The Battle Royale S2 [Round 3: Endymion]

[Dragon Fogel]

Endymion had been intended to serve as a perpetual motion machine. A complete system in and of itself.

As it developed over generations, it had come closer and closer to fulfilling this objective. By now Endymion was, if not a complete success, close enough to one to convince its populace. The machinery and the people worked to keep it running on its own. There were countless processes to ensure that whatever was produced could be returned into the system.

Some of the less glamorous consequences of this arrangement could be seen - not to mention smelled - at the planet's various waste recycling centers. Numerous unpleasant substances were collected, processed, and converted into usable materials.

In the complex system that was Endymion, small errors could often lead to dire problems if not corrected swiftly. As a result, record-keeping was very strict; if the wrong amount of something came in or out, it usually meant an investigation was forthcoming.

Today, they had fallen short.

"Six ounces, Alfonz? Can you explain this?"

Alfonz' already tiny frame seemed even smaller as he cowered. He'd always worried that his sector would come up short; now that it was happening, he was absolutely terrified.

"W-well, sir, perhaps somebody in the sector is late? Or it was directed to the wrong sector instead of mine?"

Foreman Gardner glared at the technician.

"We have the records. Your sector's load was fine when it entered the plant, and all the others are consistent. Either we have a thief, or you are incompetent."

"It... it must be a thief!" Alfonz shouted in a panic. "I did everything exactly the same as always! Please, please don't punish me!"

The foreman was unimpressed. He'd seen technicians plead before and it had never moved him. This would be no different.

"Then you'd better find those six ounces before this is officially reported. After that, it's out of my hands. Is that clear, Alfonz?"

The tiny creature let out a gulp, and scampered off in search of the missing waste.

***

Enrique was exhausted. He had just gotten home from his shift, and was sitting down for an evening of reading.

Then there was a knock at his door. He groaned.

"Just when you get settled," he sighed. "Never fails."

Enrique pulled himself out of his chair and lumbered over to the door.

"This better be good," he grumbled.

He opened the door, ready to give the unwanted visitor a piece of his mind.

But there was no one there. He looked down and saw a small bag on his doorstop.

"What the hell is this?"

He picked up the bag and opened it to inspect the contents.

It hadn't occured to him that there was a reason why the bag was airtight. With his enhanced sense of smell, Enrique found the stench overpowering, and collapsed.

I still can't believe they haven't invented doorbells here.

[MalkyTop]

What could he say? The obvious answer was there was nothing to say. There was absolutely nothing to say when you were accompanied by a talking knife and walking through the twisted dreamscape of a conglomeration of sentient goo.

Goddamn. All this trouble for some stupid whatever-it-is. Hopefully it’ll be over with as soon as possible.

Mongoose carefully hopped down and turned around to take Snake’s hand and help him down as well. Instead, Snake jumped on him like a giant cushion. The young man thought extremely dark thoughts and made a resolution to find some other old geezer to hang out with for the twentieth time that day. He then scrapped the resolution for the twentieth time that day. So Snake liked to tease and anger him. So what. He could deal with it.

As soon as Mongoose got back up and brushed himself off, he realized that they had finally reached the bottom of the bizarre sewers. Water rushed by under something that looked like glass but was actually cellophane. Underneath that, he could see dead fish floating by. He turned towards Snake. “So now what?”

“We still have to find the, ah, the photographer, he’s called?”

“Yeah,” said the knife that Mongoose was doing his best to ignore.

“Yeah. So how do we do that?” he said, shivering and glancing around the dreamscape again.

Snake prodded the cellophane with his foot. “Well, he was washed down here. We could probably find him if we continue following the flow of the water.”

“Yeah. Right.” It was only now that Mongoose realized how cold and dark it was down here. “Maybe that’s not quite a good idea.”

“I certainly hope you aren’t frightened, Mongoose.”

“Shut up. We should leave.”

“Well, I have no intention of abandoning this little venture. I’m rather curious about how it’ll turn out. You can leave if you want.”

“I’m not—“

“Of course you wouldn’t, because you wouldn’t leave a poor old man alone down here, would you?”

Snake beamed cheerfully at him before continuing down a nearby tunnel. Mongoose waited until he turned the corner to curse.

“Don’t think I didn’t hear that,” came Snake’s admonishing voice. “Do I have to come back there or…?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll do it,” Mongoose grumbled back, dragging his feet and pulling back his rubber band. Feeling a strange stinging sensation, he looked down to find that his disciplinary rubber band had grown teeth for no real reason and was now suckling blood from his finger.

The rubber band was subsequently discarded with a yelp and a hard toss against the hard, sharp, stone walls. It flopped around helplessly, teeth pointed upwards and clacking with an insistent neediness. Mongoose shivered again, this time nothing to do with the cold, and hurried after Snake.

“Before you say anything, the stupid rubber band bit me, so you can’t say that I should’ve left it on or something…” Mongoose trailed off for a moment.

The sewers had become a veritable labyrinth. Water continued to flow happily along, oblivious to the fact that they were flowing in impossible directions. Dead fish were still pushed along in their stream. They chugged along the floor, up a wall, and doubled back on the ceiling until they were right back where they started. But that wasn’t what he was staring at.

Metal stairs, or maybe they were ladders, circled their way up to the surface, winding all around the room and covering the sides like dark ivy, making it impossible to really climb up. One stretched their way through a different doorway like train tracks. And indeed, Mongoose was certain that he could hear the distant howls of a train. But that wasn’t what he was staring at.

No, he was staring at the bodies. All of them dead, of course, why else would you call them bodies? They were all strung up, tied somewhere, sometimes to the stair-ladders, sometimes to something he couldn’t see, sometimes to nothing at all. Slashed or strangled or stabbed, however they were killed, they all shared one thing: no faces. No discerning feature whatsoever. Mongoose couldn’t even tell if any of them were female.

Blood dripped on the cellophane with a weedy little ‘plang’ sound. A thought occurred to him, the murders must have been done recently, the murderer might still be here, but it was a thought that seemed so far away that he could barely feel it.

“Let’s go,” Snake said, tugging on Mongoose’s sleeve.

“But,” he stuttered.

“We can report this as soon as we find a way out. But it’s important not to panic and run. Hopefully, this is only part of the dream…”

Mongoose allowed himself to be pulled away, but he wondered if Snake really understood the mechanics of this dream thing. Maybe the bodies weren’t really real, maybe the thing that killed them weren’t really real, but, well, as long as the photographer thing was dreaming, they were real enough. The bodies were real enough to be dead. The killer was real enough to kill. He and Snake were definitely real enough, and they could certainly die by some twisted nightmare.

Mongoose briefly touched his face. It was still there.

[Dragon Fogel]

In the evening, three cloaked figures met in an empty storehouse.

The smallest figure nervously looked around.

"Are... are you sure we weren't followed?" he asked the hulking figure beside him.

The larger man snorted.

"You worry too much. My senses may not be at their best today, but I could still sniff out a stalker."

The tall, slender figure looked at both before speaking up.

"This is a concern for us, you know. There was no sign of any connection between the two of you. The fact that such a link emerged may be mere coincidence... or it may have been intended as a warning to us."

