Rahmhotep (Collab with RubyChao)

Allegio’s first words when they step off the boat were “Don't touch anything.”

The Astral Knight’s metallic white armour pops against the muted browns and greens of the huge space he stands in, and his form towers over the dock workers that bustle around him. His blank visor swept across the crowds that jostled under the high-vaulted ceilings. Behind them, long golden boats float in a pool of crystal blue water. The air is thick with noise and heat and shouting in many different languages.

“Don't touch anything,” Allegio repeats. “Don't speak to anyone you don’t have to, watch your money and don't get under my feet.”

“Awww, but-” The complainer was the younger of the pair, apprentice reporter Cirral Lampyridae. While her voice sounded annoyed, her expression made it clear she was still highly fascinated by the visit they’d been given. But even a complaint in jest was too much, if the gaze of her mentor Kennedy Wilson was anything to go by. A simple look was enough to get Cirral to cut her sentence off.

“Right. We’ll take notes and watch, and that’s it.” Kennedy replied. Next to him, Cirral straightens up. “Yeah, I understand! This’ll be enough for ten articles even without anything extra!”

“Good. I won't have to babysit you again.” Allegio's wings clinm against his armour as he moves towards the exit of the docks. People make way for him - colliding with a ten foot tall suit of armour tends to ruin one’s day. “Come on, then.”

As the trio leave the port building, they see the following in rapid succession. 

The crowds of people, even more intense than inside, pushing and shouting in the heat. Beyond them, the river, enormously wide with fat sailboats cruising on its waters in a strange mirror of the land traffic. Beyond even that, a shock of greenery, with white towers and monuments stabbing towards the cloudless sky. And in the far, far, horizon…

“You get used to it.” Allegio nods his head at the colossal figurehead, facing away from them and made translucent by distance. “A reminder that Rahmhotep is a holmwessel. A World boat, if you're taking notes already.”

Both of the reporters have been taking plenty of notes, alternating between scribbling down various shorthands, sketches for reference in Cirral’s case, and simply looking at the surroundings. This, though, is enough to give them both pause. After a minute to simply take in the appearance of the enormous vessel, Kennedy resumes writing about the worldboat, but Cirral spends a minute longer looking at it.

“It’s called a worldboat, and it’s that large… Is it self-sufficient? How much does it interact with the other vessels? Who does the figurehead represent?” Questions are already written on her notepad, just waiting for more answers.

“That's far too many questions at once. One moment.” A small haggle of people have gathered near them, watching them like hawks. Allegio stabs an ivory finger at one.

“Ikit um Hussel?”

His target, an olive-skinned man who appeared to resemble a dehydrated date, nods. “Hussel, ish! Di munet minin! Knight hushi, ish?”

“Ish.” Allegio turns. “I have secured transportation. I will answer your questions as we go. The answer to the first one is no, by the way.”

“Huh.” It’s very clear that the answer just raised more questions in Cirral’s mind, but she simply confines herself to waiting for the remaining answers. One at a time appears to be the order of the day, and she marks down a quick “no.” Kennedy writes a few lines about the man’s appearance, before catching Allegio’s attention. “If you could, please pass on our thanks for the transportation.”

“Thank me in gold, kopani!” comez the man's enthusiastic shout before Allegio could respond. He leads them down to an open-topped carriage that looks as if it been through, if not a war, then at least a small border skirmish. “I speak many languages very badly! Sometimes I think my Rham is getting worse every day, ish?”

Allegio steps into the back of the carriage with a squeak of axle. It is harnessed to something that looks like cross between a cow and a lizard, in dark green. It grunts as they set off.

Kennedy smiled a bit to himself - while it was quite the surprise that the driver understood him, it might make asking a few other questions easier. One at a time, of course. Cirral was too busy pressing her face to the side of the carriage, looking out on the city itself as they head towards their destination. Allegio could notice she did some more sketching, including a couple reproductions of the buildings they’ve seen that caught her eye most of all.

Kennedy, however, took only the occasional glance outside the carriage, more focused on the transport itself and the unfamiliar beast - but when one has been reporting on the Kobbers for months, the strange creatures of elsewhere become an interesting two paragraphs in a future article, rather than a show-stopping end to the day. After making a few preliminary notes on it, he leaned forward and coughed to get the driver’s attention. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been in the business?”

“Fifty-three years of our God-Queen’s reign, bless her soul!” The driver smiles as he coaxes the carriage through the streets. People part around it, not giving the passengers a second glance. “My son, he’s also a driver, and my grandson, he wants to be a priest. I tell him no, no, priests don’t get paid like we do, but he has a big head full of ambition! Wants to move up in the world!”

As they rattle on, the streets narrow and the buildings grow taller, wildly jutting like broken teeth. The noises of ships being docked and the stink of fish is surpassed by the thick stink of spices and the rattling of cookware.

