((TURN AROUND *CENSORED*! TURN AROUND!!!!
Had to >.>
)
Had to >.>
)
The Revolution
105 posts · 2007-08-20 18:02:58 to 2009-03-07 16:57:20
(( I think this cut from Don Davis's score for Reloaded, "Contusion Conclusion", makes a good soundtrack for this latest bit: http://dondavis.filmmusic.com/media...xreloaded_6.mp3 And aggggh, each cliffhanger ending is making me itch to see more...))
((Wow, a very nice tale being woven here. I have not yet read it all but wanted to comment. Being new, I am very interested in the RP on Recursion, especially Merovingian side, and this not only gives me much encouragement but also a great deal of inquisitiveness of further things to persue.))
(( Definately felt good to come home from a long day at work to see this latest installment. More!))
Why do things happen as they do in dreams?
He sees neither sun nor sky nor stars, for he knows that all are lies three.He can see that which would lie below them, however, were the world a perfect one.The mists of the eve swirl about him, lending him an indistinct air of ethereality as one may only possess in dreams, for this was indeed a dream of a dream, the waking dream that they all dreamt of out of penance for the sins of their forefathers and their bastard, steel children.The mists themselves curl downwards like the tendrils of some indistinct beast, wrapping themselves about the tombstones, endless rows of moss-ridden slate and obsidian that stretch infinitely in all four directions, for what is direction in dream if not an illusion of the self?
The clouds hide the heavens, and he strides forth into the endless grid of death, his passing all but silent to those ears that listened, for he too was one of their number, dead amongst them like a crow that slowly picked at its carrion before slowly becoming that which it fed upon.For so long had he done so, and yet he knew that this night was different, somehow, that he was here for some…reason, some purpose…
Ah, and that is how this eve differed from its indistinct cousins, he realized.He was not here as much as he ‘was’ here, so to speak.He could feel the mist from without; his breath within, and when he moved, so did the earth beneath him, for it was not earth at all.He had ventured within this night because he had to find something, someone, he remembered now…someone who had been left here so long ago and yet not so long, for time had no meaning here; to him.
And the others…
They were all dead to him, and this place was proof enough.The graves stared at him with eyes they did not have, accusing him and lauding him all at once, for the dead were a part of him, and he knew not what to make himself anymore.‘Temet nosce’ the Fortune Teller had told him, and yet…
“You’ve come.”Her voice is like that of a thousand birds singing to his soul, to this place.
“As I have many times for you,” he replies.She tries and fails miserably to not giggle in spite of herself at his word-play.
“Clever even in dreams, Vanil.Why are you here?”
A shrug.The mists flow concordantly, as the mist is him.“For you, I think.”He glances at the tombstone nearest him, only to be met with the carved mantra of ‘Know Thyself’ upon its substantially insubstantial face, and as his gaze of burning red coal rises, he sees that every last one has repeated the first.“I know.”
“Why?” she asks with a quizzical little smile.
He shakes his head gently and smiles back.Such a rarity.“We all do what we must, Alexia.”What was that?What was…?
‘KNOW THYSELF’ the tombstones all screamed.
The dream bends as this unreality leaves him as suddenly as it had come, the grave markers and the surrounding mists retreating from him like waves upon blackest of stony shores.He stretches his arm out before him, the black gloves having already found his slender, taut fingers as they always did.“I’ll seek you out!” he calls as best he may as he leaves himself.
She shakes her head and runs an ethereal hand through her chestnut hair.“Don’t worry, dear.I’ll find you.”He is only vaguely aware of the rain that begins to fall as he returns to himself in the waking world, the trail of blood pooling from him; from the graves of the dead within.
Why do things happen as they do in dreams?Perhaps because, like all other things, they simply do.
~V
Addendum: A big thank you to Chemuel for posting for me when I was unable.
(( Whoo! Creepy, yet wonderful!))
(( Sieges: Does... this mean Mataru is coming back, at least in spirit...? ))
(( Morraeon: Sure hope so, but boy, would she be mad if she know what the brat prince did to mine former host... ))
You made a rock star of me.
Gave me this wicked life.
Paid to be tortured by you.
A life I now abhor.
And still I say 'no more'.
Don't look away.
You're just a former regret of mine.
And when you want, just look away.
You're just a former regret of mine.
Erasing now.
---
Continuing in March. The Revolution has only just begun.
~V
Gave me this wicked life.
Paid to be tortured by you.
A life I now abhor.
And still I say 'no more'.
Don't look away.
You're just a former regret of mine.
And when you want, just look away.
You're just a former regret of mine.
Erasing now.
---
Continuing in March. The Revolution has only just begun.
~V
(( Wooo! Glad to see this making a come-back! I've been missing it!))
((I must confess, I may need new e-pants.
That's how much larger this has made my e-peen.))
Two Years Before
Seven Nights Prior to the Death of Anome
The girl pulled the black latex of her long, ankle-length coat tightly about her as she made her silent way through the streets and back alleys of the City, just as the night clung to the great buildings that towered above her, like a shroud of starry, midnight gauze. It was a convincing enough evening, and as her large, brown eyes glanced upwards once, the girl almost forgot that it wasn't Real. Or was it...for that was the question she had asked herself her entire life, and even now, Awakened, she was still not entirely certain that this was the one answer, for each step felt as one might feel in a sleepwalk, dozing awake as the claws of the beast rose all around her prone form, ready to pounce and...
No, the girl stopped herself. She couldn't afford that train of thought now, for it was that very train of thought that brought with it nightmares, twisted numbers and skittering green beetles that haunted the insides of her eyes when she closed them in the Real; opened them to face yet another day that wasn't really another day, for within the tunnels of the Real, there was no sunlight, and inside the Matrix, there was no sun at all.
‘Do you ever have that feeling...where you're not sure if you're Awake or still dreaming...?'
She had arrived. Straightening the beret that perched atop her long, straight-backed hair, the girl raised a gloved set of delicate fingers and rapped on the thick, pitted steel of the industrial door that sat at the end of the brick-lined, rubbish-strewn alleyway she had made her way down. A muffled shuffling responded from behind the closed portal, before the peep-strip slid aside with a metallic clang. A pair of beady, black eyes scanned the knocker's slender figure suspiciously before a voice slithered on out.
"The corroded sun sets..."
"...but gives way to a new dusk," the tanned girl recited evenly. The eyes seemed to regard her for another moment before glancing up at the earpiece fitted into her tanned ear. "Take that out," it hissed as a hidden latch rattled. The girl nodded and slid the earpiece from her ear, the Machinist transmissions it ferried muting themselves to her as the steel door swung aside. Nodding in polite thanks to the hunched, shadowed figure, the girl stepped inside and found she was in a tiny chamber of brick, doubtless an old, derelict sewer entrance of some sort. At the end of the chamber sat a set of chipped old stairs that spiraled downwards into darkness. It was down these stairs that the girl descended and found herself in the center of what was probably a snake-way of low brick tunnels, further leading to her belief that these were abandoned sewers of some sort.
A pedestal of the same, moss-eaten brick stood at the center of the chamber, around which huddled a small mass of crowded, shadowy figures, all clad in flowing apparel coding of black material and quietly whispering amongst themselves, as if a single word spoken too loudly would bring the whole of the Agents down upon them. Gingerly, the girl pulled her glossy collar higher and moved to join the one figure she was certain she recognized. "Good to know I'm not the only Machinist here."
The older woman turned to regard her with the icy; aloof expression knew exemplified the methods of this woman, for this woman was called ‘IronChimera', a member of the Chambers of Shaolin, which was group that had worked fervently with the Machines since the formation of the Truce between them and the city of Zion. "Well met, AlicethePattern," IronChimera said slowly and evenly, apparently entirely unfazed by the cluster of specters they both now stood amongst. "It is good to know that I am not the only one who thought it prudent to come here, as well." Alice noticed that her fellow Machinist had likewise done away with her earpiece.
"The only Machinist, anyway," Alice replied tentatively as she eyed the other figures evenly, marking the few faces she knew. She could make out not a few that she knew that the Machines had wanted dead for some time. The girl could feel pairs of eyes scanning her as she did them, and got the distinct impression that paranoia was at an all-time high among all of them.
The indistinct murmuring went on for what seemed like an eternity, broken only by the faint dripping of distant sewage and moisture, and Alice couldn't help but get the distinct impression of being sealed inside a tomb. Finally, distant footsteps sounded from one of the passageways that led away from the chamber, and the figures clustered around the central dais hushed abruptly and turned to uncover their source, the two Machinists following suit. Alice's large brown eyes squinted through the gloom and, like specters from some other place, a dark place in the back of her mind, darker than the tunnels in which she now stood, trod three figures from the surrounding mist, all three of whom were likewise garbed like assassins on the night's prowl. In the middle, perhaps the shortest of the trio and the only male, was the Blood Drinker known as ‘Vanil'; the one who had called this meeting in the first place. Alice scowled as she recognized his pale flesh and arrogant features. She was somewhat familiar with the Exile, and was well-versed in the file the City Department of Energy kept on him. What had lain within had been cryptic, but not cryptic enough to hide what the man was capable of. IronChimera remained largely impassive, at least, in appearance, but she was good at that, Alice knew.
To his right stood an elegant, fair-skinned woman who Alice recognized immediately as the one self-styled ‘Lady Return'. This one had a record even longer than Vanil's own, and was arguably one of the most notorious Merovingian operatives in the Matrix. A well-known member of the inner circles of the Exilic order, the woman wore a crown of stark-white hair and a long, elegant black dress that hugged both the damp stone floor and her almost absurdly ample proportions, her icy, beautiful face lined with makeup applied with a perfectionist's care. Or a hedonist's.
The one to Vanil's left, however, was not known to Alice, although the girl couldn't shake the feeling that she felt as if she should. The Machinist again got the distinct impression of sleepwalking as she eyed the other figure, also female and taller than Vanil. This one showed off curves to rival the Lady Return's encased in tightly-strapped black latex, along with a full shock of chestnut hair done up in a manner to the former's own, but her flesh, unlike that of her two companions, stood apart as a hue of rich, almost coffee-toned tan. She, along with her two companions, wore deep black sunglasses.
"My apologies with regards to any difficulties all of you may have had with coming here tonight," Vanil said clearly, addressing the whole of the assembled operatives and Exiles, his gloved hands clasped behind his back as he strode to stand at the head of the dais in their midst, the length of his long black croc skins flowing with him as he moved, "but I assure you all that it was necessary."
A silence followed. At least necessity was something she could begin to connect with, Alice thought to herself. Finally, Vanil introduced the two women flanking him, raising each palm in turn, as if presenting them to those gathered. "May I introduce the Lady Mataru to you all?" He gestured to the tan woman before doing the same with her pale compatriot. "I assume you all know the Lady Return."
"A pleasure," Return said to all of them in a high, arrogant drawl, her lips, painted a deep, voluptuous violet, curling into a sickly sweet smile that, to Alice, hinted at very deep depths of hidden cruelty.
"You all know why you are here," Vanil began, "and yet you do not. Allow me to provide some illumination for your tame human eyes. I'm certain you all know of my recent disappearance, and were I a better Exile; I would probably apologize to you. But I assure you that it was a necessary disappearance, and that nothing that I say or do to and with you in this place tonight," the Blood Noble went on evenly, gesturing about the dank, murky confines around them all, "will be accidental. There are no accidents."
Another period of quiet came next. Some of the assembled shifted uncomfortably in the dark, others running their fingertips over their weapons, surrounded as they were by others they typically wouldn't surround themselves with. Alice could feel the tension all around her. It was thick and sticky, as if the sewage chamber were secreting ooze from the cobbled floor. Finally, Lord Vanil spoke up once more.
"I am here to make you all an offer."
"An offer?" called an operative of the Devil's Advocates, his fedora pulled low over his face to keep any errant drips of moisture from above out of his eyes, and Alice recognized him as LinksLife, the young protégé of the Great Wyrm. Alice knew the ladder well, and knew how dangerous an entity he was. The boy was probably here on his behalf. "If we'd wanted to hear an offer, we'd have called Flood."
"I can offer you something no one else can," Vanil replied in that calm, sensual accent of his.
"And what," LinksLife asked, "is that?"
"I can't tell you." It was a simple answer to a simple question, but it was so much more than that, too. Return rolled her eyes and ran her long, elegant fingers through her snow-hair. Mataru eyed her sandals and smirked softly, missing nothing.
"And why," Alice found herself saying out loud, "can't you tell us?"
Vanil opened his well-formed lips to reply and then paused, either lip parted and affording for a perfect view of the pair of unnatural fangs that hung from his crimson gums. Turning then to Alice, the Exile raised an eyebrow, narrow and dark; hawk-like, and said what the girl already knew; what IronChimera had dreaded hearing ever since Vanil had appeared to them.
"You have to see it for yourself."
~V
Seven Nights Prior to the Death of Anome
The girl pulled the black latex of her long, ankle-length coat tightly about her as she made her silent way through the streets and back alleys of the City, just as the night clung to the great buildings that towered above her, like a shroud of starry, midnight gauze. It was a convincing enough evening, and as her large, brown eyes glanced upwards once, the girl almost forgot that it wasn't Real. Or was it...for that was the question she had asked herself her entire life, and even now, Awakened, she was still not entirely certain that this was the one answer, for each step felt as one might feel in a sleepwalk, dozing awake as the claws of the beast rose all around her prone form, ready to pounce and...
No, the girl stopped herself. She couldn't afford that train of thought now, for it was that very train of thought that brought with it nightmares, twisted numbers and skittering green beetles that haunted the insides of her eyes when she closed them in the Real; opened them to face yet another day that wasn't really another day, for within the tunnels of the Real, there was no sunlight, and inside the Matrix, there was no sun at all.
‘Do you ever have that feeling...where you're not sure if you're Awake or still dreaming...?'
She had arrived. Straightening the beret that perched atop her long, straight-backed hair, the girl raised a gloved set of delicate fingers and rapped on the thick, pitted steel of the industrial door that sat at the end of the brick-lined, rubbish-strewn alleyway she had made her way down. A muffled shuffling responded from behind the closed portal, before the peep-strip slid aside with a metallic clang. A pair of beady, black eyes scanned the knocker's slender figure suspiciously before a voice slithered on out.
"The corroded sun sets..."
"...but gives way to a new dusk," the tanned girl recited evenly. The eyes seemed to regard her for another moment before glancing up at the earpiece fitted into her tanned ear. "Take that out," it hissed as a hidden latch rattled. The girl nodded and slid the earpiece from her ear, the Machinist transmissions it ferried muting themselves to her as the steel door swung aside. Nodding in polite thanks to the hunched, shadowed figure, the girl stepped inside and found she was in a tiny chamber of brick, doubtless an old, derelict sewer entrance of some sort. At the end of the chamber sat a set of chipped old stairs that spiraled downwards into darkness. It was down these stairs that the girl descended and found herself in the center of what was probably a snake-way of low brick tunnels, further leading to her belief that these were abandoned sewers of some sort.
A pedestal of the same, moss-eaten brick stood at the center of the chamber, around which huddled a small mass of crowded, shadowy figures, all clad in flowing apparel coding of black material and quietly whispering amongst themselves, as if a single word spoken too loudly would bring the whole of the Agents down upon them. Gingerly, the girl pulled her glossy collar higher and moved to join the one figure she was certain she recognized. "Good to know I'm not the only Machinist here."
The older woman turned to regard her with the icy; aloof expression knew exemplified the methods of this woman, for this woman was called ‘IronChimera', a member of the Chambers of Shaolin, which was group that had worked fervently with the Machines since the formation of the Truce between them and the city of Zion. "Well met, AlicethePattern," IronChimera said slowly and evenly, apparently entirely unfazed by the cluster of specters they both now stood amongst. "It is good to know that I am not the only one who thought it prudent to come here, as well." Alice noticed that her fellow Machinist had likewise done away with her earpiece.
"The only Machinist, anyway," Alice replied tentatively as she eyed the other figures evenly, marking the few faces she knew. She could make out not a few that she knew that the Machines had wanted dead for some time. The girl could feel pairs of eyes scanning her as she did them, and got the distinct impression that paranoia was at an all-time high among all of them.
The indistinct murmuring went on for what seemed like an eternity, broken only by the faint dripping of distant sewage and moisture, and Alice couldn't help but get the distinct impression of being sealed inside a tomb. Finally, distant footsteps sounded from one of the passageways that led away from the chamber, and the figures clustered around the central dais hushed abruptly and turned to uncover their source, the two Machinists following suit. Alice's large brown eyes squinted through the gloom and, like specters from some other place, a dark place in the back of her mind, darker than the tunnels in which she now stood, trod three figures from the surrounding mist, all three of whom were likewise garbed like assassins on the night's prowl. In the middle, perhaps the shortest of the trio and the only male, was the Blood Drinker known as ‘Vanil'; the one who had called this meeting in the first place. Alice scowled as she recognized his pale flesh and arrogant features. She was somewhat familiar with the Exile, and was well-versed in the file the City Department of Energy kept on him. What had lain within had been cryptic, but not cryptic enough to hide what the man was capable of. IronChimera remained largely impassive, at least, in appearance, but she was good at that, Alice knew.
To his right stood an elegant, fair-skinned woman who Alice recognized immediately as the one self-styled ‘Lady Return'. This one had a record even longer than Vanil's own, and was arguably one of the most notorious Merovingian operatives in the Matrix. A well-known member of the inner circles of the Exilic order, the woman wore a crown of stark-white hair and a long, elegant black dress that hugged both the damp stone floor and her almost absurdly ample proportions, her icy, beautiful face lined with makeup applied with a perfectionist's care. Or a hedonist's.
The one to Vanil's left, however, was not known to Alice, although the girl couldn't shake the feeling that she felt as if she should. The Machinist again got the distinct impression of sleepwalking as she eyed the other figure, also female and taller than Vanil. This one showed off curves to rival the Lady Return's encased in tightly-strapped black latex, along with a full shock of chestnut hair done up in a manner to the former's own, but her flesh, unlike that of her two companions, stood apart as a hue of rich, almost coffee-toned tan. She, along with her two companions, wore deep black sunglasses.
"My apologies with regards to any difficulties all of you may have had with coming here tonight," Vanil said clearly, addressing the whole of the assembled operatives and Exiles, his gloved hands clasped behind his back as he strode to stand at the head of the dais in their midst, the length of his long black croc skins flowing with him as he moved, "but I assure you all that it was necessary."
A silence followed. At least necessity was something she could begin to connect with, Alice thought to herself. Finally, Vanil introduced the two women flanking him, raising each palm in turn, as if presenting them to those gathered. "May I introduce the Lady Mataru to you all?" He gestured to the tan woman before doing the same with her pale compatriot. "I assume you all know the Lady Return."
"A pleasure," Return said to all of them in a high, arrogant drawl, her lips, painted a deep, voluptuous violet, curling into a sickly sweet smile that, to Alice, hinted at very deep depths of hidden cruelty.
"You all know why you are here," Vanil began, "and yet you do not. Allow me to provide some illumination for your tame human eyes. I'm certain you all know of my recent disappearance, and were I a better Exile; I would probably apologize to you. But I assure you that it was a necessary disappearance, and that nothing that I say or do to and with you in this place tonight," the Blood Noble went on evenly, gesturing about the dank, murky confines around them all, "will be accidental. There are no accidents."
Another period of quiet came next. Some of the assembled shifted uncomfortably in the dark, others running their fingertips over their weapons, surrounded as they were by others they typically wouldn't surround themselves with. Alice could feel the tension all around her. It was thick and sticky, as if the sewage chamber were secreting ooze from the cobbled floor. Finally, Lord Vanil spoke up once more.
"I am here to make you all an offer."
"An offer?" called an operative of the Devil's Advocates, his fedora pulled low over his face to keep any errant drips of moisture from above out of his eyes, and Alice recognized him as LinksLife, the young protégé of the Great Wyrm. Alice knew the ladder well, and knew how dangerous an entity he was. The boy was probably here on his behalf. "If we'd wanted to hear an offer, we'd have called Flood."
"I can offer you something no one else can," Vanil replied in that calm, sensual accent of his.
"And what," LinksLife asked, "is that?"
"I can't tell you." It was a simple answer to a simple question, but it was so much more than that, too. Return rolled her eyes and ran her long, elegant fingers through her snow-hair. Mataru eyed her sandals and smirked softly, missing nothing.
"And why," Alice found herself saying out loud, "can't you tell us?"
Vanil opened his well-formed lips to reply and then paused, either lip parted and affording for a perfect view of the pair of unnatural fangs that hung from his crimson gums. Turning then to Alice, the Exile raised an eyebrow, narrow and dark; hawk-like, and said what the girl already knew; what IronChimera had dreaded hearing ever since Vanil had appeared to them.
"You have to see it for yourself."
~V
(( You, my dear, are an artiste at describing atmosphere, building suspense to the point that the ready is ready to cry out, and then leaving them breathless for what comes next. Well done... and I can't wait to see what comes next.))
"Do we all really have time for any of this pseudo-philosophical poppycock?" one of the assembled called out. "We get enough of that from the Great Wyrm already, and we already know that guy's nuts."
"Then leave," Vanil snapped back, his voice echoing harshly about the chamber, his lip curled in mild disdain. "I haven't time for the ignorant. Those of you who choose to leave may leave, and those of you who choose to stay may stay. I will not force you to choose either. I cannot. Just know that, in the end, you may find yourself wishing I had."
No one moved. Alice herself felt paralyzed, as if she'd stumbled into a puddle of glue and that the soles of her shoes were adhered fast to the stone, and that stepping out of them would get her feet dirty, and she couldn't well have that. So she and IronChimera just stood there and listened.
"The Merovingian has authorized the creation of a clandestine body of silent authority with the greater syndicat." Vanil held his gloved palms outwards, as if beckoning the group's attention to him. "You all should consider yourselves privileged beyond measure to have met here tonight. It isn't often humans have the opportunity to attend meetings that never meet." The Exile accentuated every word strongly and clearly; each syllable a bullet casing. "The ultimate burden of creation and command of this body will be mine to bear. I am not offering you a position in my cabinet. I cannot tell you what I am offering; I can only tell you what you must do to find it."
"Are you asking us to join you?" Alice replied before she knew rightly what she was saying.
"No," Vanil said with a small, devious smirk. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm offering you a chance to find what you're looking for."
Alice heard IronChimera shift uncomfortably to her right. It was funny, Alice would later remark to herself, because she would be unable to recall the woman ever seeming uncomfortable before. "What are we looking for?" Chimera asked.
The pale man laughed. It echoed down the dank, shadowy passage to his back, and Alice got the distinct impression of snakes slithering up the walls. "I'm not the one you should be asking that question."
The woman didn't answer. Alice just kept staring at her feet.
'Do you ever have that feeling...where you're not sure if you're Awake or still dreaming...?'
---
The Present
"Let's get this over with," Chemuel said a bit loudly as she threw herself into one of the Masquerade's jack-in ports, the chair rattling slightly beneath her ever slighter weight.
"You seem like you're in a rush," Zdn1 responded as he lay back in the port adjacent to his Captain's.
"You like visiting the Haunted House?" the young girl asked her operative, a tinge of scorn present in her voice.
"Actually," the man replied, an errant finger rising to scratch at his stubbly chin, "I've never been."
"Lucky you," Chemuel snorted. Zdn1 shrugged, closed his eyes, and tried to relax for her. He could tell she was on the edge of something, and he didn't want to be the one to push her over whatever edge that was. He heard the distant hum of the Matrix code and the clanking of machinery as Aoide, Ekizeba, LinksLife, and R0ukan all settled into their berths as well, the soles of their boots clamped to the base of their seats and their heads back like spouts; ready to pour their minds out into the Matrix like tea into a kettle.
But no, Zdn1 reminded himself, it wasn't to the Matrix that they were all going. If only it were.
"Well ducklings, now that you're all buckled in, I'd like to wish you a pleasant stay aboard Masquerade Airways." Tamur4's tinny voice sounded throughout the Cradle as the digital keypads and consoles that lay arrayed about the prone human figures began to work themselves. The dull jack-in needles hissed metallically as they slid into position behind the base of each operative's skull. "I'd like to remind you, Chemmers, that this is indeed a non-smoking flight," the dodgy program chided Chemuel amusedly.
"Mm." It was the only satisfaction Chemuel was going to give her invisible tease, but it seemed enough for Tamur4, who giggled nonetheless. It was also the last the girl was to hear, for at that moment, there was the telltale crack-hiss of the jack-in procedure initializing, and Chemuel felt liquid mercury run cold through the cracks in her brain as the needle slid itself into the back of her head.
~V
"Then leave," Vanil snapped back, his voice echoing harshly about the chamber, his lip curled in mild disdain. "I haven't time for the ignorant. Those of you who choose to leave may leave, and those of you who choose to stay may stay. I will not force you to choose either. I cannot. Just know that, in the end, you may find yourself wishing I had."
No one moved. Alice herself felt paralyzed, as if she'd stumbled into a puddle of glue and that the soles of her shoes were adhered fast to the stone, and that stepping out of them would get her feet dirty, and she couldn't well have that. So she and IronChimera just stood there and listened.
"The Merovingian has authorized the creation of a clandestine body of silent authority with the greater syndicat." Vanil held his gloved palms outwards, as if beckoning the group's attention to him. "You all should consider yourselves privileged beyond measure to have met here tonight. It isn't often humans have the opportunity to attend meetings that never meet." The Exile accentuated every word strongly and clearly; each syllable a bullet casing. "The ultimate burden of creation and command of this body will be mine to bear. I am not offering you a position in my cabinet. I cannot tell you what I am offering; I can only tell you what you must do to find it."
"Are you asking us to join you?" Alice replied before she knew rightly what she was saying.
