"Unknown genome. Genetic tampering. Clone activity detected."
Chairman Satoshi Hiro scanned the words on the paper over and over, but they revealed no further meaning to him. Around him, the servers hummed, black egg-shaped monoliths sprouting from the serene skin of the garden. A woman in a kimono polished their surfaces.He regarded the bonsai tree in front of him.
A clone. Loose. With them?
He'd had a tiring day. He'd had to explain to the elder executives, in no uncertain terms, that their plans for the new franchise on Earth 02 would go ahead. NBN's failures were their own fault. Hubris. They had snatched and grasped where they should not have, and suffered swift retribution. Word travelled fast. NBN stock was in freefall. This was their time. Now nobody trusted what they were told on the news, they could exploit their newfound freedom.
And, of course, they didn't desire the same things. NBN needed to own, own, own. But we, he explained, do not. We work in harmony with existing structures.
In other words, he thought, we make our takeovers look good.
Hiro studied the tree. Where was it...
Their offers were much more subtle. After all, what they offered could hardly be called villainous, or sinister. Just methods to remove stress, make the working life easier. Entertainment, too, would be possible. They could introduce the rest later, once they were comfortable with the new ideas presented to them.
The woman came over and poured Hiro a cup of tea. He glanced at the barcode on the back of her neck.
There was the problem of the clone. It had been detected during the Universe of Tomorrow Expo they'd held. The Ancestral Imager attraction had reported erroneous data.
"Unknown genome. Genetic tampering. Clone activity detected."
The words haunted him. If there was cloning on Earth 2, then a sword hung over his neck. He doubted the Kobbers would tolerate the industrial attitude to cloning. This one was special, unique. He would have to... nullify it, somehow.
He would have to be very, very careful.
Hiro found the errant branch and carefully cut it away with the shears. He sat back, examining his work, and nodded in satisfaction.
It could be done.
Saturday, 3 December 2016
Tuesday, 1 November 2016
Prison
It moves. Head, arms, tail.
Dark. Feel. Cold stone, black water. Cannot see. Feels all, everywhere. Cold metal of prison. Has felt the cold metal of prison for countless years.
Feel. Strange. Symbols. Cannot read. Belong to jailors. Push.
Light? No heat. Pressure changes. Moves, pushes, breaks chains, pulls down walls -
"We made them. We couldn't control them, but in our arrogance we made them anyway, much like we made countless others."
Change.
Light. Warm water. Can see. Blue clear waters, color, sun, light.
No chains. No walls.
Freedom!
"What will we do, when it breaks free? It must hate us so much."
It dances, all one hundred of it. Jubilation. No longer a prison. Swim swim swim, breach water, find warm air and sun.
Freedom!
Thoughts turn. Images of fire, stone, metal. Memories? Goals. Feel. Island. Land. Rich. Swim. Take. Gain firestonemetal.
Must build.
"The world will weep..."
Must build. Must grow. Grow strong. Stronger than anything. Stronger than jailors.
Will never be jailed again.
"...tears enough to fill the salt seas."
Dark. Feel. Cold stone, black water. Cannot see. Feels all, everywhere. Cold metal of prison. Has felt the cold metal of prison for countless years.
Feel. Strange. Symbols. Cannot read. Belong to jailors. Push.
Light? No heat. Pressure changes. Moves, pushes, breaks chains, pulls down walls -
"We made them. We couldn't control them, but in our arrogance we made them anyway, much like we made countless others."
Change.
Light. Warm water. Can see. Blue clear waters, color, sun, light.
No chains. No walls.
Freedom!
"What will we do, when it breaks free? It must hate us so much."
It dances, all one hundred of it. Jubilation. No longer a prison. Swim swim swim, breach water, find warm air and sun.
Freedom!
Thoughts turn. Images of fire, stone, metal. Memories? Goals. Feel. Island. Land. Rich. Swim. Take. Gain firestonemetal.
Must build.
"The world will weep..."
Must build. Must grow. Grow strong. Stronger than anything. Stronger than jailors.