"That's what I said!" the smaller creature squeaked. "What if it's an agent sent by the Divine Circle? And he's just taunting us before they send in the Inquisitors?"

"Ridiculous," the larger figure grumbled. "This hardly seems like an agent's style, not to mention that I doubt they'd give themselves away. Assuming it means anything at all, I'd expect it to be a blackmailer."

"Enough." The tall figure turned his head towards both in turn. "Leave it to the more senior members of the Order to discern the motives, if any, behind this incident. What is relevant for now is that you should avoid contact with us, or with each other, for a while. Worry not; our Great Plan is nearly complete, and when it is, you shall have no further need to conceal yourselves."

His two colleagues bowed, and left quietly by different routes.

***

Drall sighed. Another late evening. At least he could finally return home.

He unlocked the front door, but found it wasn't opening; this was unsurprising, as it had been sticking quite a bit lately. It was unlikely there would ever be a technician available to fix it; they had few to spare, and his door would hardly be a priority job.

He pushed on the door with all the strength his wiry frame gave him, and it came open.

He had about half a second to appreciate it before the bucket of water fell on his head.

[slipsicle]

Down a dripping, dreary side street of Endymion, a young man swore loudly as his hand flew from a doorknob. He kicked the door in question.

"What the hell, stupid door! I just" bang! "want to" bang! "open you!" bang bang!

Jeremy stood there, glaring at the doorknob that had just bitten him. Again.

He stewed for a while in his own misery; having been suffering from a terrible hangover for most of the round, he'd spent his time looking for the obvious cure: more alchohol. Then the doors had started biting him, and now his hand hurt and he was still hungover and thirsty and hungry and achy and were those footsteps goddamnit this street is a dead end and the damn doors won't let me-helloooooooo

An unfairly sexy girl, who couldn't be any older than twenty, had just rounded the corner and was giving Jeremy an... uncomfortable look. He froze, and realized his mouth was making an "o" shape. He closed it and licked his lips nervously.

"Uh... did I say that out loud?"

"...yes, you did." The girl cocked her head at him, "Why are you standing in front of my home?"

"Oh, this is, this is your home? Well, you see, uh, I was just, there's some... friends... and I was... um..." Jeremy kept moving his mouth for a while before he realized he wasn't saying anything useful, and settled for standing awkwardly. His mind, however, continued to run an incoherent stream of perversion, given this was the first remotely-attractive female he'd seen since the battle began. If she were a Grandmaster she'd be "The Hotness", he thought to himself. He giggled a bit at the thought. The girl raised an eyebrow. Jeremy gave her a nervous grin. "Uh! Um, you see... truth is... I haven't eaten in a while, and I could really use some bo- errr, water. I could really use some water." Truth be told, Jeremy made a rather ragged sight; clothes covered in dust, maple syrup and other assorted unmentionable liquids and particulates. He imagined he must look pretty worn-down, too. This was one situation where he hoped he looked as terrible as he felt. "I don't really have anywhere to uh... go right now..."

The girl looked him up and down. "Well, I'm not usually in the business of letting strange men into my home, but you seem..." Jeremy flashed another weak grin, "... mostly harmless. My housemates are working right now, but you need to be gone by the time they get back."

Jeremy nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Sure! I just could really use a place to sit, y'know, and... uh..." the girl had walked over to her door, and in so doing turned her back on Jeremy. Which, naturally, caused him to lose focus a bit. "um... mmmy name's Jeremy what's yours?"

The girl looked over her shoulder as she opened her door. "All you get is food and water. For now." She turned, and went inside.

Jeremy sighed in faux-resignation as his eyes wandered back downwards, and he followed The Hotness inside.

[MalkyTop]

Endymion felt alive.

She didn’t understand it herself, but that was how she felt. It was the only way to describe it. Nothing was different at all. Everything was different somehow, too. Things were not running smoothly, but they were generally running the same. But it was also obvious that they weren’t running right at all. Unless she had always ran this way, but after thinking about it, she was very sure that she hadn’t.

Thinking. That was new too, actually.

Water ran through her veins, powering all sorts of things. (All sorts of organs?) It was all automatic. Or it was mostly automatic. Or it used to be mostly automatic, but she wasn’t the only one feeling alive; her organs were alive too. They could pump and clean and flow by themselves. They could adjust their own pressure, unclog themselves, they knew almost instantly when something was wrong with Endymion because they were the parts that made up Endymion.

There was poison in her blood, she could feel it, a black sludge coursing its way through her…

Were those foreign invaders, those people crawling all over her land? No, they were the people that took care of her…but she could take care of herself. She had no need of caretakers. They must be invaders then, sickly little bacteria to be purged…

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Dream collapsed again, shuddering. That had been happening a lot. He had an idea about why, and he didn’t like it at all. He would fight it all the way, of course. Dreams had a habit of being out of the control of the dreamers. But he was different. He was the dreamer’s avatar, and if the dreamer changed, then so did the avatar. It hadn’t really happened before, but it at least made sense to him, and he felt he could use a little more sense in his life. It seemed to be running fairly dry as of late.

The Dream got up and rubbed his head, ignoring the bodies that swung above and the whispers of machinery all around and the deep mutterings of a being much larger than he could imagine. He had to remember what he had to do, what he was here for, what his purpose was and will be, that’s right, future tense, so it had to be true –

He flung the knife away from his hand. It was the fifth one that had appeared spontaneously in his grip. He refused to think about what it was for. He had to find the Photographer (he was still a photographer he had always been a photographer, he could never be anything else, maybe if he kept saying this it would be true and things would be back to normal) and then…and then he would have to think of something.

There was the sound of footsteps. He turned and saw two men, one of them holding a knife. They didn’t have faces. He wasn’t sure if it was because they just didn’t or because he just couldn’t see them. He panicked and fled. He flung another knife from his hand.

He wasn’t sure why he did, but he climbed back up to the surface. Behind him, he could hear the men follow and chase and shout (without mouths? No, people had faces, people had mouths, they could shout, people had faces, people had faces) but he didn’t listen.

Once above, he continued running. The surface looked fairly normal. Why was this? What was going to happen?

The people around him had no faces and he ran. The air felt like molasses. It was harder to be up here than down there. But still, he ran.

[Dragon Fogel]

Genetics Director Pendleton was a traditionalist and proud of it. This had a lot to do with the fact that he was six centuries older than anyone else in the colony, and consequently remembered a lot of traditions that everyone else had forgotten.

In his view, the Department of Genetics had already undergone far too many reforms that merely got in the way of smooth operation. Yet generation after generation, he had been ordered to implement changes that had been decided on with only the flimsiest pretenses of asking for his input.

It never occurred to him that this might relate to the fact that he always objected every bit as vehemently no matter the change. His opinions on every matter, from suspending the termination process to changing the color of the walls, were always the same.

"Everything's worked just fine since the day I was made Director, I don't see why we should go changing it now."

Over his decades of service, only one thing had changed about his answer: the sarcastic prediction of what ridiculous change they'd implement next.