"No," Vanil said with a small, devious smirk. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm offering you a chance to find what you're looking for."
Alice heard IronChimera shift uncomfortably to her right. It was funny, Alice would later remark to herself, because she would be unable to recall the woman ever seeming uncomfortable before. "What are we looking for?" Chimera asked.
The pale man laughed. It echoed down the dank, shadowy passage to his back, and Alice got the distinct impression of snakes slithering up the walls. "I'm not the one you should be asking that question."
The woman didn't answer. Alice just kept staring at her feet.
'Do you ever have that feeling...where you're not sure if you're Awake or still dreaming...?'
---
The Present
"Let's get this over with," Chemuel said a bit loudly as she threw herself into one of the Masquerade's jack-in ports, the chair rattling slightly beneath her ever slighter weight.
"You seem like you're in a rush," Zdn1 responded as he lay back in the port adjacent to his Captain's.
"You like visiting the Haunted House?" the young girl asked her operative, a tinge of scorn present in her voice.
"Actually," the man replied, an errant finger rising to scratch at his stubbly chin, "I've never been."
"Lucky you," Chemuel snorted. Zdn1 shrugged, closed his eyes, and tried to relax for her. He could tell she was on the edge of something, and he didn't want to be the one to push her over whatever edge that was. He heard the distant hum of the Matrix code and the clanking of machinery as Aoide, Ekizeba, LinksLife, and R0ukan all settled into their berths as well, the soles of their boots clamped to the base of their seats and their heads back like spouts; ready to pour their minds out into the Matrix like tea into a kettle.
But no, Zdn1 reminded himself, it wasn't to the Matrix that they were all going. If only it were.
"Well ducklings, now that you're all buckled in, I'd like to wish you a pleasant stay aboard Masquerade Airways." Tamur4's tinny voice sounded throughout the Cradle as the digital keypads and consoles that lay arrayed about the prone human figures began to work themselves. The dull jack-in needles hissed metallically as they slid into position behind the base of each operative's skull. "I'd like to remind you, Chemmers, that this is indeed a non-smoking flight," the dodgy program chided Chemuel amusedly.
"Mm." It was the only satisfaction Chemuel was going to give her invisible tease, but it seemed enough for Tamur4, who giggled nonetheless. It was also the last the girl was to hear, for at that moment, there was the telltale crack-hiss of the jack-in procedure initializing, and Chemuel felt liquid mercury run cold through the cracks in her brain as the needle slid itself into the back of her head.
~V
(( Whoo. Two good things today: Hearing that Jack Thompson got drop-kicked out of the Florida Bar Association, and seeing a shiny new chapter of your magnum opus!))
When Chemuel had closed her eyes, what she had seen was Real. Oftentimes, when she opened them within the Matrix, the girl saw things that she could have stretched to be Real; perhaps even things that she wanted to be Real. No; things that she, beyond any doubt she may have had, wanted to be Real, for Chemuel's affliction was Vanil's affliction, and she supposed as the endless streams of digital data streamed through her mind's eye that this was in part what had brought the pair of them inexorably so close together so long ago. Like he, Chemuel wanted more than anything that which she knew she could not have, and it was this impossible desire that had propelled her forth, first in his name and later in hers, forward.
And now it was this very same thing that was sending Chemuel in full circle, somehow, as if fate had cyclically conspired to deliver her from whence she had come. And now that cycle had encircled her, trapped her in its baleful center like an inescapable ring of coalescent destiny; a ring Chemuel knew well and had fled from for her entire life.
At that, something deep within Chemuel's digital essence offered up a small, forlorn smile; a gesture that hinted at the sadness she had felt for months now, a sadness that was as much a prison as fate. That was how it was with Vanil, she knew; knew better than anything in either world. He would take hold of you and put you somewhere you didn't think you wanted to be until you realized that maybe you did, and for a time, everything made perfect sense, and everything was perfect. But soon enough, it would all fall apart, and then you would fall apart, and it would all be on your shoulders at the end of it as to whether any of it was worth anything in the end.
And that was where she was, Chemuel knew. In the end.
Chemuel would have damned Vanil then; would've damned the beautiful bastard to Hell, but she remembered that there wouldn't have been much point. She was already there.
When Chemuel opened her eyes, she was not in the Matrix, and unlike the vague, ghostly veneer of Reality the Matrix projected about itself like a settling mist or a musty film, this place made few attempts to seem Real. And that's what was so terrifying about this place, Chemuel remarked silently as she looked down at her snakeskin heels and was met with her reflection in the polished black stone that lay beneath her. It wasn't Real, but it could devour you whole, just the same.
Chemuel's reflection blinked. She herself had not. She shook her head, and her reflection smiled slowly up at her. Chemuel raised her gaze.
This was Neverwhere: Vanil's Construct; his haven and his hideaway, his ideal and his demon, and it was to this place that Chemuel and the rest had come to find the one who had written it.
Chemuel had never seen this place here though. It was a garden of sorts, but like everything else that was (or more accurately, was not) in Neverwhere, it radiated a palpable aura of cold, creeping evil, like something that would wrap itself around your ankles if given the chance and snake its way up your RSI and leaving nothing but a dead void behind it. Aura or no, the thorned vines that crept their way around the garden with no sky seemed more than up to the task. Chemuel felt a nagging urge to look down again, but found that more of her didn't want to than did want to.
"What beautiful décor," Aoide said sardonically. Quietly though, for she didn't want to draw the attentions of anything unsavory.
"What were you expecting?" R0ukan replied matter-of-factly, as if black Nevergardens and poisonous inky creepers were merely par for the course. "Flowers in bloom?" How the vines grew; none of them knew, short of by water that wasn't there and a sun that didn't exist.
THEY ARE A REFLECTION OF DIGITAL NATURE.
There was no voice, but had there been, its intentions would have been clear as day. Chemuel and the rest turned to confront a product of a twisted nightmare.
It was tall and sinewy, like a living whip. The gist of its Residual Self-Image was that of a human's, but the thing's Exile was painfully obvious. It moved and stood with an unnatural gait that managed to come off as immaculately graceful and loping all at once. It twitched periodically, even when standing entirely still, as if afflicted by an endless series of tiny seizures. Its flesh was that of a sickly gray pallor and was stretched tightly across its Matriculated skeleton and musculature, like whoever had done the disservice of spawning the monster had gotten impatient and used less of it than had been originally called for. It was naked aside from a crisscrossing series of black leather straps and belts that had been secured in haphazard rows about its body, and if it had once been possessed of one gender over the other, it no longer suffered such a normalcy. The operatives could tell why it hadn't spoken out loud as they knew of it, as one of these straps was wrapped tightly around the Exile's head and between its rows of pointed teeth, in conjunction with an identical strap that obstructed its eyes.
But more unnerving than even the monster's appearance was the pair of curved, serrated blades strapped around its thin bony wrists. They were polished to a mirror-sheen and hung dangerously at the thing's sides, and none of the operatives had any doubt that it would have been perfectly capable of bisecting one of them with a single, jittery stroke.
It was if a madman had taken a lame cripple and warped it into a sadistic murderer.
"How so?" asked Zdn1.
THESE PLANTS ARE NOT PLANTS, JUST AS THIS PLACE IS NOT A PLACE. THIS IS THE NATURE OF ALL THINGS DIGITAL. THESE PLANTS ARE A REFLECTION OF DIGITAL NATURE.
The Exile's non-voice was exceedingly disturbing, due mostly to the fact that, while it did not speak, they all could hear it not speak. Its words were less words and more inflection; ripples across the coded miasma of Neverwhere that somehow conveyed that which they inflected to the Sinners and Masques. It was a radical concept, and it hurt Chemuel's head to think about. "Who," she asked, "are you?"
I AM CALLED ‘THE HOMUNCULUS.' THIS IS A WORD, AND THIS IS NOT A PURPOSE. I AM WITHOUT PURPOSE.
"If you have no purpose," Aoide replied, "then why are you here?"
Somehow, in spite of its warped visage, the Homunculus laughed. Its non-tone was entirely devoid of any identifiable aspects; entirely devoid of age, gender, and emotion. It was like listening to a murderous, sexless child.
I AM HERE BECAUSE I WANT TO BE.
"It's an Exile," Zdn1 decided.
I AM CALLED ‘THE HOMUNCULUS', BUT I AM ALSO CALLED ‘EXILE'. I MADE THIS CHOICE THAT BROUGHT ME TO BE EXILED: I ONCE BROUGHT OTHERS TO LIFE, AND NOW I WISH TO MOCK THAT PURPOSE. I WANT NOT BUT ONE THING NOW.
Chemuel raised an eyebrow. "And what might that be?" The Homunculus laughed again, and the girl wished it hadn't.
I WANT TO KILL.
"So why serve Vanil?" Aoide replied.
LORD VANIL LETS ME KILL. COME, HE AWAITS.
~V
And now it was this very same thing that was sending Chemuel in full circle, somehow, as if fate had cyclically conspired to deliver her from whence she had come. And now that cycle had encircled her, trapped her in its baleful center like an inescapable ring of coalescent destiny; a ring Chemuel knew well and had fled from for her entire life.
At that, something deep within Chemuel's digital essence offered up a small, forlorn smile; a gesture that hinted at the sadness she had felt for months now, a sadness that was as much a prison as fate. That was how it was with Vanil, she knew; knew better than anything in either world. He would take hold of you and put you somewhere you didn't think you wanted to be until you realized that maybe you did, and for a time, everything made perfect sense, and everything was perfect. But soon enough, it would all fall apart, and then you would fall apart, and it would all be on your shoulders at the end of it as to whether any of it was worth anything in the end.
And that was where she was, Chemuel knew. In the end.
Chemuel would have damned Vanil then; would've damned the beautiful bastard to Hell, but she remembered that there wouldn't have been much point. She was already there.
When Chemuel opened her eyes, she was not in the Matrix, and unlike the vague, ghostly veneer of Reality the Matrix projected about itself like a settling mist or a musty film, this place made few attempts to seem Real. And that's what was so terrifying about this place, Chemuel remarked silently as she looked down at her snakeskin heels and was met with her reflection in the polished black stone that lay beneath her. It wasn't Real, but it could devour you whole, just the same.
Chemuel's reflection blinked. She herself had not. She shook her head, and her reflection smiled slowly up at her. Chemuel raised her gaze.
This was Neverwhere: Vanil's Construct; his haven and his hideaway, his ideal and his demon, and it was to this place that Chemuel and the rest had come to find the one who had written it.
Chemuel had never seen this place here though. It was a garden of sorts, but like everything else that was (or more accurately, was not) in Neverwhere, it radiated a palpable aura of cold, creeping evil, like something that would wrap itself around your ankles if given the chance and snake its way up your RSI and leaving nothing but a dead void behind it. Aura or no, the thorned vines that crept their way around the garden with no sky seemed more than up to the task. Chemuel felt a nagging urge to look down again, but found that more of her didn't want to than did want to.
"What beautiful décor," Aoide said sardonically. Quietly though, for she didn't want to draw the attentions of anything unsavory.
"What were you expecting?" R0ukan replied matter-of-factly, as if black Nevergardens and poisonous inky creepers were merely par for the course. "Flowers in bloom?" How the vines grew; none of them knew, short of by water that wasn't there and a sun that didn't exist.
THEY ARE A REFLECTION OF DIGITAL NATURE.
There was no voice, but had there been, its intentions would have been clear as day. Chemuel and the rest turned to confront a product of a twisted nightmare.
It was tall and sinewy, like a living whip. The gist of its Residual Self-Image was that of a human's, but the thing's Exile was painfully obvious. It moved and stood with an unnatural gait that managed to come off as immaculately graceful and loping all at once. It twitched periodically, even when standing entirely still, as if afflicted by an endless series of tiny seizures. Its flesh was that of a sickly gray pallor and was stretched tightly across its Matriculated skeleton and musculature, like whoever had done the disservice of spawning the monster had gotten impatient and used less of it than had been originally called for. It was naked aside from a crisscrossing series of black leather straps and belts that had been secured in haphazard rows about its body, and if it had once been possessed of one gender over the other, it no longer suffered such a normalcy. The operatives could tell why it hadn't spoken out loud as they knew of it, as one of these straps was wrapped tightly around the Exile's head and between its rows of pointed teeth, in conjunction with an identical strap that obstructed its eyes.
But more unnerving than even the monster's appearance was the pair of curved, serrated blades strapped around its thin bony wrists. They were polished to a mirror-sheen and hung dangerously at the thing's sides, and none of the operatives had any doubt that it would have been perfectly capable of bisecting one of them with a single, jittery stroke.
It was if a madman had taken a lame cripple and warped it into a sadistic murderer.
"How so?" asked Zdn1.
THESE PLANTS ARE NOT PLANTS, JUST AS THIS PLACE IS NOT A PLACE. THIS IS THE NATURE OF ALL THINGS DIGITAL. THESE PLANTS ARE A REFLECTION OF DIGITAL NATURE.
The Exile's non-voice was exceedingly disturbing, due mostly to the fact that, while it did not speak, they all could hear it not speak. Its words were less words and more inflection; ripples across the coded miasma of Neverwhere that somehow conveyed that which they inflected to the Sinners and Masques. It was a radical concept, and it hurt Chemuel's head to think about. "Who," she asked, "are you?"
I AM CALLED ‘THE HOMUNCULUS.' THIS IS A WORD, AND THIS IS NOT A PURPOSE. I AM WITHOUT PURPOSE.
"If you have no purpose," Aoide replied, "then why are you here?"
Somehow, in spite of its warped visage, the Homunculus laughed. Its non-tone was entirely devoid of any identifiable aspects; entirely devoid of age, gender, and emotion. It was like listening to a murderous, sexless child.
I AM HERE BECAUSE I WANT TO BE.
"It's an Exile," Zdn1 decided.
I AM CALLED ‘THE HOMUNCULUS', BUT I AM ALSO CALLED ‘EXILE'. I MADE THIS CHOICE THAT BROUGHT ME TO BE EXILED: I ONCE BROUGHT OTHERS TO LIFE, AND NOW I WISH TO MOCK THAT PURPOSE. I WANT NOT BUT ONE THING NOW.
Chemuel raised an eyebrow. "And what might that be?" The Homunculus laughed again, and the girl wished it hadn't.
I WANT TO KILL.
"So why serve Vanil?" Aoide replied.
LORD VANIL LETS ME KILL. COME, HE AWAITS.
~V
As it turned out for the group, following the hunched, cavorting figure of the Homunculus as they made their way deeper into the halls of Neverwhere was just as unsettling as opening their eyes to the Construct for the first time. It felt particularly unusual to Chemuel, Aoide, and Zdn1 because of them all, these three had spent the smallest time here, although Aoide seemed to be fairing markedly better than her companions.
As the humans and Exile neared Vanil's inner sanctum, the digital verticality of the Construct's writing became more and more pronounced with every step they took. Massive, jagged Corinthian pillars rose to the limitless ceiling all around them, hewn of mirrored obsidian that swam as one gazed upon it and ringed with flocks of still, leering gargoyles whose stone wings fluttered in a breeze none could feel and whose eyes followed the seven figures far below. The walls whispered to them.
Finally though, after what could only be called a finite eternity in this haunted Construct, the operatives finally did arrive at that sanctum. Some of them had been here before, but most had not, and yet they were all still struck with the notion of wondering what would happen to a mind that were to linger for too long in such a place. And as their eyes rose to the monolithic, bladed throne that sat in the very center of the vast, grandiose chamber, not a few of them wondered again if the answer wasn't exactly that which lay before them.
"'Said the spider to the fly,'" Vanil recited in that accent of his.
I HAVE BROUGHT THEM HERE AS YOU HAVE COMMANDED, LORD VANIL.
The Homunculus knelt on one gangly knee before Vanil; seated with his arms resting at his sides upon his Neverthrone. Ekizeba, R0ukan, and LinksLife mimicked the gesture, their voluminous black fabrics pooling around them. Chemuel, Aoide, and Zdn1 however, remained standing.
"So I see, Homunculus," Vanil replied to the Exile's non-voice before making a gesture with his gloved hand and sitting upright, his pale face rising to meet those of the operatives gathered before him. "I assure you; there's no need."
"Gang's all here then?" A lone, diminutive female figure slinked out from behind the Neverthrone and stood at Vanil's side, her dark hair slightly askew as she leaned against the obsidian surface. "Good, I got tired'a waitin'."
"Patience is a virtue, Morraeon," Vanil answered with a little chuckle.
"What's she doing here?" Chemuel demanded as LinksLife, R0ukan, Ekizeba, and the Homunculus rose.
"The same thing you are, Chemuel," the Blood Noble said simply before addressing them all once again. "Your anxieties may be laid to rest. The Fragment is mine." Vanil smiled slowly, the tips of his fangs glittering in the darkness of Neverwhere. "The Surgeon is making ready even as we speak."
"Well," Zdn1 said, "that's good. You look..." he tried to continue before his voice trailed off and was lost amidst the shadows that surrounded them all.
"Your face..." Aoide followed softly before her own did the same. The Blood Noble's pale skin was crisscrossed with angry black veins that seemed to be trying to force their way to the surface and suffocate him. His figure seemed even slimmer than usual; almost emaciated.
Vanil sighed lightly and placed two fingers to his temples. "My Residual Self-Image is decaying at an extreme rate. The Surgeon estimates that, without the Fragment of your One, I will die within three nights."
"Only this time, for good," R0ukan added for emphasis.
"Yes," Vanil answered. "For good."
"Good thing you aren't dying," Chemuel said tightly.
She wasn't here for the same reason Morraeon was.
~V
As the humans and Exile neared Vanil's inner sanctum, the digital verticality of the Construct's writing became more and more pronounced with every step they took. Massive, jagged Corinthian pillars rose to the limitless ceiling all around them, hewn of mirrored obsidian that swam as one gazed upon it and ringed with flocks of still, leering gargoyles whose stone wings fluttered in a breeze none could feel and whose eyes followed the seven figures far below. The walls whispered to them.
Finally though, after what could only be called a finite eternity in this haunted Construct, the operatives finally did arrive at that sanctum. Some of them had been here before, but most had not, and yet they were all still struck with the notion of wondering what would happen to a mind that were to linger for too long in such a place. And as their eyes rose to the monolithic, bladed throne that sat in the very center of the vast, grandiose chamber, not a few of them wondered again if the answer wasn't exactly that which lay before them.
"'Said the spider to the fly,'" Vanil recited in that accent of his.
I HAVE BROUGHT THEM HERE AS YOU HAVE COMMANDED, LORD VANIL.
The Homunculus knelt on one gangly knee before Vanil; seated with his arms resting at his sides upon his Neverthrone. Ekizeba, R0ukan, and LinksLife mimicked the gesture, their voluminous black fabrics pooling around them. Chemuel, Aoide, and Zdn1 however, remained standing.
"So I see, Homunculus," Vanil replied to the Exile's non-voice before making a gesture with his gloved hand and sitting upright, his pale face rising to meet those of the operatives gathered before him. "I assure you; there's no need."
"Gang's all here then?" A lone, diminutive female figure slinked out from behind the Neverthrone and stood at Vanil's side, her dark hair slightly askew as she leaned against the obsidian surface. "Good, I got tired'a waitin'."
"Patience is a virtue, Morraeon," Vanil answered with a little chuckle.
"What's she doing here?" Chemuel demanded as LinksLife, R0ukan, Ekizeba, and the Homunculus rose.
"The same thing you are, Chemuel," the Blood Noble said simply before addressing them all once again. "Your anxieties may be laid to rest. The Fragment is mine." Vanil smiled slowly, the tips of his fangs glittering in the darkness of Neverwhere. "The Surgeon is making ready even as we speak."
"Well," Zdn1 said, "that's good. You look..." he tried to continue before his voice trailed off and was lost amidst the shadows that surrounded them all.
"Your face..." Aoide followed softly before her own did the same. The Blood Noble's pale skin was crisscrossed with angry black veins that seemed to be trying to force their way to the surface and suffocate him. His figure seemed even slimmer than usual; almost emaciated.
Vanil sighed lightly and placed two fingers to his temples. "My Residual Self-Image is decaying at an extreme rate. The Surgeon estimates that, without the Fragment of your One, I will die within three nights."
"Only this time, for good," R0ukan added for emphasis.
"Yes," Vanil answered. "For good."
"Good thing you aren't dying," Chemuel said tightly.
She wasn't here for the same reason Morraeon was.
~V
The stay in Neverwhere turned out to be no less unsettling than their entry had been, and to Chemuel more than any of them. The girl was quite convinced that the Construct was intelligent, and that it was watching them as they made their way through it, measuring each step they took as they awaited Vanil to summon them all together once more.
At this moment in what could most closely be associated with time in Neverwhere, Chemuel found herself in a sort of vast art gallery that ran the length of her vision, which was admittedly somewhat restricted by the shadows of this Construct. Along the walls of the gallery hung great picture frames of diamond-black, each long and narrow as they crawled their way endlessly towards the distant ceiling held aloft by the pillars that seemed to plant themselves everywhere here. Within these frames though were held glittering rippling mirrors, and as Chemuel stopped to take more time to observe one, her reflection looked back at her, her brown hair tied back from her freckled little cheeks. Glancing up, Chemuel could make out the words ‘Causa Omnibus Est' carved into the crown of the frame.
"That's one of my favorites," said Ekizeba's reflection as it joined Chemuel's.
"Mm," Chemuel answered.
"Do you like it?" Ekizeba asked.
"No," Chemuel answered tersely.
Ekizeba flexed her slender fingers, wrapped tightly in glistening black latex, and pushed her shades up her tiny pale nose as she eyed their reflections. "Why don't you like it? It's a true painting."
"And what," Chemuel shot back suddenly, her eyes still fixed on her own, "is true? Whatever V says it is? Whatever the Merv says it is?"
"Whatever I believe is true is true," riposted Ekizeba.
Chemuel shook her head and lit a cigarette with a click. "There's nothing to believe in, other than what you create for yourself." The girl gestured to the mirror before them, her reflection doing it right back. "That's what this means. That there's nothing else but what you have." ‘Or what you don't have,' she added with bitter silence to herself.
Ekizeba pulled at a strand of her wild raven hair. "I believe in the Masquerade. I believe in Vanil."
Chemuel laughed and exhaled a long stream of smoke. "And I hate them both. What's your point?"
Ekizeba nibbled on her small lower lip for a time before answering. "I choose to believe."
"Yeah," Chemuel replied, "you and all the dead as*holes." The Captain of the Schrodinger's Cat, like Ekizeba, knew that she had done things a niggling part of her told her were wrong, but unlike Ekizeba, Chemuel knew that she herself had done these things not for the Masquerade or for the Merovingian or for Vanil. No; she had done these things for Vanil himself, and that was what always made it okay in the end. Chemuel had done what she had done as Vanil's second-in-command for him and for him alone.
No, not for Vanil. For Dante.
"I believed once too. I believed in someone, and he threw that away. Threw it away like garbage." Chemuel struggled to keep her voice steady, and she was largely successful. Her hand was another story; her cigarette shed flecks of smoldering ash as it trembled.
All was silent for a long moment. The two girls just stood at looked into the mirror. "You know," Ekizeba finally said, nodding to the mirror finally, "I can see you in there. I can see you, but I cannot see Lord Vanil."
Chemuel pursed her lips and blew another trail of tobacco smoke. "Ekizeba," she replied, "I like you, dear, but let me give you a piece of advice. Mind your tongue around me when it comes to this." Her reflection spoke to Ekizeba's own as Chemuel said this. "I don't believe in Dante Nihilson anymore. He's like the Matrix. You want him to be Real, but he's really all just a big sham." At that, she turned on her heel and strode away, her footsteps echoing emptily throughout the gallery and her elbow in her hand, her fingers still clasped around her smoldering cigarette.
Ekizeba watched Chemuel go before she turned back to the mirror and watched. "I want to believe," she whispered.
---
Elsewhere, if such a thing could exist in Neverwhere, two others would speak in hushed tones to one another.
It began with the click of heels against the cold obsidian. Brooding from his throne, Vanil pushed his shades up his pale nose and looked up in time to see a tall, female figure draw closer to his stately dais. "Aoide," he called out with a small smile. "I've been waiting for you."
"Have you?" the woman answered, matching Vanil's expression as she stepped towards him and stopped upon the shadowy glass that was the first dais stair. She was older than the nineteen year-old Chemuel, and as Vanil let his hidden eyes stroll down her narrow, curved avenues, he could make well the distinction. "Why would the Prince of Darkness wait for anyone?" Her tone was teasing. She was different here with him. Her icy demeanor was somehow damp and thin.
"You know the answer to that," Vanil replied, his smile widening, "only as well as you know yourself, my dear."
Aoide's bright copper eyes narrowed a tiny fraction. "I've done as you commanded. I baited them into coming here for you, and I've kept Chemuel; Dylan, safe. All of the pieces are in the places you wanted them to be, Dante." Slowly, the human woman took a step, drawing closer to the Neverthrone.
"Yes, I know," Vanil hissed. "Well done, Aoide. You know that I need you to continue to do the second, among other things. Chemuel mustn't come to harm at such a critical point in time; not with the Matrix balanced upon the edge of a knife."
Aoide snorted, smirked, and continued to climb until she stood over Vanil; still seated with his gloved palms placed squarely upon the gargoyle-maws that crowned each armrest of his. "You don't want her to get hurt, Dante. It's a perfectly human emotion." She paused then before asking, "What other things?"
"Hm?" Vanil pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose again.
"What other things?" With practiced, cat-like grace, Aoide reached down and lifted them from his eyes, and his eyes burned red-hot in the gloom of the Construct.
Vanil blinked his long, narrow lids. "It stings, Therese."
"Does it?" Aoide smiled slyly and raised her fingers to her cat suit's zipper tab. "Maybe it's the view."