“Mmmm…” Cirral sits back, simply taking in the smell of the market - much more pleasant now, certainly. She looks around, trying to make out who’s selling what, and pondering if they can perhaps try some on the way back. Exotic foods are part of the tour, right? 

Kennedy, meanwhile, listens to the driver, one particular line catching his interest. “Fifty-three years… quite the reign. Could you tell me a little more about the God-Queen? I’ve heard of her, of course, but I don’t know much myself.” He looks over to Allegio, checking to see if the Knight is going to cut him off or let him pry into this topic.

“Ah, the Queen, she lives in all of us, yes?” The driver jabs a thumb at the prow of the Worldship, still visible over the rooftops. “She built this boat, she sails it through the stars, she provides for us… nothing she can’t do! You find yourself a children's history book, it tells you everything a Rahm knows.”

Allegio doesn't have a face, but he manages to give Kennedy a Look anyway.

“You’re foreigners, ish?” The driver smiles. “Stay a while! This is a good place to visit. Old Pakat - that’s me - knows where all the good places are. Stay out of the tourist traps! Ramhotehp is a good place. It’s cheap to live here, don’t need to struggle!”

The Look is enough to give Kennedy the signal, and he silently decides asking the driver more about the Queen would not be the best option. Instead, he simply nods. “Foreigners, yes. Franzika is truly fascinating when you see it for the first time.” “Heyyy, you know where the good places are, right?” Cirral asks. “Does that include places to eat? Because I’m ready for lunch!” The junior reporter certainly looks interested in the conversation, even as she keeps stealing glances at the worldship. Its size alone would be imposing, but the implications of its culture, even from afar, are more than enough to keep someone curious wondering as they get closer.

“Hey, no problem, kopani!” Pakat pulls the wagon to a halt outside of a stall, and delivers a rapid sentence of Rahm to the woman working there. She nods and vanishes behind a series of  steaming pans for a minute, then re-emerges with two sets of skewers bedecked in meat and multicolored vegetables, wrapped in paper. Money changes hands, and two greasy parcels of warmth are passed to the reporters.

“There you go! Finest ikama, very spicy! Traditional here if you’re a driver like me! Also, you owe me double, hahaha!”

Allegio makes a noise like a door creaking shut.

“...I’ll cover it.” Cirral comments sheepishly, before starting in on her lunch. Finding it spicy, yet not too much, and with a good mix of meat and vegetables, she eagerly begins to scarf it down - at least it’s worth the money! The flavors mix well, and she’s pretty quickly devoured the entire thing. She’s definitely not going to ask for more. 

Kennedy, meanwhile, works on making his lunch last, taking the occasional bite as he watches the city go by. Deciding to avoid any sensitive topics for now, he writes a bit about the ikama, watching Pakat’s skill with the carriage and the continued progress throughout the city. A carriage’s-eye view is definitely a better way to get a look than walking, considering how much more room they have to take notes and simply observe. “It’s worth the money. You have good taste, Pakat. Is this a more traditional meal?”

“Yes! Easy food to make, you know? Made by soldiers out on long desert trips when they took whatever they could from the land. Best way to make the food go far!”

The carriage turns a corner. Here, the jagged line of the buildings breaks - a pile of rubble punctuates the row on the right, with logs sticking out like broken bones. A crowd hovers nervously as forms move amongst the rubble, clad in white with golden bangles draped over their necks and arms.

“Hey hey hey, this is no good…” Pakat pulls the carriage to a stop, eyes squinting as he spies someone in the crowd. “Illah! What happened?”

A woman, head wrapped in a thin scarf and clad in a bright purple robe, turns to Pakat. Her face is prematurely aged by worry. “Oh, it’s terrible, Pakat! Bulah, he owed money and he couldn’t pay! Now the priests have evicted him!”

Pakat tuts, shaking his head. “Ahh, should not have taken up gambling. The Franzikan games, they are demon’s work. Where is he staying?”

As their driver continues his conversation, one of the white figures stands up fully, and Cirral and Kennedy realise he is dead. Half of a skull peers out from between the linen wrap.

They say it’s rude to stare, even if you’re a reporter. That’s why Kennedy spent years working on how to stare at someone without making it obvious. Now’s the perfect time for it, as he keeps unobtrusively watching the dead figure and its actions, talking to Pakat at the same time. “I’ll steer well clear of them while I’m here. I’m curious, though - is it normal to demolish the building?”

Cirral, on the other hand, knows she can’t make it look as natural as Kennedy yet. She also knows that if she asks someone too openly, she might step in a pothole - with how natural everyone’s treating them, it could come off as anywhere from rude to disrespectful. So instead, she slides closer to Allegio and asks him quietly. “That guy’s dead. Is he supposed to be? It looks like it, but it still feels odd.”

