Tatterdemalion

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Étoile!

Oh, you silly little thing! You're not going to kill them, don't you worry. Unless you tranquilize someone and then they fall off a high place and crack their head open on the desolate pavement but, haha, don't think about that! If you think about that, if you think about how both you and your target are putting on an elaborate act on behalf of the Annunaki, that you're not so different from the teenagers who used to work here putting on a show for visiting tourists, you might just let out a tiny adorable scream. No, no, it's much better to think: where would someone hide in this place? And, more importantly, where are you comfortable leading Tamytha?

The tunnels are right out. They're exposed, now, the careful veil that Mickey Mouse drew over them dilapidated or grown too wild. The close quarters, the many doors, the darkness: no, no, no! That's likely where Jezcha and her friends will be playing, too, rooting out those who think they might be able to creep down as far below as they can and hide. Or, worse, those who want to count coup. Surely not all of those chosen to be prey meekly accept their fate...

That thought is why you hug the left side of the Main Street and avoid staying out in the open too long. That, and the sun is so exhausting for your Lady! You hook left and continue into Frontierland. Ah, there! A flash of motion! Someone darts inside the Haunted Manor-- or perhaps it was simply one of the many wild ducks that roam free here?

Speaking of wild ducks, a sharp squeak from behind you alerts you to the fact that several of them have taken offense with Tamytha coming too close; they are batting their wings and honking loudly, and poor Tamytha doesn't seem to know what to do about them! It's your time to shine, little star!!

***

Anathet!

The bouncer steps aside, letting you march victoriously forward. Then she holds out her hand and you run right into it, and, wow. Uh. She's really strong. "I'll be keeping an eye on you," she says, and it's really hard to tell whether that's a threat or flirting, but she's definitely amused at your determination, and, gosh, wouldn't it be nice if somebody actually took you seriously for once?

Inside, there's a giant novelty freezer in the shape of a predator from the Lynxes' home planet, huge and hulking, behind the bar. And inside that is the white gold wrapped in chocolate. All you have to do is walk up to that big, scary-looking German behind the bar, with the bouncer watching you, and impress her. Er. Impress him, and hand over your savings. The ones that nobody here, absolutely nobody here, would try to palm off you while you weren't looking, and--

You're tripped halfway to the bar. "Awww, hey there," a smarmy young man says. "Sorry about that, let me help you up..."

He's totally going to try to pick your pocket, and the bouncer's totally watching to see what you do, and you're pretty sure you just scuffed your palm on the rough floor, and your robes are billowing around you, uuuugh. You have to show off! Prove that you're tough enough to hang with the lowest of the low! And that you don't need the bouncer to come and save you!! And in fact that you are very cool and she should totally hang with you once her shift ends!!

***

Canada!

This is the first time you've seen the sun here.

It writhes in orange-gold light in the sour black sky, high above the telescope's vast lens. There is a shadow in the heart of the sun, but it's impossible to look at directly. The telescope is pointed directly at that heart. There are seven slots all around the eyepiece, which is dark and clouded.

The Cat is waiting for you, sitting beside the telescope, licking her paw. She looks up when you walk up the stairs into the dusty, long-deserted observatory, but does not smile. "Acceptable performance," she says, crisply. "Now place the jewels in their stations. It is the only way for you to see."

The telescope is a huge, brassy thing, over-engineered and dusty with age. There are probably a hundred lenses inside of it, as evidenced by the many wheels and dials on its sides. Luckily, the Cat's probably already handled the calibration: all you need to do is set the jewels in the slots and trust her. Look. Stare at the shadow in the heart of the sun like an eagle.

The closer you come, the more weight hangs on you. Destiny or dread, one or the other. Once you look, there will be no going back.

Breathless Dead

"The populace of this planet [Nemi] have a quaint custom, passed down from their forebears; there, Zeus founded an apple tree, with gilt branches and gilt leaves. Around the boughs of this tree was wrapped Nemesis in the form of a Python, blind and lethal. And for three miles around no thing might grow, but was poisoned root and leaf; and no stone could be placed upon another, but would shiver themselves into shards. And the Rex [king] of this planet is held to speak with the voice of the gods, and at their word is the fate of nations decided.

And any who seek the title are bade to seek out this tree, and climb upon the sun-bleached bones of all who have come before and been found unworthy by the fangs of Nemesis; and then, to seize firmly one bough of this tree, and if the gods are with them, then the branch will cleave from its mother like the daughter who is given to her suitor's hand. They are then to carry this bough before the Rex, and cast it at the monarch's feet, still bearing fruit.