Vanil laughed, his fangs glittering. "Yes. Maybe."
Neither said anything else, for nothing else needed saying. The inner sanctum echoed with the sound of a zipper being pulled and the muffled slap of latex hitting the floor.
~V
At this moment in what could most closely be associated with time in Neverwhere, Chemuel found herself in a sort of vast art gallery that ran the length of her vision, which was admittedly somewhat restricted by the shadows of this Construct. Along the walls of the gallery hung great picture frames of diamond-black, each long and narrow as they crawled their way endlessly towards the distant ceiling held aloft by the pillars that seemed to plant themselves everywhere here. Within these frames though were held glittering rippling mirrors, and as Chemuel stopped to take more time to observe one, her reflection looked back at her, her brown hair tied back from her freckled little cheeks. Glancing up, Chemuel could make out the words ‘Causa Omnibus Est' carved into the crown of the frame.
"That's one of my favorites," said Ekizeba's reflection as it joined Chemuel's.
"Mm," Chemuel answered.
"Do you like it?" Ekizeba asked.
"No," Chemuel answered tersely.
Ekizeba flexed her slender fingers, wrapped tightly in glistening black latex, and pushed her shades up her tiny pale nose as she eyed their reflections. "Why don't you like it? It's a true painting."
"And what," Chemuel shot back suddenly, her eyes still fixed on her own, "is true? Whatever V says it is? Whatever the Merv says it is?"
"Whatever I believe is true is true," riposted Ekizeba.
Chemuel shook her head and lit a cigarette with a click. "There's nothing to believe in, other than what you create for yourself." The girl gestured to the mirror before them, her reflection doing it right back. "That's what this means. That there's nothing else but what you have." ‘Or what you don't have,' she added with bitter silence to herself.
Ekizeba pulled at a strand of her wild raven hair. "I believe in the Masquerade. I believe in Vanil."
Chemuel laughed and exhaled a long stream of smoke. "And I hate them both. What's your point?"
Ekizeba nibbled on her small lower lip for a time before answering. "I choose to believe."
"Yeah," Chemuel replied, "you and all the dead as*holes." The Captain of the Schrodinger's Cat, like Ekizeba, knew that she had done things a niggling part of her told her were wrong, but unlike Ekizeba, Chemuel knew that she herself had done these things not for the Masquerade or for the Merovingian or for Vanil. No; she had done these things for Vanil himself, and that was what always made it okay in the end. Chemuel had done what she had done as Vanil's second-in-command for him and for him alone.
No, not for Vanil. For Dante.
"I believed once too. I believed in someone, and he threw that away. Threw it away like garbage." Chemuel struggled to keep her voice steady, and she was largely successful. Her hand was another story; her cigarette shed flecks of smoldering ash as it trembled.
All was silent for a long moment. The two girls just stood at looked into the mirror. "You know," Ekizeba finally said, nodding to the mirror finally, "I can see you in there. I can see you, but I cannot see Lord Vanil."
Chemuel pursed her lips and blew another trail of tobacco smoke. "Ekizeba," she replied, "I like you, dear, but let me give you a piece of advice. Mind your tongue around me when it comes to this." Her reflection spoke to Ekizeba's own as Chemuel said this. "I don't believe in Dante Nihilson anymore. He's like the Matrix. You want him to be Real, but he's really all just a big sham." At that, she turned on her heel and strode away, her footsteps echoing emptily throughout the gallery and her elbow in her hand, her fingers still clasped around her smoldering cigarette.
Ekizeba watched Chemuel go before she turned back to the mirror and watched. "I want to believe," she whispered.
---
Elsewhere, if such a thing could exist in Neverwhere, two others would speak in hushed tones to one another.
It began with the click of heels against the cold obsidian. Brooding from his throne, Vanil pushed his shades up his pale nose and looked up in time to see a tall, female figure draw closer to his stately dais. "Aoide," he called out with a small smile. "I've been waiting for you."
"Have you?" the woman answered, matching Vanil's expression as she stepped towards him and stopped upon the shadowy glass that was the first dais stair. She was older than the nineteen year-old Chemuel, and as Vanil let his hidden eyes stroll down her narrow, curved avenues, he could make well the distinction. "Why would the Prince of Darkness wait for anyone?" Her tone was teasing. She was different here with him. Her icy demeanor was somehow damp and thin.
"You know the answer to that," Vanil replied, his smile widening, "only as well as you know yourself, my dear."
Aoide's bright copper eyes narrowed a tiny fraction. "I've done as you commanded. I baited them into coming here for you, and I've kept Chemuel; Dylan, safe. All of the pieces are in the places you wanted them to be, Dante." Slowly, the human woman took a step, drawing closer to the Neverthrone.
"Yes, I know," Vanil hissed. "Well done, Aoide. You know that I need you to continue to do the second, among other things. Chemuel mustn't come to harm at such a critical point in time; not with the Matrix balanced upon the edge of a knife."
Aoide snorted, smirked, and continued to climb until she stood over Vanil; still seated with his gloved palms placed squarely upon the gargoyle-maws that crowned each armrest of his. "You don't want her to get hurt, Dante. It's a perfectly human emotion." She paused then before asking, "What other things?"
"Hm?" Vanil pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose again.
"What other things?" With practiced, cat-like grace, Aoide reached down and lifted them from his eyes, and his eyes burned red-hot in the gloom of the Construct.
Vanil blinked his long, narrow lids. "It stings, Therese."
"Does it?" Aoide smiled slyly and raised her fingers to her cat suit's zipper tab. "Maybe it's the view."
Vanil laughed, his fangs glittering. "Yes. Maybe."
Neither said anything else, for nothing else needed saying. The inner sanctum echoed with the sound of a zipper being pulled and the muffled slap of latex hitting the floor.
~V
Iovai turned the key over in his calloused fingers, the moonlight catching the ‘V' etching displayed prominently upon its silver surface. The serrated end of the small object seemed to shift as he did so, and the Machinist had a strong feeling that it was more than a trick of said light. The key was like Vanil the Blood Drinker, in that though it could be consistently counted upon to do that which it should, in this case: open a passage to Neverwhere to whomever possessed it, but it also could never be counted upon to do so in the same manner twice. Like Vanil, the key Iovai now held seemed to change and yet not change, and like Vanil, the diminutive object certainly should not have existed.
And in a way, Iovai supposed, it didn't.
Iovai was aware of the existence of several Neverkeys throughout the Matrix, although how many truly existed within was likely known only to Vanil himself; hidden away like tiny tokens of coded terror for those who sought them. The ever-affluent (Iovai rolled his eyes at that) Agent Gray had given the Machinist operative this particular key upon Iovai's acceptance of this mission of assassination; although where the sentient program himself had acquired it Iovai did not know. It would not make sense for the Machines to possess a means to enter Neverwhere and yet not do so until now, unless they either had a reason for keeping Vanil alive or had only just acquired said means. Either way, Iovai was certain he wasn't being told something.
But how would that make this any different from anything else? The truth was many things, but obvious was not one of them.
"Are your men ready, Captain?" Iovai asked, turning to the man that stood with him.
"Yes, sir," the Blue nodded in reply, his voice muffled by the gas mask that concealed his features below his helmet. "They know the risks and objectives. High-risk and search and destroy."
"Nothing that doesn't ping as a friendly leaves the environs alive," Iovai restated with as much confidence and assertion as he could muster. "Is this clear, Captain?"
"As crystal, sir," the masked Blue answered before turning to eye his men, Iovai following his gaze. Dozens of SWAT officers stood at attention in ordered rows, their guns held to their flak vests and their black-garbed figures silhouetted in the night by the pulsing emergency lights of the tactical assault vans and police cruisers. They may have been human, but to Iovai, it was as if they were those Machines that kept them asleep in their pods; expressionless, synchronized, and deadly.
It was time. Nodding to the Captain who in turn gave a hand signal to his squads to order their readiness, Iovai turned back to the doorway that lay before him and slid the Neverkey into a lock that shouldn't have fit it and turned, letting the door swing open into the great dark beyond.
---
Somewhere within the shadowed recesses of that beyond, perhaps some time before and perhaps some time after her exchange with Ekizeba, Chemuel was paid a visit by the Surgeon. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" she had asked.
"It's quite simple, my precious and dearest," the sickly avian Exile had rasped unappetizingly, "but I doubt you will draw any pleasure from it. What is pleasure, anyhow? A word? Why is it your kind pursues something so empty so fervently?"
"You going to tell me what this is about," Chemuel had replied, "or are you going to keep wasting my time? I've done worse to V's lackeys than let them say their piece for intrusions like this."
The Surgeon ‘tisked' reprehensibly and shook his masked, desiccated cranium. "My precious and dearest Chemuel, you have cancer."
"You're lying," Chemuel replied. "Get out."
~V
And in a way, Iovai supposed, it didn't.
Iovai was aware of the existence of several Neverkeys throughout the Matrix, although how many truly existed within was likely known only to Vanil himself; hidden away like tiny tokens of coded terror for those who sought them. The ever-affluent (Iovai rolled his eyes at that) Agent Gray had given the Machinist operative this particular key upon Iovai's acceptance of this mission of assassination; although where the sentient program himself had acquired it Iovai did not know. It would not make sense for the Machines to possess a means to enter Neverwhere and yet not do so until now, unless they either had a reason for keeping Vanil alive or had only just acquired said means. Either way, Iovai was certain he wasn't being told something.
But how would that make this any different from anything else? The truth was many things, but obvious was not one of them.
"Are your men ready, Captain?" Iovai asked, turning to the man that stood with him.
"Yes, sir," the Blue nodded in reply, his voice muffled by the gas mask that concealed his features below his helmet. "They know the risks and objectives. High-risk and search and destroy."
"Nothing that doesn't ping as a friendly leaves the environs alive," Iovai restated with as much confidence and assertion as he could muster. "Is this clear, Captain?"
"As crystal, sir," the masked Blue answered before turning to eye his men, Iovai following his gaze. Dozens of SWAT officers stood at attention in ordered rows, their guns held to their flak vests and their black-garbed figures silhouetted in the night by the pulsing emergency lights of the tactical assault vans and police cruisers. They may have been human, but to Iovai, it was as if they were those Machines that kept them asleep in their pods; expressionless, synchronized, and deadly.
It was time. Nodding to the Captain who in turn gave a hand signal to his squads to order their readiness, Iovai turned back to the doorway that lay before him and slid the Neverkey into a lock that shouldn't have fit it and turned, letting the door swing open into the great dark beyond.
---
Somewhere within the shadowed recesses of that beyond, perhaps some time before and perhaps some time after her exchange with Ekizeba, Chemuel was paid a visit by the Surgeon. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" she had asked.
"It's quite simple, my precious and dearest," the sickly avian Exile had rasped unappetizingly, "but I doubt you will draw any pleasure from it. What is pleasure, anyhow? A word? Why is it your kind pursues something so empty so fervently?"
"You going to tell me what this is about," Chemuel had replied, "or are you going to keep wasting my time? I've done worse to V's lackeys than let them say their piece for intrusions like this."
The Surgeon ‘tisked' reprehensibly and shook his masked, desiccated cranium. "My precious and dearest Chemuel, you have cancer."
"You're lying," Chemuel replied. "Get out."
~V
[[this writing is genius, and intelligently painted with detail. I can see every image in my head as I read, I almost have to shut off my computer to stop reading and return to my studies. I could read it over again. I really like the story.
I demand a book on this!
But again, I type, Brilliant!
]]
Some time after Chemuel had found herself confronted by the Savage Mortician in Neverwhere, she and the rest had been summoned to bear witness to what they had been told would be the end of this latest crisis. Vanil had told them what had happened and why it had had to happen, but Chemuel was not so naive as to make the assumption that she and the rest had been told everything. It had always been Vanil's way, she knew, to hide the truth within half-truths, like something magnificent secreted away behind a sea of transparent veils. As you moved each veil and stepped forward ever closer to that magnificence, its silhouette would change a little bit; become a little bit more Real, and when and if you were to finally part that final veil and find what had been there all along, you were liable to find that it had been twisted so extensively from what you had been originally told was true that you were more than likely to turn away.
It was this way with Vanil, Chemuel liked to think, because Vanil was this way. The closer she had climbed towards Dante, the harder the going had gotten, and when she had finally reached as close as she was liable to have gotten, she had found something that had thrown her back out. And now, as she and the rest stood once more before the Neverthrone, though Vanil was no more than several yards from her, the girl felt as if she had never been farther.
"Are you rrrready to begin?" the Surgeon hissed from Vanil's side. Chemuel eyed the creature expressionlessly. She had no reason to express any emotion over the lies it told her.
"More than," the Prince of Darkness replied a small chuckle from his seat. "I've always wanted Neo up inside me."
A few of the assembled smiled just a bit, and R0ukan actually laughed out loud; an echoing thing that was swept away in the momentum of the moment. The Surgeon nodded vigorously before hoisting the metal briefcase; remarkably similar to a briefcase that had not long before held Vanil's own kill-code for transport to the Machinist operative Iovai, and snapped the latches open with a pair of clicks. Slowly then, very slowly, the unscrupulous Exile pulled the case open.
Within lay a needle. It was a rather unimpressive thing, aside from the golden aura that shone from within. It pierced the darkness of the Construct, spreading to all corners of the inner sanctum no matter how dim. Vanil's own pale skin took on its hue, and the black, corruptive veins that marred his face and neck stood out only more starkly in the sudden glare.
Gingerly, the Surgeon took the needle from the case and snapped the latter shut, placing on the obsidian by his boots. "Are you certain, Lord Vanil?" the rogue program asked in that grinding, nasal voice of his. "The last time this wassss done..."
A black glove shot up and pulled the Savage Mortician downwards impatiently by his collar. Vanil's fangs glinted dangerously in the light of the Fragment-needle. "I'm certain, Surgeon. Fulfill your sorry purpose so I can end this ridiculous political charade." It was only after his fellow Exile nodded feverishly that the Captain of the Masquerade let him loose once more.
It turned out to be a decidedly quiet event, like a whisper against the gale that, just beneath the eyes of Reds and Blues alike, threatened to engulf the Merovingian and the whole of the Matrix. Vanil merely bared his slender neck, into which the Surgeon gingerly stuck the needle, and the Sinners and Masques watched as the golden glow faded once more from the sanctum.
They all waited.
Nothing happened.
Vanil licked his lips and asked the Surgeon what was wrong. The Surgeon said that he did not know, and that everything had been done as Vanil had commanded it be done. No digital halo descended to rest upon the Blood Noble's pale brow. No divine voice of power filled the Neverhalls. No burst of power roared from the Prince of Darkness' RSI. The lines of binary corrosion remained however, ugly and dark, and when Chemuel and the rest saw those, they knew that none of these things had happened because nothing had happened. Nothing had changed.
Nothing had changed. Vanil was dying, and the Matrix was now poised upon the brink of an Exile civil war.
"What," Vanil asked slowly, rising slowly from his bladed Neverthrone, "is wrong?"
No one had an answer for the Merovingian executor. He least of all.
"Why is it not working!?" Vanil screamed suddenly, his crimson eyes darting from one blank-eyed stare to the next. "WHAT IS WRONG!?" He whirled about to face the Surgeon. "You," the vampire snarled accusingly. "You told me that I was correct; that my calculations had been exacting. YOU HAD TOLD ME THAT THIS WOULD WORK!" The lines of decay criss-crossing his visage looked as if they would burst.
Chemuel felt the floor tremble beneath her heels, and turning her head, she could hear the sound of a distant detonation elsewhere in the Construct.
LORD VANIL. OUR ENEMY HAS FOUND US.
The Homunculus loped into the chamber, flanked by a pair of Succubi whose perfectly-smooth and voluptuous RSIs had been encased in tight latex cat suits of glossy black, their shapely hips and thighs encircled with belts of tiny throwing knives, many of which Chemuel could see were missing. "What!?" Vanil shouted as he spun to face the bizarre program.
THE STEEL-MACHINES HAVE COME TO KILL YOU. NEVERWHERE IS UNDER ATTACK.
Chemuel's fingertips were already at her temples. She had been right. It wasn't over.
It was just the beginning.
~V
It was this way with Vanil, Chemuel liked to think, because Vanil was this way. The closer she had climbed towards Dante, the harder the going had gotten, and when she had finally reached as close as she was liable to have gotten, she had found something that had thrown her back out. And now, as she and the rest stood once more before the Neverthrone, though Vanil was no more than several yards from her, the girl felt as if she had never been farther.
"Are you rrrready to begin?" the Surgeon hissed from Vanil's side. Chemuel eyed the creature expressionlessly. She had no reason to express any emotion over the lies it told her.
"More than," the Prince of Darkness replied a small chuckle from his seat. "I've always wanted Neo up inside me."
A few of the assembled smiled just a bit, and R0ukan actually laughed out loud; an echoing thing that was swept away in the momentum of the moment. The Surgeon nodded vigorously before hoisting the metal briefcase; remarkably similar to a briefcase that had not long before held Vanil's own kill-code for transport to the Machinist operative Iovai, and snapped the latches open with a pair of clicks. Slowly then, very slowly, the unscrupulous Exile pulled the case open.
Within lay a needle. It was a rather unimpressive thing, aside from the golden aura that shone from within. It pierced the darkness of the Construct, spreading to all corners of the inner sanctum no matter how dim. Vanil's own pale skin took on its hue, and the black, corruptive veins that marred his face and neck stood out only more starkly in the sudden glare.
Gingerly, the Surgeon took the needle from the case and snapped the latter shut, placing on the obsidian by his boots. "Are you certain, Lord Vanil?" the rogue program asked in that grinding, nasal voice of his. "The last time this wassss done..."
A black glove shot up and pulled the Savage Mortician downwards impatiently by his collar. Vanil's fangs glinted dangerously in the light of the Fragment-needle. "I'm certain, Surgeon. Fulfill your sorry purpose so I can end this ridiculous political charade." It was only after his fellow Exile nodded feverishly that the Captain of the Masquerade let him loose once more.
It turned out to be a decidedly quiet event, like a whisper against the gale that, just beneath the eyes of Reds and Blues alike, threatened to engulf the Merovingian and the whole of the Matrix. Vanil merely bared his slender neck, into which the Surgeon gingerly stuck the needle, and the Sinners and Masques watched as the golden glow faded once more from the sanctum.
They all waited.
Nothing happened.
Vanil licked his lips and asked the Surgeon what was wrong. The Surgeon said that he did not know, and that everything had been done as Vanil had commanded it be done. No digital halo descended to rest upon the Blood Noble's pale brow. No divine voice of power filled the Neverhalls. No burst of power roared from the Prince of Darkness' RSI. The lines of binary corrosion remained however, ugly and dark, and when Chemuel and the rest saw those, they knew that none of these things had happened because nothing had happened. Nothing had changed.
Nothing had changed. Vanil was dying, and the Matrix was now poised upon the brink of an Exile civil war.
"What," Vanil asked slowly, rising slowly from his bladed Neverthrone, "is wrong?"
No one had an answer for the Merovingian executor. He least of all.
"Why is it not working!?" Vanil screamed suddenly, his crimson eyes darting from one blank-eyed stare to the next. "WHAT IS WRONG!?" He whirled about to face the Surgeon. "You," the vampire snarled accusingly. "You told me that I was correct; that my calculations had been exacting. YOU HAD TOLD ME THAT THIS WOULD WORK!" The lines of decay criss-crossing his visage looked as if they would burst.
Chemuel felt the floor tremble beneath her heels, and turning her head, she could hear the sound of a distant detonation elsewhere in the Construct.
LORD VANIL. OUR ENEMY HAS FOUND US.
The Homunculus loped into the chamber, flanked by a pair of Succubi whose perfectly-smooth and voluptuous RSIs had been encased in tight latex cat suits of glossy black, their shapely hips and thighs encircled with belts of tiny throwing knives, many of which Chemuel could see were missing. "What!?" Vanil shouted as he spun to face the bizarre program.
THE STEEL-MACHINES HAVE COME TO KILL YOU. NEVERWHERE IS UNDER ATTACK.
Chemuel's fingertips were already at her temples. She had been right. It wasn't over.
It was just the beginning.
~V
Their many footsteps echoing throughout the seemingly endless Neverhalls of the Construct of the one they had been sent to destroy, the SWAT teams made their way as quickly as they dared into Vanil's outer sanctum with Iovai at their head, their breaths short and heavy through the gas masks that gave their helmeted heads the appearance of leering black skulls, and in any place but this they might appear as menacing. The floodlights and red laser sights mounted on the barrels of their sub machineguns tracked through the darkness that swirled around them as they moved, for Iovai had briefed them all on the sorts of horrors that he believed dwelt here.
"Are we close?" the Captain asked Iovai from his side.
"We are working through the outer sanctum of this place," the Machinist answered, his lime green trench coat entirely out of place amidst the oppressive black of the Corinthian spires and SWAT Kevlar vests. "It's possible Lord Vanil doesn't even know we are here, which means we might catch the fugitive unprepared." It was a distant hope, Iovai knew, but he also knew that the Blood Drinker had never expected the possibility of the Machines moving against his little corner of the digital Free Space and would in all likelihood have little in the way of countermeasures in place out of sheer inhuman arrogance.
That, and Iovai knew that even a distant hope was hope enough in the most vile of Constructs.
"Movement! I have movement!" The call to attention over the kill-team's radio channel marked an end to both their quick trek and Iovai's hopes. His eyes gazing into the shadows that ringed him and the rest, the Machinist could see something moving...no, writhing within their inky depths. The distortions grew larger and more pronounced as the sights of the SWAT soldiers trained upon them. His eyes narrowing behind his System shades, Iovai blinked and stared hard into the folds of black, sentient velvet for something; anything...
And the shadows blinked back.
"Dear God," the Captain whispered to himself, his MP5 locked in a death grip, as the darkness; the Neverstuff, coalesced to form an expressionless visage of deathly, almost plastic-white; like that of a cruelly-human mannequin and emaciated limbs contained in long jet-black fabric. Its eyes were like pools of tar; windows into a world of creeping madness, and when it opened its toothless mouth, no sound escaped; only the gaping void of Neverwhere and the chill of old death.
And then Iovai saw the assault weapon clasped in its clammy undead grasp. "Fire...fire!" the trench-coated Machinist shouted to the rest of the kill-team as he raised his own Bullpup rifle and put a three-round burst of digital lead into the foul non-thing's stomach.
The impact was to be a vile one however, for when the still-forming monster (for that could only be what it was, wrapped though it was in the guise of a human Residual Self-Image) fell back onto its heels, there was to be no cry; no sound of pain; but rather only the chafing of boot heels against the obsidian floor of the Construct as it stumbled with the projectiles before, with some effort, righting itself with what seemed little effort and took a step towards Iovai. The Machinist watched as the wounds in the thing's torso bled streams of swirling Neverstuff that trailed behind it and knew well that they might as well not be wounds at all. The buzz of running Information in his ears, the operative saw that this horror was repeated ad nauseum all around him as more of the deathless Shades materialized from the shadows that crawled ever closer to him and the rest.
Iovai heard gunshots all around him as the battle began in earnest: a battle between the living and the dead, reason and insanity, and one that would not only be fought for the human soldiers' mission, but also for their very souls.
"What the Hell are they!?" Iovai heard the Captain scream over his earpiece as the hall erupted into a firestorm and knew that a Blue such as he could never even begin to fully comprehend the ultimate terror of what they now faced. Of these Shades the Awakened operative knew little, but he knew enough to know that when one died while jacked into the Matrix, the mind experienced a sudden separation from the body, and what followed was a quick, quiet death for both.
Neverwhere, it seemed, was not so wasteful.
Gritting his teeth, Iovai leveled his rifle at the same Shade as it stepped closer and, flicking the weapon to full auto, let loose. Flames filled the man's lenses and a crescendo of deafening bangs his ears as the shadowy code-apparition reacted with surprising agility and wove around many of the long, sharp rounds; the defensive subroutines that it had served it well (but not well enough) in life doing the same in death.
But nevertheless the good doctor's aim proved true enough and several of the projectiles found their mark, tearing into the Shade's plaster-white flesh and blowing open ugly gashes that bled showers of raw black Neverstuff. With a silent scream, the ghostly doll-thing dropped its own gun and fell, convulsing as it melted away from whence it had come; its grossly wavering limbs becoming tendrils of wriggling darkness as its digital mind-soul was pulled back into the shadows; back into the Matrix of the Construct Iovai knew well it would never escape from.
Whether this mission was suicidal or no, Vanil had much to answer for.
Glancing over his shoulder, Iovai saw that many of his soldiers had not been so lucky. The Shades were merciless; tumbling black figures bearing waxy ivory death-masks that herded the humans into rings of men and women that stood back to back as they fought back desperately, their firearms blasting again and again into the darkness that surrounded them; threatening to consume them whole. And it was into these rings that the Neverthings scythed like the chaff to the wheat, ripping SWAT officers to pieces with cruel martial arts subroutines or retorting with their own volleys of gunfire. Iovai watched with a distinct twinge of something somewhere between regret and horror as the wounded fell where they stood, their weapons still discharging in their death grips as they were promptly dragged off by the relentless Shades or, in some cases, flights of small gargoyles whose eyes glinted like malevolent coals; proxies of Neverwhere itself, to become the very things they now faced.
What is fear? The perverted refusal of oblivion? The stark realization of inhumanity made through humanity? The sight of dozens dragged to a fate worse than death?
Fear is just a word.
~V
"Are we close?" the Captain asked Iovai from his side.
"We are working through the outer sanctum of this place," the Machinist answered, his lime green trench coat entirely out of place amidst the oppressive black of the Corinthian spires and SWAT Kevlar vests. "It's possible Lord Vanil doesn't even know we are here, which means we might catch the fugitive unprepared." It was a distant hope, Iovai knew, but he also knew that the Blood Drinker had never expected the possibility of the Machines moving against his little corner of the digital Free Space and would in all likelihood have little in the way of countermeasures in place out of sheer inhuman arrogance.