Will never be jailed again.
"...tears enough to fill the salt seas."
Sunday, 22 May 2016
Plaisir (Collab with Wulf)
It was not the first time Conrad had woken up in a dark room tied to a chair, but it was the first time he’d done so and seen his severed arm dangling in front of his face.
He stared at it blankly. Then he turned his head. Yep. It had been his remaining real arm. He tried to think of a joke to stop himself screaming. He failed.
“Shut up.”
Something cold and metallic hit him, and stars flashed in his eyeballs. He grunted, realised there was no pain. Turning his head felt weird, but he managed to do so and look at whatever had hit him. It was a synth - in a past life. It had so many exposed joints and extra limbs bolted to its frame that it resembled some kind of decayed insect. It watched him through a single azure lens set into a slab of a head, low between its broad shoulders.
“Not from the Free Machines, I take it,” grunted Conrad.
It hit him again.
“Shut up,” it repeated. Its voice was a bass proclamation.
Conrad shut up. The thing regarded him for a while.
“Your body parts,” it eventually said, “are worth a fortune. Your arm is a trillion Hub credits. Your dual-heart system is a delicacy for the Roth Dominion. The right people would shed the blood of a thousand for a few drops of your own.”
“Then why aren’t I being packed up and shipped out already?”
It hit him yet again.
“Because if you are alive, you are worth twice as much.”
It turned away briefly. Conrad tried to avert his gaze from his dangling arm - he didn’t want to know how it was hung up. Instead, he looked to his right and saw a thick canopy of iv bags and medical equipment. He started counting all the sedatives he recognised.
“People know I’m here,” He said.
“I don’t care.” Something glinted in the corner of Conrad’s eye, and he glanced over at the largest scalpel he’d ever seen, held in a rusted hand.
“You could ransom me back.” He was getting the feeling this might be a personal issue. “Ekspansa would pay billions to make sure I’m safe.”
The thing shrugged. “Perhaps. Arcturus works in mysterious ways.”
Conrad didn’t bother to correct it. “You know Wulf?”
“Why?” The blue searchlight eye whipped around and blinded him for a second. “Do you expect a rendition of my life story? This is not one of your cartoons.”
“Hey, they’re- “
It hit him across the face.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“Your words are, unfortunately, worth nothing, which means I would prefer it if you were silent.” The scalpel came up. “However, your tongue has a potential application in several alchemical recipes. Maybe I should have cut that out.”
There wasn’t a good response to that, so Conrad didn’t bother. The thing grunted in satisfaction and turned away again, fingers stabbing at a very old portable communicator. The click of the keys echoed in the dark space.
“What’s your problem with me?”
The android went deathly still, and for a wild moment, Conrad hoped it had shut down.
“I was a butler droid for Godking Guillaume,” it said. “Then David Wulf shot me in the face. I presume he had a good reason.” It resumed typing. “You can work the rest out.”
Conrad stared, and realised that anyone coming for him was too slow.
“So, revenge then?” he tried.
“No.” the droid sighed. “I am incapable of making value judgements about anybody above a certain level of income. Unfortunately, a hardcoded predilection for… rich living, requires certain measures to be taken.” The scalpel came up again, this time with purpose.
“Woah, woah, wait!” Conrad wracked his brains. “What about, like, the Asimov Laws? Or the Restrictions? Don’t you have those?”
A sick laugh.
“David shot them out of me.”
The scalpel came down, and the wall exploded. A mass of shimmering black shot across his vision and took the scalpel— And his assailant— With it. There was a loud crash, and Conrad’s vision shot towards the opposite side of the room, where the slab-faced android sat in a heap, screen flickering as its eye stared at a dark figure standing before it. Conrad took them in— Form-fit vantablack armor with the faintest shine of karzantium film, like rainbows at an event horizon. The attacker reached up and removed their hood, revealing light brown hair spooled up into a tight bun. They wore small, flat hoops that pulsed with blue light.
