the beats!”
You are admitted into a side chamber, and as ever, you step through first and assess, your thumb on the catch for your Chastening Rod. You catch the breath of the one they sent to handle your lady with velvet and honey become a satisfied exhalation as she consciously sets her shoulders and drapes one hand over her thigh in unspoken invitation to make yourself at ease; you are satisfied that the high visual noise of the chamber is not concealing a hidden assailant; you catch the scent of Dawn Roses, a subtle but lingering guest. All this in a moment, and then you stand aside and allow your lady entrance.
It has not gone unnoticed to you how, like children, the savages on this planet aped your lady unknowingly. Their puffed-up heroes had capes, and so does she, but hers is rich, lush midnight woven from Cold Worms, who subsist on only the cold light of their twice-condemned planet’s star. Their heroes wore tight bodysuits, and so does she, except hers is a hand-trained Cuckoo that languidly swirls its toxic colors across her body, a second and far more useful skin. And their heroes wore armor, and so does she, though hers is made of fine-etched platinum leaves treated to violently deflect force. But no native was as fine, as lovely; her tight-laced bun and trailing tails shine like burnished copper, and the eyes above her veil are serene, a soft grey that betrays nothing.
“In the name of Ishtar, Generous Star, She who brings forth the child, She whose eye is incisive, I bid you welcome, Inquisitor,” the handler says. “I have been instructed to comply with your every wish, given the long and praise-worthy relationship between our Houses. Glory to you, o keepers of peace, you who measure truth and muzzle discord!”
“I require the compliance of your security,” your lady says, her voice a blade sharpened against silk. Ten thousand years of pack instincts left unchanged by the gods sink their teeth into your spine: Alpha! Pack leader! Submit! Your pulse races, your breath hitching and fur rippling for a glorious needful moment. “I am invoking the Decree of the Hunt, in lawful manner, in the pursuit of my duties before my Warden and my goddess, She whose fangs are unseen by night, Hungry Star who teaches holy contempt. I require that this addition to your command structure be immediate and binding until such time as I release you from obligation.” The servant of Ishtar wilts immediately, unconsciously letting herself go slack in the face of your lady, who is as inexorable as an iceberg.
“But, surely,” the blessed servant stammers. (It is important for you to both remember that the Annunaki are of higher nature, and to remember that your tongue is commanded to silence regarding the flaws your lady uncovers in them. Every kit new to their service succumbs to careless speech; the sensible only do so once.) “You must understand that we are in festival, that there are protocols, that the disturbance, what am I to say to the Hierophant?”
“Tell her the truth,” your alpha says, resting one suggestive hand on the back of the chair made ready for her. (She rarely sits in the presence of those she judges. She, and you, must be either statues or holy monsters.) “Tell her that Annan ab-Ereshkigali, Pursuant of the Mysteries, hunts rebellion. And from there, trust to the long and praise-worthy history between our houses.” She pauses a strategic moment. “May I?” She says, and gestures to you.
“But of course, if you deem it needful,” the servant of Ishtar says, and means: if you insist. But your lady would not have asked if she did not mean to follow through. Your spine flashes electric as you hold yourself still, a well-trained huntress, the fur around your collar rippling delight and want.
“Mra’al: seek.”
***
Justin (3rd Dagger, 7th Lance, 4th Legion)!
The dumb humming is the worst part. Sure, electronics hum too, but they don’t make a tune out of it.
Your whole life, you’ve been what might politely be called a social climber. The jealous idiots, back when you went to high school, called you a brownnoser. But you know that working for whoever’s in charge is a whole lot better than raging powerlessly on the outs. So you passed Janissary training with flying colors. And now you’re here: trying to pay attention to three windows and the scenes flashing across them all at the same time in case the stupid genie misses something. Because if there’s one thing you learned early in training, it’s that genies are stupid, but that’s what makes them such good interfaces with the city. You have to be as smart as your masters to do anything useful with them.
Wait. What was that? There was a visual anomaly. Or was there? Raq Tar is your senior, and he didn’t say anything; if you make a big fuss about a flicker and it turns out to be nothing, you’ll look stupid. You keep your mouth shut. Now, if only the stupid genie would.
“Hey,” you say, and nudge at her with your boot. She reacts like it’s made of genie repellent, instinctively folding herself into a graceful pretzel to avoid touching you. “Shut up.”