“Normal if you cannot pay rent, or if your house catch fire.” Pakat’s eyes are still fixed on the building. “Easier to knock it down and rebuild here, especially if the priests want a new shrine there instead. Not much you can do about it. Just keep head down and pay.”

Allegio, in response to Cirral’s whispering, inclines his head. “Necromancy is common here.”

Keep your head down… well, it’s clear to Kennedy that the priests are very important here, and very much not to be trifled with. He makes a note to be careful if they run into any. Deciding not to question the system for now, he nods. “Unfortunate for his business, then. I suppose- hmm?”

The crowds part.

Atop them, like the crest of a wave, is a golden platform. On that platform is a bed of red silk, and on top of that is an impossibly beautiful young woman draped in thin purple veils. Her eyes transfix straight ahead of her. She is motionless, but around her bustle white forms like overworked ghosts. These ones are in clean wrappings. Golden masks grant them peaceful blank expressions as they delicately peel fruit to push past the woman's lips. More white surrounds the platform itself - mummies in golden armor, hefting the palanquin with a mechanical stamp of feet.

Pakat, muttering under his breath, backs the carriage up and out of the way. Allegio leans back until his upper torso is in the shade of the building next to them.

The two reporters, meanwhile, are not prepared in the slightest. Before either Kennedy or Cirral is really aware of it, they’re staring at the woman sitting on the platform, pens and pads forgotten as neither one makes a move to act, simply taking the scene in as the procession continues on its way. Kennedy registers somewhere that the mummies here are clearly far more important than the ones from earlier, but for now he’s mostly content to keep gazing at the otherworldly figure. As far as Allegio and Pakat can tell, the two of them are happy to just keep standing there until she finishes passing through. 

There's a shout. A thick man, face ruddy and a bottle in one hand, staggers in the way of the procession. He raises the bottle, and the reporters catch a glimpse of fire at the mouth of it. Someone shouts a name - Bulah. The recently homeless man.

A mummy steps forth, sweeps a long curved sword. The man drops and is lost amongst the tide of stamping wrapped legs. When they pass over, the body is gone. The beautiful woman on top has not moved an inch, staring into oblivion.

Pakat winces.

“Ai, Bulah,” he mutters. “Bad way to go.”

Watching the man be felled by the mummies is more than enough to knock both of the reporters back into reality. Cirral now looks a little queasy at the sight, but she’s already beginning to take notes on the mummies and their importance… although she steers clear of taking notes on the woman herself. A small voice at the back of her head tells her that might not be the best idea. Kennedy, on the other hand, shakes his head. It’s not the first time he’s seen a death in the field. Stepping back, he asks Allegio one simple question, still looking at the woman but no longer transfixed by her.

“Is that the Queen?”

“No.” Allegio's voice is a low rumble. “Though somewhere in that empty head might think so.”

Pakat grumbles and goads the carriage forwards. “Apologies, my friends. I chose a bad route today. I'll take you by the river, yes? Less rich people there. More fun! You can see the crocodiles.”

“...Yes. Yes, I think that’d be a good idea.” Kennedy replies. “Come on, Cirral.”

“You’re right!” Cirral responds, but her voice is still a little shaky. Now’s just not the time to mention why, is all. 

The carriage sets off. Allegio leans back in his chair and thinks, blank helmet staring ahead as the noise of the city washes over him.

Richard

CONTENT WARNING - BLOOD, VIOLENCE

"Hi, it's Stacy! I think I have got your delivery by mistake. I'm home in a few hours, can you drop by then? It's on the corner of 5th and Wesson. And, uh, don't make much noise - the neighbours will be asleep. Thanks! Bye!"

Titanomachy

"So what do we do?"

The question hung amongst the smoke of the dim boardroom. It had come from someone Mark Yale didn't know. Nobody knew everyone on the board, after all.

"Well, we can't do anything." Mark Yale didn't know this man either, but hated him instantly. "Two ventures in, two disasters out. Sure, we picked them up for cheap afterwards, but its not like we can do anything with them."

"We have to do something." This was Elizabeth Mills, VP of Urban Development. She was technically not on the board, but she was sitting in the seat of someone who was. They couldn't be here on account of a fall from the top of a skyscraper. She'd been happy to accept the promotion.

"We can't sit idle." Her voice was sharp. Yale couldn't see her, but could imagine the tight set of her jaw. "There are too many opportunities. We have room for -"

"We don't, that's the problem. Those damn freaks are in the way, thinking they own everything and that they make the rules. Nobody can go there whilst those people are alive."

Yale began to tune out. Nobody was saying anything new. Nobody had a solution. It irritated him beyond all belief.

It was, as always, a question of a Second Beanstalk. Yale didn't know where or when it had started, but it had become the gospel of the Consortium. The first beanstalk, the perfectly good space elevator they had in New Angeles, was not enough. They needed a Second Beanstalk. The Sub-Saharan League were building a Second Beanstalk. When was the Second Beanstalk?