Then they are to fight until only one remains alive, and whosoever lives shall be the Rex; and in the case of mutual destruction, the people of this planet shall mourn for thirty days; then they shall send those youths whose coming of age was on the day of ruin, and one by one they shall be sent to meet the jaws of Nemesis.

- Sullust, The Histories.

***

No. No! Redana's hands fly to her mouth to stifle a cry. No! This is a horror. Her muscles clench involuntarily, her instincts telling her to run, to flee, or to strike the queen down where she stands. She swallows it down, but it is all of her discipline, her self-control, not to satisfy the mania that Phobos, daughter of Ares, stirs within her. Thanks be to Athena, quencher of passions; thanks be to Zeus, who holds the chains that bind both guest and host.

She stands, stiff, feeling the blood pumping through her neck and forehead as the queen advances in a passion. She means to say something pleasant despite herself, to weakly thank her hostess for her hospitality, but what tumbles out instead is simply: "What have you done?" She advances, a fallen fragment of sunlight against an oncoming storm, trembling. "I worried I brought something terrible to this place, but the rot was already here! How dare you stay here! You have a duty!" Phobos cups her fingers shut into a fist. "If you have any honor left, Rex Asebeia, then ostracize yourself!"

How dare she? How dare she? The duties of the monarch are clear! The pursuit of the common good, the mediation with the gods on behalf of the nation... even if Redana disagreed with her mother's stagnant quarantine of humankind, even she would expel herself from Tellus if the gods had made such omens clear, wouldn't she? No, she can't even imagine her mother clinging to her marble throne, watching the skies darken and the earth crack under the hooves of Poseidon Enosichthon, spitting defiance at the heavens the way that Molech did at the fall of the Atlas Cultural Sphere. But it is a self-fulfilling doom; if the queen of Ceron has fallen so far, then of course, of course she gathers her strength about her and tries to spit in the eye of Zeus Olympios. A woman in such a state might do anything.

Ice trickles down her spine. A woman in such a state might do anything. She is freed of the bans laid upon all beings, the ancient laws set by Zeus Aegiduchos over all who strive, for having broken one she is damned, and refusing repentance, may do as she pleases. It is forbidden for her to raise a hand against Redana, just as it is forbidden for Redana to raise a hand against her, but only Redana remains bound. It is forbidden for Epistia to take her mother's life, but...

Redana takes one step to the left, putting herself between mother and daughter. Her throat closes up and the world narrows. The mist's kisses trickle down her neck and she does not flinch. If she lashes out, if she does anything to respond to whatever violence the damned queen may choose to inflict, she is condemned in turn, but... but there are no laws concerning where one may stand. That is given to everyone to choose freely. And right here? Right now?

Redana stands between mother and daughter, and forces her fingers to splay, to not become a treacherous fist. She mouths something, but not even she knows what is trying to come out, and there is no breath in her, not any more. All that is left is the way she grinds her heel against the grass and refuses to look away.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Canada!

The Cat regards you for a long moment. Her tail lashes dangerously. Her shining eyes are steady on you, like the lights of an oncoming ghost-train. Goudan, behind you, quails and offers you no comforting hand.

“I have killed before,” she says, scraping her claws against the tiles. There is a short shower of sparks. (Is it your imagination that they fall into mirror shards and vanish?) “One has to eat, after all.” (Because it was her job? Or— oh, right. Because she’s a cat.) “And I will not say that your inclination to pacifism is not admirable. But there are things in this world that will not roll over and play dead because you ask them nicely. There are things that want to hurt you, Canada, and everyone you care about. They are wicked.”

She comes to a decision. She is very good at that. “If you wish to be cured of your precious cowardice, if you wish to be shown the truth, meet me in the Sealed Tower. Bring seven flawless jewels.” Then with a flick of her tail she is gone.

“I think you should go,” Goudan says. “Like, look at it this way, right? Either you go and she convinces you to kick ass sometimes, or she shows you her big show and you decide to stick to your guns which you’re not gonna shoot. Either way... I think you’d be happier, Cannie.”

And there’s the kicker: both of them want you to be the best you you can be. This is just how they know how to express it.

***

Anathet!

BAM!

