KactusPunch
Crown Sage
MarshalSolgriev
SkyeOfStars
princess
ZerothThe Eighth Labour
By @jumpadraw
I sat upon an armchair, slouched over, a feeling of warmth and peace flowing through me. I was in a small, firelit room, taking shelter from the snowy torrents around me. The room was my only source of protection from the elements of the outside world, but it was all I needed. Within the room I had both food and water, both rest and entertainment. I was content, almost happy.
There was a small tapping upon the door. It was faint, almost silent, but even still, I heard it. I wasn’t supposed to open the door, though. The cold would put out the fire, freeze me to the bone. With the weather the way it was, there was no possible way for anyone to truly be outside.
Knockity-knock!
This time the noise was louder, unmistakable. But maybe it’s just the wind, I told myself. No one could survive the blizzard outside!
Knockity-knock!
It was even louder, more a pound than a knock. A branch must’ve fallen from the tree out there, I told myself, there isn’t a chance a person’s out there. I didn’t believe it, even as I thought it. Even so, I wasn’t supposed to open the door. It was far too cold and the fire would go out.
Knockity-knock!
I was standing now, fingers clenched. There was somebody outside! There had to be, but who could’ve survived the storm? Who could have found their way to my sanctuary from the elements? It was impossible. Regardless, I wanted to help, but I couldn’t open the door, I wasn’t supposed to! I waited for a knock, but none came, and as I approached the door, I now heard it. The screaming.
It was the scream of a woman, a desperate woman. I couldn’t make out any of the words, but I didn’t need to. I knew what she was calling for. She was calling for mercy, for somebody, anybody, to open the door. I wasn’t supposed to. I knew, without a doubt that nobody could survive the storm, that no one could have approached my door. All that was out there was trouble.
The fire was raging now, no longer lazily rolling across the wood it burnt on, but devouring it, consuming it, sparks flying from the violence of its flames. I let out a breath that I didn’t know I had been holding, and found my hand upon the knob of the door, shaking with fright, with terror. I wasn’t supposed to open the door. I couldn’t! I shouldn’t!
Should I?
The moment I turned the knob, the door exploded backwards, sending me toppling to the ground. The sheer force of the wind made it impossible for me to stand. Indeed, the fire was out, and before me stood a woman. Her skin was glazed with ice and snow, though once it had been tan, it was now pale and dead. The fire was out, but her eyes burned with a passion far greater than any flame, far more deadly than any winter storm. She approached me, a look of hate and malice spread across her face.
“I needed shelter, and you gave me none!” She yelled with the force of a blizzard, “I called for warmth, and you shunned me!”
“I wasn’t supposed to open the door,” I cried, but my words were lost like whistling in the wind.
She grabbed hold of me, tossing me against a shelf of tableware. The pots and bowls shattered against the floor, just as my bones against the wall. I had known not to open the door! I had known it, hadn’t I? Hadn’t I? Doubt began to fill my soul, just as guilt began to way my heart down. Why, oh why had I opened that blasted door?
My cabin was now filled with snow, my shelter now a tomb. She smiled at my pained look, the flames from her eyes now hot enough to burn away all around me but the icy violence of the snow. She took another step towards me, and spoke, almost mocking me.
“Were you not supposed to open the door?” She mused, “Were you not supposed to allow the cold of the world to enter your heart? Well, it’s too late now! I am here, and once you have allowed me entrance, there is no way to expel me. Now, that I am here, will you not welcome me, will you not beg forgiveness, for it was you, not I who let me out there for so long, it was you, not I who refused to acknowledge me, who allowed me to suffer, to freeze, to be consumed by the elements. It was you, not I, who refused to open the door.”
I tried to stand once again, my bones aching. My mouth was dry, and as I spoke, my words sounded distant, strained, as if exiting from the mouth of somebody else. “I wasn’t supposed to open the door.”
She shook her head, a look of disgust appearing across her face. She remained silent for only a few seconds, but to me, it was an eternity. When she finally did speak, she did so in an icy whisper, her voice almost as harsh as the words that left them.
“And yet you did so anyway. If you refuse to see, than I will not let you.”
She had enough of my ignorance, my insolence. She could feel that this conversation was going nowhere, that she had got from me as much as she could and that my heart was set, as firm as the walls of my cabin. She brought her hand down, clawing at my face, tearing at my eyes, and from me came a scream, not of terror, but of utter pain. No longer could I see the world around me. All had gone dark, dark as I now felt my heart was. Why had I not opened the door when I was first able to? Why had I not allowed her entrance when she was still in need of it? Why had I waited, as if I was the one that was frozen, as if I was the one locked out? I had been a fool, and now, it was too late.
I heard her chuckle, her voice growing fainter,“It is too late to ask me for forgiveness, but perhaps there is still time to pray to your god for it. I am sure he will be far more willing to accept scum like you than I am. He will put you in your place.”
She was gone now, or at least I thought she was. I, on the other hand, was burried, burried beneath the cold snow I had let into my sanctuary. I couldn’t breath, could hear anything, and even still I clawed wildly, trying to escape the prison I had made for myself by opening the door. I was too deep though, buried far beneath the coldness of the outside world, now my world. There was no way out for me.
Just as those thoughts had entered my mind, my hand breached the surface of the snow. Perhaps I was free now. Perhaps the woman had not truly destroyed me! I scrambled out of the snow, dragging myself in the direction of the door. It was bound to be somewhere. If I could just close the door, I would be safe again! Slowly, I dragged myself along, tears streaming from the empty sockets where my eyes once were. If I could just find the door….
But where was the door? I couldn’t find it. As far as I could tell, I was already outside of the cabin, dragging myself away from the safety of my shelter. Why had I created that cursed door? Why had I locked it. If ever I could do it over, I would leave my door unlocked, leaving my cabin frequently to share the warmth of my home with those in need. I should have allowed those outside entrance, before the cold had consumed them. Maybe there were other cabins though, filled with warmth and peace. Maybe I could stumble across one and be allowed entrance.
It was to late for that. The cold had entered my heart. Perhaps it was always there. Perhaps that is why I desired the warmth of the fire so much, to hide the icy daggers that rested within me. Slowly, the cold began to wash over me, or maybe I began to feel it within me once again, as I had used to. It was there, coursing through my veins, and then… warmth. The snow was inviting, more comforting than any fire, more warm than any heat. All I needed was to sleep. I had been a fool for waiting to open the door. What was out here among the snow was far greater than that in my shelter. Even now, I feel something else entering my heart. It feels like sleep, almost, but I know it isn’t. Maybe this is
Death
I sat upon an armchair, slouched over, a feeling of warmth and peace flowing through me. I was in a small, firelit room, taking shelter from the snowy torrents around me. The room was my only source of protection from the elements of the outside world, but it was all I needed. Within the room I had both food and water, both rest and entertainment. I was content, almost happy.
There was a small tapping upon the door. It was faint, almost silent, but even still, I heard it. I wasn’t supposed to open the door, though. The cold would put out the fire, freeze me to the bone. With the weather the way it was, there was no possible way for anyone to truly be outside.
Knockity-knock!
This time the noise was louder, unmistakable. But maybe it’s just the wind, I told myself. No one could survive the blizzard outside!
Knockity-knock!
It was even louder, more a pound than a knock. A branch must’ve fallen from the tree out there, I told myself, there isn’t a chance a person’s out there. I didn’t believe it, even as I thought it. Even so, I wasn’t supposed to open the door. It was far too cold and the fire would go out.
Knockity-knock!
I was standing now, fingers clenched. There was somebody outside! There had to be, but who could’ve survived the storm? Who could have found their way to my sanctuary from the elements? It was impossible. Regardless, I wanted to help, but I couldn’t open the door, I wasn’t supposed to! I waited for a knock, but none came, and as I approached the door, I now heard it. The screaming.
It was the scream of a woman, a desperate woman. I couldn’t make out any of the words, but I didn’t need to. I knew what she was calling for. She was calling for mercy, for somebody, anybody, to open the door. I wasn’t supposed to. I knew, without a doubt that nobody could survive the storm, that no one could have approached my door. All that was out there was trouble.
The fire was raging now, no longer lazily rolling across the wood it burnt on, but devouring it, consuming it, sparks flying from the violence of its flames. I let out a breath that I didn’t know I had been holding, and found my hand upon the knob of the door, shaking with fright, with terror. I wasn’t supposed to open the door. I couldn’t! I shouldn’t!
Should I?
The moment I turned the knob, the door exploded backwards, sending me toppling to the ground. The sheer force of the wind made it impossible for me to stand. Indeed, the fire was out, and before me stood a woman. Her skin was glazed with ice and snow, though once it had been tan, it was now pale and dead. The fire was out, but her eyes burned with a passion far greater than any flame, far more deadly than any winter storm. She approached me, a look of hate and malice spread across her face.
“I needed shelter, and you gave me none!” She yelled with the force of a blizzard, “I called for warmth, and you shunned me!”
“I wasn’t supposed to open the door,” I cried, but my words were lost like whistling in the wind.
She grabbed hold of me, tossing me against a shelf of tableware. The pots and bowls shattered against the floor, just as my bones against the wall. I had known not to open the door! I had known it, hadn’t I? Hadn’t I? Doubt began to fill my soul, just as guilt began to way my heart down. Why, oh why had I opened that blasted door?
My cabin was now filled with snow, my shelter now a tomb. She smiled at my pained look, the flames from her eyes now hot enough to burn away all around me but the icy violence of the snow. She took another step towards me, and spoke, almost mocking me.
“Were you not supposed to open the door?” She mused, “Were you not supposed to allow the cold of the world to enter your heart? Well, it’s too late now! I am here, and once you have allowed me entrance, there is no way to expel me. Now, that I am here, will you not welcome me, will you not beg forgiveness, for it was you, not I who let me out there for so long, it was you, not I who refused to acknowledge me, who allowed me to suffer, to freeze, to be consumed by the elements. It was you, not I, who refused to open the door.”
I tried to stand once again, my bones aching. My mouth was dry, and as I spoke, my words sounded distant, strained, as if exiting from the mouth of somebody else. “I wasn’t supposed to open the door.”
She shook her head, a look of disgust appearing across her face. She remained silent for only a few seconds, but to me, it was an eternity. When she finally did speak, she did so in an icy whisper, her voice almost as harsh as the words that left them.
“And yet you did so anyway. If you refuse to see, than I will not let you.”
She had enough of my ignorance, my insolence. She could feel that this conversation was going nowhere, that she had got from me as much as she could and that my heart was set, as firm as the walls of my cabin. She brought her hand down, clawing at my face, tearing at my eyes, and from me came a scream, not of terror, but of utter pain. No longer could I see the world around me. All had gone dark, dark as I now felt my heart was. Why had I not opened the door when I was first able to? Why had I not allowed her entrance when she was still in need of it? Why had I waited, as if I was the one that was frozen, as if I was the one locked out? I had been a fool, and now, it was too late.
I heard her chuckle, her voice growing fainter,“It is too late to ask me for forgiveness, but perhaps there is still time to pray to your god for it. I am sure he will be far more willing to accept scum like you than I am. He will put you in your place.”
She was gone now, or at least I thought she was. I, on the other hand, was burried, burried beneath the cold snow I had let into my sanctuary. I couldn’t breath, could hear anything, and even still I clawed wildly, trying to escape the prison I had made for myself by opening the door. I was too deep though, buried far beneath the coldness of the outside world, now my world. There was no way out for me.
Just as those thoughts had entered my mind, my hand breached the surface of the snow. Perhaps I was free now. Perhaps the woman had not truly destroyed me! I scrambled out of the snow, dragging myself in the direction of the door. It was bound to be somewhere. If I could just close the door, I would be safe again! Slowly, I dragged myself along, tears streaming from the empty sockets where my eyes once were. If I could just find the door….
But where was the door? I couldn’t find it. As far as I could tell, I was already outside of the cabin, dragging myself away from the safety of my shelter. Why had I created that cursed door? Why had I locked it. If ever I could do it over, I would leave my door unlocked, leaving my cabin frequently to share the warmth of my home with those in need. I should have allowed those outside entrance, before the cold had consumed them. Maybe there were other cabins though, filled with warmth and peace. Maybe I could stumble across one and be allowed entrance.
It was to late for that. The cold had entered my heart. Perhaps it was always there. Perhaps that is why I desired the warmth of the fire so much, to hide the icy daggers that rested within me. Slowly, the cold began to wash over me, or maybe I began to feel it within me once again, as I had used to. It was there, coursing through my veins, and then… warmth. The snow was inviting, more comforting than any fire, more warm than any heat. All I needed was to sleep. I had been a fool for waiting to open the door. What was out here among the snow was far greater than that in my shelter. Even now, I feel something else entering my heart. It feels like sleep, almost, but I know it isn’t. Maybe this is
Death
By @shylarah.
I thunk my head against my desk, frustrated beyond belief. My opponent watches with eyes that, while I know they cannot actually see me, somehow perceive my actions nonetheless. I have been staring at a blank page for the better part of several hours, and have only a handful of uncertain words to show for it. I know this process can take a long time, sometimes as long as months, but normally I would have at least a rough sketch by now.
“Come now, at least tell me your name,” I say again.
“I don’t have one. Not yet. It’s not time.” His voice -- or is it hers? I can’t tell. It slips from one to the other, without any discernable pattern. “You should leave this alone. You won’t win this one.” The shadowy figure, so poorly defined that I can’t make out many details, also seems to be fluid and changeable, now short, now lanky, now pudgy, now not even humanoid.