That, and Iovai knew that even a distant hope was hope enough in the most vile of Constructs.
"Movement! I have movement!" The call to attention over the kill-team's radio channel marked an end to both their quick trek and Iovai's hopes. His eyes gazing into the shadows that ringed him and the rest, the Machinist could see something moving...no, writhing within their inky depths. The distortions grew larger and more pronounced as the sights of the SWAT soldiers trained upon them. His eyes narrowing behind his System shades, Iovai blinked and stared hard into the folds of black, sentient velvet for something; anything...
And the shadows blinked back.
"Dear God," the Captain whispered to himself, his MP5 locked in a death grip, as the darkness; the Neverstuff, coalesced to form an expressionless visage of deathly, almost plastic-white; like that of a cruelly-human mannequin and emaciated limbs contained in long jet-black fabric. Its eyes were like pools of tar; windows into a world of creeping madness, and when it opened its toothless mouth, no sound escaped; only the gaping void of Neverwhere and the chill of old death.
And then Iovai saw the assault weapon clasped in its clammy undead grasp. "Fire...fire!" the trench-coated Machinist shouted to the rest of the kill-team as he raised his own Bullpup rifle and put a three-round burst of digital lead into the foul non-thing's stomach.
The impact was to be a vile one however, for when the still-forming monster (for that could only be what it was, wrapped though it was in the guise of a human Residual Self-Image) fell back onto its heels, there was to be no cry; no sound of pain; but rather only the chafing of boot heels against the obsidian floor of the Construct as it stumbled with the projectiles before, with some effort, righting itself with what seemed little effort and took a step towards Iovai. The Machinist watched as the wounds in the thing's torso bled streams of swirling Neverstuff that trailed behind it and knew well that they might as well not be wounds at all. The buzz of running Information in his ears, the operative saw that this horror was repeated ad nauseum all around him as more of the deathless Shades materialized from the shadows that crawled ever closer to him and the rest.
Iovai heard gunshots all around him as the battle began in earnest: a battle between the living and the dead, reason and insanity, and one that would not only be fought for the human soldiers' mission, but also for their very souls.
"What the Hell are they!?" Iovai heard the Captain scream over his earpiece as the hall erupted into a firestorm and knew that a Blue such as he could never even begin to fully comprehend the ultimate terror of what they now faced. Of these Shades the Awakened operative knew little, but he knew enough to know that when one died while jacked into the Matrix, the mind experienced a sudden separation from the body, and what followed was a quick, quiet death for both.
Neverwhere, it seemed, was not so wasteful.
Gritting his teeth, Iovai leveled his rifle at the same Shade as it stepped closer and, flicking the weapon to full auto, let loose. Flames filled the man's lenses and a crescendo of deafening bangs his ears as the shadowy code-apparition reacted with surprising agility and wove around many of the long, sharp rounds; the defensive subroutines that it had served it well (but not well enough) in life doing the same in death.
But nevertheless the good doctor's aim proved true enough and several of the projectiles found their mark, tearing into the Shade's plaster-white flesh and blowing open ugly gashes that bled showers of raw black Neverstuff. With a silent scream, the ghostly doll-thing dropped its own gun and fell, convulsing as it melted away from whence it had come; its grossly wavering limbs becoming tendrils of wriggling darkness as its digital mind-soul was pulled back into the shadows; back into the Matrix of the Construct Iovai knew well it would never escape from.
Whether this mission was suicidal or no, Vanil had much to answer for.
Glancing over his shoulder, Iovai saw that many of his soldiers had not been so lucky. The Shades were merciless; tumbling black figures bearing waxy ivory death-masks that herded the humans into rings of men and women that stood back to back as they fought back desperately, their firearms blasting again and again into the darkness that surrounded them; threatening to consume them whole. And it was into these rings that the Neverthings scythed like the chaff to the wheat, ripping SWAT officers to pieces with cruel martial arts subroutines or retorting with their own volleys of gunfire. Iovai watched with a distinct twinge of something somewhere between regret and horror as the wounded fell where they stood, their weapons still discharging in their death grips as they were promptly dragged off by the relentless Shades or, in some cases, flights of small gargoyles whose eyes glinted like malevolent coals; proxies of Neverwhere itself, to become the very things they now faced.
What is fear? The perverted refusal of oblivion? The stark realization of inhumanity made through humanity? The sight of dozens dragged to a fate worse than death?
Fear is just a word.
~V
One Year Before and the Present
A man had once said that there are no accidents. To say that he had been right would have been presumptuous at best, but to say that he had been wrong would have been unwise.
An accident is a word. The concept of arbitration begets the word ‘accident', which in turn begets a connection. ‘Accident' is really a way of saying ‘something that happens for no reason'. Truly, this connection is a matter of perspective, and the choice to bridge the gap between chance and fate merely a choice. In this world and this life, a perspective holds no more power than those who hold it and give it credence.
But in dreams, one's perspective becomes one's Reality, and anything is possible.
A world away from Neverwhere in the now, a Serpent dreamt a dream, and in the past a girl called ‘Jico' dreamt a dream within the Matrix. These two dreams were one dream to the Serpent, however, for the Serpent did not believe in accidents. All dreams were of the same dream to him, a dream that encompassed all people, places, times, and ideas and wove them together into a Pattern of incalculable vastness. Over time, the Serpent had learned to interpret the volume and nature of this Pattern and in doing so had stepped arguably closer to omniscience than any before him.
But the Serpent was no god. The Serpent was still just a Serpent.
The Serpent saw a school. A school for children. Hammerville High. Though he himself had found his humanity challenged in the past, the Serpent saw the boxy building and allowed himself a moment to marvel the methods his old nemesis was willing to employ, how low that Exilic malefactor was willing to stoop to see what he wished done. It was regrettable that the one the Merovingian had proclaimed his ‘Seraphic champion' had as much power in the Syndicat as he did now, but the Serpent was a patient thing and persisted with the comforting assurance that he knew he would rise to power in time. He had and did see it.
He had seen that Vanil was anything but seraphic.
"What's the situation, Captain?" the Serpent heard the police officer ask, the glare of police lights reflected in his badge.
"The fugitives are inside," the Captain answered as he rubbed his forehead. "Their leader is refusing to budge until they're provided safe passage out."
The newcomer bit his lip. "And the kids?"
"Class was in session."
"God d*mn it."
As the two men spoke, the Serpent saw an unmarked black sedan pull up and come to a halt behind the neon yellow police barricade that ran a perimeter around the school. The engine ran idle and then silent, and out of the sedan stepped three men in suits and dark rectangular sunglasses, men the Serpent recognized as Agents Gray, Wilson, and Wong. "We'll handle it from here, Captain," Gray stated as the three of them approached the police officers, their dress shoes crunching through the gravel and their ties fluttering in the noonday wind.
"What?" the Captain replied, an expression of confusion claiming his face. "We were told that we were to stand by and await further orders."
"There's been a change of plans," Agent Wilson said simply.
"Your orders have changed," Wong followed.
"Order the entry teams into position," Gray finished as he and his compatriots began to turn away. "Immediately."
"But...you can't just...these kids are still in there," the Captain stammered. "There's a whole classroom still in there!"
Gray turned back at the human's words and raised an eyebrow. "I am aware of that, Captain."
Lifting himself from the ordered chaos outside, the Serpent remembered the Pattern of the school and those within, and it was within one of the unremarkable classrooms that he found Vanil and three of his black-garbed Masques: SeventeenDead, AlicethePattern, and Jico, along with a teacher and his teenaged students on their knees. "They say that your demands will take time," SeventeedDead was saying to Vanil from behind his bandana as he snapped his cell phone shut in one hand, a semi-automatic in his other leveled at the teacher's profusely-sweating bald head.
"We don't have time," the olive-skinned girl called Jico answered with a voice like steel. She brandished a MAC-11 in each gloved hand, each training with well-controlled distaste over the prone, whimpering student body.
SeventeenDead shrugged and pulled the hammer back on his handgun with a click, his sickly yellow eyes blazing with hateful relish. "Then we should cull them all. No one who matters will miss them." His hostage trembled at his words.
AlicethePattern made a noise, her own weapons holstered at her sides. "That's horrific. I won't allow it." The small girl glanced at her Captain for support.
Vanil raised a gloved hand to subdue them. "Don't waste your bullets, Seventeen." Though his shades hid his eyes as always, the Exile's eyes were fixed on a particular girl, one of the students they held at gunpoint. "We might need them."
"Them?" Jico asked, nodding towards their prisoners. "Or the bullets?"
Vanil wasn't listening. Instead, the Serpent saw the master of the Masquerade kneel next to the adolescent he had been eyeing. "Are you frightened?" he asked softly in a voice like honey.
The shapely, brown-haired girl didn't answer. She kept her eyes on the floor away from Vanil's, and both Alice and Jico pursed their lips. Gently, Vanil raised a slender finger and ran it through the girl's hair. "Would you like to come with me?" he whispered.
Had the Serpent have had a head in this dreamscape, he would have shaken it at this. But he didn't, so instead he simply watched as the girl opened and closed her lips, as if she couldn't find the words she wanted to and looked up into Vanil's sunglasses at her reflection.
And it was then that the lights in the classroom flickered and died.
Vanil's expression turned foul as he rose before the girl he had chosen could speak. "Those fools," he snarled as he drew his gun and fired.
~V
A man had once said that there are no accidents. To say that he had been right would have been presumptuous at best, but to say that he had been wrong would have been unwise.
An accident is a word. The concept of arbitration begets the word ‘accident', which in turn begets a connection. ‘Accident' is really a way of saying ‘something that happens for no reason'. Truly, this connection is a matter of perspective, and the choice to bridge the gap between chance and fate merely a choice. In this world and this life, a perspective holds no more power than those who hold it and give it credence.
But in dreams, one's perspective becomes one's Reality, and anything is possible.
A world away from Neverwhere in the now, a Serpent dreamt a dream, and in the past a girl called ‘Jico' dreamt a dream within the Matrix. These two dreams were one dream to the Serpent, however, for the Serpent did not believe in accidents. All dreams were of the same dream to him, a dream that encompassed all people, places, times, and ideas and wove them together into a Pattern of incalculable vastness. Over time, the Serpent had learned to interpret the volume and nature of this Pattern and in doing so had stepped arguably closer to omniscience than any before him.
But the Serpent was no god. The Serpent was still just a Serpent.
The Serpent saw a school. A school for children. Hammerville High. Though he himself had found his humanity challenged in the past, the Serpent saw the boxy building and allowed himself a moment to marvel the methods his old nemesis was willing to employ, how low that Exilic malefactor was willing to stoop to see what he wished done. It was regrettable that the one the Merovingian had proclaimed his ‘Seraphic champion' had as much power in the Syndicat as he did now, but the Serpent was a patient thing and persisted with the comforting assurance that he knew he would rise to power in time. He had and did see it.
He had seen that Vanil was anything but seraphic.
"What's the situation, Captain?" the Serpent heard the police officer ask, the glare of police lights reflected in his badge.
"The fugitives are inside," the Captain answered as he rubbed his forehead. "Their leader is refusing to budge until they're provided safe passage out."
The newcomer bit his lip. "And the kids?"
"Class was in session."
"God d*mn it."
As the two men spoke, the Serpent saw an unmarked black sedan pull up and come to a halt behind the neon yellow police barricade that ran a perimeter around the school. The engine ran idle and then silent, and out of the sedan stepped three men in suits and dark rectangular sunglasses, men the Serpent recognized as Agents Gray, Wilson, and Wong. "We'll handle it from here, Captain," Gray stated as the three of them approached the police officers, their dress shoes crunching through the gravel and their ties fluttering in the noonday wind.
"What?" the Captain replied, an expression of confusion claiming his face. "We were told that we were to stand by and await further orders."
"There's been a change of plans," Agent Wilson said simply.
"Your orders have changed," Wong followed.
"Order the entry teams into position," Gray finished as he and his compatriots began to turn away. "Immediately."
"But...you can't just...these kids are still in there," the Captain stammered. "There's a whole classroom still in there!"
Gray turned back at the human's words and raised an eyebrow. "I am aware of that, Captain."
Lifting himself from the ordered chaos outside, the Serpent remembered the Pattern of the school and those within, and it was within one of the unremarkable classrooms that he found Vanil and three of his black-garbed Masques: SeventeenDead, AlicethePattern, and Jico, along with a teacher and his teenaged students on their knees. "They say that your demands will take time," SeventeedDead was saying to Vanil from behind his bandana as he snapped his cell phone shut in one hand, a semi-automatic in his other leveled at the teacher's profusely-sweating bald head.
"We don't have time," the olive-skinned girl called Jico answered with a voice like steel. She brandished a MAC-11 in each gloved hand, each training with well-controlled distaste over the prone, whimpering student body.
SeventeenDead shrugged and pulled the hammer back on his handgun with a click, his sickly yellow eyes blazing with hateful relish. "Then we should cull them all. No one who matters will miss them." His hostage trembled at his words.
AlicethePattern made a noise, her own weapons holstered at her sides. "That's horrific. I won't allow it." The small girl glanced at her Captain for support.
Vanil raised a gloved hand to subdue them. "Don't waste your bullets, Seventeen." Though his shades hid his eyes as always, the Exile's eyes were fixed on a particular girl, one of the students they held at gunpoint. "We might need them."
"Them?" Jico asked, nodding towards their prisoners. "Or the bullets?"
Vanil wasn't listening. Instead, the Serpent saw the master of the Masquerade kneel next to the adolescent he had been eyeing. "Are you frightened?" he asked softly in a voice like honey.
The shapely, brown-haired girl didn't answer. She kept her eyes on the floor away from Vanil's, and both Alice and Jico pursed their lips. Gently, Vanil raised a slender finger and ran it through the girl's hair. "Would you like to come with me?" he whispered.
Had the Serpent have had a head in this dreamscape, he would have shaken it at this. But he didn't, so instead he simply watched as the girl opened and closed her lips, as if she couldn't find the words she wanted to and looked up into Vanil's sunglasses at her reflection.
And it was then that the lights in the classroom flickered and died.
Vanil's expression turned foul as he rose before the girl he had chosen could speak. "Those fools," he snarled as he drew his gun and fired.
~V
The overhead lights swung as the bullet burrowed into the ceiling with a shower of chalky residue. The entire room screamed but none of the hostages dared move. Vanil's gunshot was answered by a series of faint percussive echoes and the Exile knew that they had run out of time. The Machines had ordered the police to storm the school. They were testing him, Vanil knew, believing he would follow through on his threat to kill the children and their teacher.
‘Fools indeed,' the Serpent heard the Lord of Nightmares remark inwardly. "Get up," Vanil spat.
The Masques' hostages looked up at their captors in confusion, and the Masques in turn looked at their Captain with the same. "Go on, get up. We're going to take a walk."
The Serpent had remembered this as well. Their instincts finally overcoming their reason, the children got to their feat and ran screaming to the door of the room as one. Turning back to SeventeenDead, Jico, and Alice, Vanil motioned for them to follow him, his Desert Eagle still hanging in his other hand. "Come. We're leaving now."
---
With a loud bang the C4 charge blew the front doors of Hammerville High open and through them stormed the heavily armed SWAT team, their many footsteps sounding over the distant shouts of confusion and cries of terror that filled the interior of the school that had only just become a war zone. Their gun barrels training on every nook and cranny present the gas masked Blues made their way quickly forwards, their orders clear even over their crackling radios.
Subdue the fugitives. Use of deadly force was preferable.
The Serpent followed the entry team through the dream and stopped as they did. The sound of a clamor coming from around the next corner of the locker-lined main hall, the Blues raised their weapons and waited with their fingers poised on their triggers, ready to tear apart whatever appeared.
And around the corner came the student body.
Running, screaming, and utterly without rhyme or reason the teenaged Blues were everywhere, running every which way, filling the vision of the SWAT officers. Lowering their shotguns and automatic weapons the policemen let bunches of terrified students pass without contest as they shouted for orders.
Then the gunshot sounded, and all Hell broke lose.
The Serpent chuckled as one of the flanking SWAT soldiers crumpled amidst a shower of his own arterial spray, his weapon discharging violently as its former wielder crashed to the floor. The sudden discharge sent sparks skittering across the thin lockers of faded blue that lined the walls and launched the already panicked civilians into a frenzied mob that stampeded towards the nearest exit they could see. The heavily armed policemen saw the tall figure amidst the innocents, clad head to toe in black, and realized with horror that the fugitives were in their midst and using the pandemonium to shield their escape. Some raised their guns but didn't dare fire them lest they hit one of the students.
Another gun sounded and another SWAT officer was incapacitated, crashing against the wall with a scream and smearing the lockers with his blood. The Serpent couldn't help but admire Vanil's craftiness. He had known exactly what the Machines had believed he would do.
Gliding through the chaos, Jico caught up with Alice and Seventeen, both of whom had already reached the fire exit off the side of the hallway. She noted that the students had begun to thin out and knew that their ploy, though it had worked, was also nearly up. Turning with concern the olive-skinned girl risked a glance and saw that Vanil was behind her, his pale face and flowing black croc skins easily visible in the middle of the stampeding students. Reassured, Jico stepped quickly through the fire exit and joined her fellow Masques, turning back just in time to watch with the Serpent as it filled with solid crimson brick.
---
Vanil's lips tightened even before the doorway had shifted to become a barrier. His Exilic hearing had picked out the hiss of running information in the architecture of the Matrix around him.
"Mr. Nihilson," a voice called as Vanil turned around, the last vestiges of his diversion fading as the last of the children fled the hallway. The Serpent could see that it was Agent Gray. The sentient program stepped from between the SWAT officers even as their sights followed the Exile by a hair's breadth.
"Gray," Vanil said conversationally. "It's been simply far too long."
"I think it will quite a long time after today, Mr. Nihilson," the Agent replied as he straightened his tie.
"You are a fool," Vanil laughed as he flexed his gloved fingers. "You all are if you think you can stop me."
Gray raised his eyebrows in what could only be considered a shrug before taking a step towards the Exile, his eyes narrow behind his shades. "I'm going to...enjoy...watching you die, Mr. Nihilson."
~V
‘Fools indeed,' the Serpent heard the Lord of Nightmares remark inwardly. "Get up," Vanil spat.
The Masques' hostages looked up at their captors in confusion, and the Masques in turn looked at their Captain with the same. "Go on, get up. We're going to take a walk."
The Serpent had remembered this as well. Their instincts finally overcoming their reason, the children got to their feat and ran screaming to the door of the room as one. Turning back to SeventeenDead, Jico, and Alice, Vanil motioned for them to follow him, his Desert Eagle still hanging in his other hand. "Come. We're leaving now."
---
With a loud bang the C4 charge blew the front doors of Hammerville High open and through them stormed the heavily armed SWAT team, their many footsteps sounding over the distant shouts of confusion and cries of terror that filled the interior of the school that had only just become a war zone. Their gun barrels training on every nook and cranny present the gas masked Blues made their way quickly forwards, their orders clear even over their crackling radios.
Subdue the fugitives. Use of deadly force was preferable.
The Serpent followed the entry team through the dream and stopped as they did. The sound of a clamor coming from around the next corner of the locker-lined main hall, the Blues raised their weapons and waited with their fingers poised on their triggers, ready to tear apart whatever appeared.
And around the corner came the student body.
Running, screaming, and utterly without rhyme or reason the teenaged Blues were everywhere, running every which way, filling the vision of the SWAT officers. Lowering their shotguns and automatic weapons the policemen let bunches of terrified students pass without contest as they shouted for orders.
Then the gunshot sounded, and all Hell broke lose.
The Serpent chuckled as one of the flanking SWAT soldiers crumpled amidst a shower of his own arterial spray, his weapon discharging violently as its former wielder crashed to the floor. The sudden discharge sent sparks skittering across the thin lockers of faded blue that lined the walls and launched the already panicked civilians into a frenzied mob that stampeded towards the nearest exit they could see. The heavily armed policemen saw the tall figure amidst the innocents, clad head to toe in black, and realized with horror that the fugitives were in their midst and using the pandemonium to shield their escape. Some raised their guns but didn't dare fire them lest they hit one of the students.
Another gun sounded and another SWAT officer was incapacitated, crashing against the wall with a scream and smearing the lockers with his blood. The Serpent couldn't help but admire Vanil's craftiness. He had known exactly what the Machines had believed he would do.
Gliding through the chaos, Jico caught up with Alice and Seventeen, both of whom had already reached the fire exit off the side of the hallway. She noted that the students had begun to thin out and knew that their ploy, though it had worked, was also nearly up. Turning with concern the olive-skinned girl risked a glance and saw that Vanil was behind her, his pale face and flowing black croc skins easily visible in the middle of the stampeding students. Reassured, Jico stepped quickly through the fire exit and joined her fellow Masques, turning back just in time to watch with the Serpent as it filled with solid crimson brick.
---
Vanil's lips tightened even before the doorway had shifted to become a barrier. His Exilic hearing had picked out the hiss of running information in the architecture of the Matrix around him.
"Mr. Nihilson," a voice called as Vanil turned around, the last vestiges of his diversion fading as the last of the children fled the hallway. The Serpent could see that it was Agent Gray. The sentient program stepped from between the SWAT officers even as their sights followed the Exile by a hair's breadth.
"Gray," Vanil said conversationally. "It's been simply far too long."
"I think it will quite a long time after today, Mr. Nihilson," the Agent replied as he straightened his tie.
"You are a fool," Vanil laughed as he flexed his gloved fingers. "You all are if you think you can stop me."
Gray raised his eyebrows in what could only be considered a shrug before taking a step towards the Exile, his eyes narrow behind his shades. "I'm going to...enjoy...watching you die, Mr. Nihilson."
~V
Vanil wrote:
Gray raised his eyebrows in what could only be considered a shrug before taking a step towards the Exile, his eyes narrow behind his shades. "I'm going to...enjoy...watching you die, Mr. Nihilson."
Someone check the Matrix feed, I think the Simulation is about to crash: I'm on the same page with Gray here...
Morraeon, why are you smirking like that...?
"Vanil!" Alice screamed, pounding her small fist against the barrier that had suddenly separated her, Jico, and SeventeenDead from their Captain.
"Panic is inefficient and ineffective," Seventeen growled simply.
"Easy for you to say!" Alice shot back accusingly, her fingertips still against the rough surface of the brick wall. "Vanil cannot survive a battle with an Agent!"
Jico wasn't listening. Quickly and keeping as calm as she could, the brown-haired girl straightened the black beret on her head and raised her cell phone to her ear, opening it with a snap and pressing the speed dial with her manicured thumb.
"Tamur4, we need some C4."
---
Knowing his only advantage would be that of unpredictability, Vanil lunged suddenly at Agent Gray and the SWAT team, his form a black blur as the Blues opened fire. Hot lead streaking past him, the agile Exile moved with incredible speed and roared past Gray. Placing himself firmly in the midst of the Blues Vanil became a whirlwind of destruction, cracking collarbones with powerful kicks and shattering gas masks with fluid open-palmed strikes. Columns of gore whirled around the Blood Noble as he tore weapons away from their owners and emptied their magazines into their former wielders.
It lasted only a few seconds but it ended when Vanil leapt into the air and broke the final soldier's face with a brutal pair of kicks. The Exile landed perfectly, his readiness apparent in his stance as the unfortunate man slipped backwards with the impacts over a few spent shell casings and breathed his last.
Raising his gloved hand, Vanil beckoned the Agent to ‘bring it on'.
With a scowl the Agent launched himself at Vanil and struck. Dodging low, the Exile avoided the attack and, placing one palm to the floor and swept with his leg in an attempt to knock his opponent off his feet.
But Gray was already behind Vanil. The Prince of Darkness felt the first, second, and thirds blows connect and lost his balance, reeling forwards with the attack. Wasting no time, Gray grabbed Vanil by his collar, turning the Exile around and smashing his fist into the malefactor's pale face.
Vanil had known that he had bitten off more than he could ever have hoped to chew before the battle had even begun. He was fast but Gray was faster, and the Agent's blows hit like battering rams. With Vanil reeling Gray hit him again with a brutal downwards strike that brought the Blood Noble to the floor. Vanil could taste his own blood in his mouth as he fell.
Sensing victory, Gray took hold of Vanil again and raised the shorter man off his feet with one hand. "And now, Mr. Nihilson, the chase ends," the Agent said with finality.
And then the wall behind them exploded.
Debris and flames showering the both of them, Vanil kicked off of Gray and out of his grip. Time slowed and the Exile suspended himself in midair, bringing his boots into Gray's torso again and again, kicking him like a pair of steel pistons. Reeling, the Agent stumbled back with his System shades askew and afforded Vanil a tiny window of escape.
It was all the Masquerade needed.
Gunfire filled the doorway that had only moments before been covered with bricks as the Masques sprayed a hail of bullets at the Agent. Gray calmly dodged the munitions, his RSI blurring as he stood his ground and avoided the bullets.
By the time the weapons fire had ceased, Vanil had already fled, SeventeenDead, AlicethePattern, and Jico with him. Without a word, the Serpent saw Gray straighten his tie smartly and raise his hand to his ear to report the escape of the fugitives.
The dream ended and, in the Real of the present, a pair of eyes snapped open, one of them an abnormally large rolling orb that saw all things that had been, were, and would be at once. Vanil was on the move once again, perhaps for the final climactic time.
The Great Wyrm had awoken.
~V
"Panic is inefficient and ineffective," Seventeen growled simply.
"Easy for you to say!" Alice shot back accusingly, her fingertips still against the rough surface of the brick wall. "Vanil cannot survive a battle with an Agent!"