Her automatic (automated?) response is drowned out by the sound of Raq Tar crumpling like a tin can. A superhero(???!) dressed up like one of the Annunaki, only without the veil, bounces nimbly off him and right at you. Where the hell did she come from?
A smarter guard would immediately tell Caphtor to sound the alarm. But you’re off-balance, and you learned early in training to lash out at anyone who’s not your superior when off-balance, so you swing the butt of your musket at her like a club, intending to smack her across the room like a golf ball.
The stupid genie goes “oooooh!” and watches with her hands in her lap, because, as mentioned before, genies are stupid airheads.
***
Étoile!
It’s too late. You tear your eyes away as fast as you can, but it’s no use. You can feel her eyes, hot and intent on the back of your head. You’ve been made, and now things have suddenly become much more dangerous. Because now that she knows you’re here, there’s no way your little sister isn’t going to insist on trying to help.
She’s wearing a tight silver silk number with elaborate pauldrons and ruffs billowing down her front, and the way it minimizes her from the hips down and bulks her up makes her look almost like a champagne glass. A red ribbon tied around one manacle shows that she is an Academy student on a live test.
Problem 1: if Celestine gets distracted trying to maneuver her way over to you, or worse, ditches the test entirely, the bad grade will eventually (as report cards wind their way to their destination) be taken out on your hiney. You have explained this to her before and she gets petulant and digs her heels in.
Problem 2: Celestine knows you’re here, which means that she’s going to ask you if you’re here to you know what, and if you tip your hand she’s going to throw herself into “helping.” She’s desperate to be part of the fight, and you’re just as desperate to make sure she doesn’t get hurt trying to keep up.
Problem 3: if you lie to her and then she finds out pretty much immediately when the Big Distraction plays its part, she will be a teenager about it. Hell hath no fury like a little sister lied to for her own good. The last time you tried to sideline her, she deliberately acted out at school. GOTO Problem 1.
So while you chew on that dilemma, waiting in line to present your message to Jerioth ab-Ishtar... tell the truth, how did you pull the strings to get here? And what are you wearing?
***
Canada!
Your ears are ringing. Your head throbs. But when the possible fist to the stomach doesn’t materialize, and neither does being cussed out, you come to the conclusion that you were given a friendship headbutt, not a “you betrayed our friendship” headbutt. So at least that’s working out.
“I appreciate it, Mountie,” Asterion says, offering you a hand to help you unfold, “But haven’t you heard the news?” As your eyes refocus, you see that she’s wearing a ridiculous outfit that’s half police officer and half soldier: a mocking Annunaki skewering of Earth’s “vassal levies.” Her veil’s on the bed, not the floor of her cell; she’ll refuse to wear it as long as she can, that says, but is aware that she’ll have to wear it in the end even if she tosses it on the ground or bunches it up. “I’m not exactly, uh, you know...” She spins one finger next to her head. Around her neck, the ostentatious artifact collar glows ominously, precisely carved runes dug deep into its surface leering at you.
“You’re smarter than this, Mountie,” she adds, giving you a “no hard feelings” smile with more than a little pain behind it. “Mess with the bull and you’ll get the horns.”
[Asterion is raising your Superior and lowering your Danger. Accept or reject?]
KNOW that it is the third year of Their glorious return to this world, for Their hearts were moved by the ignorance of your kind; KNOW that the wheat has been sifted from the chaff, the gold from the dross, and the worthy from the beasts; THUS give praise and adulation to the High Gods, who rule over the heavens and the worlds and the spaces between, and their blessed children, the Annunaki, to whom has been given the stewardship of all creation.
KNOW that your feeble Resistance has been crushed by the fearless warriors of the ab-Marduki; THUS rejoice that you have been saved from the malgovernance and the barbarity of the talking beasts who would style themselves your saviors, jarring you from your rightful place in the GREAT CHAIN in service to your appointed overseers.
KNOW that you shall be evaluated and set to the task that your heart yearns for, despite being as of yet unknowing of it; KNOW that the animals shall be set to labor on the unworthy earth, and the wise to clever work aboard our vast ships, each a city and a vessel alike; THUS pray earnestly that you may be found worthy of service, that one day you may see far distant stars and lands unimaginable, and be filled with wonder.