“I won’t! I am in the mood for writing, and I need a new character. That’s you. I’m the author; you have to cooperate.”
“No, I don’t.” Throughout this entire debate, they have remained calm and collected, while I grow increasingly restless. That’s one of the few lines on my page:
calm demeanor, not easily rattled. Patient.
A meager success, coming at the price of far too much unproductive time.
“Let’s start small. Your favorite color, perhaps? What do you like to eat?” I attempt a different tack, thinking to take my foe off-guard, but they just give me a knowing smile. I can tell, even though I can’t actually visualize the details of the expression. “Ah-ah-ah, that’s not going to work.” Then they turn sly. “Well, maybe I can give you /one/ answer. I like to eat food.”
Snarky.
I type that word in, another far too brief line that doesn’t do much at all to counter the empty white page. It’s something, at least. But I am forced to realize that this character simply won’t be defined by the usual questions. It’s time to try another method.
The seated person looks up, showing wary interest as their surroundings shift, becoming a busy market square. People are everywhere, hawking wares and haggling prices. The shadowy figure is nearly run into by a cart, forced to roll aside, and it’s a narrow escape. “Ahh, clever. You can’t get what you want from me directly, so you plan to use settings as your intermediary. Well, you can try, but I won’t play along.”
“You already have,” I counter. “You are alert, and while it’s hard to startle you, it can be done. Not as unflappable as you would like to appear.” The vague face that regards me nods wryly. “Touché, well done. So it worked once, but it won’t again. I’m ready for you now.” And they go to sit beside the fountain, acting as if nobody else is there and ignoring the funny looks they get for apparently talking to themselves.
I wait, but nothing further happens that is of interest. Still, I am not entirely without patience, and I am likely to get better results if I can catch my opponent by surprise, which means letting them get comfy first. The next shift places them in the middle of a heated battle, a number of weapons scattered on the ground near the lifeless hands that once wielded them, as fighting rages on all around. A new arrival is met with suspicion by both sides, and the shadowy figure is soon under attack from multiple sides.
To my surprise, they do nothing. “I warned you, I would be ready. This won’t work.” The three fighters making to put the character down find their weapons meeting with no resistance, and then look around in obvious confusion. They’re background characters, only there to add to the scenery, so they’re not too smart, but even they can’t possibly miss the person standing there with a mildly amused smile. I examine the scene more closely, and discover that a faint shimmer now covers the shadowy and shifting form. “Hey, that’s not allowed! Standard characters don’t get access to plot ninja functions!” I exclaim, angry both at my failure and the violation of the laws of the page. Going unseen and unnoticed in active scenes isn’t something I let any old character do.
“I’m not a finished character. You can remove them later, when you finalize things -- if you ever do.” There’s that snarkiness again, and I grimace in irritation as the two combatants from one group turn on the third, who is from the other side of the fight, not willing to waste time on figuring out what happened to the person they’d tried to attack when there were other enemies to battle. With a dismissive thought, I wipe the setting clean, leaving it as blank as my page. I need a different tactic. What else could I try? I doubt sending in other developed characters would work. In an active setting, my troublesome character would just use the plot ninja stealth, and outside of it, they would just ignore whomever I sent. Nikki’s pranks might get a reaction, but somehow I feel inflicting that particular character on this person might have undesirable results. Nikki has a way of making things blow up, literally and figuratively, and trouble follows closely in her wake like an eager pet.
There’s only one remaining option. I start filling in arbitrary details, not worrying about what the character thinks of them, since they refuse to tell me. Still, before I get very far, I have to stop. It feels so /wrong/, I know I won’t be able to work with them.
“A valiant effort, but futile.”
“Shut your face before I write you out of existence,” I snap, fed up with the situation.
“You could try, I suppose.” Such lack of concern, it’s infuriating. “But you know as well as I, and likely better, you can no more do that than you could destroy an idea. This isn’t a story. I might die in a piece of writing, but in your mind, I would continue to exist.”
I remove my fingers from the keys, and look at what I have. So much time devoted to this, and so little to show for it! I snarl in frustration. How could I, the author and ruler of the world of the page, be so completely stymied in my efforts of creation? I control each aspect, each detail, and yet this incomplete character thwarts my every effort. “Why won’t you cooperate?!” I demand of my unfinished creation, wanting at least one straight answer for my trouble.
“Why?” they repeat, tilting their head. “Hm. I suppose it’s because I need to find myself first.” They start walking off -- where to, I’m not sure, but I can tell they’re heading somewhere I won’t be able to observe. “I’ll be back, but only when I’m ready.” I grumble something unkind, and get a smile in return. “If it’s any consolation, the reason you can’t just assign traits and details without my agreement is because you’re sufficiently devoted to character integrity that you give us a great deal of self-determination. It’s why your initial efforts are always a bombardment of questions. You need us to work with you, or you can’t write. It’s admirable, really.” I think I catch a glimmer of laughter shining in eyes that are still an indeterminate color. “I’ll work with you, eventually. On my terms, not yours. Until then~”
With a sigh, I add a last note to the expanse of white that must remain unfilled until their return.
Keen wit, genre savvy. May be aware of fourth wall and lean on or break.
And, perhaps as a final reassurance, a display of mercy for a vanquished foe, another line follows on its own:
Name: Schrödinger
I thunk my head against my desk, frustrated beyond belief. My opponent watches with eyes that, while I know they cannot actually see me, somehow perceive my actions nonetheless. I have been staring at a blank page for the better part of several hours, and have only a handful of uncertain words to show for it. I know this process can take a long time, sometimes as long as months, but normally I would have at least a rough sketch by now.
“Come now, at least tell me your name,” I say again.
“I don’t have one. Not yet. It’s not time.” His voice -- or is it hers? I can’t tell. It slips from one to the other, without any discernable pattern. “You should leave this alone. You won’t win this one.” The shadowy figure, so poorly defined that I can’t make out many details, also seems to be fluid and changeable, now short, now lanky, now pudgy, now not even humanoid.
“I won’t! I am in the mood for writing, and I need a new character. That’s you. I’m the author; you have to cooperate.”
“No, I don’t.” Throughout this entire debate, they have remained calm and collected, while I grow increasingly restless. That’s one of the few lines on my page:
calm demeanor, not easily rattled. Patient.
A meager success, coming at the price of far too much unproductive time.
“Let’s start small. Your favorite color, perhaps? What do you like to eat?” I attempt a different tack, thinking to take my foe off-guard, but they just give me a knowing smile. I can tell, even though I can’t actually visualize the details of the expression. “Ah-ah-ah, that’s not going to work.” Then they turn sly. “Well, maybe I can give you /one/ answer. I like to eat food.”
Snarky.
I type that word in, another far too brief line that doesn’t do much at all to counter the empty white page. It’s something, at least. But I am forced to realize that this character simply won’t be defined by the usual questions. It’s time to try another method.
The seated person looks up, showing wary interest as their surroundings shift, becoming a busy market square. People are everywhere, hawking wares and haggling prices. The shadowy figure is nearly run into by a cart, forced to roll aside, and it’s a narrow escape. “Ahh, clever. You can’t get what you want from me directly, so you plan to use settings as your intermediary. Well, you can try, but I won’t play along.”
“You already have,” I counter. “You are alert, and while it’s hard to startle you, it can be done. Not as unflappable as you would like to appear.” The vague face that regards me nods wryly. “Touché, well done. So it worked once, but it won’t again. I’m ready for you now.” And they go to sit beside the fountain, acting as if nobody else is there and ignoring the funny looks they get for apparently talking to themselves.
I wait, but nothing further happens that is of interest. Still, I am not entirely without patience, and I am likely to get better results if I can catch my opponent by surprise, which means letting them get comfy first. The next shift places them in the middle of a heated battle, a number of weapons scattered on the ground near the lifeless hands that once wielded them, as fighting rages on all around. A new arrival is met with suspicion by both sides, and the shadowy figure is soon under attack from multiple sides.
To my surprise, they do nothing. “I warned you, I would be ready. This won’t work.” The three fighters making to put the character down find their weapons meeting with no resistance, and then look around in obvious confusion. They’re background characters, only there to add to the scenery, so they’re not too smart, but even they can’t possibly miss the person standing there with a mildly amused smile. I examine the scene more closely, and discover that a faint shimmer now covers the shadowy and shifting form. “Hey, that’s not allowed! Standard characters don’t get access to plot ninja functions!” I exclaim, angry both at my failure and the violation of the laws of the page. Going unseen and unnoticed in active scenes isn’t something I let any old character do.
“I’m not a finished character. You can remove them later, when you finalize things -- if you ever do.” There’s that snarkiness again, and I grimace in irritation as the two combatants from one group turn on the third, who is from the other side of the fight, not willing to waste time on figuring out what happened to the person they’d tried to attack when there were other enemies to battle. With a dismissive thought, I wipe the setting clean, leaving it as blank as my page. I need a different tactic. What else could I try? I doubt sending in other developed characters would work. In an active setting, my troublesome character would just use the plot ninja stealth, and outside of it, they would just ignore whomever I sent. Nikki’s pranks might get a reaction, but somehow I feel inflicting that particular character on this person might have undesirable results. Nikki has a way of making things blow up, literally and figuratively, and trouble follows closely in her wake like an eager pet.
There’s only one remaining option. I start filling in arbitrary details, not worrying about what the character thinks of them, since they refuse to tell me. Still, before I get very far, I have to stop. It feels so /wrong/, I know I won’t be able to work with them.
“A valiant effort, but futile.”
“Shut your face before I write you out of existence,” I snap, fed up with the situation.
“You could try, I suppose.” Such lack of concern, it’s infuriating. “But you know as well as I, and likely better, you can no more do that than you could destroy an idea. This isn’t a story. I might die in a piece of writing, but in your mind, I would continue to exist.”
I remove my fingers from the keys, and look at what I have. So much time devoted to this, and so little to show for it! I snarl in frustration. How could I, the author and ruler of the world of the page, be so completely stymied in my efforts of creation? I control each aspect, each detail, and yet this incomplete character thwarts my every effort. “Why won’t you cooperate?!” I demand of my unfinished creation, wanting at least one straight answer for my trouble.
“Why?” they repeat, tilting their head. “Hm. I suppose it’s because I need to find myself first.” They start walking off -- where to, I’m not sure, but I can tell they’re heading somewhere I won’t be able to observe. “I’ll be back, but only when I’m ready.” I grumble something unkind, and get a smile in return. “If it’s any consolation, the reason you can’t just assign traits and details without my agreement is because you’re sufficiently devoted to character integrity that you give us a great deal of self-determination. It’s why your initial efforts are always a bombardment of questions. You need us to work with you, or you can’t write. It’s admirable, really.” I think I catch a glimmer of laughter shining in eyes that are still an indeterminate color. “I’ll work with you, eventually. On my terms, not yours. Until then~”
With a sigh, I add a last note to the expanse of white that must remain unfilled until their return.
Keen wit, genre savvy. May be aware of fourth wall and lean on or break.
And, perhaps as a final reassurance, a display of mercy for a vanquished foe, another line follows on its own:
Name: Schrödinger
By @Cruallassar.
The human mind is a wonderful thing...it is creative, variable, fantastic in a thousand ways when given fuel for its imagination. It should be little surprise that it often turns out to be its own worst enemy.
The guy who called himself Cruallassar on the online application process had already labeled the people around him in his mind. There was lab-coat guy, lab-coat girl, blue-shirt guy, and the suit guy who introduced himself and who's name had been forgotten thirty seconds later. All that he needed to know. It also meant that he felt slightly out-of-place in his black jeans and T-shirt. Luckily, they didn't seem to care. And they hadn't said anything about a dress code in the e-mail a few days ago. They also hadn't said anything about the specifics of what he was doing here either. Time to remedy that.
“So what exactly am I doing?” He asked, looking around at the other people in the room and wondering what their role in in things was.
The suit guy was, as seemed usual, the one to respond.
“You know this is a project in combining video games with certain advances in the science of the mind. We are testing a system in development that is designed to take clear thoughts, impressions, and concepts from an active mind and re-transmit them back in the same way as a virtual reality headset. The primary difference between the two systems is that in our case, the virtual world is taken directly from the user's own mind, with our software interpreting them and filling in the details, copying stats and loading NPCs and other characters, including allies and villains, into pre-made virtual intelligence programs that will emulate the actions and mannerisms of the user's character concept as accurately as possible. That part is the real crowning achievement of the project, essentially creating AI out of the user's imagination, making the game far more interactive and variable then otherwise possible. Users will also be able to refine the characters and other aspects of the game themselves via an editor, and upload them to the public, however we haven't gotten that far yet. All you'll be doing today is some basic alpha testing of the concept, testing the VI and interpretation software in a number of ways. For example, we have added the software required for combat, though most of that is done through the mental interpretation software as things are now. Later on through the testing process we will be adding more features and expanding the testing group as we refine the system.” Suit guy stopped and looked at him, seemingly realizing that what he was saying was typically outside the area of expertise of your average teenager, but Cruallassar nodded in apparent understanding. It made sense, a lot of the questions on the application process had dealt with mental conditioning, things he did with his imagination, it allowed him to go quite in detail into the creative things he did in the security of his thoughts.
“So to sum up, you want me to help test a game that makes a game out of the thoughts and imagination of the user's mind? At the basic level?”
Suit guy nodded. “Correct. At this point I'll leave you to Tom here, and he'll get you set up. Have fun.”