"Next you'll be telling me we should anesthetize the failures before termination!"
"Next you'll be telling me we should feed specimens more than once a month!"
"Next you'll be telling me to get permission from the donors before DNA extraction!"
"Next you'll be telling me specimens have citizenship privileges by default!"

This was only out of necessity, as all too often, it was only a decade or three before these ridiculous notions were actually approved. Sometimes he wondered if holding onto his lifetime appointment as Director was even worthwhile if he had no say in the actual decision-making process.

But he wasn't about to give those bastards the satisfaction of seeing him leave. Not when he was going to outlive them by at least another six hundred years.

The citizenship rule had particularly irked him. Director Pendleton had worked hard to prove himself more than a mere combination of human and tortoise DNA. He had shown his intelligence, and his capability of understanding the processes that had created him. That was how he had become the first Genetics specimen to be granted citizenship. Ultimately, they deemed that his line wasn't suited for manual labor; they had long lives, but were sluggish and required quite a bit of food. The other specimens, lacking his intelligence, were terminated - and as far as he was concerned, it was better that way.

But those days were over - now all specimens were considered citizens until they could be demonstrated to be nonsapient. Even the failures!

And now another regulation was under debate. They'd sent a proposal to him, but he knew that was just a formality; they never listened to him. Even if the regulation was ultimately voted down, he always knew it would come up again in a year, or three, or five, or fifty. Sooner or later the ignorant buffoons would have their way.

But he wasn't about to let them have it without a fight.

Suddenly, he heard a buzzer ring. Someone was calling on him now? What could it be this time? Were they giving him an amendment to the proposal? It wouldn't change his mind.

With a heavy sigh, he picked himself up from his desk and lumbered over to the door. Five minutes later, he opened it. He wasn't the slightest bit sorry for the inconvenience of whatever visitor he had.

There was no one there.

Director Pendleton looked to the left and to the right, scratching his head. Had the visitor simply run off while waiting for him to reach the door? How inconsiderate. Well, he'd simply have to give them a piece of his mind. He reached into the pocket of his labcoat and pulled out the elevator controls, then shut them down. Whoever had interrupted his admittedly unpleasant paperwork wasn't leaving this floor until he'd given them a piece of his mind.

The director took two steps forward before slipping on the banana peel and falling on his back. He flailed his arms and limbs about helplessly as he yelled for an aide.

Unfortunately for him, all of the aides had received a memo about an important meeting in the first floor conference room, and they were still waiting for Genetics Director Pendleton to arrive and tell them what exactly the meeting was about.

[MalkyTop]

”Sir? A report…”

“Is it about the missing celestial bodies?”

“No, something else...Endymion seems to be getting more efficient. Somehow.”

“What.”

“Workers are reporting that the machinery is increasing output without any apparent difference in their modifications. We’re getting more energy from apparently no source.”

“Oh, come on, that can’t be right! Have you sent someone down to check everything?”

“Several. But the most we’ve learned is that there are strange growths underground. Then communications cut off after that.”

“…Alright. Don’t release this to the public. We need to pretend that everything’s under control. Send down cameras instead, attach them to a remote-controlled vehicle. I want to know exactly what is going on down there…”

I will murder you

“What?”

“…What…?”

“Did you say something?”

“No…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The thing they were chasing was somewhat similar to the thing they were trying to find, but slightly stumpier. Moved really fast, though. Mongoose sprinted ahead of Snake as the knife in his hands started babbling an explanation but he ignored that because shit was weird already and it was a lot easier to just be chasing a dude rather than chasing a thing that was a part of a dream but autonomous while they were all inside a dream that was just a dream layered over reality and whatever the shit.

The thing appeared to be littering knives everywhere. Like, a ridiculous number of knives. People who happened to be out and about stared as they zipped by, careful not to be hit by any of the sharp objects the little black creature tossed aside. And it was while the knife was busy explaining that the thing he was chasing didn’t even have any real stamina and Mongoose was busy ignoring it that he finally made a leap forward, grabbed its wrist (which seemed free of spikes and knives and thus was the safest handhold) and stumbled to the ground, making his quarry lurch and fall as well. Mongoose dragged them both up to their feet while Snake jogged lightly towards them.

“Alright,” Mongoose started, vaguely wondering again what this inky black dude was even made of because the thing was damp and sticky and a little bit disgusting to hold.

“Stop talking,” the thing replied, sounding horrified. There was another knife in its hands, which was somewhat surprising. “You’re dead!”

In Mongoose’s experience, when people said things like that while waving around a knife, it was good to wave around a knife of your own. And so he waved around the (not talking nope not at all) knife in his hands in the vicinity of the thing’s face.

Its eyes, large white glowy things, seemed to brighten a little and it tossed away its own knife and grabbed the (no no no not talking) knife by the blade. “Good, good,” it said, hunching over on the ground. Mongoose didn’t really know what else to do besides to let go of the hilt. For one thing, if a blade wasn’t going to do much to it, then it was a useless weapon. For another, the knife seemed to be pacifying it quite well. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see someone on the phone. Calling the Containment Team, no doubt.

“We need to get out of here,” said Mongoose, turning to Snake. “We do, right?”

“If we want to keep him out of the asylum, yes.”

“He’s diluted,” the thing moaned. “He’s being pumped through the entire goddamn place like blood and now the entire moon is his dream. I saw it down there, he's insane, this is a nightmare, but not for him. People aren't people to him, you know. But I didn't think it could come to this.”

Mongoose picked it up by the waist and looked around. “His stupid rambling’s gettin’ a crowd, Snake. I’m not sure if we can get out.”

And as Endymion’s residents stared and whispered, the babbling continued. “He’s fragmented, the whole thing’s going to fall apart, everybody’s going to die, the moon’ll be destroyed or it’ll be alive or something I don’t even know what to do…”

Soon enough, a group of white-coated men pushed their way through the crowd, all burly and stone-faced. They plucked the thing out of Mongoose’s arms with ease. “Thank you,” said one, “We’ll take it from here.”

“We’re the only ones left,” it said morosely to the knife in its hands. “And he’s going to snuff us out. I’m going to die. He’s going to replace me. You’ll just fade away.” Another knife appeared and he tossed it aside.

“Now hang on – “ Mongoose started towards the man holding the thing, but was shoved back.

“Look, son, we’re the Containment Team. Let us do our jobs, hm?” And with a condescending pat on the back, the Team retreated, as well as the crowd. Mongoose fumed.

“That wasn’t the Containment Team,” Snake said as soon as the two men were alone again.

“Oh, really? Was it the lack of procedure that tipped you off?” With a huff, Mongoose started walking home. There were several drinks he would like to down and he wasn’t going to be able to do that just standing around out here.

“But why did they take him away, then?” Snake wondered as he followed. Mongoose didn’t care. He had an inability to care. He remembered with a groan that they were planning to report all this weird shit to the coppers but realized that they probably wouldn’t believe them (he barely believed himself) and so it probably didn’t matter if they didn’t report at all. Which meant going home and drinking and that would really brighten up this day, wouldn’t it?

They passed by a few workers lowering cameras into the sewers. Snake watched this thoughtfully.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

They didn’t take away the knife. They didn’t even restrain him. The Dream stared, but stared at nothing, and thought about his failure, his impending death. Or what could technically be considered a death.