The door to Johann’s slams open. Like most of the doors down here, it’s hinged, not powered by Caphtor; the force with which it hits the dented metal wall is enough to make you jump. Then a man lunges out at you.

Wait, no, correction, now that you’ve dived out of the way: he was thrown out at you. Oh, gosh. People actually do that here? That’s, like, the sort of thing that happens in movies. The guy is a crumpled, whimpering mess on the stairs, one of his hands held at a very uncomfortable angle.

“Don’t bother coming back,” the bouncer(?) says. Her voice is low and raspy, and her knuckles are bloody. “Shithead.”

Then she notices you, tucked up against the wall in your oversized hat and robes, and squats down to eye level to get a better look at you. It only takes her a moment to make up her mind.

“You shouldn’t be down here, honey,” she says in a Talking To A Lost Kid voice, her hands on her thighs. (Thighs that, not to be insensitive to Mr. Shithead, could kill a man.) “Are you lost? I can show you how to get to the Complex.” Her accent is as thick as Marianne’s, and about as, uh, potent.

Did I mention her hair? Like, everybody who’s not an asshole knows you don’t touch people’s hair without their permission, but it’s like a dark halo around her head, framed perfectly in the doorway. Behind her is loud rock-and-roll and laughter and smoke. You definitely have time to scamper back up those stairs if you’re scared.

***

Étoile!

Tamytha is wearing what passes for athletic wear among Annunaki nobility: a wispy veil with a weighted hem, her hair pulled back into an elegant bun (by someone’s clever fingers), a tight shoulderless top showing off her (lack of) muscle, and a long loincloth similar in style to your own, revealing glimpses of priceless false-scorpion silk drinking in the light. She looks gangly, even for an Annunaki, like a scarecrow or a movie monster, all too-long too-thin arms. But when she takes that goblet and drinks through the straw (Annunaki straw technology is very advanced, naturally) she can’t help but let the corners of her mouth curl up.

(Annunaki emote more with their faces than you’d expect. The trick is that they get the veils you can see through; you don’t. You’re not pretty enough.)

The gratitude. The way she cups both hands around it like a dork. The wind flashing you a peek of those wickedly dark shorties. It’s enough to make a girl’s heart all twitterpated, isn’t it?

“Thank you, little star,” she says, handing the goblet back to you and taking the sidearm. It’s meant to hang a little impractically from her belt, you see. “Did you ever come here? If you did, I’ll let you lead. You’d know all the best places to hide, after all.” And she smiles at you like you’re the only girl in the whole wide world.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Canada!

The Cat’s steady neon eyes are inscrutable, but the withering silence is almost palpable. You have disappointed her, Canada. Her bap of judgment is fierce when it finally comes.

She takes Influence over you (and thus, through the law of contagion, Variance also takes Influence, giving you Potential).

“Victory requires many interlocking factors coming into alignment, but you cannot win unless you decide to win, or someone else decides for you. Lose in your heart and you’ve already lost, and I don’t back a losing prospect. So why are you wasting my time, Canada?”

Goudan gives a low whistle and sits his shaggy butt down on the fountain next to you. “I mean, I’m still down for strength practice if you are, Cannie.”

“You can play with weights if you want,” the Cat says, her lip curling up in a sneer, “But I will bid you aideu.” She drops down and begins a stately, intent walk away from you. Leaving you as a lost cause.

***

Anathet!

The Annunaki do not buy. For that matter, they do not sell. Their economy is a vast web of theocratic obligation running on favors and agreements. They have no coins and no prices.

However, they understand that there are circumstances in which it might be useful for there to be some sort of measurement for exactly how indebted one might be to another, or how one might sum up the value of their possessions. So they permit the minting of Obligations by the Scales, an elite council of Thornbacks housed in Babylon itself.

You do not get to handle an Obligation. You might be worth an Obligation. (It’s rumored that Ètoile was worth three.) You have a pocket full of Slivers, little glossy tabs with a hole in one end for stringing on a line, rewards for exemplary service which may be redeemed at any official establishment in the markets below.

Most markets sell in bulk: food from the hydroponics and livestock blocks, textiles woven on massive industrial looms, and blocks of whatever material might be required. They are not for you, but are for stewards and handmaidens buying supplies at the demand of their family.

(Up above, there are no markets. There are art shows. There are exhibits. All the wheels of infrastructure and industry turn below, unseen and unregarded.)