He nodded over towards the blue-shirt guy, then walked out back in the direction of the building exit. The blue-shirt guy...Tom...gestured towards another door. “Come on, the equipment is this way. So what we've set up is a modified version of the game...we want you to put the system through it's paces in as many ways as possible, so you have basically gamemaster privileges. Any power, ability, technique, or item you can think of, you can give yourself. On the other hand, characters will be created autonomously, and you will be able to interact with them as their concept allows. We've prioritized main characters and antagonists so you won't need to be fighting through a bunch of mooks to get to the interesting people that will really test the system.”
“Alright. So...that is all well and good, but...how do I use that? Is there a tutorial, or is it intuitive, or is it basically like other VR games?” Cruallassar asked.
“Basically, those second two. It should be pretty simple, and we kept the interfacing as close to a basic VR as we could. The menu system is identical of course. You shouldn't have any problems. Oh, and we also disabled dying in the game, unless you happen to have imagined an afterlife. The difficulty level is something we can worry about later.” Tom opened and led the way into another room as he talked, the two lab coats filing behind the two. In the middle of the room was a VR chair, one of the advanced models that could also provide nutrition to the hard-core gamers that wanted to stay immersed in their game for days at a time. Cruallassar had never wanted that luxury. It did seem to have a lot of extra stuff attached though...along with a lot of cables connected to other stuff in the room. That made sense, it was some experimental stuff after all. Tom started talking again. “As you can see, it is set up for an extended time, so you can spend pretty much as much time testing it as you want, though we'll check up on you if you spend more than a day or so nonstop.”
Cruallassar nodded again, stepping over to the seat. “So I can start now?”
“Yup. Go ahead. It's already calibrated for you, the game is loaded, you can start it up whenever you like.”
Cruallassar goes ahead and sits down, slipping on the helmet that was required for VR software. He taps the button to turn it on and waits as it overrides his sensory nerves with the start-up tone and loading image.
Never forget your dreams, they said. Don't stop dreaming, they said. Keep chasing your dreams, they said. Imagination is one of mankind's greatest assets, they said. They forgot about the other kind of dream.
Cruallassar's first image of the game itself seemed to be...black. But there was sound...kinda like wind screaming...no, more like a crowd of people whisper-screaming from the bottom of a deep chasm...he suddenly grinned with glee as he realized exactly what was happening for his first spawn into the game. He suddenly impacted ground, then inky black shadows cleared from around him and faded away, leaving him on a grassy twilight plain, dropped into a crouch. He slowly rises from his spawning position and looks at his hands, black gloves with a few metal plates covering his hands...and in fact, his entire body, with a hood over his head and a cloak over his shoulders. He took a moment out to do something entirely out of character for his outfit.
“THIS IS AWESOME!!!!!!!!” He shouted to himself in a whisper, fist pumping. He then snatched a thin sword from his side, twirled and spun it around himself for a second, then thrust it in the air triumphantly. It was exactly as he had imagined...which made sense, since his own mind was the base for it all. He put away the sword and charged off in a random direction, running at a sprint and willing himself to move even faster as his feet ate up the distance. It was only a few minutes before something that wasn't grassy plain came into view...a castle, faintly visible in the distance, though it grew more distinct with each second. Cruallassar started to head in that direction.
Back in the world of reality, Tom was talking to lab-coat guy in the monitoring room when lab-coat girl spoke up. “Hey Tom, one of the character intelligence programs is loading and getting ready to go active. Looks like most of it is being filled in by his mind, the filler programs don't have much to do here.”
Tom sipped his cup of coffee and set it down on the table. “Good, let's observe the interaction. You don't get a chance to literally pick someone's mind every day. You think there will be any issues with hardware constraints on the final product?”
Lab-coat girl looked skeptically back at him. “Pff, that's for worrying about after we get the tech working in the first place. We can decide what to cut and paste later.”
Tom shrugged and looked over at his monitor, which was showing what the teen in the other room saw, though in lower resolution.
What he was seeing was a puzzle. Cruallassar had reached the castle wall and tried to use a shadow magic technique to pass through it, then over it. It was futile. The game had decided to use a castle defense design he had come up with suitable for dealing with magical attackers, and there was a shield around its walls that prevented Cruallassar from passing through. That meant he would have to use the gate, or some other technique. But then he remembered...he had never actually applied the problem of tunneling to his castle defense designs yet. Remembering that, it was child's play to phase through the ground and pop up the other side. Shielding himself from the sight of the castle guards and inhabitants, he flew through the air in a shimmering cloud of shadows up to the top of the keep. Cruallassar recognized the design and knew who he would probably find inside. He materialized into his physical form on the window of the keep, performs a quick spell-removal on the weaker shield there, and slips inside. He isn't disappointed. In the room, facing him, was a tall figure in white and purple, a drawn rapier in his hand. The regal figure was the first to speak. “I've been expecting you.”
Tom looked at the figure on his screen with interest. “See, this is something I like. So many games and MMOs and whatnot all like to have bosses and whatnot be these big huge monstrosities, or larger-than-life figures or whatnot. A few of them actually make sense and have regular-sized people, but not most...they like to have the bad guy be this huge thing towering over everyone with teeth and fangs that should be smashing the room to pieces. And while such things can certainly happen in our world...and they really will be smashing things to pieces...it's good to see that the real bad guys are our size, people we can get up close and personal and just have a good, old-fashioned fight with. Maybe with guns, maybe with swords, you name it, that's what I like to see.”
Lab-coat guy was paying equally rapt attention as he replied. “Yeah, but look at that guy. He looks like a polar opposite of our side, he's white and royal with perfect posture, while our side is crouched and ready to fight, with two swords and just oozing deadliness...and yet somehow, I'd be more scared of the bad guy here. There's obviously more to him than meets the eye. Of course, our man in black should know his every dirty little secret, so this is going to be one hell of a fight. On another note...look at the detail on his outfit and whatnot. Purple runes, heck I think that's an etched design on his sword. Most of that is definitely not a product of the filler programming. He's definitely a prominent antagonist, most of the details are already made up on him.”
Lab-coat girl looked at both of them in irritation. “Shut up and watch.”
Cruallassar was indeed ready to fight, but not to attack just yet. “Lord Vicari Delnier, right?” He asked, alert to every detail about the room and his opponent's stance and movements. The nobleman nodded in reply. “At your service. Oooh, aren't we excited here...this is certainly an auspicious occasion. So fun to meet at last in person, I bet you are really looking forward to a fight...and yet, you aren't attacking yet...perhaps you wish to talk? Converse? Trade some banter, or perhaps some pre-fight insults? Too bad.”
As he finished his words, the nobleman fairly flashed across the room, his sword glowing purple as it thrust out toward Cruallassar's cloaked avatar. In an instant, with the heightened reflexes of the game speeding his actions, his own dark blade flew around and clashed against the rapier, knocking it out of the way for his second to make an attack of his own. That was parried in a like manner, and the two rushed together in a flurry of steel and bright magical energy.
Every one of the observers recoiled in surprise and amazement as the battle was joined, their screens showing the view of Cruallassar's eyes without the environmental information to let them process what they saw, save the obvious maelstrom of blades involved. Lab-coat guy let out an exclamation of wonder. “Bloody hell...I thought the combat in the Star Wars Order 66 VR was good, they've got nothing on this. Are we sure that kid isn't a black belt in a few different things, some involving bladed weapons?”
Tom's whistle of appreciation died away. “He probably is in his mind, given what we're seeing. But he probably isn't seeing this as fast as we are. They are going fast enough that my guess would involve some kind of speed boost or something, there's no way he's able to react that fast if he was going as slow as real time. Ok, note to self...look into the possibilities of making movies with this tech. Wait, revise that...make sure to develop some movie-making software for it. I think we're going to put Disney out of business here, this is some seriously awesome action.”
Riposte, thrust, counter-slash, dodge, parry, phase-slash, switch-to-backhand and slash, sweeping kick, stab, dodge...
Cruallassar and Delnier kept going at it, their blades leaving afterimages in the air...some physical illusions, some magical ones that might hurt...and destructive energy being aimed with pinpoint precision and missing by scant micrometers...or not missing at all, and just phasing through the other as they transferred their essence around the attack. Delnier had revealed his knife collection, which Cruallassar had expected, and had returned with his own knives. Shadows swirled around the room and obscured normal vision, and Cruallassar's eyes glowed red as he used his ethereal sight to see not only his enemy through the fog, but to see behind and to the sides of himself as well, something a monitor just couldn't reproduce. Suddenly, they broke apart with a flash of energy and stood facing each other again. Neither were scratched, and Delnier spoke again. “Well now, that was certainly an excellent little test of our abilities here...let's get rid of something, shall we?” He thrust his hand towards Cruallassar and snapped his fingers. A wave of energy seemed to ripple around the cloaked figure, but nothing seemed to happen. “Ah, and now we don't need to worry about being watched any longer.”
It is so difficult to remember dreams. Not all dreams mind you...just most. A particularly lucid or interesting dream will stick with you, others might seem to change or make no sense in recollection. They are fleeting fancies, so enticing, yet so far out of reach.
We always remember nightmares.
The monitors had gone dark with the snap of Delnier's fingers. All three viewers looked at each other quizzically and alt-tabbed out of the video feed to try and find out if something had gone wrong. Nothing had, the feed had simply been blocked from inside the game. Tom snapped his fingers and laughed. “That must have been a spell to stop the magic we were using to see through those shadows, an anti-sight spell or something. The game must have interpreted our feed as that and cut it off. Annoying yes, we'll need to patch that, but still...the game figured that out? That is awesome!”
Lab-coat girl rose from her seat with a sigh and replied, “Sure, but now we can't see how it turns out. I'll go get myself another cup of coffee, anyone want some?”
Cruallassar stared at Delnier in confusion. “What do you mean, we don't need to worry about being watched?”
Delnier sighed, though his sword seemed as ready as ever. “By your friends outside the game, the ones who were watching us fight through your eyes? Now they can't see us.”
Cruallassar just kept looking confused. “But how do you know anything about what is going on outside the game? You are a character from my mind inside the game, you shouldn't be able to break the fourth wall.”
Delnier pointed the tip of his rapier at the black-clad figure. “And why not? Maybe for most of your little characters, perhaps. But I am already a creature from another dimension, of vast...and most importantly, untold, and un-limited knowledge. I am aware of everything around you, and am already manipulating this world to my advantage. So convenient to have practically free reign throughout the incomplete superstructure of this game...and the unsuspecting world outside as well.”
Cruallassar grasped the implications of what he said. The AI was programmed to behave as closely as possible to his own concept...but while he had always portrayed the character as having similar power as far as combat was concerned to Cruallassar, he had always depicted vast, untold amounts of arcane and other-worldly knowledge in Delnier's repertoire of attributes. The awareness of the outside world could certainly be counted a part of that, and if he could be aware of it...well, there was no reason that the demon would not be able to control it, perhaps try to hack into networks outside the game. And yet, the character was bound to the game and the character inside it...if he could defeat him here, he could stop him. That, or he could try to log out and warn the guys on the other side. But he had the extra perks they had given him, and their firewalls would probably keep Delnier contained, right? He made his reply to his opponent. “Then this will be a much greater challenge than I could have ever hoped for.”
He thrust his hands outward, casting the two swords aside. In his hands materialized two metal hilts, with W-shaped hand-guards that folded outward. Matte-black armor materialized over his avatar, with red status-lights winking on across it. Red energy blades flashed out from the hilts in his hands, and a helmet with a thin red visor formed over his head. A new voice spoke within the helmet. “Hades, online. All suit systems operation, and I am ready for combat.”
Delnier smiled as the newly anointed super-soldier rocketed towards him.
“Hey, Tom, come here a sec.”
Lab-coat guy beckoned over to his computer as Tom approached. “I tried to bypass whatever effect that was that locked us out of the video feed by creating a camera game object somewhere outside the range of the spell, but it's saying that I've been locked out by a higher-level admin. We gave the kid level 3 status, right?”
Tom leaned over and looked at the monitor. “Yeah, we did...hang on, I've got a level 1 account...” He tapped a few keys. “What the hell? I've been locked out too? There isn't a higher level admin...ok, that is weird. Find the source of that block, maybe someone decided to pull a prank on us. I don't care if you have to disassemble the code piece by piece, we shouldn't be having these problems right now.”
Lab-coat girl spoke up from her spot. “Should I log him out now?”
“No, don't bother, the admin privileges shouldn't have an effect on gameplay. Besides, I'd like to not have news about fundamental problems with simple access privileges get out. Mortal embarrassment is something I'd like to avoid.”
The top of the keep was pretty well destroyed by now. A sextet of missiles launched from Cruallassar's wrists and raced down at Delnier, but a few purple flashes and they all blew up mid-flight. Lances of light shot from Delnier's sword up at Cruallassar as he hovered in midair, but were intercepted by a shield projected from Cruallassar's arm, just before he drew an assault rifle and started peppering the area with plasma bullets. Delnier's sword blocked most of those, moving with in-human speed even from the point of view of Cruallassar's heightened senses. Something seemed off... “Hey! Care to explain why you seem a bit more powerful than you should, under the circumstances?” His voice, electronically filtered by his helmet, rang out over the battleground. Delnier responded in kind.
“You are a sharp one. It seems your friends have been a little lax with their administrative privileges...your chance at victory has passed.”
Cruallassar quickly opened up the menu and hit the log out button. Nothing happened. Delnier continued, “Oh, and I'm afraid I have no desire for us to part ways just yet. Come now, show me your power...this can't be everything. I want you to rise to your best...only once you have risen to the highest of heights does crashing down hurt most.”