The Photographer (technically could still be called that, right?) was just sludge. A consciousness spread around, imbedded in the planet’s workings now. Maybe he was even separated into multiple bits of sludge. How could you wake that up? You can’t. At least, not in time. Endymion would be alive, nightmarishly alive, and who knew what would happen. The Dream knew what would happen to him, though. He was going to die. Every last bit of what was formerly the Photographer was going to die as much as he struggled. The people here would die. The others would hopefully die, that would make this nightmare end sooner, but then his host would still be a diluted mess, something part of Endymion, and the other solution was just as bad because he didn't want to die.

He said this, shedding knives, and in the dark room people watched and recorded.

[Dragon Fogel]

The page opened the office door, then looked down the hall before waving to the two fugitives.
"It's clear," he said. They rushed into the door, and the page closed it behind them. He then poked his head under the large desk.
Geoff and Wardell stared at each other for a moment, then Wardell went back to burying his nose in a book. Geoff sighed, he supposed he'd have to do the talking.
"Not that I object or anything," he said, walking over to the side of the desk, "but why exactly are you rescuing us?"
"Boss told me to," the page replied. "Tell you more in a minute. Oh, and you may want to step away from the bookcase."
Geoff glanced at a large bookcase behind the desk, shrugged, and stepped back.
"Further back," the page said, poking his head out. "Trust me."
Geoff obeyed. A moment later, the bookcase swung upwards to the ceiling; there was a doorway behind it. The page smiled, and gestured towards it.
"Gentleman, your freedom lies this way."
He lead them into the passage, and then flipped a switch on the wall. The bookcase swung down behind Wardell, just close enough to make him once more aware there was a world outside of his book.
"So, here's why I helped you out," the page said. "The office of the Grand Inquisitor has a long history of just blaming whoever's convenient, a tradition which our friend Acolyte Calor is only to happy to continue."
"Now that's an old story," Wardell mumbled.
"But how do you know we actually didn't do it?" Geoff asked mischievously.
"Don't, really," the page said with a shrug. "But even if you did, well, my boss thinks you could help him out. He's willing to take a chance here. If you're not interested, of course, well, he can always track you down and hand you back over to Calor."
Geoff and Wardell looked at each other for a while.
"You talk to him," Wardell finally concluded. "I'm not a negotiator."

***

"Ah, Calor, Dreus. You're the last ones here." Archbishop Pentago glared at the new arrivals. "Try to come sooner next time, hmm?"
"Forgive them, Your Grace," Acolyte Midro interjected. "I am sure they arrived promptly; my page must have simply been late in delivering the message. I will speak to him later."
"You are too kind, Midro," Calor replied. "I am sure we could have arrived earlier."
"Hmmph. Enough pleasantries. We're in a rush," Archbishop Blun grumbled. "Someone close the door, this is a sensitive subject. No one below the rank of Minister may hear this."
Midro closed the doors. Blun nodded, and resumed speaking.
"We've received an unusual report from Public Works," Blun explained. "We have more energy than expected. Significantly more. This would not be distressing if not for the fact that we have no idea where it came from."
The room was silent.
"I believe you are all having the same thought I am," Pentago said, breaking the silence. "There is one particular energy source that we are aware of and Public Works is not."
"We speak, of course, of the Heart of Endymion," Blun interjected. "You should all know that under normal circumstances, it accounts for approximately 13 percent of Endymion's energy output. What you may not realize is that this percentage used to be significantly higher."
"Indeed," Pentago continued. "As the rest of our technology grew more efficient, we designed regulators to control the output and decrease our dependence on it. If the regulators were to fail, it would naturally result in a higher energy output."
"And consequently, a sudden and unexplained surge of energy," Blun concluded. "However, this is nothing more than a hypothesis. We will need to send someone to examine the Heart before we can be certain it is the cause. Acolyte Zaedr!"
A tall, blue-skinned man stepped out from the crowd of priests.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"We are assigning you to lead the investigation, as you have more experience with the Heart than anyone else here. You may select anyone else in this room to accompany you, though we ask that you not travel in a large group."
"Of course. No sense alerting the public needlessly," Zaedr agreed. "I shall bring Minister Dreus, and Minister Telon; both are well-versed in the relevant mechanisms, even if they have not seen the Heart itself."
"Very good, then," Blun concluded. "That is all. Everyone save Zaedr, Dreus, and Telon are dismissed. You may resume your duties."
"With all due respect, Your Grace," Calor said, raising a hand, "why did we have to come in for this at all? You had already selected Zaedr for the mission, and it was unlikely he would need another Acolyte's assistance."
Blun glared at the young Acolyte.
"I will be lenient this time because you have not had your rank for very long, Calor," he said disapprovingly. "Simply put, we are preparing for the worst. If Zaedr runs into unexpected problems, we will ask another among you to assist him. And we would prefer to waste as little time as possible explaining what you must do. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Your Grace. My apologies."
"Now, return to your duties."
Calor raised his hand again. Blun sighed.
"What is it now, Calor?"
"I apologize once again, but Minister Dreus was assisting me. I will require a replacement..."
"Sort it out for yourself, then. Surely you are capable of that?"
Embarrassed, Calor bowed his head.
"Ah, yes. I merely wanted to be sure I had permission."
"Hmmph. Another impertinent question like that and I may consider assigning someone else to attend to the late Grand Inquisitor's duties."
"I will keep that in mind, sir."
Acolyte Midro walked up to Calor, a satisfied expression on his face.
"I can spare an assistant or two, Calor. I don't mind taking on a little extra work myself."
"How very kind of you, Midro," Calor muttered. "I don't see how I can refuse such a generous offer."

***

"I don't see how I can refuse such a generous offer," Geoff replied, slightly frustrated. "So what does your boss want us to do?"
"It comes down to Calor again, as it turns out. Where do I begin... Okay, well, he was a Minister until only a couple of months ago. He was in the enforcement division, that's how he ended up filling in for the Grand Inquisitor."
Geoff shook his head.
"I'm sorry, the titles don't really mean anything specific to me."
"Oh, then I'll just give you the short version. So a couple of months ago, Calor was assigned to shut down a cult. He managed to track down every member and capture them, and that impressed the Grand Inquisitor enough to promote him."
"Well, good for him," Geoff said. "But you haven't explained what that's got to do with us."
"Ah, yeah. My boss, look, I don't know how he knows, but my boss thinks Calor didn't hand over all the members. Thinks he joined up with them, handed over a few to make himself look good, and had the rest go into hiding. Only thing is, we aren't sure why; Calor's ambitious, not rebellious."
"So you want us to find out," Geoff concluded.
"Right. Now, the cult's mostly genetic rejects, from what we can figure out, and with all due respect, you could pass for one," the page continued. "The guy in the scarf, not so much, but it's all right; they're hardly exclusively for rejects. Even if they did let Calor in." The page smirked.
"And how are we going to find this cult? If you could, surely you wouldn't need our help."
"Well... it's true, we're still working on that," the page admitted sheepishly. "But we can get you on the streets and hopefully you can find something out. Don't think about trying to weasel out, though; we'll be keeping an eye on you."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Geoff acknowledged. "So where are we going right now, exactly?"
"My sister's place," said the page. "Well, okay, it's not just her place. But my boss arranged things so she'd get the room on the other side of the passage. Ah, here we are!"
The page reached for a switch on the wall. Geoff coughed.
"Er, perhaps I'm being presumptuous, but won't your sister mind if you come in with two strange men without, say, knocking first?"
The page laughed.
"She's always working at this hour, don't worry," he said. "Can't think of a single thing that would keep her away from work." He flipped the switch, and a panel opened up.
The three of them stepped out, and were greeted with a scream.
Wardell glanced towards the bed, where a very attractive woman had pulled the sheets over herself.
She wasn't alone. Her partner slowly picked himself up, and waved at the newcomers.
"Hey Geoff, Ward," Jeremy said dreamily. "This is Ellena. Who's your new friend?"