Jico wasn't listening. Quickly and keeping as calm as she could, the brown-haired girl straightened the black beret on her head and raised her cell phone to her ear, opening it with a snap and pressing the speed dial with her manicured thumb.
"Tamur4, we need some C4."
---
Knowing his only advantage would be that of unpredictability, Vanil lunged suddenly at Agent Gray and the SWAT team, his form a black blur as the Blues opened fire. Hot lead streaking past him, the agile Exile moved with incredible speed and roared past Gray. Placing himself firmly in the midst of the Blues Vanil became a whirlwind of destruction, cracking collarbones with powerful kicks and shattering gas masks with fluid open-palmed strikes. Columns of gore whirled around the Blood Noble as he tore weapons away from their owners and emptied their magazines into their former wielders.
It lasted only a few seconds but it ended when Vanil leapt into the air and broke the final soldier's face with a brutal pair of kicks. The Exile landed perfectly, his readiness apparent in his stance as the unfortunate man slipped backwards with the impacts over a few spent shell casings and breathed his last.
Raising his gloved hand, Vanil beckoned the Agent to ‘bring it on'.
With a scowl the Agent launched himself at Vanil and struck. Dodging low, the Exile avoided the attack and, placing one palm to the floor and swept with his leg in an attempt to knock his opponent off his feet.
But Gray was already behind Vanil. The Prince of Darkness felt the first, second, and thirds blows connect and lost his balance, reeling forwards with the attack. Wasting no time, Gray grabbed Vanil by his collar, turning the Exile around and smashing his fist into the malefactor's pale face.
Vanil had known that he had bitten off more than he could ever have hoped to chew before the battle had even begun. He was fast but Gray was faster, and the Agent's blows hit like battering rams. With Vanil reeling Gray hit him again with a brutal downwards strike that brought the Blood Noble to the floor. Vanil could taste his own blood in his mouth as he fell.
Sensing victory, Gray took hold of Vanil again and raised the shorter man off his feet with one hand. "And now, Mr. Nihilson, the chase ends," the Agent said with finality.
And then the wall behind them exploded.
Debris and flames showering the both of them, Vanil kicked off of Gray and out of his grip. Time slowed and the Exile suspended himself in midair, bringing his boots into Gray's torso again and again, kicking him like a pair of steel pistons. Reeling, the Agent stumbled back with his System shades askew and afforded Vanil a tiny window of escape.
It was all the Masquerade needed.
Gunfire filled the doorway that had only moments before been covered with bricks as the Masques sprayed a hail of bullets at the Agent. Gray calmly dodged the munitions, his RSI blurring as he stood his ground and avoided the bullets.
By the time the weapons fire had ceased, Vanil had already fled, SeventeenDead, AlicethePattern, and Jico with him. Without a word, the Serpent saw Gray straighten his tie smartly and raise his hand to his ear to report the escape of the fugitives.
The dream ended and, in the Real of the present, a pair of eyes snapped open, one of them an abnormally large rolling orb that saw all things that had been, were, and would be at once. Vanil was on the move once again, perhaps for the final climactic time.
The Great Wyrm had awoken.
~V
The Present
The Draconigena was a very old vessel. Birthed hundreds of years before in some long-forgotten port of men, the hulking scarab-shaped craft ponderously made its way through the blackness of the lower tunnels of the Real, the lightning that wreathed its dozens and dozens of hover pads the only thing lighting its way. Sharply contrasting that of Vanil's Masquerade, the hull of the monolithic Draconigena was pitted in dozens of places and scarred in dozens more; in memoriam of a hundred battles as distant as the past that had seen the ship's construction. Along one side ran a line of peeling paint; frayed text that signified the dreadnaught as a flagship of the Devil's Advocates fleet, though the position it held was dubious at best when compared to the Draconigena itself: a fleet that had lived to see a thousand days led by a ship that had seen a hundred thousand more.
It was through the winding corridors of this veteran vessel that the one known as the Great Wyrm made his way. The man could hear the distant drip of moisture, fluid that served to lubricate some vague mechanic, as the rusted bulkhead creaked beneath the weight of ages over his head, to his side, and beneath his boots. The Great Wyrm strode a reasonable stride; not too fast and not too slow, and one he knew pleased the Draconigena. It had been revealed to him as Captain of the Draconigena that just as the crew of a vessel keep vigil over its many systems and subsystems, so did those vessels old enough to care keep vigil over their crews. Just as the Great Wyrm instructed his crew to pay heed to his ship, so did he expect his ship to do the same for his crew. It was an arcane concept, a Byzantine fusion of fleshy and mechanical thought, and to a typical human it would likely seem impenetrable; impossible. But the Great Wyrm was no typical human.
Finally the Great Wyrm came to the Draconigena's bridge. Unlike the cramped quarters the cockpits of newer hovercrafts presented the Draconigena's command deck was a gaping, two-tiered chamber lit only by the luminescence of the many monitoring stations that lined it. The corroded steel of endlessly-long power cables and pipes ran along the bulkhead and hung suspended from the ceiling like snakes. The vague, misty fumes of archaic apparatuses beneath the bridge drifted up from the thick deck plating, and a thin film of rust covered nearly everything, the deck itself a victim of the Draconigena's age. At the center and presiding over it all was a vast command throne, and it was into this throne that the Great Wyrm sat; he who presided. The Great Wyrm settled into his well-worn seat and rested his arms along the throne's own: it was from here that all things aboard the Draconigena were known to him and were his.
"Set," the Great Wyrm called in a voice like gravel down towards the front of the bridge, ignoring the masses of menials that manned their posts throughout the rest of the gloomy, cable-lined chamber like hunched homunculi. "How close are we to the rendezvous point?"
"Mere minutes, Captain," replied Set from his station, his hands holding the thrust levers before him as he carefully guided the vast bulk of the Draconigena through the last of the ancient sewer tunnels, perhaps as old as the Draconigena itself. Set had served aboard the hovercraft his whole life and ever since the Great Wyrm had taken it for his own, the Captain had come to know the boy as someone who held incredible loyalty to him and to the ship he piloted. The Great Wyrm valued loyalty above almost all things, and so did he value Set above almost all people.
"Very good," the Great Wyrm said as he sat up to watch the sewer walls crawl past the outside of the vast viewing window in front of him, his one good eye following the receding tunnel closely. "Take us in slowly and make ready for full stop."
With a nod Set brought the mass of the Draconigena over the lip at the end of the tunnel and watched as the claustrophobic space gave way to impossibly vast expanse. They had come to a massive murky vault deep below New Zion with very specific purpose. With a lurch, felt only distantly by the Great Wyrm from his seat on the command throne, the massive engines of his ship cut to an idle at Set's urging, leaving the Draconigena suspended over the seemingly-limitless expanse in which it now found itself.
"What now, sir?" Set asked as he swiveled in his seat to look up at the Captain.
"Now, Set," the Great Wyrm answered, "we wait."
---
"Hurry!" Iovai called to his dozen remaining SWAT soldiers as they rounded another indistinct corner of Neverwhere, their hurried footsteps and labored breathing offset only by the crack of gunfire and screams of the dying that seemed to come from all directions at once. It was as if the nightmare Construct were closing in around them, second-guessing their movements and watching with silent, perverted satisfaction as they neared its black heart. "We cannot leave until our mission is a success!" The Shades hounded their every turn, and as another of the crooked, pale dolls coalesced in his way Iovai raised his rifle and pulled the trigger with thoughts not to the mission but rather to his own survival. The barrage of gunfire ripped into the vile thing, exposing the rot within as it bled tarry shadows with a silent scream.
Kicking the death-automaton aside and leaving the Construct to swallow it up once more, Iovai and his men saw that they had come to the place they had sought. The Corinthian spires that lined the hall stretched ever upwards into a black infinity and at the looming chamber's center was perched the bladed throne of the Prince of Darkness. Flanked on either side by Aoide, Chemuel, and the Surgeon and with Morraeon's cavorting form slinking at his feet, Vanil rose to face his enemies. "I should congratulate you for making it this far, Iovai," the Exile said, his voice echoing from every which way at once, "but I should also tell you that this is far as you make it."
"Perhaps," Iovai retorted with as much coyness as he could muster, "but I'd say the same about you, Mr. Nihilson." Reaching into the folds of his olive green leathers, the Machinist drew the wooden stake, lined with carvings from the archaic age of the Second Iteration of the Matrix, and held it before him as one might hold a cross so as to ward a demon. It was Vanil's kill-code: that which had the potential to unravel all that the Exile was.
"I see," Vanil hissed simply as he turned his head slightly to his right. Though the Blood Noble wore his shades, the Surgeon shuddered as he felt the villain's baleful gaze find him. Without hesitation Vanil raised a gloved hand and pointed it at his fellow Exile. Not comprehending what was in store, Chemuel and Aoide caught only the briefest glimpse of realization in the Surgeon's glazed, urine-yellow eyes as the Desert Eagle slid into Vanil's waiting fingers and erupted. There was a wet shower of red, and two girls felt droplets of the wretched traitor's blood kiss their cheeks. The remains of the Surgeon crumpled to the floor, a gaping cavity where his face had been. Morraeon yipped and scampered from the throne as the gore pooled at its base.
Her lip upturned in disgust, Chemuel was too busy wiping the blood off of her to notice Aoide as the dark-skinned woman licked away her own.
~V
The Draconigena was a very old vessel. Birthed hundreds of years before in some long-forgotten port of men, the hulking scarab-shaped craft ponderously made its way through the blackness of the lower tunnels of the Real, the lightning that wreathed its dozens and dozens of hover pads the only thing lighting its way. Sharply contrasting that of Vanil's Masquerade, the hull of the monolithic Draconigena was pitted in dozens of places and scarred in dozens more; in memoriam of a hundred battles as distant as the past that had seen the ship's construction. Along one side ran a line of peeling paint; frayed text that signified the dreadnaught as a flagship of the Devil's Advocates fleet, though the position it held was dubious at best when compared to the Draconigena itself: a fleet that had lived to see a thousand days led by a ship that had seen a hundred thousand more.
It was through the winding corridors of this veteran vessel that the one known as the Great Wyrm made his way. The man could hear the distant drip of moisture, fluid that served to lubricate some vague mechanic, as the rusted bulkhead creaked beneath the weight of ages over his head, to his side, and beneath his boots. The Great Wyrm strode a reasonable stride; not too fast and not too slow, and one he knew pleased the Draconigena. It had been revealed to him as Captain of the Draconigena that just as the crew of a vessel keep vigil over its many systems and subsystems, so did those vessels old enough to care keep vigil over their crews. Just as the Great Wyrm instructed his crew to pay heed to his ship, so did he expect his ship to do the same for his crew. It was an arcane concept, a Byzantine fusion of fleshy and mechanical thought, and to a typical human it would likely seem impenetrable; impossible. But the Great Wyrm was no typical human.
Finally the Great Wyrm came to the Draconigena's bridge. Unlike the cramped quarters the cockpits of newer hovercrafts presented the Draconigena's command deck was a gaping, two-tiered chamber lit only by the luminescence of the many monitoring stations that lined it. The corroded steel of endlessly-long power cables and pipes ran along the bulkhead and hung suspended from the ceiling like snakes. The vague, misty fumes of archaic apparatuses beneath the bridge drifted up from the thick deck plating, and a thin film of rust covered nearly everything, the deck itself a victim of the Draconigena's age. At the center and presiding over it all was a vast command throne, and it was into this throne that the Great Wyrm sat; he who presided. The Great Wyrm settled into his well-worn seat and rested his arms along the throne's own: it was from here that all things aboard the Draconigena were known to him and were his.
"Set," the Great Wyrm called in a voice like gravel down towards the front of the bridge, ignoring the masses of menials that manned their posts throughout the rest of the gloomy, cable-lined chamber like hunched homunculi. "How close are we to the rendezvous point?"
"Mere minutes, Captain," replied Set from his station, his hands holding the thrust levers before him as he carefully guided the vast bulk of the Draconigena through the last of the ancient sewer tunnels, perhaps as old as the Draconigena itself. Set had served aboard the hovercraft his whole life and ever since the Great Wyrm had taken it for his own, the Captain had come to know the boy as someone who held incredible loyalty to him and to the ship he piloted. The Great Wyrm valued loyalty above almost all things, and so did he value Set above almost all people.
"Very good," the Great Wyrm said as he sat up to watch the sewer walls crawl past the outside of the vast viewing window in front of him, his one good eye following the receding tunnel closely. "Take us in slowly and make ready for full stop."
With a nod Set brought the mass of the Draconigena over the lip at the end of the tunnel and watched as the claustrophobic space gave way to impossibly vast expanse. They had come to a massive murky vault deep below New Zion with very specific purpose. With a lurch, felt only distantly by the Great Wyrm from his seat on the command throne, the massive engines of his ship cut to an idle at Set's urging, leaving the Draconigena suspended over the seemingly-limitless expanse in which it now found itself.
"What now, sir?" Set asked as he swiveled in his seat to look up at the Captain.
"Now, Set," the Great Wyrm answered, "we wait."
---
"Hurry!" Iovai called to his dozen remaining SWAT soldiers as they rounded another indistinct corner of Neverwhere, their hurried footsteps and labored breathing offset only by the crack of gunfire and screams of the dying that seemed to come from all directions at once. It was as if the nightmare Construct were closing in around them, second-guessing their movements and watching with silent, perverted satisfaction as they neared its black heart. "We cannot leave until our mission is a success!" The Shades hounded their every turn, and as another of the crooked, pale dolls coalesced in his way Iovai raised his rifle and pulled the trigger with thoughts not to the mission but rather to his own survival. The barrage of gunfire ripped into the vile thing, exposing the rot within as it bled tarry shadows with a silent scream.
Kicking the death-automaton aside and leaving the Construct to swallow it up once more, Iovai and his men saw that they had come to the place they had sought. The Corinthian spires that lined the hall stretched ever upwards into a black infinity and at the looming chamber's center was perched the bladed throne of the Prince of Darkness. Flanked on either side by Aoide, Chemuel, and the Surgeon and with Morraeon's cavorting form slinking at his feet, Vanil rose to face his enemies. "I should congratulate you for making it this far, Iovai," the Exile said, his voice echoing from every which way at once, "but I should also tell you that this is far as you make it."
"Perhaps," Iovai retorted with as much coyness as he could muster, "but I'd say the same about you, Mr. Nihilson." Reaching into the folds of his olive green leathers, the Machinist drew the wooden stake, lined with carvings from the archaic age of the Second Iteration of the Matrix, and held it before him as one might hold a cross so as to ward a demon. It was Vanil's kill-code: that which had the potential to unravel all that the Exile was.
"I see," Vanil hissed simply as he turned his head slightly to his right. Though the Blood Noble wore his shades, the Surgeon shuddered as he felt the villain's baleful gaze find him. Without hesitation Vanil raised a gloved hand and pointed it at his fellow Exile. Not comprehending what was in store, Chemuel and Aoide caught only the briefest glimpse of realization in the Surgeon's glazed, urine-yellow eyes as the Desert Eagle slid into Vanil's waiting fingers and erupted. There was a wet shower of red, and two girls felt droplets of the wretched traitor's blood kiss their cheeks. The remains of the Surgeon crumpled to the floor, a gaping cavity where his face had been. Morraeon yipped and scampered from the throne as the gore pooled at its base.
Her lip upturned in disgust, Chemuel was too busy wiping the blood off of her to notice Aoide as the dark-skinned woman licked away her own.
~V
I'd tell vanil how good his writing is, but he already knows, moreover it's not like i can read.
~Darminian
Prutty... Very...
Although, I have to ask... where is Links?! Wasn't he with the rest of the gang? Unless... you have something else planned? Ooooo...
/speculate
VSLL wrote:
Prutty... Very...
Although, I have to ask... where is Links?! Wasn't he with the rest of the gang? Unless... you have something else planned? Ooooo...
/speculate
Morraeon: I tied you up for *NOT* succeedin' in killing Dragon-Guy.
The lines of SWAT officers at his sides leveled their weapons at Vanil and his companions when Iovai raised his hand and opened fire when he dropped it. Engulfing the vast chamber in a cacophony of racket, the ballistic thunderstorm forced Chemuel, Morraeon, and Aoide behind cover; the first two streaking towards the pillars that lined the hall while Aoide leapt directly behind the Neverthrone; a vile abrasion upon the smooth floor of the black sanctum. Vanil, however, stood still, and Aoide shouted as the incoming gunfire struck him with full force. His flowing black coat caught in the updraft, the Prince of Darkness snarled and hissed as round after round tore into his pale, decaying flesh. Great splashes of red and fragments of meat jetted from the impacts, the stream of bullets seemingly endless as Vanil's knees trembled and bent, buckling beneath the weight of the brutal attack. Aoide could feel stray rounds chip at and ricochet off the edifice she crouched behind, wide-eyed as she saw her Exilic lover stumbling and looped by a corona of his own gore.
Vanil slipped in his own fluids and finally fell as his arm was blown off at the elbow, his chest split open and innards violated, his skull shattered, eyes destroyed, and jaw blasted and broken. And then, mercifully, the guns silenced at last, Iovai and his armored men lowering them and gazing through the smoke and debris as the villain they had been sent to destroy lay in a heap against the dark flagstone, stray pieces of him bathing in blood. What was left of Vanil's jaw was propped open morbidly, the long canine fangs pointing straight towards the unseen ceiling of the Construct as if locked in a silent mocking scream.
And then it was Iovai's turn to let his eyes widen as the broken bits of bone, bleached off-white and streaked with crimson, began to writhe and, impossibly, spoke with a voice that seemed to come from Neverwhere itself.
"You cannot kill...what is already...dead, fool."
Terrifyingly, the bullet-ridden corpse slowly rose to face the intruders once more. The hiss of running information the only thing Iovai could make out over the snapping of resetting bone and squelching of knitting sinew, the Machinist watched, slightly stunned as the Lord of Nightmares and Seraphim of the Merovingian took the most twisted of measures to cling to his immortal existence.
Nearly immortal, Iovai reminded himself, the carved surface of the kill-code still clenched tightly in his grasp.
Laughing as no human could, Vanil righted himself and craned his neck to Iovai and the soldiers, the demon-fires of his feline eyes flaring to rekindled life in his formerly empty, blood-ridden sockets. "And now, Iovai...you will die." With a hiss, the Exile raised the gun he still clung to and pulled the trigger twice. Twin hammer falls echoing about the inner sanctum, a pair of Iovai's SWAT officers lost their heads.
"Suppressing fire!" Iovai shouted as he darted right, snapping off cheap shots as he ran, but it was clear that Dante Nihilson, Vanil, this monster would be anything but suppressed. He could hear the pale Blood Noble's laughter as Vanil drew his other weapon and fired both guns akimbo, unsatisfied with merely the slaughter of one. The Captain of the Masquerade was joined by Chemuel and Aoide as the two sprang into the fray and struck back at the SWAT force, Iovai's remaining men struggling to use the surrounding pillars as cover and dropping left and right. Morraeon deigned to finally reappear as well and launched herself at one of the black-armored humans, slitting his neck open wetly with a flick one of her knives. What Iovai and his soldiers had turned into a killing ground had now turned against them.
Singling Iovai out amidst his prey, Vanil led the coated figure with one of his Desert Eagles, forcing the Machinist behind one of the pillars. "You can't kill me, human," Vanil taunted as he let the magazines fall from the handles of his guns and echo emptily against the floor. A particularly brave SWAT officer saw the opportunity as an advantage and rushed towards the Exile, wielding his firearm like a club. Vanil proved the interloper wrong by breaking his neck and sending him sprawling away from the Neverthrone with a vicious kick. "Not here. Not where my power is at its greatest." Calmly, Vanil slid fresh magazines into his weapons and cocked the hammers threateningly.
"In here, I'm God."
As Iovai lay with his back to the pillar between him and the battle, he couldn't help but ponder whether Vanil was right and whether Agent Gray had sent him on a suicide mission. Gray must have known of the awesome power fed Vanil by the Construct the Blood Noble had created. Had he sent Iovai here as part of some distant agenda Iovai had no knowledge of, or had the sentient program truly calculated that Iovai was capable of destroying Dante Nihilson? His worries creeping towards him as Vanil did the same, Iovai reloaded his rifle and felt the weight of the kill-code beneath his coat.
He was capable.
With an uncharacteristic roar Iovai left the safety of the pillar, his rifle blazing on full auto as he ran straight at Vanil. His only hope was to get close enough to strike Vanil with the kill-code he had acquired from the late Surgeon. Not even bothering to avoid the bullets, Vanil's skin was torn asunder and woven closed before Iovai's eyes. Rightly guessing what the Machinist was trying to do Vanil began to back away, back towards his Neverthrone. Tasting his own blood in his mouth, the Blood Drinker hissed and blazed wildly at his attacker in an effort to deter Iovai's reckless advance.
Iovai maneuvered around Vanil's own projectiles and finished off his magazine before bringing his empty assault rifle back like a baton. Thrown on his heels, Vanil was backed against the Neverthrone as Iovai swung his makeshift melee weapon expertly, bludgeoning the Exile with it. Dropping his guns, Vanil deflected Iovai's strikes, his gloved palms forming a desperate guard. Crying out Iovai swung at Vanil once more, the two of them nearly sprawling over the bullet-riddled Neverthrone behind them as the Machinist revealed the kill-code from his swirling green overcoat, sweat dripping from his shades and his earpiece long-since discarded.
Yelling for victory, Iovai threw his spent rifle aside and thrust the kill-code towards Vanil's chest. Neverwhere stood still.
His existence balanced on a razor's edge, Vanil snarled, grabbed Iovai's wrist, and ripped his hand off, taking the wooden stake with it.
Screaming in shock and pain, Iovai clutched at his wounded arm, drizzling blood, and fell forward, Vanil's palm the only thing keeping the Machinist from crashing into the villainous Exile. His exertion clear, Vanil's cat-eyes burned with the fires of Hell itself as he fumbled around the Neverthrone behind him before he found what he sought. Grasping the man by the throat, Vanil raised Doctor Walter Foxo of the MegaCity Department of Energy off his feet and drove the kill-code through his heart.
The whites of Iovai's eyes like ghosts in the red dark, the man's breath retreated from him and he found he could not take another. His neck still in Vanil's grasp, Iovai coughed up blood as more leaked from the great wound in his torso and dripped to pool on the floor from the soles of his boots. Forcing himself to look at the Prince of Darkness, the Machinist fought to speak. "I may h...have failed here...but this isn't over," he rasped towards the Exile. "They...they'll come after...you. All of them...will come after you."
"Let them," Vanil replied simply.
Iovai screwed his face up in simultaneous pain and mirth. "Then you...you've already m...made your choice...haven't you..." And with that, the man's eyes grew dark, as dark as the Construct around him, and spoke no more.
Finally opening his blood-slicked glove Vanil let Iovai fall dead from his grip, the kill-code meant for himself having pierced the man's heart.
~V
Vanil slipped in his own fluids and finally fell as his arm was blown off at the elbow, his chest split open and innards violated, his skull shattered, eyes destroyed, and jaw blasted and broken. And then, mercifully, the guns silenced at last, Iovai and his armored men lowering them and gazing through the smoke and debris as the villain they had been sent to destroy lay in a heap against the dark flagstone, stray pieces of him bathing in blood. What was left of Vanil's jaw was propped open morbidly, the long canine fangs pointing straight towards the unseen ceiling of the Construct as if locked in a silent mocking scream.
And then it was Iovai's turn to let his eyes widen as the broken bits of bone, bleached off-white and streaked with crimson, began to writhe and, impossibly, spoke with a voice that seemed to come from Neverwhere itself.
"You cannot kill...what is already...dead, fool."
Terrifyingly, the bullet-ridden corpse slowly rose to face the intruders once more. The hiss of running information the only thing Iovai could make out over the snapping of resetting bone and squelching of knitting sinew, the Machinist watched, slightly stunned as the Lord of Nightmares and Seraphim of the Merovingian took the most twisted of measures to cling to his immortal existence.
Nearly immortal, Iovai reminded himself, the carved surface of the kill-code still clenched tightly in his grasp.
Laughing as no human could, Vanil righted himself and craned his neck to Iovai and the soldiers, the demon-fires of his feline eyes flaring to rekindled life in his formerly empty, blood-ridden sockets. "And now, Iovai...you will die." With a hiss, the Exile raised the gun he still clung to and pulled the trigger twice. Twin hammer falls echoing about the inner sanctum, a pair of Iovai's SWAT officers lost their heads.
"Suppressing fire!" Iovai shouted as he darted right, snapping off cheap shots as he ran, but it was clear that Dante Nihilson, Vanil, this monster would be anything but suppressed. He could hear the pale Blood Noble's laughter as Vanil drew his other weapon and fired both guns akimbo, unsatisfied with merely the slaughter of one. The Captain of the Masquerade was joined by Chemuel and Aoide as the two sprang into the fray and struck back at the SWAT force, Iovai's remaining men struggling to use the surrounding pillars as cover and dropping left and right. Morraeon deigned to finally reappear as well and launched herself at one of the black-armored humans, slitting his neck open wetly with a flick one of her knives. What Iovai and his soldiers had turned into a killing ground had now turned against them.
Singling Iovai out amidst his prey, Vanil led the coated figure with one of his Desert Eagles, forcing the Machinist behind one of the pillars. "You can't kill me, human," Vanil taunted as he let the magazines fall from the handles of his guns and echo emptily against the floor. A particularly brave SWAT officer saw the opportunity as an advantage and rushed towards the Exile, wielding his firearm like a club. Vanil proved the interloper wrong by breaking his neck and sending him sprawling away from the Neverthrone with a vicious kick. "Not here. Not where my power is at its greatest." Calmly, Vanil slid fresh magazines into his weapons and cocked the hammers threateningly.