Cruallassar seethed beneath his helmet. “You want to see my power? HAVE FUN WITH IT!!!” He pressed a button on his gauntlet. Suddenly, clouds started forming in a swirl pattern in the sky, before a massive red laser blasted down from space and impacted a barrier above Delnier with a bright purple flash, burning through in a split second before hitting another one...and being held back. Delnier had a hand raised up, with light shining from his palm and holding back the energy being poured on top of him. As abruptly as it had begun, Cruallassar stopped it before forming more red light around him, engulfing himself in the nexus of red energy indicative of a Protoss Dark Archon. Delnier laughed as the maelstrom of energy charged towards him, charging his own energies in response.
“Tom!” Lab-coat guy beckoned to his screen frantically, but didn't bother waiting for him to finish rushing over to start explaining. “The higher level admin? It's the game! All our accounts were downgraded, the only one that is level one now is being used by the AI for the character he was fighting before! And more than that, I found code trails heading all over our systems, it's behaving like an intelligent virus, taking over everything!”
One of the security cameras in the room twitched to focus on Tom and the lab-coat guy. Then the room's lights turned off. Every eye in the room looked up as the room started laughing. “Very good, Mister Harris. Shame you didn't find out sooner, but I suppose you didn't really know where to look. I already introduced myself to you...or maybe I didn't. Your boy Cruallassar said my name, and I confirmed it. So let me introduce myself. My name is Vicari Delnier. And as of right now, I have some very big plans...”
Tom turned to the lab-coat guy, a frantic look in his eyes. “We've got to pull the plug, how do we do that?”
“The hard drive storage is downstairs, the game's will be in E-12. There's a red button on the wall that will cut the power, it will work.”
“Ok, I'll go do that, you call the power company and see if they can turn off power to the whole building if this way doesn't work.”
“Gotcha...wait, why don't you call and I push the button?”
“Because I don't have my phone on me and don't know the number anyway!” Tom sprinted out of the room.
Another blinding flash of light, this one looking like a nuke up close, lit up around the utterly demolished castle. Cruallassar fell to the ground, his armor smoking and his shields flickering as Delnier walked up, his sword shimmering with purple light. Cruallassar flipped up to his feet, not yet close to finished as his armor repaired itself and a glowing sword appeared in his hand, quickly parried by Delnier. The nobleman smirked and addressed him again. “Oh, I do believe you may have reached your limits. I'm not seeing anything more you know that you can do, short of destroying the planet...and you know that won't kill me. You see, if you can do it here, I can do it, and more. I could even turn off the death prevention if I wanted, but that would just be pointless. No, I think...imprisonment will be a fitting sentence. I don't even need to beat you here. I'll just leave you, surrounded by the world of your own imaginings, where I control every facet of your future life. You won't even die, your body will remain, nourished and healthy...more or less...in that chair outside, as you spent the rest of your days trapped within a video game. I know you would love that, normally, but with so much going on outside, and yourself being the most powerful thing alive here? Oh you will suffer, especially when I add my own touch. It will be fun.”
Tom found room E-12 and tried the door. It was locked. He swiped his card. It remained locked. He broke the door down. Inside, the red button was right where it should be. The intercom spoke again. “Oh, such a refreshing attempt...it won't succeed, but go ahead. Let me dash your hopes.” Tom hit the button and watched the room go dark. He waited. The voice came again, patronizingly saying, “And another hope bites the dust...”
Upstairs, lab-coat guy had managed to get a call through to the power company. “Yes, I know, but I need you to shut off the power to this building RIGHT NOW. Yes it is an emergency, yes I will take the blame and any legal action, yadda, yadda yadda. What? What do you mean it isn't turning off?” He switched it to speaker mode as lab-coat girl looked at him wide-eyed. The voice over the phone seemed confused. “I tried to turn off that line, but it isn't responding. What the hell is going on here?” The phone suddenly went ignored as the video feed from the game inexplicably turned on again on their computers. It showed Delnier looking triumphantly down at the camera, his sword glowing and rubble around them. As they watched, they heard a click as the door locked by itself. Delnier's eyes seemed to stare through the screen at the onlookers as he spoke. “And thus, your dreams are crushed.”
The human mind is a wonderful thing...it is creative, variable, fantastic in a thousand ways when given fuel for its imagination. It should be little surprise that it often turns out to be its own worst enemy.
The guy who called himself Cruallassar on the online application process had already labeled the people around him in his mind. There was lab-coat guy, lab-coat girl, blue-shirt guy, and the suit guy who introduced himself and who's name had been forgotten thirty seconds later. All that he needed to know. It also meant that he felt slightly out-of-place in his black jeans and T-shirt. Luckily, they didn't seem to care. And they hadn't said anything about a dress code in the e-mail a few days ago. They also hadn't said anything about the specifics of what he was doing here either. Time to remedy that.
“So what exactly am I doing?” He asked, looking around at the other people in the room and wondering what their role in in things was.
The suit guy was, as seemed usual, the one to respond.
“You know this is a project in combining video games with certain advances in the science of the mind. We are testing a system in development that is designed to take clear thoughts, impressions, and concepts from an active mind and re-transmit them back in the same way as a virtual reality headset. The primary difference between the two systems is that in our case, the virtual world is taken directly from the user's own mind, with our software interpreting them and filling in the details, copying stats and loading NPCs and other characters, including allies and villains, into pre-made virtual intelligence programs that will emulate the actions and mannerisms of the user's character concept as accurately as possible. That part is the real crowning achievement of the project, essentially creating AI out of the user's imagination, making the game far more interactive and variable then otherwise possible. Users will also be able to refine the characters and other aspects of the game themselves via an editor, and upload them to the public, however we haven't gotten that far yet. All you'll be doing today is some basic alpha testing of the concept, testing the VI and interpretation software in a number of ways. For example, we have added the software required for combat, though most of that is done through the mental interpretation software as things are now. Later on through the testing process we will be adding more features and expanding the testing group as we refine the system.” Suit guy stopped and looked at him, seemingly realizing that what he was saying was typically outside the area of expertise of your average teenager, but Cruallassar nodded in apparent understanding. It made sense, a lot of the questions on the application process had dealt with mental conditioning, things he did with his imagination, it allowed him to go quite in detail into the creative things he did in the security of his thoughts.
“So to sum up, you want me to help test a game that makes a game out of the thoughts and imagination of the user's mind? At the basic level?”
Suit guy nodded. “Correct. At this point I'll leave you to Tom here, and he'll get you set up. Have fun.”
He nodded over towards the blue-shirt guy, then walked out back in the direction of the building exit. The blue-shirt guy...Tom...gestured towards another door. “Come on, the equipment is this way. So what we've set up is a modified version of the game...we want you to put the system through it's paces in as many ways as possible, so you have basically gamemaster privileges. Any power, ability, technique, or item you can think of, you can give yourself. On the other hand, characters will be created autonomously, and you will be able to interact with them as their concept allows. We've prioritized main characters and antagonists so you won't need to be fighting through a bunch of mooks to get to the interesting people that will really test the system.”
“Alright. So...that is all well and good, but...how do I use that? Is there a tutorial, or is it intuitive, or is it basically like other VR games?” Cruallassar asked.
“Basically, those second two. It should be pretty simple, and we kept the interfacing as close to a basic VR as we could. The menu system is identical of course. You shouldn't have any problems. Oh, and we also disabled dying in the game, unless you happen to have imagined an afterlife. The difficulty level is something we can worry about later.” Tom opened and led the way into another room as he talked, the two lab coats filing behind the two. In the middle of the room was a VR chair, one of the advanced models that could also provide nutrition to the hard-core gamers that wanted to stay immersed in their game for days at a time. Cruallassar had never wanted that luxury. It did seem to have a lot of extra stuff attached though...along with a lot of cables connected to other stuff in the room. That made sense, it was some experimental stuff after all. Tom started talking again. “As you can see, it is set up for an extended time, so you can spend pretty much as much time testing it as you want, though we'll check up on you if you spend more than a day or so nonstop.”
Cruallassar nodded again, stepping over to the seat. “So I can start now?”
“Yup. Go ahead. It's already calibrated for you, the game is loaded, you can start it up whenever you like.”
Cruallassar goes ahead and sits down, slipping on the helmet that was required for VR software. He taps the button to turn it on and waits as it overrides his sensory nerves with the start-up tone and loading image.
Never forget your dreams, they said. Don't stop dreaming, they said. Keep chasing your dreams, they said. Imagination is one of mankind's greatest assets, they said. They forgot about the other kind of dream.
Cruallassar's first image of the game itself seemed to be...black. But there was sound...kinda like wind screaming...no, more like a crowd of people whisper-screaming from the bottom of a deep chasm...he suddenly grinned with glee as he realized exactly what was happening for his first spawn into the game. He suddenly impacted ground, then inky black shadows cleared from around him and faded away, leaving him on a grassy twilight plain, dropped into a crouch. He slowly rises from his spawning position and looks at his hands, black gloves with a few metal plates covering his hands...and in fact, his entire body, with a hood over his head and a cloak over his shoulders. He took a moment out to do something entirely out of character for his outfit.
“THIS IS AWESOME!!!!!!!!” He shouted to himself in a whisper, fist pumping. He then snatched a thin sword from his side, twirled and spun it around himself for a second, then thrust it in the air triumphantly. It was exactly as he had imagined...which made sense, since his own mind was the base for it all. He put away the sword and charged off in a random direction, running at a sprint and willing himself to move even faster as his feet ate up the distance. It was only a few minutes before something that wasn't grassy plain came into view...a castle, faintly visible in the distance, though it grew more distinct with each second. Cruallassar started to head in that direction.
Back in the world of reality, Tom was talking to lab-coat guy in the monitoring room when lab-coat girl spoke up. “Hey Tom, one of the character intelligence programs is loading and getting ready to go active. Looks like most of it is being filled in by his mind, the filler programs don't have much to do here.”
Tom sipped his cup of coffee and set it down on the table. “Good, let's observe the interaction. You don't get a chance to literally pick someone's mind every day. You think there will be any issues with hardware constraints on the final product?”
Lab-coat girl looked skeptically back at him. “Pff, that's for worrying about after we get the tech working in the first place. We can decide what to cut and paste later.”
Tom shrugged and looked over at his monitor, which was showing what the teen in the other room saw, though in lower resolution.
What he was seeing was a puzzle. Cruallassar had reached the castle wall and tried to use a shadow magic technique to pass through it, then over it. It was futile. The game had decided to use a castle defense design he had come up with suitable for dealing with magical attackers, and there was a shield around its walls that prevented Cruallassar from passing through. That meant he would have to use the gate, or some other technique. But then he remembered...he had never actually applied the problem of tunneling to his castle defense designs yet. Remembering that, it was child's play to phase through the ground and pop up the other side. Shielding himself from the sight of the castle guards and inhabitants, he flew through the air in a shimmering cloud of shadows up to the top of the keep. Cruallassar recognized the design and knew who he would probably find inside. He materialized into his physical form on the window of the keep, performs a quick spell-removal on the weaker shield there, and slips inside. He isn't disappointed. In the room, facing him, was a tall figure in white and purple, a drawn rapier in his hand. The regal figure was the first to speak. “I've been expecting you.”
Tom looked at the figure on his screen with interest. “See, this is something I like. So many games and MMOs and whatnot all like to have bosses and whatnot be these big huge monstrosities, or larger-than-life figures or whatnot. A few of them actually make sense and have regular-sized people, but not most...they like to have the bad guy be this huge thing towering over everyone with teeth and fangs that should be smashing the room to pieces. And while such things can certainly happen in our world...and they really will be smashing things to pieces...it's good to see that the real bad guys are our size, people we can get up close and personal and just have a good, old-fashioned fight with. Maybe with guns, maybe with swords, you name it, that's what I like to see.”
Lab-coat guy was paying equally rapt attention as he replied. “Yeah, but look at that guy. He looks like a polar opposite of our side, he's white and royal with perfect posture, while our side is crouched and ready to fight, with two swords and just oozing deadliness...and yet somehow, I'd be more scared of the bad guy here. There's obviously more to him than meets the eye. Of course, our man in black should know his every dirty little secret, so this is going to be one hell of a fight. On another note...look at the detail on his outfit and whatnot. Purple runes, heck I think that's an etched design on his sword. Most of that is definitely not a product of the filler programming. He's definitely a prominent antagonist, most of the details are already made up on him.”
Lab-coat girl looked at both of them in irritation. “Shut up and watch.”
Cruallassar was indeed ready to fight, but not to attack just yet. “Lord Vicari Delnier, right?” He asked, alert to every detail about the room and his opponent's stance and movements. The nobleman nodded in reply. “At your service. Oooh, aren't we excited here...this is certainly an auspicious occasion. So fun to meet at last in person, I bet you are really looking forward to a fight...and yet, you aren't attacking yet...perhaps you wish to talk? Converse? Trade some banter, or perhaps some pre-fight insults? Too bad.”
As he finished his words, the nobleman fairly flashed across the room, his sword glowing purple as it thrust out toward Cruallassar's cloaked avatar. In an instant, with the heightened reflexes of the game speeding his actions, his own dark blade flew around and clashed against the rapier, knocking it out of the way for his second to make an attack of his own. That was parried in a like manner, and the two rushed together in a flurry of steel and bright magical energy.