[Solaris]

As Jeremy entranced with his engaging description of what he had done Geoff and Ellena's brother, the embarrassed sister rushed out of the bed to get herself into a more modest state and Wardell predictably opened a book, once again, A Comprehensive History of Endymion.

As he reluctantly leafed through book, looking for more information on this cult, Jeremy started to drivel on and on. Though he made a great effort, Wardell was unable to completely block out the drunkard's ramblings, going through the index, ...Cubicles...Cucumbers...Cults- "And of course I found myself at a bar..."

Wardell winced, but did not deter, rationalizing that the quicker he found some pertinent information, the less he would have to deal with Jeremy. and other underground societies in the moon often were formed by the genetically rejected citize- "And the sweetheart that she is, she let's me in and... well...-" One significant cult... of which various key members were apprehended... worship a winged arbiter ... revolved around he end of the moon- "Oh yea! I also met that angel, well sort of, he just rushed out after I got there but... where was I?"

As Wardell continued his attempts to ignore Jeremy, his more observant scarf tugged at him a little, eliciting a stare that asked, 'what?'

"Well, that last cult there, doesn't it seem a little relevant? Winged arbiter, end of the moon, apprehended members?"

Wardell paused for a bit, and then made an "Ahem."

"So, this cult, does it have any symbols or figures they worship."

For a moment, everyone was a bit silent, as Jeremy and Geoff hadn't gotten used to seeing Wardell's face out of a book, let alone talking.

"Uhm, well, we think that they are waiting for the coming of a winged arbiter or something," the page scratched at his head not quite sure what Wardell was getting at.

Quickly recovering, Geoff placed himself on the right track, "A winged arbiter, someone who would come down and judge others, probably dressed for the part, like..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Jeremy interrupted "When did he start talking?"

===

For Acolyte Zaedr and his ministers, things were going relatively smoothly. The trio thought that they had gotten a bit lost on their way down, but they just chalked it up to a mistake on their part. "It has been a while since I've been down here, I probably just misremembered," was said at least three times, each one less sure than the last.

Eventually, Zaedr hit a metaphorical wall along with the very real ones that seemed to be newly strewn across the path to the Heart of Endymion. After tracing their steps back to a fork with four paths, of which, they had just been through one, Zaedr spoke to Minister Dreus and Minister Telon and he reluctantly confirmed their fears, "I am afraid that there is something wrong with the pathway to the Heart of Endymion. I am absolutely sure that we took the right path, but as you can see..."

"So then, what do you propose we do, go back?"
"Nonsense, we can't just go back, right Acolyte Zaedr?"
"Yes, we must keep going, even if the path is uncertain. One of these must lead to the heart, so each of us will go on our own. If you meet a dead end, come back here and wait for the others."

The two ministers nodded, and after selecting their respective paths, split up.

As Acolyte Zaedr continued deeper into Endymion's dark corridors, he felt... odd. It was not just how the path was suddenly unfamiliar, or what he thought could have caused the energy spike that drove this feeling, it was something in the air that just made him feel uncomfortable. He was glad that there was no one around to see him.

Then, there was a drip. The Acolyte paid it no mind, focusing on the task at hand, on his duty to the moon, on anything that wasn't the feeling creeping up inside him. There was another, louder drip, followed by a step? The Acolyte stopped in his tracks, looked behind him and saw nothing. He was alone.

I am alone.

Acolyte Zaedr continued his travels, his heart racing and his breathing becoming erratic. He wasn't being followed, there wasn't anything here, and the heart was probably acting as it was because of something trivial. This is what Zaedr wanted to believe, it is what he wanted to happen. He didn't want to see the odd liquid that was dripping around, he didn't want to think about what shapes seemed to be forming along the corridors, and he certainly did not want to notice a shadow lurking behind him.

"It's just your imagination, there isn't anything wrong, you are alone..."

It wasn't working. He was now almost sprinting but the atmosphere did not change, Acolyte Zaedr still felt as if he was not alone, no matter how much he tried to deny it. Still, he persevered, and finally made it to his destination.

The Heart of Endymion was a breathtaking sight, the subtle red glow illuminating both the room it was housed in and a few pipes that flowed through the moon. After all of the trouble getting there, the view made Zaedr feel safe. He snapped out of his trance and started to get closer, as he did have a job to do.

As he stepped forward, the feelings of sickness and unease left him, tossed aside and forgotten. Unfortunately, he also tossed any semblance of a guard along with it. When the figure that had been pursuing him stabbed him in the back, it was fast, without any struggle. The figure looked like a shadow against the Heart of Endymion, as if they were cloaked in darkness. They turned away from the fresh corpse only to find what seemed to be another shadowy figure. There was silence as the two faced each other, one much more visibly nervous than the other. Finally, one of them made a break for it, leaving the other alone in the heart's chamber.

Drip.

===

"Alright, well that's all fine and dandy for why you two should help them, but what stake do I have in it? I have other plans."

With Jeremy brought up to speed and everyone fully dressed, the tone in the room had changed a bit, with the page getting increasingly annoyed at the man who he thought hadn't said one agreeable thing the entire short time they had known each other. "Well, not anymore you don't. You are going to go with them and help them find out who killed the Grand Inquisitor." He sounded like he would punch Jeremy if anything other than a 'Yes' came out of the drunkards mouth.

Groggily getting his sense back, Jeremy reasoned that his time as a guest was probably over. From the look of embarrassment Ellena was giving him and Geoff and Wardell's uncaring faces, he was not going to easily slip out of this one. Well, not yet at least.

"Alright, alright, I'll help you with this stupid investigation." He paused then added a snide, "I guess."

The page squinted, but continued on, "Good. Now, as I said, the cult is made out of mostly genetic rejects, if you go around where most of them hang out, you might find something. I suppose that angel or whatever it was called angle could also work, but the point is that if you don't do something to find them, we'll know, and I will personally make sure that the three of you are handed right back into Calor's hands."

Geoff nodded, "Don't worry, I would like figure out what happened here just as much as you would. And I'll also make sure that these two don't run off, now, you said something about the er... genetic rejects, can you tell us where we could find them?"

"There are a few places where they could be and..." The page looked at the time, "Shoot, I have to get back, I can't take you to any of their hang outs, you'll have to figure it out yourself."