It was a terrible name and he hated it. He wanted this all over and done with. He wanted to go home and drink his whiskey and think of advertising slogans and new ways to make stupid people give him their money. He didn't want to hear the words "Second Beanstalk" or "Kobber" or "we have to do something" ever again. But here he was.

"Any ideas, Yale?"

They hated him because he'd funded Jenkins on her own wild goose chase. But he'd only given her the money. She'd been the one to spend it like an idiot. And where was she now? Nobody knew. Well, he didn't.

They were looking at him. He thought frantically.

"...We have four corporations that can't go into the other world," he said. An idea was dancing towards him. "They're all using technology from the same benefactor. That means we've done the same thing twice. The feds don't know we're doing any of this. But the man on the street doesn't know either, right?"

"Only what Runners might leak out, and not even then sometimes."

Mark didn't know that voice either, but he didn't care. He had the idea. "That means, to them, we can say anything. We don't have to tell them anything about the Kobbers or the past attempts. If they know nothing, and none of us can apparently do anything, then whatever we do makes us the first. It doesn't matter that there have been two failed attempts. We can do whatever we like."

"Like what?"

Yale turned to look at Elizabeth. "Miss Mills, you visited that place once. What's it like?"

Elizabeth blinked. "Uhm, it's tropical. The air's unfiltered, it's like the simulations but more real - "

Mark Yale snapped his fingers, pointed at her and grinned.

---

Mister Stone lit a cigarette. under the cover of the awning. Old habits died hard. Around him, people and androids bustled. He could smell kebabs and oil. He looked up at the scant few real ads left in this part of New Angeles - most people had moved on to the eye implants now, implants he couldn't risk having. He missed billboards.

One of them caught his eye. It was a tropical beach. A man and woman had taken off their rebreather masks and were smiling in the sun. The colors were impossible. The advert said:

"KUWAHAWI
It's More Real"

Mister Stone sighed. The things they tried to sell you, nowadays.

Christmas Episode

“Oh, wow, it’s the Kobbers!”

The four men turned around. They didn’t resemble the heroes of the planet - tall men in black clothing tended not to feature amongst the group. But if you took one of them and melted them in the microwave, the cheap plastic masks over the group’s faces were close enough.

Leaning against the wall of the bank and peering through the goggles of his Rider suit, Vince took a moment to plan his next quip. They’d ripped open an ATM in the foyer - probably not brave or smart enough to try the vault. He’d seen them rattling around through the glass windows and gone to investigate, as was his duty or something. He noted the flowing metal around the hole where the ATM had been.

His entrance was kind of ruined by the fact his Rider suit was neon pink and sported spikey plastic hair, but hey. The classics worked.

“Carol? What are you doing around here?” He pointed a gloved finger at a man wearing a loose approximation of the redhead’s face. “I thought you were on vacation?”

Not Carol pointed a shotgun at him. Whoops. Vince dived, his Driver blaring a cartoon jump sound as he fell to his right. He felt the boom of the gun more than he heard it. He rolled back to his feet behind a desk and grabbed a potted plant on it before hurling it at Not Carol. It smashed satisfyingly on his target’s head.

The other three were moving. One, pretending to be a very sad-looking Airman, was charging across the foyer of the bank at him. Vince vaulted over the desk and lashed a sneaker-clad foot out, hitting the man in the temple and leaving him motionless on the tile. One down.

He raised a foot to move forwards, and left his stomach lurch as he kept rising. A third guy, wearing a face of some janitor guy he’d only read about in the comics, was holding a device that resembled a metal cylinder with blue lines scribbled over it. The business end was pointed at Vince. He flailed in the air.

“Dawn’s gonna sue you for using that,” he gasped, and scrabbled at his belt for another cartridge. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Carol Man pulling the gun up to him. He managed to grab a cart and slam it into his belt.

“LEVEL UP!”

Vince twisted his upper body to the left as the belt spat a flat, shimmering screen into reality in front of him. The boom of the shotgun was dulled as its payload fizzled against the impromptu barrier. It crashed into the shotgun dude and hurled him backwards. Two down - probably.

“PAC-PAC-PAC-MAN!”

Oh, good. Vince let the screen wash back over him, cladding him in yellow and red. He was still suspended in the air though, and he couldn’t see the fourth guy. Who probably also had a gun.

Shit. He was never any good at Pac-Man.

“C’mon, guys,” he yelled at nobody in particular, and felt himself yanked downwards to hit the tile. They wouldn’t breach his Rider armor, but his breath left his lungs anyway.

“Where’s your -” Slam.

“Christmas -” Slam.

“Oh, forget it,” Vince wheezed, and yanked the Pac-Man cart from his belt. He shoved it into the holster on his hip.