Every one of the observers recoiled in surprise and amazement as the battle was joined, their screens showing the view of Cruallassar's eyes without the environmental information to let them process what they saw, save the obvious maelstrom of blades involved. Lab-coat guy let out an exclamation of wonder. “Bloody hell...I thought the combat in the Star Wars Order 66 VR was good, they've got nothing on this. Are we sure that kid isn't a black belt in a few different things, some involving bladed weapons?”
Tom's whistle of appreciation died away. “He probably is in his mind, given what we're seeing. But he probably isn't seeing this as fast as we are. They are going fast enough that my guess would involve some kind of speed boost or something, there's no way he's able to react that fast if he was going as slow as real time. Ok, note to self...look into the possibilities of making movies with this tech. Wait, revise that...make sure to develop some movie-making software for it. I think we're going to put Disney out of business here, this is some seriously awesome action.”
Riposte, thrust, counter-slash, dodge, parry, phase-slash, switch-to-backhand and slash, sweeping kick, stab, dodge...
Cruallassar and Delnier kept going at it, their blades leaving afterimages in the air...some physical illusions, some magical ones that might hurt...and destructive energy being aimed with pinpoint precision and missing by scant micrometers...or not missing at all, and just phasing through the other as they transferred their essence around the attack. Delnier had revealed his knife collection, which Cruallassar had expected, and had returned with his own knives. Shadows swirled around the room and obscured normal vision, and Cruallassar's eyes glowed red as he used his ethereal sight to see not only his enemy through the fog, but to see behind and to the sides of himself as well, something a monitor just couldn't reproduce. Suddenly, they broke apart with a flash of energy and stood facing each other again. Neither were scratched, and Delnier spoke again. “Well now, that was certainly an excellent little test of our abilities here...let's get rid of something, shall we?” He thrust his hand towards Cruallassar and snapped his fingers. A wave of energy seemed to ripple around the cloaked figure, but nothing seemed to happen. “Ah, and now we don't need to worry about being watched any longer.”
It is so difficult to remember dreams. Not all dreams mind you...just most. A particularly lucid or interesting dream will stick with you, others might seem to change or make no sense in recollection. They are fleeting fancies, so enticing, yet so far out of reach.
We always remember nightmares.
The monitors had gone dark with the snap of Delnier's fingers. All three viewers looked at each other quizzically and alt-tabbed out of the video feed to try and find out if something had gone wrong. Nothing had, the feed had simply been blocked from inside the game. Tom snapped his fingers and laughed. “That must have been a spell to stop the magic we were using to see through those shadows, an anti-sight spell or something. The game must have interpreted our feed as that and cut it off. Annoying yes, we'll need to patch that, but still...the game figured that out? That is awesome!”
Lab-coat girl rose from her seat with a sigh and replied, “Sure, but now we can't see how it turns out. I'll go get myself another cup of coffee, anyone want some?”
Cruallassar stared at Delnier in confusion. “What do you mean, we don't need to worry about being watched?”
Delnier sighed, though his sword seemed as ready as ever. “By your friends outside the game, the ones who were watching us fight through your eyes? Now they can't see us.”
Cruallassar just kept looking confused. “But how do you know anything about what is going on outside the game? You are a character from my mind inside the game, you shouldn't be able to break the fourth wall.”
Delnier pointed the tip of his rapier at the black-clad figure. “And why not? Maybe for most of your little characters, perhaps. But I am already a creature from another dimension, of vast...and most importantly, untold, and un-limited knowledge. I am aware of everything around you, and am already manipulating this world to my advantage. So convenient to have practically free reign throughout the incomplete superstructure of this game...and the unsuspecting world outside as well.”
Cruallassar grasped the implications of what he said. The AI was programmed to behave as closely as possible to his own concept...but while he had always portrayed the character as having similar power as far as combat was concerned to Cruallassar, he had always depicted vast, untold amounts of arcane and other-worldly knowledge in Delnier's repertoire of attributes. The awareness of the outside world could certainly be counted a part of that, and if he could be aware of it...well, there was no reason that the demon would not be able to control it, perhaps try to hack into networks outside the game. And yet, the character was bound to the game and the character inside it...if he could defeat him here, he could stop him. That, or he could try to log out and warn the guys on the other side. But he had the extra perks they had given him, and their firewalls would probably keep Delnier contained, right? He made his reply to his opponent. “Then this will be a much greater challenge than I could have ever hoped for.”
He thrust his hands outward, casting the two swords aside. In his hands materialized two metal hilts, with W-shaped hand-guards that folded outward. Matte-black armor materialized over his avatar, with red status-lights winking on across it. Red energy blades flashed out from the hilts in his hands, and a helmet with a thin red visor formed over his head. A new voice spoke within the helmet. “Hades, online. All suit systems operation, and I am ready for combat.”
Delnier smiled as the newly anointed super-soldier rocketed towards him.
“Hey, Tom, come here a sec.”
Lab-coat guy beckoned over to his computer as Tom approached. “I tried to bypass whatever effect that was that locked us out of the video feed by creating a camera game object somewhere outside the range of the spell, but it's saying that I've been locked out by a higher-level admin. We gave the kid level 3 status, right?”
Tom leaned over and looked at the monitor. “Yeah, we did...hang on, I've got a level 1 account...” He tapped a few keys. “What the hell? I've been locked out too? There isn't a higher level admin...ok, that is weird. Find the source of that block, maybe someone decided to pull a prank on us. I don't care if you have to disassemble the code piece by piece, we shouldn't be having these problems right now.”
Lab-coat girl spoke up from her spot. “Should I log him out now?”
“No, don't bother, the admin privileges shouldn't have an effect on gameplay. Besides, I'd like to not have news about fundamental problems with simple access privileges get out. Mortal embarrassment is something I'd like to avoid.”
The top of the keep was pretty well destroyed by now. A sextet of missiles launched from Cruallassar's wrists and raced down at Delnier, but a few purple flashes and they all blew up mid-flight. Lances of light shot from Delnier's sword up at Cruallassar as he hovered in midair, but were intercepted by a shield projected from Cruallassar's arm, just before he drew an assault rifle and started peppering the area with plasma bullets. Delnier's sword blocked most of those, moving with in-human speed even from the point of view of Cruallassar's heightened senses. Something seemed off... “Hey! Care to explain why you seem a bit more powerful than you should, under the circumstances?” His voice, electronically filtered by his helmet, rang out over the battleground. Delnier responded in kind.
“You are a sharp one. It seems your friends have been a little lax with their administrative privileges...your chance at victory has passed.”
Cruallassar quickly opened up the menu and hit the log out button. Nothing happened. Delnier continued, “Oh, and I'm afraid I have no desire for us to part ways just yet. Come now, show me your power...this can't be everything. I want you to rise to your best...only once you have risen to the highest of heights does crashing down hurt most.”
Cruallassar seethed beneath his helmet. “You want to see my power? HAVE FUN WITH IT!!!” He pressed a button on his gauntlet. Suddenly, clouds started forming in a swirl pattern in the sky, before a massive red laser blasted down from space and impacted a barrier above Delnier with a bright purple flash, burning through in a split second before hitting another one...and being held back. Delnier had a hand raised up, with light shining from his palm and holding back the energy being poured on top of him. As abruptly as it had begun, Cruallassar stopped it before forming more red light around him, engulfing himself in the nexus of red energy indicative of a Protoss Dark Archon. Delnier laughed as the maelstrom of energy charged towards him, charging his own energies in response.
“Tom!” Lab-coat guy beckoned to his screen frantically, but didn't bother waiting for him to finish rushing over to start explaining. “The higher level admin? It's the game! All our accounts were downgraded, the only one that is level one now is being used by the AI for the character he was fighting before! And more than that, I found code trails heading all over our systems, it's behaving like an intelligent virus, taking over everything!”
One of the security cameras in the room twitched to focus on Tom and the lab-coat guy. Then the room's lights turned off. Every eye in the room looked up as the room started laughing. “Very good, Mister Harris. Shame you didn't find out sooner, but I suppose you didn't really know where to look. I already introduced myself to you...or maybe I didn't. Your boy Cruallassar said my name, and I confirmed it. So let me introduce myself. My name is Vicari Delnier. And as of right now, I have some very big plans...”
Tom turned to the lab-coat guy, a frantic look in his eyes. “We've got to pull the plug, how do we do that?”
“The hard drive storage is downstairs, the game's will be in E-12. There's a red button on the wall that will cut the power, it will work.”
“Ok, I'll go do that, you call the power company and see if they can turn off power to the whole building if this way doesn't work.”
“Gotcha...wait, why don't you call and I push the button?”
“Because I don't have my phone on me and don't know the number anyway!” Tom sprinted out of the room.
Another blinding flash of light, this one looking like a nuke up close, lit up around the utterly demolished castle. Cruallassar fell to the ground, his armor smoking and his shields flickering as Delnier walked up, his sword shimmering with purple light. Cruallassar flipped up to his feet, not yet close to finished as his armor repaired itself and a glowing sword appeared in his hand, quickly parried by Delnier. The nobleman smirked and addressed him again. “Oh, I do believe you may have reached your limits. I'm not seeing anything more you know that you can do, short of destroying the planet...and you know that won't kill me. You see, if you can do it here, I can do it, and more. I could even turn off the death prevention if I wanted, but that would just be pointless. No, I think...imprisonment will be a fitting sentence. I don't even need to beat you here. I'll just leave you, surrounded by the world of your own imaginings, where I control every facet of your future life. You won't even die, your body will remain, nourished and healthy...more or less...in that chair outside, as you spent the rest of your days trapped within a video game. I know you would love that, normally, but with so much going on outside, and yourself being the most powerful thing alive here? Oh you will suffer, especially when I add my own touch. It will be fun.”
Tom found room E-12 and tried the door. It was locked. He swiped his card. It remained locked. He broke the door down. Inside, the red button was right where it should be. The intercom spoke again. “Oh, such a refreshing attempt...it won't succeed, but go ahead. Let me dash your hopes.” Tom hit the button and watched the room go dark. He waited. The voice came again, patronizingly saying, “And another hope bites the dust...”
Upstairs, lab-coat guy had managed to get a call through to the power company. “Yes, I know, but I need you to shut off the power to this building RIGHT NOW. Yes it is an emergency, yes I will take the blame and any legal action, yadda, yadda yadda. What? What do you mean it isn't turning off?” He switched it to speaker mode as lab-coat girl looked at him wide-eyed. The voice over the phone seemed confused. “I tried to turn off that line, but it isn't responding. What the hell is going on here?” The phone suddenly went ignored as the video feed from the game inexplicably turned on again on their computers. It showed Delnier looking triumphantly down at the camera, his sword glowing and rubble around them. As they watched, they heard a click as the door locked by itself. Delnier's eyes seemed to stare through the screen at the onlookers as he spoke. “And thus, your dreams are crushed.”
By @Holmishire.
In the castle by the creek.
The great arched window loomed before her, granting the youngest daughter of the King a view of the kingdom few could reproach—the stocky buildings of the city, tumbling down the mountainside; the rolling hills and farmers' fields, stretching out towards the horizon; and the jagged river, tearing its way towards the unforgiving seas.
Céline's fingers tightened on the rough stone, her bones threatening to crack under the pressure of her own grip. There had been a time when this land had been her heritage, shared between an inseparable pair of sisters. And yet ever since Guillaume had taken her sister as his wife...
Their bond had been strained beyond repair.
His scent lingered still in her chambers, taunting her. Tonight had not been his first attempt at seducing the young maiden, and she doubted well it'd be his last. Worst of all, though she hated herself for it, her heart cried out for his. She could not resist her desires much longer.
Pushing herself from the window, she chose to shut out thoughts of the future. As she tread towards the far end of her chambers, the cool stone tickled her bare feet and she could feel the warm sunlight caressing her back. There had been a time when these halls held all that she'd ever wished for—now, they were filled only with regret.
In the centre of her chambers stood an immense slab of marble, white as snow and cleaved into a perfect circle. Upon its surface a collections of lenses, mirrors, and prisms had been set up in a complicated design few would know to understand.
Taking an apple from her bedside shelf, Céline placed it on a small pedestal at the centrepoint of the marble slab. Above it hung a lantern emitting a steady magical light. The apple itself was smooth and transparent as glass—as the glow of the lantern pierced its skin, brilliant rays of light shone out from its flesh and struck out across the marble. Where it was caught in the lenses and prisms, images began to form: the thrashing waves of the sea, a flight of birds in the wind, a city bustling with life.
The maiden adjusted the lenses, and a new scene began to materialize upon the slab.
A handsome man, dressed in fine nobleman's garb, sat upon a bed of silk sheets and oak frame, his face buried in his hands. She watched him like so for some time, taking in the strength of his form, and the fragility of his posture.
He lifted his head, and she caught a glimpse of his face: Guillaume.
A woman entered the room, tall and blonde and regal in step. Guillaume rose from the bed to greet his wife, but as he took a step towards her, she untied the back of her robe. Céline watched as it slid off her sister's slender body and fell to the floor in a soft heap at her feet. Guillaume opened his mouth in protest, perhaps wishing to speak of serious matters—but though Céline could hear nothing of their exchange, as her sister stepped in close, she could tell he was silenced. His hesitation lasted but a moment more, before he gave in to her embrace.
With a shriek of rage, Céline took the apple from the marble and hurled it at the wall.
In a room now filled with shadows, shards of glass scattered themselves across the stone. The maiden lurched forwards, her fingers sliced open in vain as she snatched at the remains of her most prized possession, tears and snot streaming down her face. Hunched over in pain and grief, she was racked by sobs she could not hold back.
When finally she drew her hands back, all that she found in her grasp were five glass seeds. Wiping the snot from her face—and leaving behind a streak of red upon her cheek—she rose to her feet.