"Wait," Ellena spoke, "maybe I could take them to one."

The page's eye twitched a little, but he knew that he did not have the time to argue. "Fine but be careful!"

Without another word, he left, leaving the unlikely, and in some cases, reluctant group alone in a small silence.

"Well then, Ellena? I don't think I've formerly introduced myself, I'm Geoff, this is Wardell. Pleased to meet you."

"The feeling is mutual I suppose."

"Right, we've got some ground to cover, so if you could please lead the way?"

[Dragon Fogel]

Minister Norve was less than pleased with how the day was turning out. First he had been assigned by Acolyte Midro to keep an eye on Calor - not officially, of course, but Norve knew enough to read between the lines.

Unpleasant as that duty was, it was only made worse by the fact that Calor was very good at devising tasks that the Minister couldn't easily pass off to a page, due to the sensitive nature of the data involved. It turned out there were quite a few such distractions you could plausibly construct when two murderers suddenly disappeared. And, of course, if Norve were to suggest that another Minister perform these menial tasks, he would be rebuked for insubordination.

The worst of it had been scouring the archives. One of the suspects - or "cold-blooded killers", as Calor had called them - appeared to be a genetic construct, and so poor Norve had been ordered to find a profile for him. He hadn't even seriously considered asking why it hadn't already been done - why would it have been necessary, after all, when the suspects were right there to be questioned, tried and convicted?

That task had taken several hours. Several hours during which Norve had no idea where Calor was or what he was doing. The worst part was that Norve had been completely unable to locate any file on the suspect - he half-expected Calor to miraculously have it on hand already, just to ensure his watchdog would be forced to check every last record.

It was almost a relief when that wasn't the case.

"No file whatsoever?" Calor asked incredulously.

"None. Looked everywhere, no one fitting his description."

"That could mean a number of things, none of them good. For one, he might know our system well enough to find and remove his own file. Unpleasant as that would be, I actually find it the least disturbing possibility."

"How so, sir?" Norve knew the answer, but appearing ignorant was better than appearing complicit.

"Because the next possibility that comes to mind is that someone in the church removed it for him."

"Oh. I should hope not, sir; the thought that one of us could be aiding such a criminal is most disquieting." And also completely true, he was sure.

"Worse yet, he might be the work of an unlicensed geneticist. That would provide a clear motive, of course... perhaps the human was the geneticist, and the Grand Inquisitor, rest his soul, had uncovered their operation."

Norve could tell Calor liked this theory. He expected it would become the official truth if the escapees were caught.

"That does sound plausible, sir," he said noncommitally.

"Or worst of all, he might be an off-worlder. That would be a grave problem, as you surely know."

"Absolutely, sir," Norve replied. He found himself wishing he had gone with Zaedr instead.

Calor stared at the Minister for a while. Were it not for his great self-control, Norve would have sighed as he anticipated Calor's latest excuse.

"Well, we apprehended some other prisoners last night," he mused. "I need to question them as well."

Norve was almost certain he wouldn't be coming along.

"But we cannot ignore this murder, of course. Look into the files on past incidents involving rogue geneticists or off-worlders. Perhaps they will give us insight into which of those we are dealing with."

"Yes, sir," Norve agreed reluctantly.

He was not looking forward to reporting back to Midro later.

Calor smiled as his guard dog wandered off. There was only one more matter to take care of before he could let Midro's little spy see all that he pleased.

****

Brother Lanston was beginning to think he had been forgotten. He had been captured at least eight hours ago, and there was no sign of any Inquisitor, Grand or otherwise.

Finally, Acoylte Calor stepped in, alone.

"I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience," he said with a smirk. "The day has been quite a bit busier than I expected."

"You're not the Grand Inquisitor," Lanston noted calmly.

"Alas, the Grand Inquisitor departed this mortal coil last night. I am left to take on his Earthly duties."

"I'm sure you're devastated by his passing, Acolyte. However will you cope, having so much less work involved in talking to your old friends alone?"

Calor sneered as he grabbed Lanston's arm.

"I think I'll manage. Don't think this will change anything about the usual arrangements."

"Didn't think so," Lanston murmured. "This is always such a fun part."

Calor dragged Lanston to the wall and shoved his forearm into a small opening. He turned a crank; Lanston howled with pain as the unknown machinery crushed his fingers, but really, it wasn't as if this was a new experience. The anguished screams were more for the sake of appearances than anything else.

"Enough pleasantries, Brother Lanston. We have business to discuss. I assume that's why you raised such a ruckus, after all." Calor fiddled with a dial, and two long chains with shackles attached dropped from the ceiling.

"Wish I had more exciting news. AAAAGGH!! IT BURNS!" He screeched again, just as Calor locked up his ankles. "The Matriarch wants her payment to keep quiet, as usual - AAAAAAA!! - and that traitor you mentioned last time has been taken care of."

"Good, good," Calor said absentmindedly as he turned the dial the other way. The chains retracted back towards the ceiling, pulling Lanston's shackled legs with them.

"Oh, wait. There was one other small matter - MERCY! MERCY!" Lanston howled as Calor pulled a hot poker from the wall and prodded his back. "When I was arrested at Johnny's, I saw a rather interesting customer. Most likely a reject, given where he was, not to mention what he looked like..."

"Get to the point, Lanston. I've had enough delays already today." Calor grabbed Lanston's other hand and drove it through a spike on the wall, prompting another shriek. "And you could stand to be a little less melodramatic about this."

"My apologies, Acolyte," Lanston grumbled. "Here's what matters. This stranger looked human, except for one little detail. He had wings. Great big white wings."

Calor actually stopped a moment before he pulled the next lever. It was Lanston's least favorite, but he knew the reprieve would be brief.

"Would you say they were the purest white?" Calor asked, before pulling the lever. The mechanisms inside the wall began drawing Lanston further in, even as the chains continued to slowly retract towards the ceiling.

It was the anticipation that was the worst part, really.

"Bit dirty, but yeah, probably would be if you cleaned them off. Anyway, that's my report. Mostly I came to see if you had a new job for me."

Calor chuckled.

"As a matter of fact, I do. It's interesting that you should mention the Matriarch. I have recently come to the conclusion that trying to please that woman simply isn't worth the trouble."

He pulled a small circular device out of his robe, then pulled out a dagger from his belt. He stabbed Lanston through the heart and stuffed the device in the wound.

"So I've decided to give her a little gift. Just leave it in her desk, where you usually leave my payments. She'll be certain to find it there, I should think."

Lanston felt the world fading.

"Got it. Don't know why you waited until now to do this, but then, I'm not paid to ask questions. Just the opposite, really."

"A wise man. You'll go far, Brother Lanston." Calor smiled, then stabbed the cultist in the stomach a few times for good measure. "Oh, yes, you won't be leaving by the usual route this time. Someone appears to be targeting our members, so we're changing our regular plans to throw them off. You should wake up near Dr. Lo's office, in the company of two recruiters. They'll guide you back to headquarters once their shift is over"

"Got it. Don't see what I have to worry about, though."

"We would prefer not to take chances," Calor said solemnly, slicing off Lanston's head. "And, of course, should you happen to find our Winged Arbiter again, bring him to me one way or another. I believe he could prove very useful."