"In here, I'm God."
As Iovai lay with his back to the pillar between him and the battle, he couldn't help but ponder whether Vanil was right and whether Agent Gray had sent him on a suicide mission. Gray must have known of the awesome power fed Vanil by the Construct the Blood Noble had created. Had he sent Iovai here as part of some distant agenda Iovai had no knowledge of, or had the sentient program truly calculated that Iovai was capable of destroying Dante Nihilson? His worries creeping towards him as Vanil did the same, Iovai reloaded his rifle and felt the weight of the kill-code beneath his coat.
He was capable.
With an uncharacteristic roar Iovai left the safety of the pillar, his rifle blazing on full auto as he ran straight at Vanil. His only hope was to get close enough to strike Vanil with the kill-code he had acquired from the late Surgeon. Not even bothering to avoid the bullets, Vanil's skin was torn asunder and woven closed before Iovai's eyes. Rightly guessing what the Machinist was trying to do Vanil began to back away, back towards his Neverthrone. Tasting his own blood in his mouth, the Blood Drinker hissed and blazed wildly at his attacker in an effort to deter Iovai's reckless advance.
Iovai maneuvered around Vanil's own projectiles and finished off his magazine before bringing his empty assault rifle back like a baton. Thrown on his heels, Vanil was backed against the Neverthrone as Iovai swung his makeshift melee weapon expertly, bludgeoning the Exile with it. Dropping his guns, Vanil deflected Iovai's strikes, his gloved palms forming a desperate guard. Crying out Iovai swung at Vanil once more, the two of them nearly sprawling over the bullet-riddled Neverthrone behind them as the Machinist revealed the kill-code from his swirling green overcoat, sweat dripping from his shades and his earpiece long-since discarded.
Yelling for victory, Iovai threw his spent rifle aside and thrust the kill-code towards Vanil's chest. Neverwhere stood still.
His existence balanced on a razor's edge, Vanil snarled, grabbed Iovai's wrist, and ripped his hand off, taking the wooden stake with it.
Screaming in shock and pain, Iovai clutched at his wounded arm, drizzling blood, and fell forward, Vanil's palm the only thing keeping the Machinist from crashing into the villainous Exile. His exertion clear, Vanil's cat-eyes burned with the fires of Hell itself as he fumbled around the Neverthrone behind him before he found what he sought. Grasping the man by the throat, Vanil raised Doctor Walter Foxo of the MegaCity Department of Energy off his feet and drove the kill-code through his heart.
The whites of Iovai's eyes like ghosts in the red dark, the man's breath retreated from him and he found he could not take another. His neck still in Vanil's grasp, Iovai coughed up blood as more leaked from the great wound in his torso and dripped to pool on the floor from the soles of his boots. Forcing himself to look at the Prince of Darkness, the Machinist fought to speak. "I may h...have failed here...but this isn't over," he rasped towards the Exile. "They...they'll come after...you. All of them...will come after you."
"Let them," Vanil replied simply.
Iovai screwed his face up in simultaneous pain and mirth. "Then you...you've already m...made your choice...haven't you..." And with that, the man's eyes grew dark, as dark as the Construct around him, and spoke no more.
Finally opening his blood-slicked glove Vanil let Iovai fall dead from his grip, the kill-code meant for himself having pierced the man's heart.
~V
((Oh... my... good... lord... Did you just do what I think you just did?!?!
I'm speechless. Completely and utterly speechless. Bravo Vanil... Bravo.
/salute to Iovai))
I'm speechless. Completely and utterly speechless. Bravo Vanil... Bravo.
/salute to Iovai))
VSLL wrote:
((Oh... my... good... lord... Did you just do what I think you just did?!?!(( Yeah, my jaw was in my lap on that one... Utterly shocking stuff, but shocking in a *GOOD* way! ...BTW, Links, next time you're on Xfire and you've got a few moments, could you give me a ping? I'd like to run something past you...))
I'm speechless. Completely and utterly speechless. Bravo Vanil... Bravo.
/salute to Iovai))
In the Real the Great Wyrm leaned back in his command throne aboard the Draconigena, both his eyes closed. Even one such as he was barely able to keep the anticipation he felt at bay. He slowly and terribly drummed his fingers against the armrest of his imposing seat; the only sign of the marked twinge of impatience he felt somewhere deep within himself. They had been waiting for almost seventeen hours.
And yet the Great Wyrm was a very patient man, for all things were known to him, however vaguely so, through the existential fabric of the Pattern. The Pattern was not so much the way the universe was so much as the way the universe was to the Great Wyrm. Causality: action, reaction; cause and effect. Nothing happened anywhere, whether in the Real or the Matrix, without meaning and it was this meaning that the Great Wyrm had learned to interpret so masterfully. The man's perception of all things was beyond anything most humans could possibly imagine.
And it was from this sight of his that the Great Wyrm's impatience reared. He could see what was to come as it was to happen. All it had to do now was happen.
"Sir," Set called to his Captain as he made several adjustments to his equipment towards the front of the bridge, "I have something on holographics." The large, saucer-shaped projection plate behind Set and at the base of the Great Wyrm's raised podium hummed to life, the neon blue tactical display of what Set had found flickering clumsily to life. "It's a Sentinel. Just one of them."
The helmsman was right. The Great Wyrm opened his eyes and leaned forward to observe, one hand stroking his weathered chin in quiet contemplation. Even from his seat far below Set could make out the floating, three-dimensional shape of the squid-like killing Machine reflected in the Great Wyrm's normal eye. The other never reflected anything. It saw too much already to show anything back.
"Finally," the Great Wyrm said with a small self-assuring grin. "I knew he would come."
"You usually do," Set answered, watching as the distant speck that was the Sentinal through the viewing pane as it bridged the endless chasm beneath the Draconigena, approaching the massive vessel. As it drew closer, Set's brow furrowed as he squinted at the small Machine. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the hunter-killer was moving in an odd fashion, unlike those Sentinels he had faced in battle before. Its steel tendrils trailing behind it as it flitted towards the Draconigena, Set realized that he could not make out the tell-tale crimson glow of the thing's many optical sensors.
They were all dark, dysfunctional. Could it have been flying blind?
The small Sentinel came to rest before the imposing hulk of the Draconigena, the two craft facing each other silently apart from the creak of armored hull and the constant droning thrum of the Draconigena's drive engines and hover pads. The size difference between the two was nearly comical but this particular meeting warranted anything but mirth. For this was the way of those who followed the Merovingian in the Real: silent scheming in the quiet of the deepest of tunnels. Deals in the dark.
For a time, things stood still. Finally after these agonizing moments was the hologram of the strange Sentinel aboard the Great Wyrm's bridge riddled through with a fuzzy overlay of ones and zeroes that scrolled their way towards the deck below the Captain like raindrops. Binary. The Great Wyrm's normal eye moved quickly as he translated the streaming digits in his head, his other eye moving even quicker.
You have what I want.
Of course the Great Wyrm did and the man said as much. "It's been some time since last we spoke in person, so to speak," he spoke in that gravelly, sinister drawl of his. "It seems not even the Matrix can limit the Endless Void."
There was no reply. Oh yes, the Great Wyrm noted with silent amusement, this was indeed the Endless Void, the only other human along with Vanil to have ever traded his humanity for the computerized drudgery and immortality of Exile. But where the latter had no doubt exchanged his sense of reason for his power the Endless Void had seemingly given up whatever personality he may have once possessed. Indeed, this shadowy corruptor and at times broker of information was utterly without humanity, compunction, and pretty much everything else. The Endless Void was one to truly live up to his (or its) name and might as well have been nothing at all.
But this Exile was something, and that was what made him so dangerous.
"If you will merely tell me what I wish to know," the Great Wyrm went on, addressing the hologram of the blind Sentinel, "I will transfer the coordinates you requested to you."
Your vessel is tactically superior to mine. You will transfer the coordinates to me and then I will tell you what you wish to know.
The Great Wyrm had naturally known the Endless Void would have answered such but frowned nonetheless. If anything, this was the Merovingian's greatest weakness. Trust. Those operatives who served the Frenchman did not trust one another, and those who did never served the Frenchman for long. There was no trust amidst these disciples of causality and without trust there could be no unity. Hatred, greed, lust, petty scheming... the Great Wyrm was surely beyond such things and yet even he could not avoid what their manic pursuit wrought upon his Organization.
But the Great Wyrm had little choice. Such was the whim of the Pattern. With a nod to Set, the helmsman swiveled around in his seat and pressed a control stud, feeding the topographical data the Great Wyrm had agreed to trade to the Endless Void. The Exile had since left the Matrix and was searching for something... or someone... in the Real, although who or what the Great Wyrm could not yet say. Nor did it yet concern him. The Captain of the Draconigena interests for now lay elsewhere.
There was a momentary pause as the Endless Void absorbed the data given before an acknowledgement sigil adjacent to the holographic Sentinel winked its approval. Another chain of cascading binary followed.
You are aware that the Machines are amassing their Sentinels. You fear the Machines intend to flush the Merovingian fleet from the tunnels. You are wrong. The Merovingian fleet is sufficiently divided.
It was true. The Great Wyrm knew that Vanil's actions, though the Frenchman himself denied it, had created a schism amidst the Exiles of the Matrix. A civil war had erupted with those who aided Vanil facing those who remained loyal to the Merovingian. It was a quiet affair, as were most affairs of the Undersystem, but if left unchecked could prove disastrous for the balance, the Great Wyrm knew. He and the crew of the Draconigena had already observed its effects and many human operatives had begun to take sides as well.
The azure trails of binary continued.
The Machines have turned their attention to New Zion.
The Great Wyrm's eye widened.
The Machines have partitioned their Sentinels into two armies. The first army will assault the EMP mine field and the standing human forces. The second army will be hidden in reserve and will breech the human docks once the EMP mine field has been cleared. I will now transfer the coordinates of the two Sentinel armies to you as we agreed.
"G... getting them now, sir," Set acknowledged from the floor of the bridge, his fingers dancing over his control console. His voice was shaky. He knew what this meant. The Great Wyrm continued to watch the holographic Sentinel as it hovered silently, uncaringly, before him. The binary continued to scrawl mercilessly.
The human defenses are inadequate to cope and their fleet inadequate to stop both assaults. It will take the Machines approximately eight hours to position their forces. They cannot be stopped.
In twenty-four hours, Zion will be destroyed, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.
~V
And yet the Great Wyrm was a very patient man, for all things were known to him, however vaguely so, through the existential fabric of the Pattern. The Pattern was not so much the way the universe was so much as the way the universe was to the Great Wyrm. Causality: action, reaction; cause and effect. Nothing happened anywhere, whether in the Real or the Matrix, without meaning and it was this meaning that the Great Wyrm had learned to interpret so masterfully. The man's perception of all things was beyond anything most humans could possibly imagine.
And it was from this sight of his that the Great Wyrm's impatience reared. He could see what was to come as it was to happen. All it had to do now was happen.
"Sir," Set called to his Captain as he made several adjustments to his equipment towards the front of the bridge, "I have something on holographics." The large, saucer-shaped projection plate behind Set and at the base of the Great Wyrm's raised podium hummed to life, the neon blue tactical display of what Set had found flickering clumsily to life. "It's a Sentinel. Just one of them."
The helmsman was right. The Great Wyrm opened his eyes and leaned forward to observe, one hand stroking his weathered chin in quiet contemplation. Even from his seat far below Set could make out the floating, three-dimensional shape of the squid-like killing Machine reflected in the Great Wyrm's normal eye. The other never reflected anything. It saw too much already to show anything back.
"Finally," the Great Wyrm said with a small self-assuring grin. "I knew he would come."
"You usually do," Set answered, watching as the distant speck that was the Sentinal through the viewing pane as it bridged the endless chasm beneath the Draconigena, approaching the massive vessel. As it drew closer, Set's brow furrowed as he squinted at the small Machine. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the hunter-killer was moving in an odd fashion, unlike those Sentinels he had faced in battle before. Its steel tendrils trailing behind it as it flitted towards the Draconigena, Set realized that he could not make out the tell-tale crimson glow of the thing's many optical sensors.
They were all dark, dysfunctional. Could it have been flying blind?
The small Sentinel came to rest before the imposing hulk of the Draconigena, the two craft facing each other silently apart from the creak of armored hull and the constant droning thrum of the Draconigena's drive engines and hover pads. The size difference between the two was nearly comical but this particular meeting warranted anything but mirth. For this was the way of those who followed the Merovingian in the Real: silent scheming in the quiet of the deepest of tunnels. Deals in the dark.
For a time, things stood still. Finally after these agonizing moments was the hologram of the strange Sentinel aboard the Great Wyrm's bridge riddled through with a fuzzy overlay of ones and zeroes that scrolled their way towards the deck below the Captain like raindrops. Binary. The Great Wyrm's normal eye moved quickly as he translated the streaming digits in his head, his other eye moving even quicker.
You have what I want.
Of course the Great Wyrm did and the man said as much. "It's been some time since last we spoke in person, so to speak," he spoke in that gravelly, sinister drawl of his. "It seems not even the Matrix can limit the Endless Void."
There was no reply. Oh yes, the Great Wyrm noted with silent amusement, this was indeed the Endless Void, the only other human along with Vanil to have ever traded his humanity for the computerized drudgery and immortality of Exile. But where the latter had no doubt exchanged his sense of reason for his power the Endless Void had seemingly given up whatever personality he may have once possessed. Indeed, this shadowy corruptor and at times broker of information was utterly without humanity, compunction, and pretty much everything else. The Endless Void was one to truly live up to his (or its) name and might as well have been nothing at all.
But this Exile was something, and that was what made him so dangerous.
"If you will merely tell me what I wish to know," the Great Wyrm went on, addressing the hologram of the blind Sentinel, "I will transfer the coordinates you requested to you."
Your vessel is tactically superior to mine. You will transfer the coordinates to me and then I will tell you what you wish to know.
The Great Wyrm had naturally known the Endless Void would have answered such but frowned nonetheless. If anything, this was the Merovingian's greatest weakness. Trust. Those operatives who served the Frenchman did not trust one another, and those who did never served the Frenchman for long. There was no trust amidst these disciples of causality and without trust there could be no unity. Hatred, greed, lust, petty scheming... the Great Wyrm was surely beyond such things and yet even he could not avoid what their manic pursuit wrought upon his Organization.
But the Great Wyrm had little choice. Such was the whim of the Pattern. With a nod to Set, the helmsman swiveled around in his seat and pressed a control stud, feeding the topographical data the Great Wyrm had agreed to trade to the Endless Void. The Exile had since left the Matrix and was searching for something... or someone... in the Real, although who or what the Great Wyrm could not yet say. Nor did it yet concern him. The Captain of the Draconigena interests for now lay elsewhere.
There was a momentary pause as the Endless Void absorbed the data given before an acknowledgement sigil adjacent to the holographic Sentinel winked its approval. Another chain of cascading binary followed.
You are aware that the Machines are amassing their Sentinels. You fear the Machines intend to flush the Merovingian fleet from the tunnels. You are wrong. The Merovingian fleet is sufficiently divided.
It was true. The Great Wyrm knew that Vanil's actions, though the Frenchman himself denied it, had created a schism amidst the Exiles of the Matrix. A civil war had erupted with those who aided Vanil facing those who remained loyal to the Merovingian. It was a quiet affair, as were most affairs of the Undersystem, but if left unchecked could prove disastrous for the balance, the Great Wyrm knew. He and the crew of the Draconigena had already observed its effects and many human operatives had begun to take sides as well.
The azure trails of binary continued.
The Machines have turned their attention to New Zion.
The Great Wyrm's eye widened.
The Machines have partitioned their Sentinels into two armies. The first army will assault the EMP mine field and the standing human forces. The second army will be hidden in reserve and will breech the human docks once the EMP mine field has been cleared. I will now transfer the coordinates of the two Sentinel armies to you as we agreed.
"G... getting them now, sir," Set acknowledged from the floor of the bridge, his fingers dancing over his control console. His voice was shaky. He knew what this meant. The Great Wyrm continued to watch the holographic Sentinel as it hovered silently, uncaringly, before him. The binary continued to scrawl mercilessly.
The human defenses are inadequate to cope and their fleet inadequate to stop both assaults. It will take the Machines approximately eight hours to position their forces. They cannot be stopped.
In twenty-four hours, Zion will be destroyed, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.
~V
((Figures... 2 hours after my post, Vanil posts the next chapter. Wonderful as always... but again I ask Where is Links?! :O
And Sieges, I'll be on next Monday or so, so keep your eyes out for me.))
VSLL wrote:
(( That's sort of what I had up my sleeve, unless His Nibs has something else in mind...))
((Figures... 2 hours after my post, Vanil posts the next chapter. Wonderful as always... but again I ask Where is Links?! :O
And Sieges, I'll be on next Monday or so, so keep your eyes out for me.))
(( That's sort of what I had up my sleeve, unless His Nibs has something else in mind...))
While news of the distant battle to come was being given the battle inside Neverwhere had come to an end. Aoide let her guns clatter to the floor as she stood from behind the throne and went to Vanil's aid. The vampire cast aside his own weapons and slumped back into his seat, his gloves still slicked with the blood of the man whose body lay at his feet. Iovai lay on his back with the stake nailed through his heart like a cruel headstone. Aoide took care to step around the fallen Machinist as she inspected Vanil for lingering wounds. When she found none she asked anyway: "Are you alright?"
Vanil nodded. Aoide turned to look upon the rest of the sanctum and to recoup any other losses. They had faired very well. The soldiers Iovai had brought with him into the Construct were now scattered up and down the chamber. Their helmeted figures lay silent in reflective puddles of gore and bullet casings or propped against the elegant pillars that lined the hall. By stark contrast to the sounds of conflict that had filled the Construct only moments before the whole place was quiet as the grave. Which was fitting, Aoide thought as she turned back to Vanil, because this place was a grave. "What now?"
"That," Chemuel said as she as she trod past a couple of sprawled bodies towards the Neverthrone, "is a beautiful question." Holstering her spent revolver the girl wasted no time in making with one of her ever-present cigarettes and lit it. She took a long drag on it and shuddered with temporary relief before pointing it towards what remained of Iovai. "I always liked him." The haggard-looking girl looked at Vanil. "You shouldn't have killed him."
Vanil leaned back in his seat, the reddish glow of his Exile-eyes eclipsed for a moment as he blinked. "I didn't," he sighed as he tapped the staked body before him with his boot heel. "Iovai was dead the moment he entered my Neverwhere."
"Yes," Ekizeba whispered as she and LinksLife stepped from the shadows and took their places on either side of Vanil as before, "but you will be soon, too."
"Not yet," Vanil hissed, thinking. The rest were silent even when Zdn1 and Morraeon rejoined them. "Not yet," the Blood Drinker growled again after a time before addressing Chemuel. "Chemuel, I want you to take everyone with you and return to the Real."
"... what?" the freckled girl replied with mild scorn, coughing up tobacco smoke as she mustered a reply. "Dante, in case you hadn't noticed, you're dying. I... we came here for you, not us. I've half the mind to up and leave all of this, to be honest." It was a bluff and a long shot of one at that, Chemuel knew, but she tried it anyway.
"Do as I say, Chemuel!" Vanil answered harshly as he stood for the first time since the battle had ended. "The Frenchman wants me dead and the Machines will learn that Iovai has failed. They will send more assassins and I'll not sacrifice my aces in the hole," the Exile explained as he nodded at them all, "to survive another ambush like this one."
Aoide listened as Vanil explained his change of plans and knew he was lying. It was difficult for her to explain even to herself but the dark-skinned woman could see it in the vampire's snake-eyes. This wasn't about aces or sacrifice. Aoide could hear it in Vanil's voice that he wanted to protect Chemuel... protect Aoide. To protect all of them.
Something rose up from deep inside Aoide then, something she had not felt for many years and even then had seldom done so. It smoldered somewhere just below her belly and kicked her in the insides. Her bronze eyes burned as if they were Vanil's own. "I'm going with you," Aoide said before she knew what she was saying.
"No," Vanil answered quickly as he turned to Aoide, "you're not."
"Yes," the woman shot back, "I am. Chemuel can take the rest back to the Masquerade, but I'm going with you Vanil." Aoide shook her head. "Don't try and stop me; you know you can't."
Vanil was silent for a moment as he searched Aoide for what she was feeling, looked into her eyes for the truth he knew was hidden in them and found it aflame. She was telling the truth and he knew it as well as he knew himself. "Aoide accompanies me," the vampire said finally before turning back to the rest of them. "The rest of you go with Chemuel and return to the Masquerade. If the Machines send Sentinels to attack my ship you will drive them off."
Vanil paused for emphasis. "The fate of the Merovingian may very well depend on it."
"And what about you and Aoide?" Zdn1 asked as Vanil retrieved one of his pistols. "Where will you two go?"
"Back to the Matrix," Vanil replied as he cocked the weapon's hammer. "There's someone I have to see."
~V
Vanil nodded. Aoide turned to look upon the rest of the sanctum and to recoup any other losses. They had faired very well. The soldiers Iovai had brought with him into the Construct were now scattered up and down the chamber. Their helmeted figures lay silent in reflective puddles of gore and bullet casings or propped against the elegant pillars that lined the hall. By stark contrast to the sounds of conflict that had filled the Construct only moments before the whole place was quiet as the grave. Which was fitting, Aoide thought as she turned back to Vanil, because this place was a grave. "What now?"
"That," Chemuel said as she as she trod past a couple of sprawled bodies towards the Neverthrone, "is a beautiful question." Holstering her spent revolver the girl wasted no time in making with one of her ever-present cigarettes and lit it. She took a long drag on it and shuddered with temporary relief before pointing it towards what remained of Iovai. "I always liked him." The haggard-looking girl looked at Vanil. "You shouldn't have killed him."
Vanil leaned back in his seat, the reddish glow of his Exile-eyes eclipsed for a moment as he blinked. "I didn't," he sighed as he tapped the staked body before him with his boot heel. "Iovai was dead the moment he entered my Neverwhere."
"Yes," Ekizeba whispered as she and LinksLife stepped from the shadows and took their places on either side of Vanil as before, "but you will be soon, too."
"Not yet," Vanil hissed, thinking. The rest were silent even when Zdn1 and Morraeon rejoined them. "Not yet," the Blood Drinker growled again after a time before addressing Chemuel. "Chemuel, I want you to take everyone with you and return to the Real."
"... what?" the freckled girl replied with mild scorn, coughing up tobacco smoke as she mustered a reply. "Dante, in case you hadn't noticed, you're dying. I... we came here for you, not us. I've half the mind to up and leave all of this, to be honest." It was a bluff and a long shot of one at that, Chemuel knew, but she tried it anyway.
"Do as I say, Chemuel!" Vanil answered harshly as he stood for the first time since the battle had ended. "The Frenchman wants me dead and the Machines will learn that Iovai has failed. They will send more assassins and I'll not sacrifice my aces in the hole," the Exile explained as he nodded at them all, "to survive another ambush like this one."
Aoide listened as Vanil explained his change of plans and knew he was lying. It was difficult for her to explain even to herself but the dark-skinned woman could see it in the vampire's snake-eyes. This wasn't about aces or sacrifice. Aoide could hear it in Vanil's voice that he wanted to protect Chemuel... protect Aoide. To protect all of them.
Something rose up from deep inside Aoide then, something she had not felt for many years and even then had seldom done so. It smoldered somewhere just below her belly and kicked her in the insides. Her bronze eyes burned as if they were Vanil's own. "I'm going with you," Aoide said before she knew what she was saying.
"No," Vanil answered quickly as he turned to Aoide, "you're not."
"Yes," the woman shot back, "I am. Chemuel can take the rest back to the Masquerade, but I'm going with you Vanil." Aoide shook her head. "Don't try and stop me; you know you can't."
Vanil was silent for a moment as he searched Aoide for what she was feeling, looked into her eyes for the truth he knew was hidden in them and found it aflame. She was telling the truth and he knew it as well as he knew himself. "Aoide accompanies me," the vampire said finally before turning back to the rest of them. "The rest of you go with Chemuel and return to the Masquerade. If the Machines send Sentinels to attack my ship you will drive them off."
Vanil paused for emphasis. "The fate of the Merovingian may very well depend on it."
"And what about you and Aoide?" Zdn1 asked as Vanil retrieved one of his pistols. "Where will you two go?"
"Back to the Matrix," Vanil replied as he cocked the weapon's hammer. "There's someone I have to see."
~V
An hour earlier....
As Links enters the Neverwhere, he hears a small sound in the distance, a soft sound, like a sob, a familiar sob, the sort Sieges used to try keeping as soft as possible, when she had had an especially rough night on the Draconigena, when she thought no one could hear her. The sound seems to come from a hallway branching off into the impossible, M. C. Escher-like distances of the Neverwhere.
The sob grows louder, taking on a piteous note. Is the voice saying words, Links asks himself, or is it just a trick of the Neverwhere? What is the voice saying? What is it calling... He makes out the barely discernable words "Come and find me... come and help me... help... help... help......"
Realizing the voice sounds like Sieges, Links left Chemuel and her crew. His sister always comes first before the Prince of Darkness."Please find me.... please... please help me... please..." The call is soft and the words come sporadically, but the tone begs for someone to heed it...
Pulling his wits together, Links follows the voice. The branches of the Neverwhere try to close in on him. He pushes them out of the way where he can. When a particularly thick knot blocks his passage, he draws his sword and starts to hack and slash at the clinging creepers. In his heart of hearts, he swore to himself, if Sieges was in trouble, he'd do anything to protect her.
The branches grab at his arms and try to trip him; are they chuckling at him??