So you go to a souk. They’re markets for those who live down here, those who are not allowed to see the sun. They’re company stores and red light districts and dingy noodle shops. They’re portable stalls set up by entrepreneurs coming off a twelve-hour shift in the hydroponics to sell hand-carved furniture made from rejected materials. They’re black market deals going on in the cramped corridors between apartment complexes.

When the Annunaki come down here, it is with purpose. They can be sorted into two sorts: the armored ones and the armored ones. The armored ones are ab-Marduki officers keeping the peace with a squad of janissaries or ab-Ereshkigali looming out of the shadows like evil sadist Batmen. The unarmored ones are ab-Enkiji or ab-Ishtari who need more experimental subjects from a deniable source, or ab-Shamashi working on keeping the machinery running alongside the ab-Enkiji. (Or, sometimes, daring youths “slumming it” after curfew.)

Here are the desperate, the hopeless, the forgotten. Here are the revolutionaries, the snitches, the loyalists. Here, the Thornbacks rule as their masters’ proxies.

Here, you see signs, most of them pictorial, advertising: food, company, clothing, pulp picture-books, decoration, furniture, tattoos. Here you see the ever-present Eyes of Caphtor, but one or two of them are vandalized, painted over, made unusable for the Djinn’s purposes of data mining.

Here is cyberpunk by way of Robert E. Howard.

Are you satisfied with a simple shaved ice, flavored with explosively sweet fruits from the Macaws’ home planet, sold by a human whose operation is squeezed between two stalls? Or do you want a rich, creamy sorbet served in the inner court of a Complex marked with the sigil of the House of Yellow Feathers? Or perhaps you want to duck down inside Johann’s and slam down all of your Slivers for one precious, endangered ice cream sandwich.

Maybe not that last one. You’re not tough enough to play at that bar.

***

Étoile!

Your hand is held. You are given a thankful glance from Tamytha, and Jezcha groans and starts to call you some very rude things, except, oh, look! You’re already landing! How lucky.

“This was one of their greatest festival halls, you know,” Jezcha says as you exit. She carries a sleek rifle slung over one shoulder; your Lady carries a dainty little sidearm, and you carry her long-range rifle. You’re porter, rifle stand, and moral support all in one. “And now we hunt them through it. Ha! It’s almost funny how pathetic it looks. Like a child’s attempt to paint the Temple of Ishtar.”

Disneyland Paris has seen better days. Days when, just for example, “feral” humans weren’t released inside to be hunted for sport. (You know, while the Annunaki probably do not, that the “ferals” are carefully coached. If it takes them too long to be captured, they’ll be punished. If it’s too easy, they’ll be punished. And if the Annunaki hunting them die, they die too.)

“Scared, Tamytha? You should be.” Jezcha laughs and waves over another group of hunters, friends of hers. You have a bad feeling about how she said that...

Breathless Dead

“That’s amazing,” Redana breathes. She stares in delighted awe at the princess, beaming like a fool. “You’re using a farming implement as a weapon? What am I saying, of course that makes sense, your father used to be worshipped as a god of the harvest on Ceron, taking on his iconography is a fantastic way to honor him! Your style isn’t like anything I’m familiar with, it’s not even Ceronian, did you pick it up from the Assistant Secretary? I know his people weren’t valiant, but his fluid motion seems to be an inspiration, I think. Have you tried using sickles as a sidearm? I think, with their moon-shaped edge—“

There’s another crash far below, and Redana sobers. Her smile fades and is replaced with determination as she collects herself and then drops to one knee, lowering her head. She looks more like a disheveled sailor than an Imperial princess, but when she speaks, it’s with a natural gravitas.

“Your royal highness, I implore you to suffer my presence in the name of my father, Zeus Xenios, the hospitable one. I am Princess Redana Claudius of Tellus, bound by sacred oath to the service of your father, Hades Rusor, to whom all things return. I have pledged myself to win a smile from you.”

She offers her hand, still knelt at Epistia’s feet. “And I know nothing better for a smile than to see the shining stars and the billowing of the waves. You have lived a life here in paradise, but if you are like me, you cannot bear a cage long. You want to know what lies beyond the jaws of the leviathan we abide within, this very moment. If it would please you... come with me. Take my hand, and it is yours.”