"That'll cost you extra, you know," Lanston's head mumbled just as he passed out.

Calor released the body and pulled it out, along with the head. He left them on the floor, and left the room, only to find Norve waiting for him with a stack of papers in hand.

"This is everything I could find, sir," the Minister said, doing his best to hide his annoyance. "I would have knocked, but I wasn't bred with an extra hand."

"Good, good," Calor said. "Why don't you take those to my office while I question our remaining prisoners? Oh, yes, and there's a mess that needs cleaning up in there. There's no need to attend to it yourself, but I would appreciate it if you could inform one of my pages."

Norve sighed.

"Fine. Would you like me to take your notes on the last interrogation while I'm at it?"

"That won't be necessary," Calor said. "I'll bring all my notes with me when I arrive later."

After you remember to write them, no doubt, Norve thought.

***

It was not easy for genetic rejects to see a doctor on Endymion. Though recent laws banned them from being refused service outright, most doctors had simply opted to discourage rejects in other ways.

Dr. Lo had stepped in to fill that void. He had resigned from a lucrative post at Genetics to serve his fellow man, even if most of his former colleagues would never see them as equals.

But his clinic was not merely a medical center. Dr. Lo realized that as matters stood, rejects had few opportunities for education. As a small step towards rectifying that problem, he had gathered a large collection of books and opened a library in the clinic's basement.

At first, it seemed like the library was a futile gesture; more than three-quarters of Lo's patients were illiterate. But those who could read were eager to teach others, at least once Dr. Lo told them how much he was willing to pay for their services.

Sirius was finding one of them especially eager.

"You really can read already?" it asked. It was a large toadlike creature, and Sirius had no idea of its gender.

"Yes," he said. He turned his attenton back to his book, A Brighter Future: The Path To True Equality For Discontinued Genetic Lines. He was beginning to understand how Wardell felt.

"Come on, I bet you can't get all the words in that book. 'S a real fancy one, y'know. Good, though, real good - gave me lots to think about."

"Please leave me alone," Sirius said firmly. "I've had a long day, this is the first time in a good while I haven't had my employer shouting in my ear, and I don't need anyone else getting on my nerves."

"But I get a bonus if I teach the most people to read this week! Come on, it won't take long! I could give you the advanced course, you'll like it!"

"No."

"Ah, come on! I really need that bonus! Why, I'll even treat you to one of Johnny's meat pies..."

The force of Sirius' glare convinced the tutor to look elsewhere for students.

"Finally," Sirius grumbled, focusing on his book again. The Eccentric had agreed to a half-hour of quiet time, and Sirius intended to make the most of it.

His solitude didn't last long. Less than a minute later, what appeared to be a four foot tall mound of hair pulled up a seat next to him.

"Good... book?" the hairy creature asked, slowly. Sirius simply nodded.

"Glad... think... so," it said. "I... wrote."

Sirius looked at his new companion, surprised. "You wrote? You mean, this book?"

The creature excitedly nodded what seemed to be its head. Its rapid movements contrasted strangely with the pace of its speech.

"Yes... I... wrote. Wrote... about... us. Tell... world... of... struggle. Our... struggle."

"Did anyone help you?" Sirius asked, staring with disbelief at an eloquently-written passage. It was hard to reconcile with the image before him.

"New... ones... always... ask. Because... I... talk... slow." The hairball laughed weakly. "But... no... wrote... by... self. Talking... hard. Writing... easier. Learned... read... then... learned... write. Then... wrote."

"You're very good at it," Sirius said, surprised. "How long did it take you to write this?"

"Two... months. Doctor... printed... for... me. Said... not... likely... sell."

Sirius couldn't help but agree. The book had no kind words for the current leadership, and it had little sympathy for the ordinary citizens who, despite the new laws, mostly continued to mistreat rejects - or "discontinued genetic lines", the author's prefered term. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to buy a book that told them how terrible they were.

"But... he... liked. Told... me... talk... to... us. Get... more... writers. More... voices... heard."

"And has anyone else started writing?"

"Not... many. Too... busy. Need... money. Doctor... tries... to... help. But... he... needs... money... too."

Sirius doubted that Dr. Lo would have much luck getting a publishing house interested, either.

"I... write... new... book. Here... take... look."

The hairball thrust a limb into its thick fur, and pulled out a partial manuscript. The title read A Comprehensive History of Endymion.

"I... write... for... us. Next... write... for... everyone. Doctor... thinks... might... sell. Give... us... chance... write... more."

Sirius thought he heard a mental yawn. He suspected that his break was nearly over.

"I wish you the best," he said.

"Thank... you." The hairball giggled. "You... hear... about... Director?"

"No," Sirius lied. News travelled fast, apparently.

"Genetics... Director," he continued, clearly pleased. "Slipped... on... peel. Stuck... on... back. For... one... hour."

"Really? I wish I could have seen the look on his face," Sirius said, smiling awkwardly. "But listen, I'm afraid I have to go now..."

"Back... to... work... yes?" the little creature said, sighing a little. "What... job?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Sirius replied. "I prefer to think about it as little as possible."

"Hear... that... lots," the creature said with a nod. "Hope... you... find... better... job."

"That makes two of us," Sirius agreed, stepping away just as he heard the Eccentric's familiar mental tone.


Ah, that was a good nap. Where are we? A library? Ooh, grab a book or two before we leave, I know some good tricks with books...

****

Lanston groaned. He looked down at his body.

"You've put it on backwards, you idiots!" he yelled at the two cloaked cultists hovering over the table. He grabbed his head and snapped it off. "Now do it right, hopefully before I pass out again."

"Well, sorry! It's not like any of this is marked or anything!" the shorter of the pair retorted, grabbing Lanston's head. His taller companion flipped the body over, and the shorter man shoved the head back on.

"Much better," Lanston grumbled. He picked himself up and threw a cloak over his body, much to the relief of the other two; few had seen Lanston without his cloak, and those who had generally regretted it. "Ugh, wish they'd sent me to the usual place instead. Where I could be put back together competently."

"We had little choice, Brother," the taller cultist replied in a raspy, feminine voice. "Someone seems to be aware of our activities. Several members have been struck by unusual pranks since last night."

"Pranks?" Lanston sneered. "This is what has you all worried?"

"It's worrying as hell!" the shorter cultist declared. "Whoever it is knows who we are. Maybe the pranks are just a warning. Maybe they're toying with us before these pranks turn more dangerous."

"Or maybe it's just dumb luck," Lanston said. "Whatever it is, I doubt I have much to worry about."

"The rest of us lack your particular talents, Brother," hissed the taller cultist. "Pardon us if we are more concerned."

"Whatever," Lanston grumbled. "So when's your shift over? I've got business with the Matriarch, and I don't know my way around this part of town."

"It might as well be over now. Lo's been bad for business. He's got his own line with the rejects, and he warns them not to have anything to do with us. It's been weeks since we got anyone around here to join."

"Then quit wasting my time. You know where I'm headed, show me the way."