“PAC-CRITICAL STRIKE!”

Vince promptly turned into a neon yellow ball. Pac-Man had one rule - you had to keep moving, like a pizza-shaped shark. As the ball rocketed upwards, chomping at the air, the man holding him yelled. Vince could feel his foe’s weight being dragged with him as he headed for the roof -

And burst right through. The man holding onto him screamed.

“Oh shit.” Inside the yellow sphere, Vince yanked the cart from the holster. Turning back into his usual neon pink self, he fell, willing game physics to accelerate him, and caught the flailing robber. Both of them burst through the rubble and smoke of their recent exit, Vince just managing to land on his feet.

Then he rabbit-punched the robber in the head and dropped him on the floor. Three down. Why hadn’t this doofus just let go of the -

“Freeze!”

That was a big gun. Judging by the orange glow, they’d used it to crack open the ATM. The fourth man, in the cruelest of ironies, had a Kamen Rider Hime mask on. He was back by the front door of the bank - too much distance for Vince to cross without becoming fried Rider.

“Uh, sure.” Vince raised his hands. Man, Lady Luck was mean some days. He watched the man reach for a duffel bag half-filled with dollar bills, the gun still trained on him -

His driver whirred. A brown block of bricks, three feet each side, materialised into the air between him and Not Hime.

“Thank you, Jesus,” Vince yelped, and dived forward and down. He felt the red hot lance spear over his back, smashing the block into pixels. He felt the magnetic pull of something being drawn to him.

“CHRISTMAS!”

When Vince stood back up, he had a Santa hat and beard on over his helmet. The final robber stared at him.

“Ho ho ho,” Vince deadpanned, and headbutted the man.

Four down. No more movement. Probably a silent alarm, though. He’d have to stick around, make sure he hadn’t killed anyone accidentally (a feat he hadn’t accomplished yet), and then let the police handle the rest. And pay for damages. How much did replacing a roof cost?

Vince glanced down at his belt.

“I didn’t know you had a holiday setting,” he said. The belt, being a hunk of neon green plastic that warped reality, didn’t respond. Vince sighed.

He could think about other things now.

“I wonder what Koakuma got me,” he muttered aloud, and went to check Not Airman’s pulse.

Ride

"What is it you want?"

Vince turned. He couldn't read anything in his sifu's face. The question had come from nowhere.

"...What?"

The old woman sighed. "Young Vince, when people come to my dojo, they all want different things." Her round face was sliced in two by the shadows cast from the sunset, making her folorn smile unnering to Vince. "The tourists want to experience our 'culture', whatever that is. The kids want to be their heroes on television. The young men want to impress the young women, and the young women want the young men to go away. But I have trained you for two months and you have not said anything to me about why you are here."

"I pay you." Vince looked around the open air dojo, a palm-leaf roof on wooden struts that gazed out over the ocean. "Six bucks a week to learn how to defend myself. Isn't that enough?"

For an answer, she swept out a leg. He almost managed to keep his balance this time.

"Money doesn't fuel people, Vince." Her voice was reproachful but not angry. He'd never seen her angry. "People who only want money aren't people at all. You want something else."

"Yeah, to not get beat up by old ladies." Vince climbed back to his feet, wincing. "Can I go now, or do I have to tell you my life story to get away?"

She looked disappointing in him. "Very well."

He wondered if he should have answered. Then he wondered if he had an answer that would have been good enough anyway.

---

The store didn't like him doing this.

Oh, it wasn't concerned for his safety. It could look after itself. It had figured out how to blend in on the new island, although so far it had trouble understanding that people on holiday didn't want to watch anime. No, what it was concerned about was that he wasn't doing it properly.

The neon green chunk of plastic rested on the bed behind him as he changed.

The vacation was doing him good. He'd gotten some muscle tone and lost a bit of weight, and he no longer looked like a zombie. So that was an improvement.

He hefted the ice hockey chest and shoulder pads over his head.

No, it wanted him to use the machine. Do the jingles. Say the catchphrases. But he wasn't gonna do that. He was his own person, not a product. Besides, he wasn't really doing this to help people, although it was a nice side bonus.

On went the ski goggles and the bandanna over his mouth.

It wasn't even as if there was much crime on this island anyway.

He picked up the rubber mallet in gloved hands. He looked like he could pass at a con. Ghetto Rider cosplay. Heh.

Vince went out into the night.

Perfection

"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.

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."

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.

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.

Inferno

Midway upon the journey of our life,
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.



The diner door's chime had broken a long time ago, so it took the thudding footsteps to alert the waitress to the new customer. She turned around.