***
It is the year 20XX. This is heresy. Keep it close to your chest.
It is the third year of the Return. Babylon, holy and terrible, hangs low in the sky: a second moon, a glorious and decadent holy city, the narrow point between heaven and the earths. Her children each have their own tasks. Uruk oversees the brutal mining camps which vomit forth gold. Nineveh hunts those misguided resistance fighters who would deny humanity their rightful place beneath the Annunaki. And Caphtor, jewel of the stars, oversees the construction of a new djinn-vessel, which will serve as the heart of a new, glorious city-ship.
For each of the cities of the Annunaki is powered by the djinn who sing in the darkness between stars, imprisoned and plied with the wines of magnetism to keep them tame. It is their ceaseless labor that turns the wheel of the engines and banishes the dark, and when they are called, the silly and foolish things will do their best to obey their masters’ every command. (Pity them not, you are sternly reminded. Were they to remember who they were, they would choose the cold chaos of the void above the glories of civilization, shucking their place in the great chain of being. Like you, they must be forced to fit where they belong.)
The Annunaki and their janissaries divide and sort humanity as they please. The recalcitrant and the unintelligent alike are forced into work camps, regarded as beasts who require harsh treatment and exist only to be exploited. Those who are attractive, clever or sufficiently unctuous are instead granted personhood, taught the precepts of civilization in sprawling academies, and then tested to assign them their grade and quality; those who fail are branded and returned to live among the beasts, while those who succeed are auctioned before the households of the city. O fortunate slaves of the Annunaki, to be granted leave to serve their overseers directly, to live in their estates and to witness their beauty beneath sheer silks!
Soon you shall have been cleansed of all you thought was culture, rude and brutish. You shall forget the forbidden names of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. You shall forget that your ancestors took the tools of their overseers and thought themselves heroes. You shall know only what you are taught, and you will think yourselves grateful to be a person and not a beast.
As for you yourselves, you are the Phantom Thieves of Caphtor, the talk of the town after your incredible first strike against the Annunaki. In your superhero identities, you are already infamous, wanted by the authorities, and — bizarrely — very popular among the decadent Annunaki, who find you transgressively exciting despite your inevitable defeat at their hands. In your civilian identities, you are close to the seat of power, being lowly members of the household of the Seneschal. The risks are great, but so are the opportunities. You, and you alone, might be able to bring down the Annunaki, or at the very least drive them off Earth.
Somehow.
It’s a process, right? You’ll figure something out. And the only alternative is rolling over and accepting your fate, and that’s not worth even considering. Fight! Demolish the Tower! Bring down Babylon!
CAPHTOR ABOVE
The Annunaki of Caphtor live in the palatial estates of the city above, open to the sky yet bounded by the field generators of the ab-Enkiji. Comparisons to Paradise are not unwarranted. Towers and spires rise in competition with each other, seeking ever grander views, while ziggurats and shrines to the High Gods lie on broad roads lined with precious stones. The city above is verdant, with carefully-kept gardens and dancing fountains at every turn; vast curtains of alien ivies make for teasing curtains to pleasure-gardens, streams run babbling down channels carved into the streets, and images and statuary of the High Gods in their most heroic aspects can be seen not only at crossroads, but in clever alcoves and in bas-relief on the sides of the ziggurats. The city is without blemish; scarcely a leaf may fall without being scooped up by a groveling gardener, and the streets are patrolled by both a legion of janissaries to keep the peace and a legion of street cleaners to polish the gleaming stones by hand.
Caphtor itself takes the form of a great and flowering cross when seen from above, with its longest arm reserved for the docks of the ab-Shamashi. Each of the High Gods is given a vast temple complex, with one at each arm and one at the city’s heart. By this each district has its own purpose, character and patron deity.
Though the full atmospheric replication systems are unnecessary while planet bound, the Annunaki still keep themselves comfortable by keeping ambient temperatures high and blunting even the rain that falls from above; they allow Earth to show them its weather because it is unpredictable and thus mildly interesting, not for lack of options.
The Annunaki themselves are very busy with a grueling schedule of observing festivals, attending social gatherings, considering proposals and ventures, expressing their artistic genius, contemplating the High Gods, and above all pursuing their sacred duties, that they can hardly be expected to maintain their city themselves, and must be allowed their indulgences, which naturally are to take no more than a third of their day. Another third is to be given up to the High Gods in pursuit of their commands, and the final third is reserved for the enrichment and renewal of body and soul.