“Plaisir,” they said to the droid, and held their arm out. The air shimmered, and a chunky pistol appeared in their hand, glimmering with a chrome-finish. A sharp, black lacquered nail caressed the trigger.
The synth laid down its scalpel. “Tout le plaisir était pour moi,” it said in response.
“Non, j’étais heureux de le faire.” The assailant laughed softly. “By the way,” they said, cocking the hammer, “it’s A’isha Arcturus Wulf. Respect my name and pronouns, you fuck.”
There was a loud bang, and the synth’s screen went dark. A’isha holstered her gun and spun on one foot to face Conrad
“Hola nephew! You uh, shit. You don’t have a bloody arm. Jesus.”
“Yeah, that’s, uh, that’s a problem.” Conrad pulled at his restraints. “Can I get untied?”
A’isha trotted over at a casual pace that made Conrad’s eye twitch. “You kids and your ropes.” There was a rustling and a soft snap, and Conrad felt the pressure on his ribcage dissipate as the ropes fell in his lap. “You know,” she said, twirling a karambit around her finger, “if you just dislocated all your joints and slithered out you would’ve been dandy, lad.”
“I, uh, forgot.” The sedatives were really kicking in now, and Conrad tottered to his feet. “Thanks, Auntie. I owe you, like, a million. A million and one favours. All of them.” He squinted. “Why did you name yourself after a Power Ranger?”
A’isha slapped him across the face, but lightly this time, like being gently flogged with bootlaces. “Wife of the Prophet, you little otaku git. I was a student of hers years ago; brilliant woman she was. God bless her. ‘Sides, used up a lotta good names on my kids this time around. Never should’ve named your cousin Zoe Fatima, C, really gave up some prime linguistic real estate on that move. I mean, I was wasted when I named my kids, sure, but when was I not back then?”
“Yeah, good point.” Conrad looked at his severed arm. “You were always, pretty wasted. Uh, speaking of wasting things, can we reuse my arm? ‘Cause, that’s a pretty clean cut he did.” Everything felt fuzzy. “I want it to go to a good home at least. Not the severed arm… pound… Shit, did he put noxatine in me? He did.”
Then, very gently, he keeled over and fell on his face.
A’isha sighed and looked at her watch. “Damn, I’m gonna be late for that lunch, aren’t I?” She rolled her eyes. “Eh, xe was late on me last time.” The merchant put two fingers against her ear and speed dialed a number on her neural mesh. It rang for a few moments.
“Good afternoon, Empress.”
“Batiĉé, Park. Hey uh, do you mind swinging by twenty third Orkoji Ave in a few minutes? I may have a, uh…” She looked down at Conrad, foaming slightly at the mouth. “Medical emergency.”
“Conrad, ma’am?”
“Bingo.”
The sound of Park suiting up echoed through the phone. “On my way, madame Empress.”
“Bonza, hun. See ya in a flash, hugs and kisses~”
A’isha hung up and shoved the phone back in her pocket. She glanced down again at Conrad, and then to the dead droid in the corner. She sniffed the air.
“Now where was that gyro truck again,” she mumbled to herself, and stepped casually back over the broken wall onto the street outside.
He stared at it blankly. Then he turned his head. Yep. It had been his remaining real arm. He tried to think of a joke to stop himself screaming. He failed.
“Shut up.”
Something cold and metallic hit him, and stars flashed in his eyeballs. He grunted, realised there was no pain. Turning his head felt weird, but he managed to do so and look at whatever had hit him. It was a synth - in a past life. It had so many exposed joints and extra limbs bolted to its frame that it resembled some kind of decayed insect. It watched him through a single azure lens set into a slab of a head, low between its broad shoulders.
“Not from the Free Machines, I take it,” grunted Conrad.
It hit him again.
“Shut up,” it repeated. Its voice was a bass proclamation.
Conrad shut up. The thing regarded him for a while.
“Your body parts,” it eventually said, “are worth a fortune. Your arm is a trillion Hub credits. Your dual-heart system is a delicacy for the Roth Dominion. The right people would shed the blood of a thousand for a few drops of your own.”