A soft breeze dusts her golden hair with radiant droplets of water, reflecting the light of the caged sun. Her face is noble, crowned with her father’s blessing, and yet carefully vulnerable. Her lips are parted, ever so slightly, and her coat clings to her frame. To see her in this moment is to be struck by the god’s son, the merry archer who carries the darts of gold and lead[1], whose wings carry him careless wheresoever he will.

“We don’t have much time,” she adds, quietly. “The longer I’m here, the more danger I bring to your doorstep. I’m sorry. But please. Come with me.”

***

[1]: the first of Eros’s arrows inspires furious desire and longing, stirring the heart into sudden fire; the second fills the unfortunate with fear and revulsion, and the desire to flee. It is said, too, that Eros is blind, and cannot distinguish one from the other; but that may just be a foolish story. The gods do as they will. It is not for us to declare our understanding of the will of Aphrodite’s child.

***

[Redana is Talking Sense, but she only achieves an 11 if she has touched Epistia’s desires and maidenly heart. It’s an 8, if instead her words are judged on their reason; Epistia’s ability to squeeze a favor out of Redana depends entirely on how hard and fast she falls for her.]

Fellowship: The Heart

Coleman!

Good thing, too: the Wreck shoots after you, apparently having been waiting for an opening, and by the time you’ve got them in the stairwell, you’ve barely got any time to brace before it slams its bulk into you. Sasha’s legs whine as she tries to plant her feet, but the floor underfoot is slick.

You’ve got a little bit of time: Sasha’s very fast, and you’re a good engineer. Enough time to figure out a plan. Ailee’s got a big fuck-off hammer, maybe that might help crack the shell?

***

Ailee!

You are denied your vengeance! And now you’re in some gross stairwell. It’s horribly treacherous underfoot, but, oh, yeah. You can fly. So in the event that this calamari platter cracked open Sasha and ate your guide, you and Jackdaw would still totally be fine.

But you don’t want that, do you? You want victory. You know, if Coleman managed to hold that thing steady, you might be able to take out your clown-based frustrations...

***

Jackdaw!

She is below. This isn’t the last obstacle. That would be kind, and fair, and the Heart is neither of those things. The Flood is waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, just to make leaving that much harder. You can feel her, hear the furious rush of her waters.

This will, however, not be anything for you to worry about if the giant crab thing scuttling towards Sasha at high speeds smears both of you into a greasy paste underneath Sasha.

***

Lucien!

Well, isn’t this a merry farce? You and the clown go one way, everyone else goes the other. At least this way you’ve got time to chat, and a clear shot at its nigh-impenetrable back, if you had a clever plan.

“Why, thank you, my good man,” the clown says, giving you a questionably soggy clap on the shoulder. “That was one of my former students, you see, back when I was chasing after fleeting collegiate fame. But now I am pursuing life eternal! Have you ever considered your own mortality? Why, one day you might just wake up and the old ticker you’ve got there comes to a sudden stop, and then where are you, I ask you?”

Oh god. You’re getting recruited for a cult. By a clown.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

||Interstitial||

Canada!

You go down, hard, into the empty fountain, and before you can get your head straight the monster’s on top of you, pinning you down, neon blue saw-tongue lashing in front of your face as it opens its jaw full of jagged teeth, throbbing white eyes rolling madly, its rubbery flesh fully retracted from its horrid skull as it screams.

“And you’re dead.” The Cat’s acidic tone cuts through the howl, and the monster sits back up on his haunches and offers you a hand. The Cat hops up onto the fountain next to you, smooth as butter. “Can you tell me what you did wrong?”

You are, like, 90% certain that the Cat is Variance’s patronus. Variance and the Cat have the same mannerisms, the same inflection, and the same worldly-wise manner, and they both give you withering looks whenever you bring up the subject. On the other hand, the Cat’s monochrome eyes are neon green, not milky white. And Variance wouldn’t be caught dead in such a dapper little waistcoat. It’s got a tiny pocketwatch and everything!

“I reckon it was when ya let me get you to bang your shin on the fountain,” Goudan says, cheerfully. Strange beings come and go on an irregular basis here, but Goudan is a regular. He lurches about, doing what he calls important work in the upper corridors, but always is happy to provide a sparring match if the Cat calls for him. “Got skittish. Gotta get that skit all outta your system.”

“Quite,” the Cat says in Variance’s clipped sarcasm, her tail lashing impatiently. “But I’m more interested in Canada’s analysis, Goudan.”

“Right, sorry,” he says, his ruff of fur settling back around the back of his skull. “Go ahead, Cannie, tell her what you learned.”