"Hi! Welcome to-"

Her best smile faltered. The new entrant was ten feet tall, and had semi-crouched in order to get their enormous bulk sideways through the door. The light struggled through the stained windows to gleam on their golden armor. The waitress dimly recalled a medieval fair her mother had takenn her to as a child, and seeing two men in shining armour pantomiming their roles as knights. This... person's armor put them to shame. Two electric blue points of light looked down at her as it approached.

"Um," she managed. Did this thing even eat?

The boots banged on the tiles as it approached the counter. It stopped and regarded her.

"Hello," it said. Its voice was like a musical chime, from far away. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

"Hi," she replied. "Welcome to Bert's Diner! Uh, What can I get you?"

The thing looked up and down the scarlet counter. Nobody else was here - the Kobbers had left the city for the rest of the year, and it was off holiday season anyway, so most people had headed home. All that was left were the empty red seats and the dust starting to collect on the road signs and registration plates adorning the walls. The TV suspended on one wall was tuned to a NBN music channel - some vaporwave track that had never left the charts.

"I would like," the figure chimed, "a cheeseburger. And a chocolate milkshake."

The waitress nodded and hurried into the kitchen. The figure looked around the dying restaurant again. Its eyes fell upon a potted plant on the end of the diner counter, a bonsai that was reaching the end of its life and patience.

Half an hour later, the waitress came back with a plate in one hand and a tall, cold glass in the other. Her eyes fell, briefly, upon the small tree. It was in full bloom, with small red flowers bursting from the end of the branches. She glanced at the figure, which was still standing at the counter, and briefly wanted to ask him two questions at once.

"Here you go," she said instead, voice full of fake joy as she set the plate and glass down. "Enjoy your meal!"

"Thank you," it said.

She went to the end of the counter and pretended to polish it, watching as it lifted golden gauntlets to the helmet, flicking unseen catches open and lifting the helmet off.

It was like a midnight sky.

She wasn't quite aware how long it was before the figure finished, put the helmet back on and paid for the meal. She recalled only a midnight sky, and the rustle of its broken wings as it left the diner.



"Ah, this looks fabulous on you! The cut really brings out your shoulders!"

Bored.

Tak-Sin paid for the dress and left the store. The mall blared Christmas at him. His heels clacked on the tiles as he passed brands, offers, toys, cheer.

Bored.

He pulled out his phone. No texts from James. The wallpaper was of the two of them at a theme park.

Bored.

He wondered if this was what it was like to die. Stillness, nothing happening or developing. No current flowing. Oh, James was nice - as much as a mostly physical relationship could be, anyway. James was cute, fluffy, inoffensive. They shared similar tastes in clothing. He was easy to keep happy. He was insufferably boring.

He looked up and saw something interesting. There was a young man in clothing that was probably out of fashion when his punk rocker idols had gotten married and had children. He was hunched over a laptop, squinting, fingers flying like fish amongst the reef. People, for some reason, weren't noticing him.

Interesting.

Tak-Sin walked up behind the man and watched silently over his shoulder for a while. He didn't understand any of the words. He did understand the part where the man appeared to take ten thousand dollars from someone. It was hard to miss. Whoever had made that program had wanted the user to know exactly what they were doing. He quickly placed a hand on one shoulder and leant over.

"Well done," he whispered into the man's ear. He froze up, staring straight ahead and hands hovering above the keys. Tak-Sin kept talking.

"I don't need to know what you're doing to know it's stupid," he continued. "You're in a public place. The only reason you've not been caught is that the guards here aren't paid enough for the hours they work and don't dislike you enough to investigate. If I shout, you'll be in jail. Nod if you understand."

The man, face pale, nodded.

"Now then." Tak-Sin leaned a little closer. "Would you kindly direct me to whoever hired you? I'm in need of a job."



Old coin. Confederate. Battered from time and travel. Feels solid in the hand.

Flip.

Tails. Hah.

Old gun. Revolver. Not a common service weapon in the military. Six bullets. Five chambers empty.

Point at head. Pull -

Jonesy waited until the echoing in her head had stopped and her brain and skull had regenerated.

"Shit," she muttered, and slammed the gun on the kitchen counter. Then she went to fix herself a whiskey.

Stars, a Collab with Saberwulf

Conrad stood on the balcony and watched the stars below him. They were the lights of the Oldazzi, albino octopi people who floated amongst the stalks of the plants below him, picking bioluminescent fruit from the branches. At his back came soft sitar music and the laughter of his mother as she told her fifth filthy joke of the evening. He’d heard every one of them. In his hand was something red and very, very alcoholic.

He wanted to think about something, because that was what you were meant to go onto balconies for, right? But he’d had a bit to drink and all he could think was of how much the view below him looked like a mirror of the night sky.

“—And that one on the right with the red in the center is the Pathi Tanni Ka Universe, where Treun Danikos founded modern particulate transmogrification. Dude was a badass, he actually took on an entire army using only sand and omnus circles he tattooed on his hands.”