“Then why aren’t I being packed up and shipped out already?”
It hit him yet again.
“Because if you are alive, you are worth twice as much.”
It turned away briefly. Conrad tried to avert his gaze from his dangling arm - he didn’t want to know how it was hung up. Instead, he looked to his right and saw a thick canopy of iv bags and medical equipment. He started counting all the sedatives he recognised.
“People know I’m here,” He said.
“I don’t care.” Something glinted in the corner of Conrad’s eye, and he glanced over at the largest scalpel he’d ever seen, held in a rusted hand.
“You could ransom me back.” He was getting the feeling this might be a personal issue. “Ekspansa would pay billions to make sure I’m safe.”
The thing shrugged. “Perhaps. Arcturus works in mysterious ways.”
Conrad didn’t bother to correct it. “You know Wulf?”
“Why?” The blue searchlight eye whipped around and blinded him for a second. “Do you expect a rendition of my life story? This is not one of your cartoons.”
“Hey, they’re- “
It hit him across the face.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“Your words are, unfortunately, worth nothing, which means I would prefer it if you were silent.” The scalpel came up. “However, your tongue has a potential application in several alchemical recipes. Maybe I should have cut that out.”
There wasn’t a good response to that, so Conrad didn’t bother. The thing grunted in satisfaction and turned away again, fingers stabbing at a very old portable communicator. The click of the keys echoed in the dark space.
“What’s your problem with me?”
The android went deathly still, and for a wild moment, Conrad hoped it had shut down.
“I was a butler droid for Godking Guillaume,” it said. “Then David Wulf shot me in the face. I presume he had a good reason.” It resumed typing. “You can work the rest out.”
Conrad stared, and realised that anyone coming for him was too slow.
“So, revenge then?” he tried.
“No.” the droid sighed. “I am incapable of making value judgements about anybody above a certain level of income. Unfortunately, a hardcoded predilection for… rich living, requires certain measures to be taken.” The scalpel came up again, this time with purpose.
“Woah, woah, wait!” Conrad wracked his brains. “What about, like, the Asimov Laws? Or the Restrictions? Don’t you have those?”
A sick laugh.
“David shot them out of me.”
The scalpel came down, and the wall exploded. A mass of shimmering black shot across his vision and took the scalpel— And his assailant— With it. There was a loud crash, and Conrad’s vision shot towards the opposite side of the room, where the slab-faced android sat in a heap, screen flickering as its eye stared at a dark figure standing before it. Conrad took them in— Form-fit vantablack armor with the faintest shine of karzantium film, like rainbows at an event horizon. The attacker reached up and removed their hood, revealing light brown hair spooled up into a tight bun. They wore small, flat hoops that pulsed with blue light.
“Plaisir,” they said to the droid, and held their arm out. The air shimmered, and a chunky pistol appeared in their hand, glimmering with a chrome-finish. A sharp, black lacquered nail caressed the trigger.
The synth laid down its scalpel. “Tout le plaisir était pour moi,” it said in response.
“Non, j’étais heureux de le faire.” The assailant laughed softly. “By the way,” they said, cocking the hammer, “it’s A’isha Arcturus Wulf. Respect my name and pronouns, you fuck.”
There was a loud bang, and the synth’s screen went dark. A’isha holstered her gun and spun on one foot to face Conrad
“Hola nephew! You uh, shit. You don’t have a bloody arm. Jesus.”
“Yeah, that’s, uh, that’s a problem.” Conrad pulled at his restraints. “Can I get untied?”
A’isha trotted over at a casual pace that made Conrad’s eye twitch. “You kids and your ropes.” There was a rustling and a soft snap, and Conrad felt the pressure on his ribcage dissipate as the ropes fell in his lap. “You know,” she said, twirling a karambit around her finger, “if you just dislocated all your joints and slithered out you would’ve been dandy, lad.”
“I, uh, forgot.” The sedatives were really kicking in now, and Conrad tottered to his feet. “Thanks, Auntie. I owe you, like, a million. A million and one favours. All of them.” He squinted. “Why did you name yourself after a Power Ranger?”