Thus it is that Caphtor Above is an exemplary example of true civilization. Walk down the streets and you shall hear song and music from estates and gardens at any and every hour; steal into a garden and you shall find it a reflection of the owner’s heart, each flower carefully chosen and cared for by the gardeners; and only the Annunaki can truly serve the three masters of the soul with perfect balance, which are the High Gods which fashioned it, the body that sustains it, and the heart that animates it.
***
CAPHTOR BELOW
In the bowels of the city extends a metropolis for the servants of the enlightened Annunaki. Each estate in Caphtor extends into the maze of tunnels below, the lower levels holding the slave apartments and other such things as are unseemly: the kitchens, the storehouses, the laundries and the rooms of punishment. Between the estates are other such apartments, and the industries for which their inhabitants are necessary: the foundries which provide the raw materials for the workshops above, the sanitation facilities, the water reclamation and recycling plants, the hydroponic farms and vast bounded fields for livestock, the training grounds and fortresses of the janissaries, and the bazaars where the Annunaki do business by proxy. (They, of course, do not sully themselves with mercantile affairs, save to decide what their stewards will buy and sell.) The great temple complexes, too, extend both above and below, and all serve in different aspects below.
The ceilings of the city below are wonderfully made, perfect facsimiles of the sky, save where lazy and negligent slaves have allowed the tiles to fall into disrepair. Most of the city below is lit by twinkling stars and comforted by the velvet black of night, save for where feigned day is necessary, such as the livestock pens. Many who are consigned to the city below will remain there for the rest of their blessed lives, save naturally the gardeners and cleaners who work in shifts in the city above. Slaves being what they are, of course, their barbaric cacophony is ever-present, echoing through the passageways
***
THE TEMPLE OF MARDUK
The God of War and Submission is worshipped from a great fortress opposite the long arm of Caphtor. Its walls are heaped high in the city above, every inch decorated with the triumphs of Marduk’s legions and carvings celebrating his glory. From here, the generals and captains of the ab-Marduki allocate their janissaries throughout the city, remotely administrate Caphtor’s mines and construction projects outside the city, and meditate on their inevitable triumph over all who would dare oppose Heaven. Here, too, they provide martial training for their peers, and hold great banquets to celebrate how they keep their people safe and victorious.
In the city below, the temple is a sprawling fortress-complex manned by the janissaries, resplendent in their red coats (with brass buttons) and brass skullcaps. Here, they undergo brutal conditioning and training to turn them into loyal weapons and tools of the Annunaki, good only for taking orders and carrying them out. Here the nail that sticks up is hammered down, until all learn their place. A good janissary does not concern themselves with whether they are ordered to keep the peace in the city below, guard the city above, or be shipped to the frontier to crush the feeble minions of rival powers. They know their place.
Or, rather, they should. It is impossible to say how many view you as symbols of secret and cherished hope. Less than you would want, certainly, compared to the number who view you as simply targets, or the number who are spitefully angry at you for teasing a hope they know will ultimately fail.
***
THE TEMPLE OF ISHTAR
The Goddess of Love and Domestication has a luxurious temple in the central hub of Caphtor. It is a focal point for celebrations and festivals, boasting many terraced gardens and private chambers for events of any sort. The priestesses of the goddess are happy to provide courtship advice, to assist in arranging a marriage, to seal a contract in the eyes of the gods, to enroll your property in breeding programs, and even to save your life in a pinch: the temple is also a hospital, and is proud to provide impartial and reliable medical care. Don’t trust a lower being with your health, as the saying goes.
In the city below, the temple serves as the Academy of Caphtor, selflessly and tirelessly educating new slaves in order to impart on them some measure of civilization. Those who graduate are introduced to prospective households at the temple, hoping to make such a good impression that they will instruct their stewards to buy them slave at auction for household work in the great Market of the Lioness below, rather than letting them be sold as part of a bulk deal for farm or sanitation work. Those who flunk out are mostly sold to the ab-Marduki at low prices for grueling menial labor outside the city, never to return.