For the past few minutes Ellie had used Conrad’s silence as an excuse to regale about the Hub unusually gorgeous night sky, though of course she related the distant galaxies and universes that rose over them to the horrendously complicated history of Omnus magic. It all went over Conrad’s head, but still she had a sparkle in her eye as she spoke about these funny names and archaic techniques, a sparkle that had been missing since all the Dexys trouble started. He’d missed that sparkle.

“Now, of course he founded it, but it wasn’t until Xhan Tlo Bai’s exile to Chaucher’s Folly that it really became useful.” Ellie brushed her wavy locks out her eyes, each strand doped with OcuTone nanobots to form a film playing silently in her hair. It was some ancient Sumaji movie she had a liking for, and the slightly blurry image of a solar goddess danced hypnotically in the shifting locks. Ellie turned her head and looked at Conrad silently for a moment, the galaxies in her eyes shade-matching the scholarly cobalt that was pulsing slowly through her dermal markings.

She gave a nervous laugh and smiled. “Shit, this is probably really boring, isn’t it?”

“What?” Conrad turned to look at her, the movie in her hair reflecting off his ebony eyes. Then he smiled. “No, no! This is awesome stuff. I had no idea there was so much… stuff out there.” He brushed a hand through his own hair - he’d dyed it the same color as hers, shimmering karzantium. “Sand warrior dude sounds awesome. And Chaucer’s Folly… tell me more about that! How’d it get that name?”

He wasn’t actually interested in why Chaucher had ended up with some place christened after his stupidity. He wanted to hear Ellie talk, see the patterns in her skin light up, listen to her laughter. It was amazing to him, and sorely missed after the Dexys stuff had driven her to be more… quiet. He missed the light from the early days, where it had felt like a risk to even date her. Now her dad was practically family. The man had held a blade to his neck! And now he was swapping parenting stories with his mom.

Ellie opened her mouth to continue, but as her head turned up to the sky her gaze drifted to a distant light lost far away in the black night, a ghostly echo of something long gone. The name she spoke was old and whispering, almost hissed against the back of her teeth. “Uhur, the grave.” She brought her arm up and pointed towards its faint dust. “It’s actually part of my home Universe, though it’s a lot brighter there. My people called it Zla’or, the crystal princess. Mom used to tell us stories about Zla’or’s conquest against the Aurora King, and how she slew the Azerox of Dolyia and shackled it to the stars of Mir.” Her markings had changed and become a color that didn’t have a name in Arkadian, a shade of bittersweet nostalgia with breaths of loneliness shot through like gem veins in old stone.

Her hand went up and turned over, and with a trained flourish she cupped the moon with her manicured nails like a seer’s orb. “And Zla’or plucked dying Huhlya from the night and brought her down upon the soil, and at the eight rivers of emotion she planted her. Zla’or spoke to her, and her smiling words soothed Huhlya and she went down into the earth to sleep forever. Zla’or knew she had lost her friend and tears came forth from her and the rivers of eight surged onto floodplains, and Huhlya’s gravesoil became mud. Zla’or saw this and her tears became crystal seeds, and they came down upon Huhlya’s grave and burst open, and all became covered in beautiful flowers and fruit trees, and the riverbanks became heavy with Talli’ka reeds that unfurled themselves with the songs of this tragic bounty already written upon them, so great was Zla’or’s grief.”

Ellie’s markings matched the color of Uhur far gone in the Hub sky, a tarnished silver lost in the lightless waters of dead worlds. Somehow it didn’t feel sad, however, because there was a new look in Ellie’s eyes that Conrad had never seen, a deep, ichorous black that would have seemed like utter Stygian grief if it wasn’t for the trillions of glittering stars that shone out from inside. It was the Stygian equivalent to awe, Ellie utterly enraptured by her own tellings of her dead mother’s stories of their utterly annihilated culture from the sunblasted wasteland they had once called home. But the look in her eyes said she had forgotten all that, and the only thing that mattered was the crystal princess, swinging her starlight sword slowly through the multicolor dust seas of the eternal Stygian night.

Conrad had absolutely no idea how to respond. He didn’t have stories like that to tell. His mom had talked about things that ate worlds, when she was drunk. His dad’s tales were in much the same vein, and weren’t romantic in the slightest. They’d never had… myths. Not really.But the look in her eyes…

He laid a hand on her shoulder. Maybe there was one story.

“Somewhere out there,” he said, turning his eyes to the constellations above him, “my dad’s on a ship that’s kilometers long. He’s crossing the stars, looking for horrible shit. Things that eat planets, things that forgot what death is, things that fight because seeing worlds burn is like a day out for them. Things that we have horrible nightmares about. And then you know what he does?”

He grinned, and his family canines glinted in the light.

“He beats the shit out of it. Just like he’s done all his life.”