A’isha slapped him across the face, but lightly this time, like being gently flogged with bootlaces. “Wife of the Prophet, you little otaku git. I was a student of hers years ago; brilliant woman she was. God bless her. ‘Sides, used up a lotta good names on my kids this time around. Never should’ve named your cousin Zoe Fatima, C, really gave up some prime linguistic real estate on that move. I mean, I was wasted when I named my kids, sure, but when was I not back then?”
“Yeah, good point.” Conrad looked at his severed arm. “You were always, pretty wasted. Uh, speaking of wasting things, can we reuse my arm? ‘Cause, that’s a pretty clean cut he did.” Everything felt fuzzy. “I want it to go to a good home at least. Not the severed arm… pound… Shit, did he put noxatine in me? He did.”
Then, very gently, he keeled over and fell on his face.
A’isha sighed and looked at her watch. “Damn, I’m gonna be late for that lunch, aren’t I?” She rolled her eyes. “Eh, xe was late on me last time.” The merchant put two fingers against her ear and speed dialed a number on her neural mesh. It rang for a few moments.
“Good afternoon, Empress.”
“Batiĉé, Park. Hey uh, do you mind swinging by twenty third Orkoji Ave in a few minutes? I may have a, uh…” She looked down at Conrad, foaming slightly at the mouth. “Medical emergency.”
“Conrad, ma’am?”
“Bingo.”
The sound of Park suiting up echoed through the phone. “On my way, madame Empress.”
“Bonza, hun. See ya in a flash, hugs and kisses~”
A’isha hung up and shoved the phone back in her pocket. She glanced down again at Conrad, and then to the dead droid in the corner. She sniffed the air.
“Now where was that gyro truck again,” she mumbled to herself, and stepped casually back over the broken wall onto the street outside.
Sunday, 3 April 2016
Worth
Nevada Desert, April 2016
The golden figure sat at the crossroads. Next to him was a branch, planted in the ground, A bleached cow skull was tied to it.
"You cannot save them all," it whispered.
"Why not?"
"They are not worth saving."
"What," said the golden figure, "defines worth?"
---
"Fucking imbecile! Get out! Clear your desk!"
The underling - Victoria had already forgotten his name - fled the office. She let out the breath and turned to the window of the office.
Some people, she thought, just did not want to try. They just wanted to coast on by, putting in the barest amount of work. Like that one. He'd been pioneering a new show, the most insipid reality stuff ever. They had thirty channels of that. They'd lost money, and he'd lost his job. It was fine, he'd been wasting time on his phone most days anyway. Worthless idiot. She hated people who didn't even try, who didn't even want to try.
She breathed in, counted to ten, and looked out at the SanSan skyline. Hoppers flitted between the skyscrapers, mirroring her thoughts. It was okay. They could recover. Projected profits from the Fast Food district of their new Franchise City in Mojave would cover it, easily. But she needed cheering up now. Failure made her tetchy. She couldn't handle failure.
It was okay. She had something to take her mind off of it. She pinged her receptionist.
"Get me Jackson Howard," she said.
A few minutes later, he entered. He carried his usual aura of innocence, and his sunny grin and blue eyes calmed her down immensely.
Jackson Howard had worth. He had a mind that wandered into genius entirely by accident, and a personality that only had occasional brushes with negativity. His naivety was a comfort to her, both from a practical and an emotional standpoint. What better pick for the Executive of Child Programming than someone who could still think like one? She put on her best smile.
"Hello, Jackson."
"Hello, Victoria!" Jackson moved like he was about to bound. "What did you need me for?"
"You know the raffle Harpsichord Studios ran? The skeletons won it." Victoria brought up a holopic and sent it floating over to him. "Yes, I know. That place is strange. Anyway, they look pretty marketable and I think we can get a sitcom out of them. A few seasons worth." She didn't mention the bugs - things like that upset him. "Do you think you can make anything with these."