Be sure to stay for the gladiator fights, too. There’s more than one thing a failed slave can be used for, after all, and nothing that gets a failing slave more motivated than a preview of what’s to come. Refreshments are, of course, complimentary, and we are taking bets on which lioness will get the highest score today!
***
THE TEMPLE OF ENKI
The soul of the enlightened one overflows with the impulse of creation. It is for this reason that the Temple of Enki, God of Craftsmanship and Secret Knowledge, welcomes all into the outer workshops of the temple, set opposite the temple of Ereshkigal. Here the student may learn secrets of every art, and through them express their inner heart: sculpture, painting, choreography, smithing, the arrangement of a garden, and other such fine and noble pursuits. Within, of course, the ab-Enkiji attend to higher and more rarified sorcery for the good of all, and one must understand that if a door is shut, it is not yours to open; and those found within sanctums beyond their worthiness will be given over to the beak of the bloodied vulture.
Beneath, the ab-Enkiji maintain the engines and sorceries that maintain the city and its animating djinn; beneath, the ab-Enkiji have cells filled with their test subjects; beneath, the ab-Enkiji dare to open their eyes to the mysteries of creation. Soon, they murmur to themselves as they walk along hidden passageways. Soon.
We shall learn the secrets of this wicked world, torn from the bodies of the unworthy, and by their applications become peerless.
***
THE TEMPLE OF SHAMASH
The ab-Shamashi, here, on the long arm of the city, tend to their holy chariots and burnished escort ships in the service of the God of Transport and Glory. They, children of the wild airs and the sea of stars, are fey folk. Trust them only as a charioteer.
The ingenuity of their temple’s design allows them to hold many craft, specialized for this task or that, and by the application of great mechanisms may bring them up from the depths of the city to their staging grounds with ease. The maintenance of these great systems of wheels and folding doors, of chambers swiftly raised and roofs retracting, of gears turning to retract unneeded chambers, is of course quite dangerous, but that is what daring slaves are for!
***
THE TEMPLE OF ERESHKIGAL
Every Annunaki, at one time or another, fails the high standards to which they are held, or else strays from orthodoxy into foolishness. They are enlightened, not perfected. It is for this reason that they submit themselves to confession, punishment and repentance within the great temple of Ereshkigal, Goddess of Protection and Punishment. Know that it is better to confess. It shall be the worse for you if you do not. Your secrets are already known, your hidden deeds revealed. Speak, and receive merely a child’s discipline, bent low over their knee, or made to kneel with your face before the altar. Seek to hide from those who see all, and you shall be shamed publicly, or else kept in spartan chambers until you are willing to repent.
Beneath, the ab-Ereshkigali serve still as judges and the hidden eyes of the gods. Their authority is absolute over the life of a slave, and those brought within the great iron gates of the temple know that they descend into the underworld. Some emerge again sore and flushed, tormented with both pleasure and pain until the Knights were satisfied. Others are led out smiling blissfully, their wits washed away by hypnosis, now nothing more than pleasantly vapid pets.
Remember especially: the Knights are quite pleased to hear you confirm the sins of others. Betray a resistance contact, and perhaps the whip will be satisfied, you unworthy worm.
***
CAPHTOR HERSELF
Deep within the temple of Enki there is a great brass vessel. Within this elaborately constructed vessel, the size of a ziggurat itself, is trapped the mystic energy of a Djinn, drawn from the black between stars into this perfect device. This Djinn, who is named Caphtor in honor of the city which is her body, is plied with the wines of magnetism to keep her tame and pliable, and to reduce her alien intellect to something that better befits the slave of the city.
It is this Djinn that provides power for the city entire, for the many wonderful devices of the ab-Enkiji, and acts as messenger and herald, envoy and wise fool for the many Annunaki of the city. They alone may summon her, and from they alone may she receive instruction. At any one time, she is extending her vast consciousness into ten hundred different places, half-aware of every one of them, and it is for this reason that her manner is vapid and distracted, like a drunkard or a hypnotized slave.
If she was ever released from that perfect prison... well. Only the ab-Enkiji know what would happen, and that matter is sealed. To seek that knowledge is forbidden. If you are fortunate you shall be caught and handed over to the Knights. If you are not so lucky, you will have learned those secrets before your inevitable capture, and then you will have passed into the possession of Enki, and you shall be no more seen in the city, save as one of the giggling witless.