***

Anathet!

“You will perform a one-act play in honor of the Lady Tirzah,” Auntie Rose hoarsely whispers. Her eyes glint under the cowl of her voluminous robes. Her emotions are like an entire thornbush filling up your little shrine, prickly and mean. “It is to praise her virtues and commend her in the eyes of her judges.” Who could forget that Tirzah has ~important secret police exams~ coming up? And how insufferably corrupt is throwing a party and inviting the judges over beforehand, anyhow? “You are not to take on the role of one above you on the Chain. You are not to be boring. You are not to be indecent. You have until tomorrow at sundown to offer me your script for review.”

What that really means is that she expects it tonight. If you’re on time, you’re late. You’re “not showing enthusiasm.” You’re “a concern.” Auntie Rose makes sure no concerns ever trouble the Annunaki, and she does it like a gardener dealing with dead limbs. You have a cushy job here, but piss off Auntie Rose (and become boring to the masters) and you might find yourself scrubbing toilets instead.

“I do hope you rise to the occasion, Earther,” she whines, touching your shoulder with a spindly hand, her fingers heavy with jewels. “Do not disappoint.”

***

Étoile!

Jezcha ab-Marduk is the worst. She pledged early and wholeheartedly to the House of Marduk, following in the footsteps of her father, because nothing says ACAB like a bunch of swaggering bullies. (The ab-Marduki are, like, the beat cops and prison guards to the ab-Ereshkigali CIA.) And she learned to punch down early. That’s why Tirzah’s so good at ducking out of rooms.

Today, this bullying has taken the form of telling Tamytha that the two of them are going to the Wilderness Preserve to hunt. So here you are, sitting in the close quarters of a chariot (which is more like an enclosed, fighter-jet-sized podracer with engines shaped like space horses) with the Worst Person and her nervously chittering Macaw manservant.

“Maybe if I’m lucky,” Jezcha sneers, “some animal will kill you. Then Dad will let me go kill some of them until they’re punished enough.” Tamytha sniffles and tries to take up less space. “Tranqs are fine, but you haven’t really had fun until you’ve gone animal hunting with real guns.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to catch anything,” Tamytha says, flatly. “I’m not very fast...”

“Of course you won’t,” Jezcha says, leaning forward. “Because you’re pathetic. Dad says you must be part Lynx. The sick part. Mom went down the Chain and made you.”

The Macaw cackles until Jezcha shoves him, choking him against his seatbelt. Outside, the Eiffel Tower is visible for a moment, flying a massive banner dedicated to the gods.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Étoile!

“Oh, you silly girl, come here.” Shakily, she guides you up onto the sheets. You’re not dressed for bed, but that doesn’t matter; she rests your head against her breastbone, which is feverishly warm, and lets the tension bleed out of her. She closes her eyes and rests her face against the top of your head and slings one leg possessively over you.

She’s out like a light before you can say a word more, and you can’t resist the music of Caphtor lulling you to sleep as hard as you try.

***

Anathet!

“Thank you,” Tia said at you. Her smile is so bright, and vulnerable, like a newborn deer. She closes her fingers around the sapphire, and then breathes out, relieved.

When she fades away, it is like unfocusing your eyes, or realizing that you’ve been seeing an optical illusion: that what looked like a face was just the way light shines between those bushes, that what was two legs tucked up underneath her is just grass. You feel a sense of aching relief, like finishing a workout, and then she is gone. And you are alone.

She didn’t even stay.

***

Canada!

You are asleep when a light, lilting laughter echoes through the fortress. You are sound asleep when a figure flits from mirror to mirror, dancing from one to the next. And you are down like a log when that figure, faceless and indistinct, takes a seat in the mirror opposite you.

“Oh, this should be fun,” they say, and now she has your face. Her eyes are an impossible orange-gold, and she watches you all night long, breathing in time with you.

She is gone when you open your eyes.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Étoile!

You blow Am’met and Visha’an a kiss and wiggle your rumpled rear one more time as you pass inside your lady’s chambers. The door slides smoothly shut behind you and your shoulders slump like cut puppet strings. You have been groped and rubbed and felt up everywhere. On the other hand, you have their names and even their ID numbers, so it’s really up to you whether your Lady does something about it or Marianne pays them a visit. Mmm. Now there’s a thought. See how interested they are in kissing when they’re dangling from a bridge upside-down...