"I'm pathetic."
The girl pulled her cloak from the wall and donned her leather boots, not caring for the stains of her own blood she left in her wake. The door was thrown open, and her chambers were left to silence, the shadows of the setting sun playing upon the glass dust strewn across the cold stone floor.
The stars hung heavy in the sky.
When a faithful servant came across the glass and blood from Céline's open door, it did not take long for panic to overtake the castle. While guards searched the grounds for the youngest princess, Hélène slipped out to the hills.
Dismounting from her horse, she walked slowly towards her dark-haired sister. She was kneeling at the edge of a tall bluff, overlooking the powerful river. Though it had been years, the two had oft sat together on this bluff in their girlhood, gazing up at the stars.
Tonight, Céline gazed down into the darkness, at the violent waters below. "What do you want from me?"
"I need you to stay away from my husband."
Céline flinched. "I've done no wrong. He—"
"I do not care," Hélène interrupted. "You'll not ruin this for me." She stepped closer to her sister, hands balling into fists.
"What do you expect me to do? He's the unfaithful one."
Hélène remained silent for a moment. When she again spoke, her voice was cold as ice. "Yes. But perhaps there is something I can do." With a vicious shove of her foot, she pushed Céline over the edge.
She was too shocked to scream, tumbling through the air to the river below. In but an instant, she penetrated the surface of the water.
The impact sent her gasping for air, but all she breathed in was the rushing rapids. She tried to swim to the surface, but the relentless current pulled her ever deeper. In her last moments, as she drifted to the bottom, she watched as a single glass seed slipped from her grasp, mixing with the blood of her hands in the river. Through it— a glimpse of home.
Shadows tore at her clothes, hooking themselves in her skin and rending her flesh. Céline tried to scream, but she found her lungs filled only with water. Suffocating both in body and in mind, but without the release of death.
Then, just as she felt madness sinking in, a light pierced the darkness, releasing her from its grip. She stumbled forward and coughed the water out from her lungs, finally gasping for breath.
Out of the light she came to make out a lantern. Holding it stood a skeletal figure, clad in a dark cloak. As he approached her, he fiddled with a small bead in his spare hand.
Céline shuddered. "Who are you?"
"I am the Gamekeeper, here to guide you to the otherlife."
She blanched. "I am dead."
"No." The skeleton pulled out a bag of marbles, planting his lantern into the darkness that formed the ground at his feet. "Not yet. You would be of no use to me dead, for I serve the Ghost of no Home. Of the thousands of worlds he controls—" At this, he lifted the bag of marbles for her to see. "—few possess souls strong enough to compete in his tournaments. You are one such soul. At the end of your story, it is I who comes to guide you into service."
"I do not wish to serve. If I'm not dead, send me back, I can—"
"No. There is no second chance at a happy ending." As he slid the bead he held into the bag, she saw that it was the fifth seed, the one she'd dropped in the river. He pulled out a marble, and moved to place it in the lantern. "Come," he said.
A flash of her dying moments came back to her—through the seed, glimpses of familiar places. Memories rushed into her mind of her childhood. Visions seen through the apple of otherworldly places, cast in chaotic mirages on the marble, long before she had learned to control its sight.
She pulled out a seed.
"Where did you get that," it uttered, voice now tinged with worry.
A gut feeling pushed her forward.
Lunging faster than she thought herself capable, she pulled the lantern from the skeleton's grasp and plunged the seed inside it.
Pulled from the space between her reality and the ether, her bones glowed a brilliant blue as they fused with the lantern's essence, searing away her flesh. Knowledge cascaded into her of worlds, of heroes, of purpose.
The lantern was a gateway, and it would lead her down a path she was not fated to follow.
She was now a Gamekeeper, but she did not serve the Ghost. Her purpose was of her own design. And she knew exactly how to achieve it.
The blade pierced the thick basalt flesh, and with a violent jerk, the hound lay dead. The gorgon watched as Melas wavered on his feet, then fell, slumping over his quarry.
Even as her leg and stomach healed at the touch of the burning liquid, she snatched the cornucopia from the ground and rushed to Melas's side.
Turning his head over, she grimaced as a thin trail of blood yet slid from his ear. Lifting the horn above his head, she gently loosed a single drop into his ear, turned him over, and did the same to the other ear. She placed her hand over his breast—his heart beat slowly, but steadily.
Allowing him his rest, she passed her tentative fingers to the body of the beast, brushing against its rough flesh until she came across cold iron. She slid her hand over the grip, and held the blade firmly as she continued her search with her other hand. Soon, she felt the softer flesh of the hound's underbelly. With delicate care, the gorgon began to carve out hunks of meat, singing as she did. These, she wrapped tightly in the cloth of her cloak before turning back to her companion.
Melas awoke to the sound of her voice, and rose to his feet with the help of her proffered hand. "Is it dead?"
"You dealt the killing blow yourself." The gorgon began to lead the boy back out of the cave towards the larger cavern where they'd made camp. Though she had been barely alive when last she had been brought down this path, Euryale had little difficulty finding her way back, using the echoes of their feet as her guide.
Melas, surely, made use of the foxfire to illuminate his own path. He sped up to walk beside her. "What's that you carry?"
"Our next meal."
"You can't be serious."
She smiled. "As serious as I can be. Do not worry yourself over the origin of the meat—it eats just as well as anything else."
Melas had no response, the only sound that of the echoes against the stone walls of the mine. It did not take long for them to reach the sooty remains of their firepit. While Euryale set about preparing the meat to cook, Melas gathered more wood with which to light the fire anew.
No more words were exchanged between them until they sat across from one another at the fire, tearing into the hound's meat. It was Melas who broke the silence.
"You could have left me." With no response from her, he continued. "With the hound dead, it would have been easy to slit my throat with my own blade and escape these caves alone."
"Do you think me a killer?" she muttered in reply.
His voice grew grim. "Left me to die then, in the mines where I know not the way out. Why did you stay with me?"
Euryale set down her meat. "Why did you? Only a fool would follow the trail of blood to its source. It was you who saved me, not the reverse."
"Saved you? I needed you. I don't know these caves." He grit his teeth. "Don't think I did what I did out of any form of empathy. Your kin deserve the same deaths they have inflicted upon mine since time immemorial."
"We are not savages. This enmity—"
"You are monsters." He threw what was left of his meal onto the ground and rose to his feet. "Come, lead me from this place, before I change my mind about letting you live."
As Euryale trudged through the narrow caves, she thought of her sisters. She had always been the weakest of the three. When Perceus had taken her sister's head in battle, Stheno had charged forth in pursuit, while Euryale had stayed behind, lamenting her loss. When the immortality of the Gods had been stripped away by Ouranos's plague, Stheno had set off to wage war, while Euryale fled and hid in the depths of the earth. And now, in the company of Perseus's own kin, she wondered only if there was a chance, however slim, of monsters and men achieving harmony.
So entrapped was she in her thoughts that she did not notice as her footsteps, once echoing against the stone, were now dull and soft. She did not notice as Melas's breath faded into silence, nor as the air lost his stench.
That was, not until she felt a skeletal hand wrap itself firmly across her mouth.
"Please, do not scream, you'll only embarrass us both. I am here to help you." The hand released her, and Euryale stumbled forward.
"What are you?"
"What I am is of no consequence. What does matter is what I can do for you." She could sense the figure shift to stand in front of her. "Help me to complete my journey, and I can help you save the boy."
Euryale shrugged the skeletal woman off and moved past her. "Save him? We're almost out—he is in no danger."
A scream—her own—sounded from up ahead. The shouts of men, the cries of harpies, the din of battle. A small body, slumping to the floor. Euryale rushed forward, gripping Melas's lifeless corpse.
The skeleton's voice rang out again. "If you lead him from this cave, he will die. Send him out alone—stay behind, in the caves—and he lives."
Euryale hung back. "And why then do I need you?"
The skeleton cackled. "Because the moment I release your soul, you will forget everything I have told you. Serve me for but a brief while, and I will plant in your body's mind the seeds of doubt that will save his life. I will grant you your happy ending."
Euryale touched Melas's corpse, knowing it to be an illusion but shaken nonetheless. Tears leaked through her blindfold. "What do you need of me?"
Melas felt the wind brush against his face even before the light of the sun shone into his eyes.
Turning back towards the caves, he saw no sign of the gorgon. Confused, he called out for her, but received no response. Calling again, he took a few steps back down the tunnel, and stopped. His shoulders tensed.
Leaving the tunnel behind, he passed into the light. As his eyes recovered from their temporary blindness, he saw two men rushing towards him, arms outstretched.
Long after the reunited warriors had left to continue their quest, a lone reptilian girl slid out from the cave entrance, seeking her own path to walk alone.
"Émile!" she screamed, shaking his shoulder with violent force. "Émile..."
Heavy tears streamed down the woman's face as she desperately tried to wake her lover from his fitful apathy. Lying naked in his bed, his covers tossed the floor in her frenzy, the man's body jolted with half-hearted movements, imitating her attempts. But his eyes gazed straight ahead, without passion, without focus. Every time she called his name, he mumbled it in reply, his mouth dragged open lethargically.
Finally, the woman slumped onto his chest, weeping, her muscles tired from her efforts. In the distance, a gruff man's voice could be heard—the landlord, calling in paramedics for help. Sirens wailed outside the window, fighting to be heard over the scream of a train barrelling past on the track above.
Yet, to Julie, the only thing left of her world was an empty shell, echoing her grief back to her.
"Why do you show me this?" Émile's voice was strained, the pain of seeing Julie suffer clear on his face.
"I can help you, you know. I can give you back the life you lost."
Émile turned his back on the scene to face the two spectral figures that had drawn him from the dark. The one who had spoken was a petite woman in an elaborate, old-fashioned dress—hanging heavy over her form and soaked deep. What was truly striking about her, however, was her face—framed by thick black locks, her face was nearly skeletal, with skin pulled tight over her skull and eyes a pair of blue orbs. She leaned upon a thick wooden pole, at the end of which hung a lantern glowing a fierce blue.
Behind her stood a creature just as odd. A woman with yellow skin and snakes for hair, standing demurely behind the skeletal figure.
Émile grimaced. "And what do you expect in return?"
"A favour. You help me to collect my next servant, and then I shall release you to enjoy the spoils of my generosity."
He hesitated, feeling his resistance giving way to the temptation. "Prove it, then. Prove to me that you can bring me back to her."
Now the woman smiled. She raised her skeletal fingers, and the scene laid before them began to solidify. Émile could feel the chill of reality biting into his incorporeal soul, felt Julie's weight on his chest, though he remained separate, detached. He could feel his mind—though it remained silent and closed off from the world.
And then, he heard her sing.
The gorgon's voice permeated the room, drowning out the sirens and the trains, the tears and the pain. Julie's head rose up, searching for the source, but with none to be seen.
And Émile felt his mind open.
The hundreds of voices clamouring for attention in his head fell silent, awaiting his command. His own mind sought him out, rediscovering his will and his mores. The familiar touch of his love. The strength of his body. The power of his intellect. His eyes opened.
He was awake.
Euryale's song fell silent, but it had had its effect. From his spectral perch, Émile watched as his body rose from the bed and caressed Julie's weeping form.
One favour, and that would be him again.
A squeal of pain, and he turned to see a blade pulled across the gorgon's throat. She fell, and her spectre dissipated into the darkness.
Two skeletons stepped forward from behind her. The first, holding the sword, was clad head-to-toe in ancient greek armour, his eyes orbs of red. In his left hand he carried a torch of the same hue, its light burning away the scene of Émile's awakening. Behind him stepped a taller figure, wearing a tattered cloak and holding a bag filled with marbles.
The second one spoke. "You mess with matters you cannot comprehend. By saving these few, you cast so many more into ruin." He brushed past his companion towards them, drawing a dagger. "Give me the lantern."
Émile turned to see the spectral woman reaching out her hand to him. He knew not what compelled him, but he took her hand, and in that instant was pulled from his world.
Fog pervaded the trenches, preventing Olrich from seeing much of use through the bright monitors across the wall of his pod. The whine of the Undertow's machinery was only pierced by the occasional distant blast of a cannon.
The man wiped the sweat from his brow. These mechs did wonders at keeping the radiation out, but were just as effective at keeping the heat in.
Flipping a switch above his head, the screens flickered into ultra-red, giving him a somewhat better view of the other three mechs he was supposed to be leading home. They were fairly beat-up, one even needing to be supported by a comrade in order to stand.
Olrich's partner Kolf spoke up through the comms. "Rescue squad on scene. Report."
"Convoy intact, but we've lost contact with squad leader."
Olrich cut in. "Who is squad leader?"
There was some hesitation on the line. "Mairwen, sir. She drew the pack away so we could retreat."
He heard another blast of a cannon in the distance. The base had reported a swarm unlike any they'd seen in weeks—a convoy didn't stand a chance against so many grafters, let alone a single mech. Mairwen had minutes at most to live. Seconds, more likely.
Don't make the same mistakes.
The veteran sneered. "Fall back, get convoy to base. Kolf—" Just as he uttered the name, a great pressure forced itself on his mind—imposing on his thoughts, pushing back the memories and nightmares of the past few weeks, and repeating over and over but one purpose: obey orders, soldier. At first, he tried to resist, but quickly even those thoughts were pushed aside by the same command. He knew only to obey. He thought only of protocol.
Mairwen was no longer significant.
The Undertow lurched into motion, leading the Riptide and the rest of the convoy back towards the base. He flicked on the comm. "Let's go."