Grudgingly, the pair walked out, with Lanston following at a distance he found comfortable. They soon passed Dr. Lo's office; Lanston noticed that his companions were walking quite a bit faster.

"What's the rush?" he asked. "Afraid he'll give you a flu shot?"

"Afraid of his patients. I told you, most of 'em don't like us."

"The door's opening!" the tall cultist hissed. "Move faster!"

"Cowards," Lanston muttered, glancing back at the door. "What's one reject going to..."

He smiled beneath his hood as he saw a familiar face step out of the clinic. Or more accurately, a familiar pair of wings.

Lanston leapt in front of his fleeing companions and held out his arms.

"What's the big idea?" the short one asked. "You got a problem with us hurryin' to get you home?"

Lanston pointed behind them at the angel spreading his wings.

"Our Winged Arbiter has arrived," he said simply. "And I think the Matriarch will want some words with him."

[Dragon Fogel]

"You have got to be freakin' kidding me," the short cultist grumbled. "You want us to capture him? He can fly!"

"It is hardly a difficult task, Brother Pila," his associate replied. She held up her arm and a series of thick green vines flew from it towards Sirius. But he swiftly changed course, and the vines missed his leg by mere inches.

"That's what you get for showing off, Sister Catena," Pila growled. He took a deep breath and his body took on a rounder shape. "Tryandcatchupifyoucan!" he declared rapidly, before bouncing off the clinic's front wall.

"A minor setback," Catena declared, more to herself than the junior cultist. As her vines fell, she turned her arm and they caught themselves around a conveniently-placed pole halfway across the street. Without a word, she retracted her vine-arm, pulling herself to the pole.

Lanston sneered as the other cultists ran off in pursuit.
"Bah. Amateurs, they'll never catch him moving like that." He glanced at a nearby communication terminal; perfect. "Still, I suppose they'll make a nice distraction."

Lanston opened a maintenance panel on the terminal and leapt in. He wasn't sure of the Winged Arbiter's destination, but the overall direction was clear enough, and he could move through the gears and pistons that connected two terminals faster than this fool could fly. Provided that the others kept their quarry moving in the right direction, he could claim the element of surprise.

Sirius, for his part, was less concerned by his pursuers than by his backseat driver.


Why, Siri! Did you make some new friends while I was out? You really should introduce me sometime!

"This is about the worst possible time for you to come back," Sirius snapped back. It wasn't entirely true; as far as the angel was concerned, there was never a good time for the Eccentric to return.

Oh, Siri, you're just saying that. Now, turn left here.

Sirius was about to reply again when he felt a sharp pain on his right shoulder at the wing joint. Sister Catena had come closer to the mark this time.

You see? If you'd turned left that wouldn't have hit you! Honestly, it's as if you can't view the entire area from an omniscient perspective. OH WAIT I GUESS YOU CAN'T!

"Then why don't you show me yours instead of yelling directions at me?" Sirius retorted. He lowered himself slightly and flapped slower on his right side; the wound wasn't pleasant.

Because it would break your puny ethereal mind! Oh, wait, that sounds like fun LET'S GIVE IT A SHOT!

Sirius screamed as the Eccentric altered his vision, showing him not just the layout of the region from three different angles, but also the exact composition of every atom of air, dirt, machinery, and even himself, all in one horrifying image.

"Wow, I guess that wing was a more sensitive area than I thought," Catena mused, swinging across loose poles and girders. The winged man was flying more slowly, but still a bit faster than her swinging could manage.

Fortunately, her partner could bounce faster than she could move.

"NiceworkCatenanowIllfinishthejob," Pila squealed, racing towards a rotating antenna. As he struck one of its panels, it spun faster, raising his momentum with it. After one full spin he launched himself at Sirius and struck him right in the stomach, then latched on.

Oops! It seems we have a hitchhiker. Here, I'll let you see less clearly so you can deal with him.

Sirius sighed with relief as the all-seeing image left his eyes. But the close view of Brother Pila's face soon removed that sentiment.

"Ignition!"

It was Pila's turn to scream as the flames surrounded Sirius' body. He let go and bounced off the ground wildly, looking for a chance to douse himself.

"Hmmph, how pathetic," Catena muttered, watching as Pila bounced into an open coolant tank. Fortunately, the junior cultist's strike had slowed down Sirius for a few moments, long enough for her to catch up. She readied her vines again, and this time managed to wind them around his arm. The flames made her wince, but she could handle the pain better than Pila.

Besides, she didn't need to actually touch him. She broke off the section of pipe she was hanging from and retracted her vine-arm towards Sirius. The pipe would make a nice club, and one good blow to the head would be enough.

Unfortunately, she neglected to take into consideration that she was now at the mercy of Sirius' flight pattern.

DO A BARREL ROLL!

Much as he disliked the order, Sirius had to admit it was the right time. He spun around, and Catena's vines spun with him, burning as they touched his flaming body. Between the flames and the vertigo it was inducing on her body, she soon lost her grip on the pipe. It fell to the ground, striking Pila on the head just as he was about to start bouncing again.

But Sirius wasn't free yet; Catena's vines were still wrapped around him, and she didn't seem to have any intention of letting go. Or perhaps she simply wasn't in any shape to. Regardless, he needed to land in order to shake the vines off properly; it would also offer a chance to heal his wounded wing.

He flew to a nearby rooftop, next to a strange box. He grabbed the vines with his free hand, and pulled them apart; Catena screamed at the separation, but was too disoriented to free herself with her other arm. She simply fell to the ground a few feet away from Pila.

Good work, but you missed one. Pay a little more attention!

Before Sirius could shake the thought that this might simply be the Eccentric toying with him, the box popped open and Lanston leapt out at him.

"Well, that was easier than I thought," he laughed, pinning Sirius. "Now, if you'll just come with us, we have someone who'd very much like to see you... Urk!"

Lanston had underestimated Sirius' strength. The angel soon picked himself up, and dangled Lanston over the edge of the roof.

"Whoever they are, I'm not interested," he declared. "I've already got one difficult employer to deal with and I'm not looking for any other offers. Goodbye."

Sirius let go, but Lanston didn't give up. He grabbed the angel's legs and tried to pull him down as well.

"I have wings, you know."

"Good point," Lanston conceded. He grabbed the wings instead and held them tightly as they plummeted to the alley below.

As Pila and Catena regained their senses, they heard a loud crash. They rushed towards the noise, and found only a frustrated figure in a cloak glaring up at the sky.

"Nearly had him," he grumbled. "Thought I'd broke his wings, but they're stronger than they look."

"So you lead us both on a merry chase only to come up empty-handed?" Pila growled.

"We could still catch up to him..."

"Forget it," Catena sneered. "If you want to chase him down, do it on your own time, Brother Lanston."

"Yeah, and find the Chapel on your own time while you're at it!" Pila added.

"...Point taken. Very well, lead the way."

"Smart man, Brother Lanston," Catena said with a grin, as she rubbed the wounds on her left vine-arm. "By the way, you owe me for this."

"And for the bump on my head, too!"

Even as the cultists guided their guest towards the Chapel, they continued to berate him. He quietly seethed the whole time.

You only have to put up with them until the Chapel, he told himself. Only until the Chapel.