At this point, Links grows pissed off at the general situation, and started cursing, going at the branches as if they were alive. The sobbing call grows more insistant and the words more clear: Please... don't let him hurt me... please... please... please... Links hacks away at anything that stands in his way, trying to get to the voice.
All at once, the vines fall alway, as if letting him free on cue... An especially loud, wordless cry echoes from the far distance. Freed, Links runs as fast as he canould, to save his sister.
He finds himself running along a black marble corridor that stretches into infinity, its path taking strange twists and turning on itself, maze-like. After what seems like a few miles, the corridor suddenly twists ninety-degrees from the vertical, the floor suddenly becomes a wall to his left and the vaulted ceiling becomes another wall to his right, like an M. C. Escher architectural nightmare.
He pauses, standing there, very confused. The sob has become a full-throated wail and it echoes much a location much closer than before. Links quickens his pace, trying to locate the source of the wailing.
The corridor twists again on it's horizontal axis, the floor becoming the ceiling and the ceiling an uneven floor, trecherous to follow, what with the ribbing of the vaults... At length, it dead-ends in a large, open space like a windowless atrium. No sound echoes, savet what might be the wind.
He stands there confused, unsure where to go or where to turn. Around him barely anything can be seen, save some inverted gargoyles perched at what would be the tops of the columns supporting the ceiling which to him is the floor. Then of a sudden, with a great, grinding, clanking noise, the whole room turns itself slowly sideways, turning itself right-side up. Despite the dizziness that overtakes him, Links manages to hang onto the ceiling
A rough snigger can be heard coming from the floor below. A man makes a questioning grunt deep in his throat, followed by a raspy female voice shushing him. Then velvety silence falls.
Links lets himself drop to the floor, a near suicidal gesture to a mere human, but his Redpill gnosis enables him to confused and cautious, keeping his eyes out for any sudden movement.
A large shadow and a smaller one move away from him in the darkness, but it's too dim to make out what they could be. No discernable movement disturbs the tomb-like stillness around him.
Then behind him, he can hear the rush of a falling body, the heavy rustle of the fold of a thick leather coat disturbed by movement. Something thumps to the floor, like a Redpill landing from a hyperjump.
Links turns around, still very on edge. Standing before is a massive male figure, clad in an ankle-lengthe Demon Army trenchcoat, it's posture dignified and yet cocky at the same time.
"Looking for something...?" the stranger asks, in an eeriely familiar deep, rasping voice, as if someone has ripped out his voice box and sewn it in badly.
His eyes narrow. "Yeah... and I think you know where it is." His grip on his blade tightens.
The figure laughs, the sound an ugly, humorless cacophany, like a knife dragged on sharp rocks. "You'll have to fight me to get it, boy..." And the massive figure lunges at him, striking at his face with an open hand knifing at his jaw.
Links brings his blade up in defense, attempting to hold off his attacker. "I don't have time for these games, just tell me where Sieges is!"
The stranger stares down at the blade, then looks at him. "You'll have to ask the mistress then..."
Links gives a confused look, holding his ground. "Mistress? Chemuel did something to Sieges?!"
The stranger smirks at him in an all-too-familiar way, then looks upward, over Links's shoulder. "Not the Lady Chemuel... *My* mistress..."
Links furrows his eye brows and turns around, assuming that this "mistress" is there.
As he turns, the stranger body-slams him from behind, wrapping his long arms and legs around Links, pinning his knees together and his arms at his sides. The force is so violent, they skid sideways across the floor for several feet, coming to rest nearly at the bottom of a pillar.
Something small and wrapped in black skitters *down* the side of the pillar, headfirst, pausing a few feet above them.
As Links struggles to get his attacker off him, he notices the figure above them.
The dark figure emits a familiar raspy but girlish snigger, then back-flips off the wall and lands in front of them, the wide leather skirts of her black gown pooling around her feet as she stoops down. Morraeon looks into Links's face, grinning like a rat-trap. "Mmmrrr... here's our naughty sword-boy..."
Links's eyes widen in shock and bewilderment. "Morraeon? What... what the hell is going on?! Get this person off me!"
"Heh, as you insist..." To the stranger pinnind Links, she says, "Vic, be a good sim and let our guest go before he fragments you."
The simulacrum sighs, then loosens his hold on Links. "As you wish it, Mistress."
Links gets up quickly and grabs his sword that he dropped after the body slam. "Would you mind explaining what the hell is going on? Where is Sieges?! I heard her sobbing down here..."
Morraeon smirks, showing the tips of her dog-like teeth. "Slowly, slowly now... What you heard was your own memories being picked up from your subconscious and transmitted back to your conscious mind... You feel remorse for what happened to her in Outpost Bane, how she almost died there, mmmr?"
Links finds himself at a loss of words. "I... well... of course I do! It's... hard to explain what really happened there."
"Mmmrr... true, but I remember it as plain as day, thanks to my Exilic perfect recall..." The oval-shaped pupils of her crimson eyes narrow as she takes a slow step toward him. "And I remember you left some business very much unfinished there..."
He looks at Morraeon, confused. "What do you mean...?"
"You didn't succeed in destroying my perfect enemy there..." She takes another step closer to him, bringing her toe-to-toe with him... and by some trick, she's looking at him on a level, instead of looking *up* at him...
Links frowns. "And I was supposed to? Forgive me, I had a moment of weakness. You could never understand the horrors that man put me through... but I couldn't bring myself to kill him, because in the end, he brought me here."
"You could have been a dragon-slayer, but nooo, you had to let it get to you... And so Miss Innocence and I had to live in fear, in case he tried anything funny on us. Oh, yeah, *that* was really pleasant, ho, ho ho, 'tis to laugh... Try looking out for your brother and yerself so Mr. Sees-All-Knows-All doesn't try round two... I wouldn't be the bit surprised if he goes after *her* for keeping me in existence..."
As she says this, she draws something out of her boot and tests it against the palm of one hand, flicks it against the tops of her boots.
"Little-known fact: My brother Cerberon and I aren't the only scions left... and I intend to make sure that scoundrel pays to the last three-penny-ha'pence for harming the head of our family... Do you have any idea what it's *LIKE* to lose the only parent you had?"
Links becomes livid. "HOW DARE YOU!!! Do YOU have any idea what that MONSTER did to my life?! DO YOU?!?! NO, YOU DON'T! If there was one thing I did agree with Wyrm, it was that Marrith needed to die! He... He ruined so many lives! YOU WOULDN'T KNOW!" He was pratically screaming now.
In a very quiet, very firm voice, quite unlike anything he may have heard from her before, she replies, "He was also my father, and he and I kept your sister alive."
Links recoils, as if she had punched him in the gut. Falling to his knees, he stares off into the shadows. She was right. "I-I-I..."
She puts a hand on his shoulder, its pressure at once a warning of how strong she was, given her nature, and yet at the same time it radiated its own wierd sense of reasurance. "It's out yer hands now... If anyone is gonna take him on, it's me, even if I have to kill myself doin' it... And I was all set to flog yah t' within an inch of yer life, but I won't." She holds up the riding whip she had in her free hand, then turns her hand a little and crushes its code to dust, absorbing it as she does so.
He looks up at Morraeon, defeated. "Well... I'm glad. I no longer have to worry about it. Maybe I did deserve to be beaten... all this time, I never could accpet Marrith as a good guy... I doubt I ever will... but... as the old saying goes... 'The Sins of the Father shall not be visited upon the Son.' Or... in this case, daughter."
She regards him in silence, her pupils relaxing a little, as if she quietly accepts this. Then she speaks, and her tone has a deep note of earnestness that he has until now never heard before. "If there is a god out there, let him look kindly on me and my father for that one kind thing we accomplished together and let him grant me the favor of avenging the wrong that was done to us..." But her pupils narrow again; her lips curl in a smirk and the gleeful note of viciousness returns to her tone. "Now... You want the ropes or the velvet-covered handcuffs?"
Links sighs. "Your really gonna take me prisoner? Bah... handcuffs."
"Handcuffs it is..." And from some impossible crevice in her decolletage, she pulls out a set of manacles and shackles attached to each other with a short chain. "Gods, I love these things..." she says, shaking them out, clattering them noisily in the process. "So shiny and... clanky." Before he can change his mind, she tackles him and clamps the shackles onto his ankles, then pulls his hands behind his back and slams the manacles over his wrists. She reaches under her gown and uncoils a length of silver chain wrapped around her thigh, then fastens one end of it to the connecting chain on his bonds, then tosses the end of it around the beak of one of the gargoyles.
She lunges upward and latches onto the free end of the chain, using her weight to pull it down, causing Links to be lifted off the floor.
"You just hang out for a while here, Sword-Boy... I'll be back to let you go when you've finished your... punishment," she calls up to him as he dangles about ten feet from the ground, then blows him a kiss.
"You better! Or I swear to whatever God there is, I will kill you!" Links hangs there for a moment, and sighs. "I deserve this."
Clearly she hears this remark. "Heh..." she grunts, grinning, but even from that height, he sees a quiver run through her face, perhaps of fear, perhaps of anticipation. With that, she strides away, the simulacrum following her very footsteps...
"A Man chooses... a Slave Obeys..." - Andrew Ryan
...
LinksLife hangs. Not fatally, but the boy cannot escape his bondage, the chain manacled to his wrists wound tightly around the vicious beak of his immobile gargoyle captor. He is stretched out such that he has difficulty breathing without effort. LinksLife's boots dangle not terribly far from the floor but from his unfortunate vantage the expanse seems infinite. He is not comfortable. He hears voices but whether they are spawned from the evil Construct around him or by his nerves he cannot know. His mind is bound as tightly as his RSI and his thoughts grow terribly muddled. LinksLife, though once a servant of the Great Wyrm, is now a Masque and he knows what Neverwhere will do to those who cannot fight it. To those who cannot fend against its terrible influence and its malign intelligence...
The Great Wyrm. That was who Morraeon had spoken of and was why the fickle Exile had bound LinksLife in such a manner. LinksLife can remember his last confrontation with the terrible man as if it were yesterday. It had been when the last civil war had wracked the ranks of the Merovingian. At the climax of that conflict LinksLife could remember when he, Sieges, and AlicethePattern had journeyed with the Great Wyrm to desolate Outpost Bane to destroy the man called ‘Anubis': the Great Wyrm's great foe at the time.
Unbeknownst to his comrades though, LinksLife had made a deal with the Devil. An Exile called Vanil had persuaded the boy to destroy his own master. LinksLife can remember the sweltering heat of Outpost Bane's volcanic crevice as he and his company made their way into the heart of the base. He can remember the embers drizzling like fireflies as he held the knife close to his chest. And LinksLife can remember plunging that knife into the Great Wyrm even when escape for all of them had seemed impossible.
They had escaped, of course. All of them but the Great Wyrm. Rather than finishing the villain off LinksLife left the Great Wyrm as morsel for the fires of Bane. The civil war had ended and LinksLife remembers his coronation as one of Vanil's Masques.
But Bane had not consumed the Great Wyrm. The Great Wyrm would not allow it to. LinksLife's former master clawed his way from the Hell he had been sentenced to, intending to visit that Hell a thousand fold upon those who had dared send him there. And he had done so not upon LinksLife but upon Sieges. Poor, innocent Sieges.
And now as LinksLife hangs from his gargoyle in a Hell not of fire and brimstone but of darkness and whispers, he knows of guilt. He, the dragon-slayer, had let the dragon live to maim who he cared for. Sieges had suffered because LinksLife had not destroyed the Great Wyrm, had suffered because he had betrayed the man and taken up Vanil's dark banner of his own choosing. LinksLife knows of guilt, and as he hangs by his chains LinksLife despairs.
The footsteps awaken LinksLife from his poisonous stupor. Slowly he raises his head and squints through the darkness that encircles him to see Morraeon's simulacrum, the crude Great Wyrm look-alike, drawing near. "What now?" LinksLife groans, his frame stretched by his manacles like a spit for the roast.
"That is the question," Morraeon's simulacrum answers in the Great Wyrm's gravelly drawl as it stands before LinksLife, "isn't it? Whatever, LinksLife, do you do now?"
LinksLife asks the program what it means. The program chuckles menacingly. "You know what I mean, boy," it answers finally. "You know well enough what I mean, and what I mean to do. The wheel just never stops turning and the bird just never stops flying, does it now." Noticing LinksLife's anxious expression the simulacrum smiles slowly, terribly. "Yes Links, that's it. Look into my eye. Look into my eye and see your fate. See your master."
LinksLife looks into the simulacrum's eye and looks into the eye of the Great Wyrm.
"But..." LinksLife stammers, "but this... is impossible..."
"Not impossible," the Great Wyrm answers him. "Inevitable."
Despair, rage, hope, humanity... Neverwhere swallowed all as surely as the Great Wyrm collected all he was owed.
~V
The Great Wyrm. That was who Morraeon had spoken of and was why the fickle Exile had bound LinksLife in such a manner. LinksLife can remember his last confrontation with the terrible man as if it were yesterday. It had been when the last civil war had wracked the ranks of the Merovingian. At the climax of that conflict LinksLife could remember when he, Sieges, and AlicethePattern had journeyed with the Great Wyrm to desolate Outpost Bane to destroy the man called ‘Anubis': the Great Wyrm's great foe at the time.
Unbeknownst to his comrades though, LinksLife had made a deal with the Devil. An Exile called Vanil had persuaded the boy to destroy his own master. LinksLife can remember the sweltering heat of Outpost Bane's volcanic crevice as he and his company made their way into the heart of the base. He can remember the embers drizzling like fireflies as he held the knife close to his chest. And LinksLife can remember plunging that knife into the Great Wyrm even when escape for all of them had seemed impossible.
They had escaped, of course. All of them but the Great Wyrm. Rather than finishing the villain off LinksLife left the Great Wyrm as morsel for the fires of Bane. The civil war had ended and LinksLife remembers his coronation as one of Vanil's Masques.
But Bane had not consumed the Great Wyrm. The Great Wyrm would not allow it to. LinksLife's former master clawed his way from the Hell he had been sentenced to, intending to visit that Hell a thousand fold upon those who had dared send him there. And he had done so not upon LinksLife but upon Sieges. Poor, innocent Sieges.
And now as LinksLife hangs from his gargoyle in a Hell not of fire and brimstone but of darkness and whispers, he knows of guilt. He, the dragon-slayer, had let the dragon live to maim who he cared for. Sieges had suffered because LinksLife had not destroyed the Great Wyrm, had suffered because he had betrayed the man and taken up Vanil's dark banner of his own choosing. LinksLife knows of guilt, and as he hangs by his chains LinksLife despairs.
The footsteps awaken LinksLife from his poisonous stupor. Slowly he raises his head and squints through the darkness that encircles him to see Morraeon's simulacrum, the crude Great Wyrm look-alike, drawing near. "What now?" LinksLife groans, his frame stretched by his manacles like a spit for the roast.
"That is the question," Morraeon's simulacrum answers in the Great Wyrm's gravelly drawl as it stands before LinksLife, "isn't it? Whatever, LinksLife, do you do now?"
LinksLife asks the program what it means. The program chuckles menacingly. "You know what I mean, boy," it answers finally. "You know well enough what I mean, and what I mean to do. The wheel just never stops turning and the bird just never stops flying, does it now." Noticing LinksLife's anxious expression the simulacrum smiles slowly, terribly. "Yes Links, that's it. Look into my eye. Look into my eye and see your fate. See your master."
LinksLife looks into the simulacrum's eye and looks into the eye of the Great Wyrm.
"But..." LinksLife stammers, "but this... is impossible..."
"Not impossible," the Great Wyrm answers him. "Inevitable."
Despair, rage, hope, humanity... Neverwhere swallowed all as surely as the Great Wyrm collected all he was owed.
~V
Chemuel was very upset.
This entire operation had been disastrous. Vanil's careful plans had fallen apart like a house of cards. The Fragment of the One had done nothing. Chemuel's former lover was still dying; rotting like the walking carcass he was fast becoming. And if the late Surgeon was to be believed, so was Chemuel.
"My precious and dearest Chemuel, you have cancer."
The words were at Chemuel's heels the whole way back to the Real. She blamed Vanil. It was as if coming to his aid had brought his sickness upon her. As she strode from Vanil's sanctum Chemuel lit another cigarette and blamed Vanil. Chemuel felt like breaking down and crying. She felt like killing someone. She felt like dying.
Chemuel already missed Aoide's counsel. The older woman had always been a counterweight to her Captain, a voice of raw wisdom in Chemuel's increasingly chaotic life. But even that could no longer console Chemuel. Aoide had gone with Vanil, back to the Matrix which was now in the midst of a civil war that threatened to tear Chemuel's adoptive Organization in two. The way things had been going for the Masquerade lately Chemuel might very well never see her closest friend alive ever again.
Everything that had gone wrong and gotten worse bundled into a knot that nestled wretchedly in Chemuel's gut. D*mn her and d*mn her weakness for Vanil. Chemuel had come to him because she still, d*mn it all, loved him in some twisted and oppressively useless way. It was all his fault.
Chemuel had faintly hoped such thoughts would leave her as the jack was pulled from her skull and her mind settled back into her body, in the Real. They did not.
Chemuel sat up in her seat and rubbed her forehead. "Great," she sighed to nobody in particular.
The rest of the operatives climbed out of their jack-in ports. "What do we do now?" Zdn1 asked them.
Chemuel sighed again. "We have to lay low and fight a virtual war," she answered. The girl looked over Aoide's comatose form for guidance and, finding none, let her eyes drift over to LinksLife's... who was still comatose as well. Chemuel bounded up from her port, her boots hitting the deck of the Masquerade with a clunk. "Tam, where's the kid?"
"I'm... unsure," the Masquerade AI answered from the tinny speaker above Chemuel. "He's not in Neverwhere..."
"And he's not here," Chemuel finished for the AI. "Keep looking," she instructed Tamur4. Christ, they were dropping like flies. Vanil was killing them. That dirty bastard. Chemuel made her way to the Operator's chair and sank into it. It felt like she'd been carrying a thousand pounds on her shoulders. "What's the situation in the Matrix?" she asked as she rubbed her eyes and watched the green streams of data flash on the three screens before her. Zdn1 and the rest clustered behind the girl, watching over her shoulders.
Tamur4 gave them all a tactical rundown. "Lord Vanil ordered his Elite Commandos to eliminate key Merovingian facilities throughout the Construct but they have since faltered since Vanil ceased contact with them and relocated to Neverwhere."
"Figures," R0ukan cracked. "Mute bastards."
"The Blood Drinkers are divided," Tamur4 continued. "Malphas has rallied his soldiers and is clashing with Lord Vanil's followers all throughout the City. They haven't been this split since that dreadful business with Invalesco."
"And the Lupines?" Chemuel asked. Pointlessly though, for she was already sure of the answer.
"The Lupines have sided with the Merovingian nearly entirely," Tamur4 assured Chemuel. "Ookami did not take to Lord Vanil's... strategic decision-making... dandily and is leading her packs all throughout the Matrix and assaulting Vanilite positions." The AI paused before adding: "She's hunting for Vanil. He's taking an awfully big risk going back there."
"Iovai came to Neverwhere and tried to kill Lord Vanil," Ekizeba said. "What are the Machines doing?" she asked.
"I... do not believe they are aware Lord Vanil has returned to the Matrix," Tamur4 replied, "but that won't last forever. If they don't know he's there now they soon will."
"And when they do," Chemuel whispered, "they'll know Iovai failed." The girl cracked her knuckles and began to type on her keypad. "Tam, open a channel to any Exiles of ours you can reach. We've got to... rally them, I guess. And find Links." Chemuel wasn't much of a tactician but she had to do what she was able to. Backing out of all of this had long since become a fantasy. "Everyone, man the ship. Holographics, weapons, helm, everything. The Machines are out there and looking for us. Make sure we keep a low profile. Z, prep the reactor. If we have to run we run." Zdn1 nodded and he and the rest of them clambered off to man the Masquerade.
If Vanil was determined to make a mess and make her suffer then Chemuel would do whatever she had to. Her fingers danced across the keypad and the code flashed before her eyes.
~V
This entire operation had been disastrous. Vanil's careful plans had fallen apart like a house of cards. The Fragment of the One had done nothing. Chemuel's former lover was still dying; rotting like the walking carcass he was fast becoming. And if the late Surgeon was to be believed, so was Chemuel.
"My precious and dearest Chemuel, you have cancer."
The words were at Chemuel's heels the whole way back to the Real. She blamed Vanil. It was as if coming to his aid had brought his sickness upon her. As she strode from Vanil's sanctum Chemuel lit another cigarette and blamed Vanil. Chemuel felt like breaking down and crying. She felt like killing someone. She felt like dying.
Chemuel already missed Aoide's counsel. The older woman had always been a counterweight to her Captain, a voice of raw wisdom in Chemuel's increasingly chaotic life. But even that could no longer console Chemuel. Aoide had gone with Vanil, back to the Matrix which was now in the midst of a civil war that threatened to tear Chemuel's adoptive Organization in two. The way things had been going for the Masquerade lately Chemuel might very well never see her closest friend alive ever again.
Everything that had gone wrong and gotten worse bundled into a knot that nestled wretchedly in Chemuel's gut. D*mn her and d*mn her weakness for Vanil. Chemuel had come to him because she still, d*mn it all, loved him in some twisted and oppressively useless way. It was all his fault.
Chemuel had faintly hoped such thoughts would leave her as the jack was pulled from her skull and her mind settled back into her body, in the Real. They did not.
Chemuel sat up in her seat and rubbed her forehead. "Great," she sighed to nobody in particular.
The rest of the operatives climbed out of their jack-in ports. "What do we do now?" Zdn1 asked them.
Chemuel sighed again. "We have to lay low and fight a virtual war," she answered. The girl looked over Aoide's comatose form for guidance and, finding none, let her eyes drift over to LinksLife's... who was still comatose as well. Chemuel bounded up from her port, her boots hitting the deck of the Masquerade with a clunk. "Tam, where's the kid?"
"I'm... unsure," the Masquerade AI answered from the tinny speaker above Chemuel. "He's not in Neverwhere..."
"And he's not here," Chemuel finished for the AI. "Keep looking," she instructed Tamur4. Christ, they were dropping like flies. Vanil was killing them. That dirty bastard. Chemuel made her way to the Operator's chair and sank into it. It felt like she'd been carrying a thousand pounds on her shoulders. "What's the situation in the Matrix?" she asked as she rubbed her eyes and watched the green streams of data flash on the three screens before her. Zdn1 and the rest clustered behind the girl, watching over her shoulders.
Tamur4 gave them all a tactical rundown. "Lord Vanil ordered his Elite Commandos to eliminate key Merovingian facilities throughout the Construct but they have since faltered since Vanil ceased contact with them and relocated to Neverwhere."
"Figures," R0ukan cracked. "Mute bastards."
"The Blood Drinkers are divided," Tamur4 continued. "Malphas has rallied his soldiers and is clashing with Lord Vanil's followers all throughout the City. They haven't been this split since that dreadful business with Invalesco."
"And the Lupines?" Chemuel asked. Pointlessly though, for she was already sure of the answer.
"The Lupines have sided with the Merovingian nearly entirely," Tamur4 assured Chemuel. "Ookami did not take to Lord Vanil's... strategic decision-making... dandily and is leading her packs all throughout the Matrix and assaulting Vanilite positions." The AI paused before adding: "She's hunting for Vanil. He's taking an awfully big risk going back there."
"Iovai came to Neverwhere and tried to kill Lord Vanil," Ekizeba said. "What are the Machines doing?" she asked.
"I... do not believe they are aware Lord Vanil has returned to the Matrix," Tamur4 replied, "but that won't last forever. If they don't know he's there now they soon will."
"And when they do," Chemuel whispered, "they'll know Iovai failed." The girl cracked her knuckles and began to type on her keypad. "Tam, open a channel to any Exiles of ours you can reach. We've got to... rally them, I guess. And find Links." Chemuel wasn't much of a tactician but she had to do what she was able to. Backing out of all of this had long since become a fantasy. "Everyone, man the ship. Holographics, weapons, helm, everything. The Machines are out there and looking for us. Make sure we keep a low profile. Z, prep the reactor. If we have to run we run." Zdn1 nodded and he and the rest of them clambered off to man the Masquerade.
If Vanil was determined to make a mess and make her suffer then Chemuel would do whatever she had to. Her fingers danced across the keypad and the code flashed before her eyes.
~V
Elsewhere in the Real the Draconigena sped away from its rendezvous with the Endless Void. The hulk of the old vessel moved as fast as Set dared let it through the depths. The scarab-craft's hover pads flashed dazzlingly as it rounded another bend in the long access shaft that opened up somewhere near Outpost Styx: the Merovingian stronghold where the rest of the fleet awaited its return.
The Great Wyrm's long, dirty hair ran down his back as he stormed about the command deck. The clusters of steel cables that hung from the rusty bulkhead high above swayed with the movements of the ship. The menials the Captain normally paid no heed now suffered the brunt of his attentions as he peered over their shoulders, inspecting their calculations and projections. The Great Wyrm made his way from one station to the next. The fumes that drifted from below the deck lent him the appearance of an intrusive specter.
Several times the Great Wyrm repeated his personal inspection. One by one he peered over the shoulders of the decrepit menials that ringed the cavernous bridge. Finally the Great Wyrm climbed back up to his command throne and settled into it. "Set," he growled, "accelerate along our present course."
The boy at the helm swiveled in his seat to address the Captain. "I daren't push her any faster, sir..." Set explained falteringly. "Our mass being what it is and this tunnel narrow as it is..."
"Accelerate, boy!" The Great Wyrm's uneven eyes bored into the helmsman's own. "The entire fate... the entire existence of the whole of the human race depends upon our making contact with the fleet."
Set moved his mouth before nodding. "I'll tr... yes, sir. I'll push her as far as I can."