Jackson peered at the image. "Um... Well, they have pretty rounded edges, they don't seem too scary... probably?" He suddenly brightened. "Oh! There's these new learning brains I wanted to try! The ones Haas-Bioroid made available? I think maybe putting them in some dolls will be great! They could respond and give feedback and - "
"Okay, I've heard enough." Victoria clapped her hands together. "You'll get funding. Hop to it!"
"Thank you, Victoria!"
As Jackson practically skipped out of the room, Victoria turned and began to contact his project managers, because someone had to keep their head on around here.
---
"It is greatness of deed." Sand whispered through the skull's eye sockets. "Those who accomplish much in life are of value to others."
"There are those in power who are despised, and those who had power who died because of it. Power and deed are not measure of worth."
The road stretched to the horizon.
"Then it is... goodness." The words sounded harsh.
---
He was dead.
The man stood at the grave. A simple wooden cross. They needed the stone for the abbey.
He'd been there. Always. Since the coach crashed, since they'd reached the hamlet. They'd faced the necromancer together and brought the monster down. They'd shared stories, shared drinks, shared secrets. He couldn't be gone. It wasn't -
"Sean?"
He turned. She was waiting for him. She didn't say anything more.
"Go," he whispered. "I'll be with you soon."
She nodded and left. He turned, ran a gauntlet-clad hand over the wood.
"Goodbye, Dimitri."
He left.
---
"Some are good. Not all."
"Then what do you think worth is?" The skull rattled in the wind. "Who is worth your attention, golden one?"
Julius got to his feet. His armor was dirty and his wings ragged.
"They are all worth saving," he said, "because to judge a person's worth as if they are material goods is wrong."
"Until proven otherwise," hissed the voice.
"No." Julius looked down at the skull, eyes flaring. "There is always a chance. People do not understand that they are important and needed and that others depend on them. They see the miracle that is life around them and they find it dull, or even frightening. Every day they walk in shells, and they never open themselves to others."
The sun beat down upon them.
"Oh. Love." The voice dripped with disgust.
"Yes. The ultimate act of bravery is to reveal your true self to somebody, and to offer to handle the other person's trueness with care and respect. That is the most beautiful and precious thing in the world."
"Love is useless." The skull shuddered. "Love kills. Love can be broken. Love does not inspire greatness, it inspires restriction and mediocrity. Love does not gain power or riches."
"Leonardo da Vinci loved to create. Mozart loved to make music. Love enables greatness. Love has done all of these things and more. And nobody should measure themselves by impossible standards. Love is enough."
"Do you love her?"
Julius paused.
"It does not matter," he said, slowly.
"It does." The skull ceased all movement. "For if what you say is true, then you must not hide yourself in a cage of gold. You must let them know the truth. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. For what you did and what you have seen must be made known. And when you do, there will be a war. Know this."
Julius nodded.
"Thank you."
"You are welcome. Don't be a stranger. It is lonely here."
The astral knight began to walk, leaving nothing but a bleached cow skull, stuck at an empty crossroads in the desert.
The golden figure sat at the crossroads. Next to him was a branch, planted in the ground, A bleached cow skull was tied to it.
"You cannot save them all," it whispered.
"Why not?"
"They are not worth saving."
"What," said the golden figure, "defines worth?"
---
"Fucking imbecile! Get out! Clear your desk!"
The underling - Victoria had already forgotten his name - fled the office. She let out the breath and turned to the window of the office.
Some people, she thought, just did not want to try. They just wanted to coast on by, putting in the barest amount of work. Like that one. He'd been pioneering a new show, the most insipid reality stuff ever. They had thirty channels of that. They'd lost money, and he'd lost his job. It was fine, he'd been wasting time on his phone most days anyway. Worthless idiot. She hated people who didn't even try, who didn't even want to try.
She breathed in, counted to ten, and looked out at the SanSan skyline. Hoppers flitted between the skyscrapers, mirroring her thoughts. It was okay. They could recover. Projected profits from the Fast Food district of their new Franchise City in Mojave would cover it, easily. But she needed cheering up now. Failure made her tetchy. She couldn't handle failure.