Émile lashed out at the shadows. Using his accursed ability, he had doomed a woman to death so that he would be able to live his own life in peace. What right did he have to choose himself over her?
He heard the spectral woman approaching him from behind, panting. While he had carried out his cruel task, she had held off and eventually defeated the other two Gamekeepers. They had chased them to this world, hoping to finish her off before she ruined yet another hero's fate, but they were no match for her cunning and determination. With her illusions as the ultimate distraction, she had taken from the skeletons their blades and returned their souls as they had done to Euryale before.
"You did well." Her voice was soft, almost sympathetic. Almost.
"You have what you wanted. Now let me go." He turned to face her, shoulders set.
"Of course." She drew the spectral sword she had claimed for herself. "When I return you to your body, you will remember none of this. I shall carry the weight of your guilt."
He closed his eyes. "Just get it over with."
He felt the blade pierce his chest, but there was no pain. Instead, he felt a pull, drawing him home. As he dissipated into the shadows, a whisper of Julie's voice called to him. He answered.
Céline sheathed the blade, and pulled the lantern closer to herself. Reaching out a skeletal hand, she tugged at the soul of a young woman, feeding off her rage.
One more task, and her journey would come to an end.
Two beams of white light sputtered into darkness, leaving Eira only the flames she cast about the room to see. Dozens of grafters, beasts of mutated flesh that had evolved into raw madness, surged in from the doors and windows. She knew hundreds more waited outside.
The Grace fired off a heavy round, sending its semi-tractable arm reeling from the recoil. The shot that flew from its muzzle tore through a swathe of grafters and blew a hole in the decrepit stone wall behind them. More swarmed in, and she roasted them with the Grace's flamethrower.
She had bought the convoy precious time by drawing the attention of the swarm—that she still lived was a miracle almost unheard of. Knowing she didn't stand a chance out in the open, she was now holed up in the crumbling remains of an old-world building.
It only delayed the inevitable.
A tiger-sized grafter leapt towards the mech, and with an audible snap of bone, she slammed the beast aside with the barrel of her gun. The second was not so unfortunate, and latched onto her chassis, digging in with its unnaturally sharp claws. The screech of metal rending filled her ears.
Sensors blared at her, warning of a breach in the pilot pod. She could feel the radiation pouring in, burning her skin. Eira screamed. Reaching for a heavy switch between her legs, her arm stiffened. With a final heave, the pilot pulled, and all was gone in a flash of white.
She opened her eyes to see a skeletal angel descending towards her. It smiled.
"Thank you, Eira, you have done well." The spectral woman held in her hand the results of the pilot's mechanical handiwork—two small vials of liquid, the lifeblood of a pair of bracelets, one iron labelled Fluid Manipulation, and one silver labelled Invulnerability, now discarded to the dark. She did not understand how it worked, and she doubted that the pilot knew much more. Each world had a unique nature, and the laws that governed them were incomprehensible to outsiders.
What she did know, however, that this vial would be all that she required.
She stashed away the vials and drew instead a spectral blade. "Rest in peace, now, soldier." With a slash of the blade, Eira's soul dissipated into the darkness that surrounded them, sent back to its origin.
The spectral woman pulled out a bag of marble. With a little bit of digging, she found within it a single glass seed. Upon its surface, she thought she glimpsed familiar visions—spires of gold, violent oceans, a castle resting near a treacherous river.
As she had four time before, she placed the seed into the heart of the lantern, and felt herself pulled from this world.
Finally, I go home.
Standing over the edge of the bluff, Hélène looked down into the dark water of the river below. There was no sign of her sister. All the better—she would not have to dwell on her act.
She had loved her sister, once. Now, it was time for her to move on.
Turning from the edge, she made her way back to her horse. Undoubtedly, Céline's body would show up downstream in the days to come. She doubted any blame would come her way—one need only see the bloody mess of her chambers to see that the death was clearly the result of a suicide.
As she attempted to mount her steed, the horse snorted and knocked her to the ground.
Dusting herself off from the ground, she looked up to see the horse staring back towards the ledge, stomping its feet in worry. She turned to follow its gaze.
A nubile young woman, dark of hair, suspended on a pillar of water a few yards from the edge. Hélène felt the winds picking up about her, sending her hair whipping across her face as she stumbled to her feet.
The woman floated back to the ledge, and with a gentle step, touched her leather boot to the ground. Tentatively, as if unfamiliar with solid footing, he took another step, and another, walking towards Hélène at a deliberate pace.
She wore a dress soaked with water, but the blonde woman recognized it instantly. As the waterlogged woman drew closer, she lifted a bloody hand, and Hélène felt her breath being sucked out of her lungs. As she clutched at her throat in panic, the woman raised her head. A streak of dried crimson was painted across her cheek, and in her young, soft features, Hélène recognized the face of her sister.
When Céline spoke, her voice belied a hatred unlike any she'd ever heard before. "This is my happy ending."
There once were two sisters, daughters of the King,
Who to hear the whispers, had want of not-a-thing,
Came to the court one day a most handsome knight—In the castle by the creek.
With the eldest he lay, and stayed the night,
Come morn he ask'd her hand, the marriage then set—In the castle by the creek.
Joy across the King's land, till the sister met..
In the castle by the creek.
The great arched window loomed before her, granting the youngest daughter of the King a view of the kingdom few could reproach—the stocky buildings of the city, tumbling down the mountainside; the rolling hills and farmers' fields, stretching out towards the horizon; and the jagged river, tearing its way towards the unforgiving seas.
Céline's fingers tightened on the rough stone, her bones threatening to crack under the pressure of her own grip. There had been a time when this land had been her heritage, shared between an inseparable pair of sisters. And yet ever since Guillaume had taken her sister as his wife...
Their bond had been strained beyond repair.
His scent lingered still in her chambers, taunting her. Tonight had not been his first attempt at seducing the young maiden, and she doubted well it'd be his last. Worst of all, though she hated herself for it, her heart cried out for his. She could not resist her desires much longer.
Pushing herself from the window, she chose to shut out thoughts of the future. As she tread towards the far end of her chambers, the cool stone tickled her bare feet and she could feel the warm sunlight caressing her back. There had been a time when these halls held all that she'd ever wished for—now, they were filled only with regret.
In the centre of her chambers stood an immense slab of marble, white as snow and cleaved into a perfect circle. Upon its surface a collections of lenses, mirrors, and prisms had been set up in a complicated design few would know to understand.
Taking an apple from her bedside shelf, Céline placed it on a small pedestal at the centrepoint of the marble slab. Above it hung a lantern emitting a steady magical light. The apple itself was smooth and transparent as glass—as the glow of the lantern pierced its skin, brilliant rays of light shone out from its flesh and struck out across the marble. Where it was caught in the lenses and prisms, images began to form: the thrashing waves of the sea, a flight of birds in the wind, a city bustling with life.
The maiden adjusted the lenses, and a new scene began to materialize upon the slab.
A handsome man, dressed in fine nobleman's garb, sat upon a bed of silk sheets and oak frame, his face buried in his hands. She watched him like so for some time, taking in the strength of his form, and the fragility of his posture.
He lifted his head, and she caught a glimpse of his face: Guillaume.
A woman entered the room, tall and blonde and regal in step. Guillaume rose from the bed to greet his wife, but as he took a step towards her, she untied the back of her robe. Céline watched as it slid off her sister's slender body and fell to the floor in a soft heap at her feet. Guillaume opened his mouth in protest, perhaps wishing to speak of serious matters—but though Céline could hear nothing of their exchange, as her sister stepped in close, she could tell he was silenced. His hesitation lasted but a moment more, before he gave in to her embrace.
With a shriek of rage, Céline took the apple from the marble and hurled it at the wall.
In a room now filled with shadows, shards of glass scattered themselves across the stone. The maiden lurched forwards, her fingers sliced open in vain as she snatched at the remains of her most prized possession, tears and snot streaming down her face. Hunched over in pain and grief, she was racked by sobs she could not hold back.
When finally she drew her hands back, all that she found in her grasp were five glass seeds. Wiping the snot from her face—and leaving behind a streak of red upon her cheek—she rose to her feet.
"I'm pathetic."
The girl pulled her cloak from the wall and donned her leather boots, not caring for the stains of her own blood she left in her wake. The door was thrown open, and her chambers were left to silence, the shadows of the setting sun playing upon the glass dust strewn across the cold stone floor.
— — —
The stars hung heavy in the sky.
When a faithful servant came across the glass and blood from Céline's open door, it did not take long for panic to overtake the castle. While guards searched the grounds for the youngest princess, Hélène slipped out to the hills.
Dismounting from her horse, she walked slowly towards her dark-haired sister. She was kneeling at the edge of a tall bluff, overlooking the powerful river. Though it had been years, the two had oft sat together on this bluff in their girlhood, gazing up at the stars.
Tonight, Céline gazed down into the darkness, at the violent waters below. "What do you want from me?"
"I need you to stay away from my husband."
Céline flinched. "I've done no wrong. He—"
"I do not care," Hélène interrupted. "You'll not ruin this for me." She stepped closer to her sister, hands balling into fists.
"What do you expect me to do? He's the unfaithful one."
Hélène remained silent for a moment. When she again spoke, her voice was cold as ice. "Yes. But perhaps there is something I can do." With a vicious shove of her foot, she pushed Céline over the edge.
She was too shocked to scream, tumbling through the air to the river below. In but an instant, she penetrated the surface of the water.
The impact sent her gasping for air, but all she breathed in was the rushing rapids. She tried to swim to the surface, but the relentless current pulled her ever deeper. In her last moments, as she drifted to the bottom, she watched as a single glass seed slipped from her grasp, mixing with the blood of her hands in the river. Through it— a glimpse of home.
— — —
Shadows tore at her clothes, hooking themselves in her skin and rending her flesh. Céline tried to scream, but she found her lungs filled only with water. Suffocating both in body and in mind, but without the release of death.
Then, just as she felt madness sinking in, a light pierced the darkness, releasing her from its grip. She stumbled forward and coughed the water out from her lungs, finally gasping for breath.
Out of the light she came to make out a lantern. Holding it stood a skeletal figure, clad in a dark cloak. As he approached her, he fiddled with a small bead in his spare hand.
Céline shuddered. "Who are you?"
"I am the Gamekeeper, here to guide you to the otherlife."
She blanched. "I am dead."
"No." The skeleton pulled out a bag of marbles, planting his lantern into the darkness that formed the ground at his feet. "Not yet. You would be of no use to me dead, for I serve the Ghost of no Home. Of the thousands of worlds he controls—" At this, he lifted the bag of marbles for her to see. "—few possess souls strong enough to compete in his tournaments. You are one such soul. At the end of your story, it is I who comes to guide you into service."
"I do not wish to serve. If I'm not dead, send me back, I can—"
"No. There is no second chance at a happy ending." As he slid the bead he held into the bag, she saw that it was the fifth seed, the one she'd dropped in the river. He pulled out a marble, and moved to place it in the lantern. "Come," he said.
A flash of her dying moments came back to her—through the seed, glimpses of familiar places. Memories rushed into her mind of her childhood. Visions seen through the apple of otherworldly places, cast in chaotic mirages on the marble, long before she had learned to control its sight.
She pulled out a seed.
"Where did you get that," it uttered, voice now tinged with worry.
A gut feeling pushed her forward.
Lunging faster than she thought herself capable, she pulled the lantern from the skeleton's grasp and plunged the seed inside it.
Pulled from the space between her reality and the ether, her bones glowed a brilliant blue as they fused with the lantern's essence, searing away her flesh. Knowledge cascaded into her of worlds, of heroes, of purpose.
The lantern was a gateway, and it would lead her down a path she was not fated to follow.
She was now a Gamekeeper, but she did not serve the Ghost. Her purpose was of her own design. And she knew exactly how to achieve it.
I
The blade pierced the thick basalt flesh, and with a violent jerk, the hound lay dead. The gorgon watched as Melas wavered on his feet, then fell, slumping over his quarry.
Even as her leg and stomach healed at the touch of the burning liquid, she snatched the cornucopia from the ground and rushed to Melas's side.
Turning his head over, she grimaced as a thin trail of blood yet slid from his ear. Lifting the horn above his head, she gently loosed a single drop into his ear, turned him over, and did the same to the other ear. She placed her hand over his breast—his heart beat slowly, but steadily.
Allowing him his rest, she passed her tentative fingers to the body of the beast, brushing against its rough flesh until she came across cold iron. She slid her hand over the grip, and held the blade firmly as she continued her search with her other hand. Soon, she felt the softer flesh of the hound's underbelly. With delicate care, the gorgon began to carve out hunks of meat, singing as she did. These, she wrapped tightly in the cloth of her cloak before turning back to her companion.
Melas awoke to the sound of her voice, and rose to his feet with the help of her proffered hand. "Is it dead?"
"You dealt the killing blow yourself." The gorgon began to lead the boy back out of the cave towards the larger cavern where they'd made camp. Though she had been barely alive when last she had been brought down this path, Euryale had little difficulty finding her way back, using the echoes of their feet as her guide.
Melas, surely, made use of the foxfire to illuminate his own path. He sped up to walk beside her. "What's that you carry?"
"Our next meal."
"You can't be serious."
She smiled. "As serious as I can be. Do not worry yourself over the origin of the meat—it eats just as well as anything else."
Melas had no response, the only sound that of the echoes against the stone walls of the mine. It did not take long for them to reach the sooty remains of their firepit. While Euryale set about preparing the meat to cook, Melas gathered more wood with which to light the fire anew.