He pulls something from out underneath his shirt - a tooth, about an inch long, that must have come from one mean shark. It hung on a simple thread.

“One day, about… a year ago, we got a delivery on our door. No return address, no marks, no nothing. But we opened it, and it was a skull about as big as my torso, that came off of something that was probably fifteen feet tall. Dead and cleaned completely, like a medical model.There was also a sword made out of bone. Mom freaked out about it, but now they’re hanging over the fireplace at home.”

He tucked the tooth back, and looked back up. Ellie’s colors shone off his hair, suffused his face and brought his eyes into glittering relief as he stared up at the night sky. His hand left her shoulder and twined his fingers into her own.

“Somewhere out there, my dad’s defeating undying lords of ancient dynasties, wrestling warrior-kings into submission, and turning back tides of ravenous monsters. Because… because he has to. That’s how he is. And it might kill him. He might be dead already.”

The memories (memory? they were starting to compound together now) of his mom came back, crying, slumped over the kitchen counter… But she was laughing behind him, having fun. She would be okay. For now.

“But I believe he’s out there. Because if he sent something like that back home to his family, what the fuck can stop him? I don’t have a lot of myths about the stars, Ellie, but that’s what I got.”

She didn’t respond with words. Ellie hand reached out and found the back of his head, and despite her height she still had to stand on her toes a bit when she brought him in for the kiss. The color her markings made would be categorized by the infobots climbing their eyelashes and later sold to Ballimar dye merchants for knock-off handbags, but for now it was nameless and new, raw emotions of hope and love crashing like waves into the shores of her alien biology to express the fact that she felt safe with him. Despite all the death and destruction and ungodly sorrow of everything around them she felt safe. She pulled him tighter and—

Bozidar knocked on the doorframe. “Getting along well with my daughter, I see.” Jonesy let out a cliche whistle from the fainting couch, glass of unpronounceable wine still half full.

Conrad, to his credit, kept his cool in the face of massive embarrassment. The grin he put on was slick and easy - woops, my bad, it said.

“Well,” he said, “Uh, she’s easy to get along with.”

“Separate rooms for you two! The walls are thin here!” Jonesy cackled.

“Jeez, mom!”

Bozidar face softened into a light smile that looked odd on him but surprising natural. “I’m sure.” He turned and trotted back in, brandishing his glass carefree. “I wonder how much it would cost to import Zloti hogs and Ahacdi Kol to the Hub, eh? Hefty penny I’m sure!”

In a split second, Ellie suddenly turned the deepest, most embarrassed blush Conrad had ever seen. “Shöka, Vat!”

A grin was crawling into Boz’s face. “And the mirrors? Oh, only Stygnic hands for those, and only the traditional methods would be enough!”

Somehow she was getting even pinker. “Dah Shökil, Vat!”

And there it was, the multiversally accepted definition of a sleazy grin. “But I guess the costs wouldn’t be too bad on him. The bride’s family pays for the ceremony, after all.”

Ellie groaned like she’d just been shot and sat down on the edge of the balcony, hands over her face and pink embarrassment giving off a neon glow from her markings. “Kill me.”

Despite his permanently silver markings, Bozidar’s amusement showed thoroughly clearly in the first laugh Conrad had ever heard the man emit. It was hearty and deep, and it was the kind of laugh that made you cackle just from its enthusiasm.

“But what do I know, I’m a drunk old soldier.” He glanced over at Conrad and gave him a wink before spinning in his heel. “Now, Ms. Svilzerian! Did I regale you yet with the story of how Krezna got her axes? You absolutely must hear it; truly the story of my people!”

Jonesy grinned. “Not yet, buddy. Top me up and tell your tale!”

And that left Conrad, wishing he could express his mortified embarrassment as clearly as Ellie could. He’d had a vague idea of what Stygnic marriage ceremonies entailed, but the actual idea had never entered his head. Trying to ignore the word, the idea, the concept dancing in his head, he sat down next to Ellie, blushing furiously.

“Um.”

He drummed his fingers on the wood.

“Uh.”

He looked down at the fields.

“At least we could afford it?”

Dumbass.

There was a moment of silence.

And then Ellie burst the fuck out laughing. She collapsed on the balcony giggling like mad, hands against her stomach, finally taking in the absurdity of everything. Tears ran down her face and she didn’t stop until her breathy gasps of gut pain brought her down. She wiped her eyes and stood up, putting an arm around him.

“God I love you.”

With a little buzz, she activated her musecomm. +Mirdath, why don’t you go to a VR spa and leave us alone.+

Ellie’s third eye flashed “GROSS” and flickered off. She swirled her free hand over her forgotten wine glass and twitched her fingers just so, and the red liquid jumped up and slammed the balcony doors shut with a crimson hand.

The last thing they heard was a muffled shout of “Nerrrrrrds!”

Fin~