It went on this way for what felt like an eternity. The Great Wyrm would vacate the central throne only to make his rounds around the bridge before climbing back up. The Draconigena hurdled through the endless depths towards the second rendezvous it would attend within the last twenty-four hours. The ancient vessel groaned as it struggled to keep up with Set's maneuvering. The deck rattled as the archaic reactor thrummed far below.
Finally the Draconigena cleared the tunnel. The Great Wyrm could see the spidery docks of Outpost Styx. Around them were clustered the running lights of the Merovingian fleet, like fireflies. The Great Wyrm demanded the menials open a transmission channel. "This is the Draconigena on approach to Styx," he called out. "Respond."
The Great Wyrm was met with a burst of static over the bridge speakers before a female voice answered him. "This is the Lyra. I'd recognize your bucket-of-bolts anywhere, Wyrm. What kept you?"
"There is no time, Liliane," the Great Wyrm explained quickly. "Every moment we tarry here will cost us more than you can comprehend. I need to address the fleet. Immediately."
"I can see about opening a fleet-wide channel," Liliane replied from the bridge of her own ship. "What's this all about..." she started
"There is no time for questioning or second-guessing, Liliane!" the Great Wyrm snapped. "I am sending you a transmission that must be forwarded from Styx to New Zion at once."
"Zion... ?!"
The Great Wyrm leaned forward in his command throne. His presence was commanding even over the vast distance between the two Captains. "I must address the fleet. If consequences should arise as a result of my actions this day then I shall meet them in due course. But this must be done."
---
In the Matrix a black sedan turned another corner and sped down another deserted Richland street. "Why come back?" Aoide asked Vanil. She and the Exile shared the back seat of the sedan. "Why come back to the Matrix?" The Matrix had become a very dangerous place overnight for all of them. Vanil most of all.
Vanil watched the alleyways and mailboxes and street corners as they passed. "Why come back with me?" he asked Aoide.
Aoide sighed. It was so like her companion to answer a question with a question. "I came because you're in danger," the dark-skinned woman said. "I came back because I knew I had to." Aoide ran a finger over Vanil's glove, touching him. "I came back... I came back because I love you, Dante."
Vanil ran his tongue over his fangs pensively. "I've come back because I do not know what to do," he admitted.
"And you think she will?" Aoide asked Vanil, referring to whom they planned to see.
"In a manner of speaking," Vanil said.
The Elite Commando driving the sedan looked back at the two of them as he parked them next to the sidewalk. ‘We are here' his red eye winked. Vanil nodded and he and Aoide opened the car doors and stepped out into the overcast afternoon. There was an almost pleasant breeze. Vanil's long black duster caught in it, curling out before him like the inverted tail of a scorpion. "Feels like the calm before the storm," the Exile remarked, "doesn't it."
"It does," Aoide said.
Aoide moved to stand with Vanil. A half-dozen of the Elite Commandos slunk from the alley nearest the apartment building the two operatives had arrived at. The automatons, their rifles held to their shoulders, marched after Vanil and Aoide as Vanil threw aside the doors and entered the complex. The dirty lobby greeted them. The walls were encrusted with illegible graffiti. An elderly blind man sat against one wall. The man nodded his head to the troupe in spite of his affliction. Vanil returned the gesture.
Vanil turned to one of the Elite Commandos. "Remain here," he told the program. "Do not allow anyone else to enter the building. We'll be down shortly." The black figure nodded mutely and moved to flank the elevator into which Vanil and Aoide stepped. Vanil pressed a smudged button and the doors slid shut.
"Have you ever been to her?" Aoide asked Vanil.
Vanil was silent for a time. "Yes," he eventually said. "But that was long ago. Things have changed."
"You've changed," Aoide said.
"Perhaps so," Vanil said.
The lift dinged to a halt and the doors parted. Vanil and Aoide strode down the hall. "Which door is it?" Aoide asked.
"I'll show you," Vanil answered.
Vanil led Aoide to a certain door that led to a certain apartment. It was upon this door that Vanil knocked. A short time passed before it was opened by a woman. Her dark complexion was similar to Aoide's own and contrasted sharply with Vanil's pale skin. The woman addressed Vanil and scowled. "She said you would come," she said, "but I didn't want to believe her."
"I know what that feels like," Vanil said.
The Blood Noble's words did little for his and Aoide's greeter. "I can't keep you from seeing her," she said. "Besides. Another has already come."
Aoide raised an eyebrow. "Another?" she asked.
The woman who had opened the door shook her head. "Come inside," she said. "It isn't safe for anyone to leave doors open these days."
Vanil made an amused noise as he and Aoide stepped inside. "I'm beginning to think it's even more dangerous to leave them shut," he replied.
~V
The Great Wyrm's long, dirty hair ran down his back as he stormed about the command deck. The clusters of steel cables that hung from the rusty bulkhead high above swayed with the movements of the ship. The menials the Captain normally paid no heed now suffered the brunt of his attentions as he peered over their shoulders, inspecting their calculations and projections. The Great Wyrm made his way from one station to the next. The fumes that drifted from below the deck lent him the appearance of an intrusive specter.
Several times the Great Wyrm repeated his personal inspection. One by one he peered over the shoulders of the decrepit menials that ringed the cavernous bridge. Finally the Great Wyrm climbed back up to his command throne and settled into it. "Set," he growled, "accelerate along our present course."
The boy at the helm swiveled in his seat to address the Captain. "I daren't push her any faster, sir..." Set explained falteringly. "Our mass being what it is and this tunnel narrow as it is..."
"Accelerate, boy!" The Great Wyrm's uneven eyes bored into the helmsman's own. "The entire fate... the entire existence of the whole of the human race depends upon our making contact with the fleet."
Set moved his mouth before nodding. "I'll tr... yes, sir. I'll push her as far as I can."
It went on this way for what felt like an eternity. The Great Wyrm would vacate the central throne only to make his rounds around the bridge before climbing back up. The Draconigena hurdled through the endless depths towards the second rendezvous it would attend within the last twenty-four hours. The ancient vessel groaned as it struggled to keep up with Set's maneuvering. The deck rattled as the archaic reactor thrummed far below.
Finally the Draconigena cleared the tunnel. The Great Wyrm could see the spidery docks of Outpost Styx. Around them were clustered the running lights of the Merovingian fleet, like fireflies. The Great Wyrm demanded the menials open a transmission channel. "This is the Draconigena on approach to Styx," he called out. "Respond."
The Great Wyrm was met with a burst of static over the bridge speakers before a female voice answered him. "This is the Lyra. I'd recognize your bucket-of-bolts anywhere, Wyrm. What kept you?"
"There is no time, Liliane," the Great Wyrm explained quickly. "Every moment we tarry here will cost us more than you can comprehend. I need to address the fleet. Immediately."
"I can see about opening a fleet-wide channel," Liliane replied from the bridge of her own ship. "What's this all about..." she started
"There is no time for questioning or second-guessing, Liliane!" the Great Wyrm snapped. "I am sending you a transmission that must be forwarded from Styx to New Zion at once."
"Zion... ?!"
The Great Wyrm leaned forward in his command throne. His presence was commanding even over the vast distance between the two Captains. "I must address the fleet. If consequences should arise as a result of my actions this day then I shall meet them in due course. But this must be done."
---
In the Matrix a black sedan turned another corner and sped down another deserted Richland street. "Why come back?" Aoide asked Vanil. She and the Exile shared the back seat of the sedan. "Why come back to the Matrix?" The Matrix had become a very dangerous place overnight for all of them. Vanil most of all.
Vanil watched the alleyways and mailboxes and street corners as they passed. "Why come back with me?" he asked Aoide.
Aoide sighed. It was so like her companion to answer a question with a question. "I came because you're in danger," the dark-skinned woman said. "I came back because I knew I had to." Aoide ran a finger over Vanil's glove, touching him. "I came back... I came back because I love you, Dante."
Vanil ran his tongue over his fangs pensively. "I've come back because I do not know what to do," he admitted.
"And you think she will?" Aoide asked Vanil, referring to whom they planned to see.
"In a manner of speaking," Vanil said.
The Elite Commando driving the sedan looked back at the two of them as he parked them next to the sidewalk. ‘We are here' his red eye winked. Vanil nodded and he and Aoide opened the car doors and stepped out into the overcast afternoon. There was an almost pleasant breeze. Vanil's long black duster caught in it, curling out before him like the inverted tail of a scorpion. "Feels like the calm before the storm," the Exile remarked, "doesn't it."
"It does," Aoide said.
Aoide moved to stand with Vanil. A half-dozen of the Elite Commandos slunk from the alley nearest the apartment building the two operatives had arrived at. The automatons, their rifles held to their shoulders, marched after Vanil and Aoide as Vanil threw aside the doors and entered the complex. The dirty lobby greeted them. The walls were encrusted with illegible graffiti. An elderly blind man sat against one wall. The man nodded his head to the troupe in spite of his affliction. Vanil returned the gesture.
Vanil turned to one of the Elite Commandos. "Remain here," he told the program. "Do not allow anyone else to enter the building. We'll be down shortly." The black figure nodded mutely and moved to flank the elevator into which Vanil and Aoide stepped. Vanil pressed a smudged button and the doors slid shut.
"Have you ever been to her?" Aoide asked Vanil.
Vanil was silent for a time. "Yes," he eventually said. "But that was long ago. Things have changed."
"You've changed," Aoide said.
"Perhaps so," Vanil said.
The lift dinged to a halt and the doors parted. Vanil and Aoide strode down the hall. "Which door is it?" Aoide asked.
"I'll show you," Vanil answered.
Vanil led Aoide to a certain door that led to a certain apartment. It was upon this door that Vanil knocked. A short time passed before it was opened by a woman. Her dark complexion was similar to Aoide's own and contrasted sharply with Vanil's pale skin. The woman addressed Vanil and scowled. "She said you would come," she said, "but I didn't want to believe her."
"I know what that feels like," Vanil said.
The Blood Noble's words did little for his and Aoide's greeter. "I can't keep you from seeing her," she said. "Besides. Another has already come."
Aoide raised an eyebrow. "Another?" she asked.
The woman who had opened the door shook her head. "Come inside," she said. "It isn't safe for anyone to leave doors open these days."
Vanil made an amused noise as he and Aoide stepped inside. "I'm beginning to think it's even more dangerous to leave them shut," he replied.
~V
Vanil and Aoide found themselves in a dingy apartment. They both knew this place well. They had both been here before. It was furnished simply. Sets of cheap blinds, yellow with age, hung over the windows. They were open. The fading sunlight seeped through them in neat golden bars. A thin layer of dust covered everything. But there was more than dust. Vanil felt it inside of him as he had the last time he had come here. A faint static, a keen magic. Something humble and special. "You mentioned another," Vanil said.
"Yes," the greeter answered him. The three of them stepped into the living room. The cheap carpet was soft beneath their feet. Here were the Potentials; those who bent spoons. Most were young. No more than children. Children who could do what Vanil, for all of his power, could not do. The Potentials were those who bent spoons. And in doing so, themselves.
A woman stood by one of the windows. She was little more than a girl. Her skin was tan and smooth. Her face was young and full of life. She wore a black beret. Strands of chestnut hair crept out from under it. She was attractive and yet subdued. Professional and yet demure. Almost at odds was her choice of garb. For this girl was clad from head to toe in glossy black latex. Her lapelled trench coat was threatening and hid well her lithe, nubile form. The tan girl's dark eyes rose to meet Vanil's own. She smiled and brushed a bit of hair from her brow. "I've been waiting for you, my Lord Vanil."
Aoide raised her eyebrow. "Have we met?" she asked the younger woman.
"This is Jico, Aoide," Vanil said. "My daughter."
Aoide's eyes widened a fraction. "I don't see the resemblance."
"Appearances can be deceiving," Vanil said. The Exile took a few steps and stood before Jico. Aoide almost expected the two of them, father and daughter, to embrace. But they did not. Vanil merely laid his hand upon Jico's forehead. He let it rest there for a moment. "How did you know to come, Jico?" Vanil asked.
Jico smiled again. "I just knew."
The woman who had opened the door for Vanil and Aoide reentered the room. "The Oracle will see you now," she said. Her tone was downcast. Aoide said as much. "I do not know why she would see your... friend... after all that he has done against us," the woman explained. "All I do know is that it is not a thing I am meant to know.
"Why?" Aoide asked the attendant.
"Because I believe. I have faith in the Oracle." Then she motioned towards the doorway behind her. "She is waiting, Exile. In the kitchen."
Vanil nodded. He left Aoide and Jico with the Potentials. Long strands of brightly-colored beads dangled in the doorway. Vanil swept them aside and entered a room he had not stood in for over thirty years. Had it been so long? It was as Vanil remembered it. The same blinds, tobacco-yellow. The same cheap appliances. The same low table and chairs.
At this table sat a dark old woman. Her features were wrinkled and splotched with age. Yet she wore a warm smile. Comforting. She had changed. And yet she had changed as little as her kitchen. This was in fact the Oracle of the Matrix. "Well," she said, "if it ain't who I think it is." An unlit cigarette dangled from her chapped lips. She fumbled around for a match before Vanil offered her his lighter. The Oracle nodded a thank-you. "I'm afraid my eyes ain't what they used to be." Her thumb, brown and calloused, drew up a flame. She then handed the lighter back to Vanil.
"You're the Oracle," Vanil said. "Do you not see everything?"
The Oracle chuckled. It was a warm thing. She blew tobacco smoke out of her nostrils. "I see enough, kid. Though I guess I shouldn't be calling you a kid anymore," she conceded. "How long's it been, Vanil?"
"Long enough."
~V
"Am I that old?" the Oracle asked. "I'd better have a look at you." She leaned back in her seat. She eyed Vanil from his black hair to his glossy boots. "My goodness, look at you. You'd like to think you've changed so much." The Oracle took another puff of her cigarette. "Why it seems just like yesterday you were in here." Now she grinned. "A handsome young man with his head in the clouds and his heart set on dreams just a size too big..."
"Don't," Vanil warned.
The Oracle laughed and smoked some more. Vanil was surprised. He had done such things. Become others. And yet this old Fortune Teller was as good-natured with him now as she had been so long ago. "So," the Oracle finally asked Vanil, "what can I help you with?"
"I don't know what to do," Vanil answered her. "I've started something and I'm not sure I can finish it."
"Well I can't help you with what you don't know," the Oracle said. "But I can tell you what you do know."
Vanil paused. He organized his thoughts. So much had happened. So much, so fast. "I'm dying," he said. "I thought I had found something to stop it. But it didn't work. I don't know why it didn't work."
The Oracle smoked in silence. She regarded Vanil. Then she gestured to a wooden panel hanging above the doorway. Words were carved into it. They were Latin. Vanil found them to be familiar. "This is the second time that's come in handy for the same d*mn thing, you know," the Oracle said. "You know what that says."
Vanil nodded. He knew what the panel said.
"Maybe what you did didn't work," the Oracle said, "because you don't know why it didn't. But I'm getting old and I've been wrong before." She paused before adding: "At least, I hope I have..."
The Oracle's final words were enigma. Vanil did not understand. He said as much. The Oracle sighed. She tapped a bit of ash from her cigarette. "Are you sure you want to hear this?" she asked Vanil. Vanil said he did. "You've started something, Vanil. For better or for worse. You're going to have to make a choice."
"What choice?"
The Oracle chewed her lip. The cigarette was forgotten betwixt her gnarled fingers. "Very soon now: on one hand you're going to have the lives of many. And in the other you'll have your own. I only hope you'll be able to make that choice. For all our sakes..."
"And if I can't?" Vanil asked. "If I can't make that choice?"
"Then I fear that this tomorrow he gave us," the Oracle warned, "may be snuffed out." She put what was left of her cigarette out.
The both of them were quiet then. Vanil didn't know what to say. What could he say? The Oracle knew it too (of course). It was she who broke the silence: "I'm sorry about this Vanil, I really am. It is a doozie, no doubt about it. But you chose this path long ago."
Vanil was silent for a time. "Am I going to die?" he finally asked.
The Oracle shook her head. She stood up. "I'm sorry; I don't have the answer to that question. But death, Vanil... these things happen. All we can do is try to understand them. And I hope that, sometime soon, you will." The Oracle smiled. "Aaah, don't look so down Vanil. Here, let me give you a hug." And she did before Vanil could refuse. It was not a strong thing but it was something. More than Vanil had thought it would be. Comforting somehow. Understanding. "I believe in you as I believe in all things," the Oracle said.
And then the old woman let Vanil go. "Good luck, Vanil," the Oracle said. She sat back down.
Vanil turned to leave but she stopped him: "You do remind me of him," the Oracle said. She pointed at Vanil with another cigarette. "That daughter of yours was right about that."
Vanil looked back at the Oracle for the last time. "About what?"
The Oracle grinned. It was almost matronly. "Not too smart though."
Vanil left the kitchen. His black duster trailed behind him.
~V
The Neverwhere Construct clung to the underside of the Matrix like a parasite, a cancer, a scabrous wart. A blight in the code. And yet Neverwhere was tied to the Matrix. It could not be expunged without cataclysm. And so it had been cordoned off, closely scrutinized.
Vanil was now considered threat number one. The most dangerous Exile in existence. All that the vampire touched seemed to wither and die. The Frenchman could be controlled, accounted for. But Vanil had become something else entirely. Vanil was unpredictable. And now it seemed the Frenchman was no longer able to keep Vanil in check as the System kept the Frenchman in check.
For the sake of the Matrix, Vanil had to die.
Neverwhere was also unpredictable. But, like its creator's destruction, destroying Neverwhere was also proving difficult. The malignant Construct would have to be understood before it could be purged.
Agent Gray strode through Neverwhere and tried to understand it. His footsteps echoed in all directions. It was a hollow noise. Devoid. Gray was filled with purpose, with the directorates of 01. And yet the sentient program felt emptier than he ever had. There was a monumental shadow here. A cloistering darkness. Gray had trouble walking the closer he drew to Vanil's Neverthrone. As if the blackness stuck to Gray's shoes like gum, threatening to drag him under to...
Why was he here?
Gray found that he did not know. Gray knew he had come to find something. Was that not sufficient? No, it was not. It was not sufficient at all. Gray heard whispers. The Agent looked one way and then the other. Nothing. Gray was alone in Neverwhere. All alone but for his own shadow. The ceiling vaulted out of sight high above. Could Vanil have written this Construct alone? Perhaps Vanil had created Vanil's Neverwhere. But Gray could not add all of the variables. Gray felt frustrated. Perhaps Neverwhere had existed before Vanil. Perhaps the Exile had simply written over it. A thin coating of slimy paint, still damp, over some horrific, long-forgotten wet wall...
Agent Gray's mind wandered. His mind rarely wandered. It had done so before. But not like this.
Vanil had awakened something in this Neverwhere. And now Neverwhere was awakening something in Gray.
Those whispers again. This time Gray did not look. The Agent saw Iovai's corpse at the base of the Neverthrone. It was caked with dried blood. The human's fluids had run down the steps beneath the throne; lines of dull red marring the mirror-like obsidian. It was up these steps that Gray climbed. Though he could calculate time with nanosecond accuracy Gray felt like it took him a lifetime to reach the throne. Gray looked at the empty Neverthrone. He thought of Vanil, who was grinning, lounging in it. Gray scowled. The Agent found that he hated that fanged smile.
Suddenly Gray felt tempted. He wanted to sit in the throne. What had Vanil done that gave him the privilege? What had the Exile earned that granted him the right? Gray was alone in Neverwhere. Alone but for his shadow. The Agent had removed his customary earpiece. The device was useless in this Construct. Someone might care, but no one would know...
Gray then felt surprise. Gray rarely felt surprised. The Agent shook his head and looked down at Iovai. The Machinist had failed. But in death the human would serve his purpose still. Gray bent down. He wrapped his hand around what he had come here for. Agent Gray yanked the wooden stake from the cold corpse. Gray turned it over in his hands. The kill-code was still potent. Potent enough to wipe the renegade Vanil from existence.
Agent Gray stood up. He held the precious weapon Iovai had failed to use. And Agent Gray's lips curved into a cruel smile that was not his own.
~V
The Oracle's words were still fresh in Vanil's mind. She had been right. Of course. The Oracle was always right. She was always right because she never told anyone anything they did not already know. Vanil had to understand what he knew. Before it was too late...
A pain lanced through Vanil's side. His wrist betrayed him. It twitched spastically. Vanil grit his fangs and forced his legs to not give way. It was accelerating even more quickly. He couldn't have long now. Was this to be his fate? To have his immortal life stolen from him on fate's whim?
No. Not yet. It would not end like that. Not before Vanil had finished what he had to finish.
Another program was waiting for Vanil outside the kitchen. Vanil knew this one as well. "Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked Vanil.
"I found the Oracle," Vanil said, "if that's what you mean. I expected to find you here too, Seraph."
"Of course you did," Seraph said. His expression was stoic, unreadable. "Did you think you would be allowed with her without me?" Seraph shook his head. "We know too well who you have followed."
Vanil scoffed. "Ironic you should say that, Seraph. You who served the Merovingian before. You are the Judas. Not I."
"Not yet," Seraph said, "maybe." The guardian of the Oracle eyed Vanil. It was a careful stare. A surgery of vision. "But you are different from before. I tell you this, Vanil: his power comes from within you. Not from him."
Vanil raised an eyebrow. "Why tell me this?"
"You succeed me," said Seraph. "You are to him as I was to him. And now the Oracle has told you that you must do what I have done. He can be defeated," the program went on, "but to defeat him you must defeat yourself."
Vanil was silent for a time. He finally said: "Your wings were taken."
Seraph smiled. "Those without wings," he said to Vanil, "may still fly." Seraph beckoned Vanil to follow. "Come. There is not much time. The ones who came with you are waiting."
Vanil nodded and walked away from Seraph. It would be the last time those two Exiles saw one another. Jico and Aoide were indeed waiting for him. Vanil felt the eyes of the Potentials following him. "I've found all there is to find here," he told Jico and Aoide. "I know what I have to do. I give you both the opportunity to leave while you still can."
Jico shook her head. "You may know what you have to do," she said, "but we know what needs to be done."
"Where are we going?" Aoide asked.
"Hel," Vanil answered. The vampire pulled his duster tight around him as the three of them left the Oracle's domicile behind them. "We are going to kill the Merovingian."
---
Outpost Styx hung in the Real like a steel spider's web. The Draconigena's running lights winked in the dark as the massive vessel broadcast her Captain's message to the rest of the Merovingian fleet. The Great Wyrm made note from his command throne of how few ships they had left now. Their numbers had dwindled over the years. But the Great Wyrm knew that did not matter. They were few but they would be enough. The Great Wyrm had seen it.
And now all of those ships saw the Great Wyrm. His glowing visage filled their command decks and cockpits by holographics. His hair was dirty and knotted. His right eye was a piercing blue while his left that all-too familiar bone-white. "Most of you know me," the Great Wyrm began, "and those of you who do not still no doubt know of me. I am he who has been with you since the beginning. I am he who has, like a phoenix, been destroyed and reborn within the fires of the surface world. I am the Great Wyrm."
The Great Wyrm stared down his nose at the Captains and their Crews as they watched and listened. The speaker's mismatched eyes often incited unease. Now they radiated power. "As you also no doubt know," the Great Wyrm continued, "I never make transmissions frivolously. What I am about to say will change the course of the entire fleet. The entire organization." Those eyes narrowed. "I have seen it."
"Several years ago we spoke as we do now. I told you then why we are who we are. I told you why the Merovingian organization was the key to resisting and ultimately defeating the Machines. For more than six Cycles the Merovingian has endured and we, together, have shaped this seventh Cycle. Together we as Merovingians ourselves have carved and defined a dynasty that I have foreseen will survive another six Cycles and shall resound throughout six-hundred more. Such is our will to power and our testament to destiny." The Great Wyrm almost smiled. "We have done great things, you and I."
The Great Wyrm glowered again. "But those great things will amount to nothing lest you heed my words today. For what I tell you now may very well be a hundred, perhaps a THOUSAND times more important than that first Manifesto of mine."
"Within that Manifesto I warned you of the danger of glutton. The very Real threat of complacency. It is this same danger, this same threat, that each and every one of us now faces. That the entire human RACE faces." The Great Wyrm paused. "I am here speaking to you because, at this moment, the Machines are preparing to destroy Zion in its entirety. Every vessel grounded. Every domicile smashed. Every. Free mind. Enslaved."
The Great Wyrm let his heavy words sink in. "Some of you may say that this is not a concern. That Zion should be destroyed. To you I say: that you are not Merovingians!" the Captain of the Draconigena spat. "You are lower than the lowest of living things! You are worthless creatures undeserving of the free minds you possess!" The Great Wyrm sat up in his pitted steel throne. "Five years ago, when I delivered to you that Manifesto of mine, I spoke of the idiocies of Zion. I showed you how damningly and irrevocably foolish Morpheus' private war against the Matrix was. I showed you and I spoke to you and you listened to me."
"So: listen to me now, Captains of the Merovingian. Zion may be misguided. But Zion is the beginning and Zion is the end. I asked you to join the Merovingian and I not because we resented the future but rather because we hoped for the future. I tell you: I, the Great Wyrm, have SEEN what the future could be. Everything I have done... the blood I have spilled, the lives I have destroyed, the atrocities I have been witness to, EVERYTHING... has been done so that the future I have seen may, one day, be realized."
The Great Wyrm nodded then. It was a slow thing. He knew what they aboard all of the other ships were thinking. What they were beginning to understand. "The Machines will leave nothing in their wake. Without Zion that future will never, ever come to pass. That is why I once asked you to join the Merovingian and I."
"And that is why I am now asking you, my fellow Captains, to return with me to Zion and to do what must be done."
~V