No more words were exchanged between them until they sat across from one another at the fire, tearing into the hound's meat. It was Melas who broke the silence.
"You could have left me." With no response from her, he continued. "With the hound dead, it would have been easy to slit my throat with my own blade and escape these caves alone."
"Do you think me a killer?" she muttered in reply.
His voice grew grim. "Left me to die then, in the mines where I know not the way out. Why did you stay with me?"
Euryale set down her meat. "Why did you? Only a fool would follow the trail of blood to its source. It was you who saved me, not the reverse."
"Saved you? I needed you. I don't know these caves." He grit his teeth. "Don't think I did what I did out of any form of empathy. Your kin deserve the same deaths they have inflicted upon mine since time immemorial."
"We are not savages. This enmity—"
"You are monsters." He threw what was left of his meal onto the ground and rose to his feet. "Come, lead me from this place, before I change my mind about letting you live."
— — —
As Euryale trudged through the narrow caves, she thought of her sisters. She had always been the weakest of the three. When Perceus had taken her sister's head in battle, Stheno had charged forth in pursuit, while Euryale had stayed behind, lamenting her loss. When the immortality of the Gods had been stripped away by Ouranos's plague, Stheno had set off to wage war, while Euryale fled and hid in the depths of the earth. And now, in the company of Perseus's own kin, she wondered only if there was a chance, however slim, of monsters and men achieving harmony.
So entrapped was she in her thoughts that she did not notice as her footsteps, once echoing against the stone, were now dull and soft. She did not notice as Melas's breath faded into silence, nor as the air lost his stench.
That was, not until she felt a skeletal hand wrap itself firmly across her mouth.
"Please, do not scream, you'll only embarrass us both. I am here to help you." The hand released her, and Euryale stumbled forward.
"What are you?"
"What I am is of no consequence. What does matter is what I can do for you." She could sense the figure shift to stand in front of her. "Help me to complete my journey, and I can help you save the boy."
Euryale shrugged the skeletal woman off and moved past her. "Save him? We're almost out—he is in no danger."
A scream—her own—sounded from up ahead. The shouts of men, the cries of harpies, the din of battle. A small body, slumping to the floor. Euryale rushed forward, gripping Melas's lifeless corpse.
The skeleton's voice rang out again. "If you lead him from this cave, he will die. Send him out alone—stay behind, in the caves—and he lives."
Euryale hung back. "And why then do I need you?"
The skeleton cackled. "Because the moment I release your soul, you will forget everything I have told you. Serve me for but a brief while, and I will plant in your body's mind the seeds of doubt that will save his life. I will grant you your happy ending."
Euryale touched Melas's corpse, knowing it to be an illusion but shaken nonetheless. Tears leaked through her blindfold. "What do you need of me?"
— — —
Melas felt the wind brush against his face even before the light of the sun shone into his eyes.
Turning back towards the caves, he saw no sign of the gorgon. Confused, he called out for her, but received no response. Calling again, he took a few steps back down the tunnel, and stopped. His shoulders tensed.
Leaving the tunnel behind, he passed into the light. As his eyes recovered from their temporary blindness, he saw two men rushing towards him, arms outstretched.
Long after the reunited warriors had left to continue their quest, a lone reptilian girl slid out from the cave entrance, seeking her own path to walk alone.
II
"Émile!" she screamed, shaking his shoulder with violent force. "Émile..."
Heavy tears streamed down the woman's face as she desperately tried to wake her lover from his fitful apathy. Lying naked in his bed, his covers tossed the floor in her frenzy, the man's body jolted with half-hearted movements, imitating her attempts. But his eyes gazed straight ahead, without passion, without focus. Every time she called his name, he mumbled it in reply, his mouth dragged open lethargically.
Finally, the woman slumped onto his chest, weeping, her muscles tired from her efforts. In the distance, a gruff man's voice could be heard—the landlord, calling in paramedics for help. Sirens wailed outside the window, fighting to be heard over the scream of a train barrelling past on the track above.
Yet, to Julie, the only thing left of her world was an empty shell, echoing her grief back to her.
"Why do you show me this?" Émile's voice was strained, the pain of seeing Julie suffer clear on his face.
"I can help you, you know. I can give you back the life you lost."
Émile turned his back on the scene to face the two spectral figures that had drawn him from the dark. The one who had spoken was a petite woman in an elaborate, old-fashioned dress—hanging heavy over her form and soaked deep. What was truly striking about her, however, was her face—framed by thick black locks, her face was nearly skeletal, with skin pulled tight over her skull and eyes a pair of blue orbs. She leaned upon a thick wooden pole, at the end of which hung a lantern glowing a fierce blue.
Behind her stood a creature just as odd. A woman with yellow skin and snakes for hair, standing demurely behind the skeletal figure.
Émile grimaced. "And what do you expect in return?"
"A favour. You help me to collect my next servant, and then I shall release you to enjoy the spoils of my generosity."
He hesitated, feeling his resistance giving way to the temptation. "Prove it, then. Prove to me that you can bring me back to her."
Now the woman smiled. She raised her skeletal fingers, and the scene laid before them began to solidify. Émile could feel the chill of reality biting into his incorporeal soul, felt Julie's weight on his chest, though he remained separate, detached. He could feel his mind—though it remained silent and closed off from the world.
And then, he heard her sing.
The gorgon's voice permeated the room, drowning out the sirens and the trains, the tears and the pain. Julie's head rose up, searching for the source, but with none to be seen.
And Émile felt his mind open.
The hundreds of voices clamouring for attention in his head fell silent, awaiting his command. His own mind sought him out, rediscovering his will and his mores. The familiar touch of his love. The strength of his body. The power of his intellect. His eyes opened.
He was awake.
Euryale's song fell silent, but it had had its effect. From his spectral perch, Émile watched as his body rose from the bed and caressed Julie's weeping form.
One favour, and that would be him again.
A squeal of pain, and he turned to see a blade pulled across the gorgon's throat. She fell, and her spectre dissipated into the darkness.
Two skeletons stepped forward from behind her. The first, holding the sword, was clad head-to-toe in ancient greek armour, his eyes orbs of red. In his left hand he carried a torch of the same hue, its light burning away the scene of Émile's awakening. Behind him stepped a taller figure, wearing a tattered cloak and holding a bag filled with marbles.
The second one spoke. "You mess with matters you cannot comprehend. By saving these few, you cast so many more into ruin." He brushed past his companion towards them, drawing a dagger. "Give me the lantern."
Émile turned to see the spectral woman reaching out her hand to him. He knew not what compelled him, but he took her hand, and in that instant was pulled from his world.
III
Fog pervaded the trenches, preventing Olrich from seeing much of use through the bright monitors across the wall of his pod. The whine of the Undertow's machinery was only pierced by the occasional distant blast of a cannon.
The man wiped the sweat from his brow. These mechs did wonders at keeping the radiation out, but were just as effective at keeping the heat in.
Flipping a switch above his head, the screens flickered into ultra-red, giving him a somewhat better view of the other three mechs he was supposed to be leading home. They were fairly beat-up, one even needing to be supported by a comrade in order to stand.
Olrich's partner Kolf spoke up through the comms. "Rescue squad on scene. Report."
"Convoy intact, but we've lost contact with squad leader."
Olrich cut in. "Who is squad leader?"
There was some hesitation on the line. "Mairwen, sir. She drew the pack away so we could retreat."
He heard another blast of a cannon in the distance. The base had reported a swarm unlike any they'd seen in weeks—a convoy didn't stand a chance against so many grafters, let alone a single mech. Mairwen had minutes at most to live. Seconds, more likely.
Don't make the same mistakes.
The veteran sneered. "Fall back, get convoy to base. Kolf—" Just as he uttered the name, a great pressure forced itself on his mind—imposing on his thoughts, pushing back the memories and nightmares of the past few weeks, and repeating over and over but one purpose: obey orders, soldier. At first, he tried to resist, but quickly even those thoughts were pushed aside by the same command. He knew only to obey. He thought only of protocol.
Mairwen was no longer significant.
The Undertow lurched into motion, leading the Riptide and the rest of the convoy back towards the base. He flicked on the comm. "Let's go."
— — —
Émile lashed out at the shadows. Using his accursed ability, he had doomed a woman to death so that he would be able to live his own life in peace. What right did he have to choose himself over her?
He heard the spectral woman approaching him from behind, panting. While he had carried out his cruel task, she had held off and eventually defeated the other two Gamekeepers. They had chased them to this world, hoping to finish her off before she ruined yet another hero's fate, but they were no match for her cunning and determination. With her illusions as the ultimate distraction, she had taken from the skeletons their blades and returned their souls as they had done to Euryale before.
"You did well." Her voice was soft, almost sympathetic. Almost.
"You have what you wanted. Now let me go." He turned to face her, shoulders set.
"Of course." She drew the spectral sword she had claimed for herself. "When I return you to your body, you will remember none of this. I shall carry the weight of your guilt."
He closed his eyes. "Just get it over with."
He felt the blade pierce his chest, but there was no pain. Instead, he felt a pull, drawing him home. As he dissipated into the shadows, a whisper of Julie's voice called to him. He answered.
Céline sheathed the blade, and pulled the lantern closer to herself. Reaching out a skeletal hand, she tugged at the soul of a young woman, feeding off her rage.
One more task, and her journey would come to an end.
— — —
Two beams of white light sputtered into darkness, leaving Eira only the flames she cast about the room to see. Dozens of grafters, beasts of mutated flesh that had evolved into raw madness, surged in from the doors and windows. She knew hundreds more waited outside.
The Grace fired off a heavy round, sending its semi-tractable arm reeling from the recoil. The shot that flew from its muzzle tore through a swathe of grafters and blew a hole in the decrepit stone wall behind them. More swarmed in, and she roasted them with the Grace's flamethrower.
She had bought the convoy precious time by drawing the attention of the swarm—that she still lived was a miracle almost unheard of. Knowing she didn't stand a chance out in the open, she was now holed up in the crumbling remains of an old-world building.
It only delayed the inevitable.
A tiger-sized grafter leapt towards the mech, and with an audible snap of bone, she slammed the beast aside with the barrel of her gun. The second was not so unfortunate, and latched onto her chassis, digging in with its unnaturally sharp claws. The screech of metal rending filled her ears.
Sensors blared at her, warning of a breach in the pilot pod. She could feel the radiation pouring in, burning her skin. Eira screamed. Reaching for a heavy switch between her legs, her arm stiffened. With a final heave, the pilot pulled, and all was gone in a flash of white.
She opened her eyes to see a skeletal angel descending towards her. It smiled.
IV
"Thank you, Eira, you have done well." The spectral woman held in her hand the results of the pilot's mechanical handiwork—two small vials of liquid, the lifeblood of a pair of bracelets, one iron labelled Fluid Manipulation, and one silver labelled Invulnerability, now discarded to the dark. She did not understand how it worked, and she doubted that the pilot knew much more. Each world had a unique nature, and the laws that governed them were incomprehensible to outsiders.
What she did know, however, that this vial would be all that she required.
She stashed away the vials and drew instead a spectral blade. "Rest in peace, now, soldier." With a slash of the blade, Eira's soul dissipated into the darkness that surrounded them, sent back to its origin.
The spectral woman pulled out a bag of marble. With a little bit of digging, she found within it a single glass seed. Upon its surface, she thought she glimpsed familiar visions—spires of gold, violent oceans, a castle resting near a treacherous river.
As she had four time before, she placed the seed into the heart of the lantern, and felt herself pulled from this world.
Finally, I go home.
— — —
Standing over the edge of the bluff, Hélène looked down into the dark water of the river below. There was no sign of her sister. All the better—she would not have to dwell on her act.
She had loved her sister, once. Now, it was time for her to move on.
Turning from the edge, she made her way back to her horse. Undoubtedly, Céline's body would show up downstream in the days to come. She doubted any blame would come her way—one need only see the bloody mess of her chambers to see that the death was clearly the result of a suicide.
As she attempted to mount her steed, the horse snorted and knocked her to the ground.
Dusting herself off from the ground, she looked up to see the horse staring back towards the ledge, stomping its feet in worry. She turned to follow its gaze.
A nubile young woman, dark of hair, suspended on a pillar of water a few yards from the edge. Hélène felt the winds picking up about her, sending her hair whipping across her face as she stumbled to her feet.
The woman floated back to the ledge, and with a gentle step, touched her leather boot to the ground. Tentatively, as if unfamiliar with solid footing, he took another step, and another, walking towards Hélène at a deliberate pace.
She wore a dress soaked with water, but the blonde woman recognized it instantly. As the waterlogged woman drew closer, she lifted a bloody hand, and Hélène felt her breath being sucked out of her lungs. As she clutched at her throat in panic, the woman raised her head. A streak of dried crimson was painted across her cheek, and in her young, soft features, Hélène recognized the face of her sister.
When Céline spoke, her voice belied a hatred unlike any she'd ever heard before. "This is my happy ending."
This story was inspired in part by fairytale type AT780, The Singing Bone. I used elements from a few different instances.
For those interested, the relevant entries drawn on in Céline's journey are from labours 6, 2, 5, and 4, in that order. The first Gamekeeper belongs to Céline's world; the second to Euryale's. The other Gamekeepers were of no significance to the story.
For those interested, the relevant entries drawn on in Céline's journey are from labours 6, 2, 5, and 4, in that order. The first Gamekeeper belongs to Céline's world; the second to Euryale's. The other Gamekeepers were of no significance to the story.