It was okay. She had something to take her mind off of it. She pinged her receptionist.
"Get me Jackson Howard," she said.
A few minutes later, he entered. He carried his usual aura of innocence, and his sunny grin and blue eyes calmed her down immensely.
Jackson Howard had worth. He had a mind that wandered into genius entirely by accident, and a personality that only had occasional brushes with negativity. His naivety was a comfort to her, both from a practical and an emotional standpoint. What better pick for the Executive of Child Programming than someone who could still think like one? She put on her best smile.
"Hello, Jackson."
"Hello, Victoria!" Jackson moved like he was about to bound. "What did you need me for?"
"You know the raffle Harpsichord Studios ran? The skeletons won it." Victoria brought up a holopic and sent it floating over to him. "Yes, I know. That place is strange. Anyway, they look pretty marketable and I think we can get a sitcom out of them. A few seasons worth." She didn't mention the bugs - things like that upset him. "Do you think you can make anything with these."
Jackson peered at the image. "Um... Well, they have pretty rounded edges, they don't seem too scary... probably?" He suddenly brightened. "Oh! There's these new learning brains I wanted to try! The ones Haas-Bioroid made available? I think maybe putting them in some dolls will be great! They could respond and give feedback and - "
"Okay, I've heard enough." Victoria clapped her hands together. "You'll get funding. Hop to it!"
"Thank you, Victoria!"
As Jackson practically skipped out of the room, Victoria turned and began to contact his project managers, because someone had to keep their head on around here.
---
"It is greatness of deed." Sand whispered through the skull's eye sockets. "Those who accomplish much in life are of value to others."
"There are those in power who are despised, and those who had power who died because of it. Power and deed are not measure of worth."
The road stretched to the horizon.
"Then it is... goodness." The words sounded harsh.
---
He was dead.
The man stood at the grave. A simple wooden cross. They needed the stone for the abbey.
He'd been there. Always. Since the coach crashed, since they'd reached the hamlet. They'd faced the necromancer together and brought the monster down. They'd shared stories, shared drinks, shared secrets. He couldn't be gone. It wasn't -
"Sean?"
He turned. She was waiting for him. She didn't say anything more.
"Go," he whispered. "I'll be with you soon."
She nodded and left. He turned, ran a gauntlet-clad hand over the wood.
"Goodbye, Dimitri."
He left.
---
"Some are good. Not all."
"Then what do you think worth is?" The skull rattled in the wind. "Who is worth your attention, golden one?"
Julius got to his feet. His armor was dirty and his wings ragged.
"They are all worth saving," he said, "because to judge a person's worth as if they are material goods is wrong."
"Until proven otherwise," hissed the voice.
"No." Julius looked down at the skull, eyes flaring. "There is always a chance. People do not understand that they are important and needed and that others depend on them. They see the miracle that is life around them and they find it dull, or even frightening. Every day they walk in shells, and they never open themselves to others."
The sun beat down upon them.
"Oh. Love." The voice dripped with disgust.
"Yes. The ultimate act of bravery is to reveal your true self to somebody, and to offer to handle the other person's trueness with care and respect. That is the most beautiful and precious thing in the world."
"Love is useless." The skull shuddered. "Love kills. Love can be broken. Love does not inspire greatness, it inspires restriction and mediocrity. Love does not gain power or riches."
"Leonardo da Vinci loved to create. Mozart loved to make music. Love enables greatness. Love has done all of these things and more. And nobody should measure themselves by impossible standards. Love is enough."
"Do you love her?"
Julius paused.
"It does not matter," he said, slowly.
"It does." The skull ceased all movement. "For if what you say is true, then you must not hide yourself in a cage of gold. You must let them know the truth. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. For what you did and what you have seen must be made known. And when you do, there will be a war. Know this."
Julius nodded.
"Thank you."
"You are welcome. Don't be a stranger. It is lonely here."
The astral knight began to walk, leaving nothing but a bleached cow skull, stuck at an empty crossroads in the desert.
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