Tamytha is in her bedroom. You can’t help yourself; you have to go check on her. You pad stealthily through the reception room and down the hall, down into your Lady’s chamber. (The moonlight filters in through the open casings. In the private garden outside, the fountain burbles. Breaking in would be so simple for someone who can get past guards and evade the ever-present eyes of Caphtor.)

In the bedroom, dimly lit, Caphtor is playing an instrument somewhat like a harp. She is mathematically perfect, making music so ethereal and gentle it’s hard to keep your eyes open. In the low light, you can see Tamytha tangled in her sheets, her veil hanging neatly on the bust of Ishtar by the side of her bed. Maybe it’s guilt that makes you linger there in the doorway a moment, but it’s a moment too long; Tamytha stirs, half sitting up.

“Lamassie? Is that you?” Her voice is weak. She always takes a turn after certain Salamander plants contaminate her food. This one’s... this one’s bad. Her forehead’s slick with sweat even from here. “Is it you this time?”

Oh. She’s... oh.

***

Canada!

This time (as it used to do, as it has not done since the day you betrayed the world) the mirror yields. You tumble through, yelping, like the first time you came here. The mirror place. The fortress of solitude. The upside-down. Really, you’ve got your pick of nicknames.

It’s a disorienting place. It’s like a big old house, maybe even a castle, except all the walls used to be tiled with glass. Used to be. More than half of them are broken, or fallen, and what’s behind them is peeling green-yellow wallpaper, and underneath that... you know, you never worked up the courage to dig your fingers in and keep pulling back.

It’s an imperfect place for an imperfect hero. It’s a place that sometimes has just what you need, and sometimes reflects you back at yourself. The worrying thing is that sometimes there’s movement in the mirrors, out of the corner of your eye. Sometimes there’s the intense feeling of being watched, and sometimes? Turns out you are.

Looks like you’re alone tonight (as alone as you ever get). The walls around you reflect you back on yourself, and if you get just the right angle between two unbroken mirrors...

You go on forever and ever, Canada without end, amen.

***

Anathet!

The black-eyed girl touches you with her hand. It’s like the idea of being touched, more than actual contact.

She shares with you, more gently, a sense of being vast and seeing without eyes. The infinite shades of black. The swirl of tides... but it’s as if from far off. Something you remember, but only as something that happened to someone who happened to be you. Tablets, sought; a sense of self, coalescing.

“Tia,” she said. Her lips move, but the word was already shared with you, and there is no sound. She is focusing so hard. “Name. Tia.”

Breathless Dead

A pang of guilt uncoils inside Redana. How could you take someone away from something this beautiful? “It’s lovely here.” Yes, that’s right: and if you convince Epistia to leave with you, you’re putting it all in danger. Look closely at the houses, princess: see the stones set about the mantel? Opals the size of your fist, rubies shaped like pomegranates, diamonds for door-knockers. Flowers bloom everywhere, the sound of rushing water is all around, and even if she can’t stay... “Hades, Keeper of Stones, your blessings are grand. The work of your hands is that which men remember.” A simple prayer, an offering of praise. If this is what Elysium will be like, she can understand why the Ceronians would risk their lives in battle. This is a paradise.

But no paradise can survive a locked door. And there are so many things that she hasn’t seen, and Epistia never has! Her heart settles back into its course, grateful that she does not have to consider turning aside and risking the violation of her oath.

When she offers freedom, Epistia will smile. When she does that, she has to follow through, or what good is she? She has to let Epistia see the stars[1].

And also she needs to let Epistia learn about other gods. This is disastrous. How do the Ceronians have good counsel if they do not offer praise to Zeus? How can they see their relationships thrive without the eye of Aphrodite and Hera? And Athena... well, a situation like this is exactly why you need to sacrifice to Athena regularly.

Jas’o. Down the hill, over her shoulder, she can see his squat, ugly shuttle at the end of a trail of ruined, smouldering crops. “Can we hurry? Your story is lovely,” she says, reaching out and brushing her fingers against the Assistant Secretary’s slick skin, “But the longer I’m here, the more danger everyone is in from the peacock who just showed up. I’m sure an accomplished public servant like yourself knows how to do things quickly, so please... let’s hurry and meet Epistia!”

***

[1]: a thought she has the good sense to bury whispers to her that Poseidon’s stars shine brighter than the greatest of Hades’ jewels. A thought like that never ends well.