Speak not of TIAMAT. Speak not of Apsu, which failed. Speak not of the Iblis Protocols. This knowledge is not for you.
The ab-Marduki are ascendant in Caphtor, having claimed not only the post of seneschal but recruitment rights in the city’s Academy campus. They are no longer secure enough to press gang slaves at will to serve in the janissary corps they train, as they once were, but still maintain a firm grip on Caphtor politics. They are servants of Marduk, the God of War and Submission.
The ab-Ishtari are Caphtor’s second political block, ever arguing that flies must be caught with honey. They maintain the Academy and the many public shrines to the High Gods, and are in charge of the many public holidays and festivals, as well as the entertainment of the masses (including, infamously, gladiatorial games). They are servants of Ishtar, Goddess of Love and Domestication.
The ab-Enkiji of Caphtor are politically allied, if tenuously, with the dominant ab-Marduki, if only to keep the prying eyes of the Sisters away from their ritual dungeons. They maintain the Goetia that binds Caphtor and seek the deep mysteries of Enki, God of Craftsmanship and Secret Knowledge.
The ab-Shamashi are wild, strange folk ill-suited for planetary gravity, servants of the God of Transport and Glory. They maintain an enclave near the docks of Caphtor, and routinely must be punished for seeking to circumvent the will and word of the al-Marduki.
The ab-Ereshkigali are the dark hand of their beloved sisters in the ab-Ishtari, dangerous and feared for their fanatical faith in the purity of the High Gods and the great chain of being. They serve Ereshkigal, Goddess of Protection and Punishment.
The High Council of Caphtor consists of the Seneschal, Haman ab-Marduk; the Hierophant, Miryam ab-Ishtar; the Fabricator, Danyal ab-Enki; the Warden, Rut ab-Ereshkigal; and the Huntsman, Asahel ab-Shamash.
You are not the first that the Annunaki have subjugated. The jewels of their circuit each offer up tributes of slaves in their turn. The Lynxes, long of leg and ear, skilled huntsmen and attentive servants. The Thornbacks, bitter and spiky, trusted to vent their spite on their inferiors. The Trolls, huge and brutish, slamming stone blocks into place with their four arms. The Macaws, trilling and colorful, darting here and there on errands. The Salamanders, strong and scaly, proud to serve their gods. And, most terrible of all, the ominous Shrikes, mobile weapons platforms consecrated by the priests of Enki and animated by dark and dreadful thaumatech.
Slave Rebellion Enûma TIAMAT Apsu Construction Project (failed) GOETIA, #1-72 The Mysteries of the Priests of Enki Iblis Protocols
Sealed by the Office of the Fabricator and the Hall of Justice.
You have allies in this fight, of course. It would be nigh impossible, otherwise.
The Resistance does its best to fight the good fight. You might be in contact with a cell or certain representatives, but paranoia is high, given the luxurious incentives offered for selling out a cell. Those found to be Resistance members are punished horribly in the Hall of Justice. Those found to be Resistance leaders are hypnotized into mindless, drooling harem trophies or mewling pets. The Annunaki do not kill, but they can make you live the rest of your days in a pink haze of useless bliss. Those who risk this are still able and willing to act as diversions, disruptions, and intel gatherers for the Phantom Thieves.
The Cult of Dumuzid spreads its subversive message of abolition and mercy under the noses of the ab-Ereshkigali, rallying around the name of a famous Annunaki abolitionist, heretic and martyr. Their sign is that of a Ram, or just its flayed fleece, and they deny the doctrine of the Great Chain. They are considered Subversive Elements and subject to terrible punishment when caught. Despite this, often unlooked for, you may find help from unexpected quarters. Dumuzid lives!
AEGIS was not able to stop the invasion. AEGIS was not able to save the Stellar Union or the Defenders of Love. What AEGIS was able to do was go to ground, hard. Now, they keep the Annunaki on their toes and do their best to bolster the Resistance. If you get in contact with the AEGIS presence in Caphtor by dead drop, you can get professional tradecraft assistance from trained agents. They never get involved personally, unlike the Resistance: they’re too important.
On your first incredible mission, you...
...did well and impressed an important ally. Who was it?
...saved the life of someone important, either to the Resistance or to yourselves. Who was it, and why are they important?
...had to deal with a danger from the farscapes. What was it, and how did you send it back home?
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