Strigoi Soul(Original Urban Fantasy)

[Strigoi Grey]

Lore: Werewolf packs

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AN: Hoping to post something more substantial soon.

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Therianthropes are blessed or cursed, depending on the were asked, with the instincts of their natural counterparts. But while animals lack a foreign mind in their heads, urging them to act in ways that go against their beings, weres are always close to their beasts. The level of self-control possible varies, with some weres being in beast or hybrid form most of the time, needing immense effort to become human, while others are the opposite, having to cajole their beasts in order to adopt their form, or only being capable of doing so when in danger.

It is for this reason that people who purchase therianthropy, either by letting themselves be marked by a were or, more commonly, buying were fluids or tissue to inject or graft into themselves, prefer animals with placid natures, like sheep or turtles. Not all weres, however, are lucky enough to get to choose their beasts. Indeed, being bitten, scratched or stung by a were who has gone so feral they are stuck as a beast is one of the most common causes of therianthropy.

In the case of werewolves, they are driven to form packs. Both humans and wolves are social creatures, and while humans are able to bear solitude, lone wolves, and werewolves, usually have a need to belong. In nature, wolf packs consist of a mated couple, the leaders, and their offspring, the older wolves who have not left the pack yet and the younger cubs. Mirroring this, werewolves are driven to mark their spouses and children in order to "form a pack".

Research to ensure the birth of were infants has proven unsuccessful since the Shattering, with the closest thing being the performing of surgery to allow a were to mark the fetus. This is not desirable, however, as a baby born with were instincts is going to have a harder time developing normally, not to mention full moons during the pregnancy could result in the fetus attempting to change in the womb, which, aside from being harmful to them, regeneration notwithstanding, could also result in the death of the mother, if she is human.

There exists another type of pack, made up of werewolves who are not related. When placed in captivity, unrelated wolves struggle among themselves to form a hierarchy, which is what led to the birth of the alpha wolf myth. Like imprisoned humans, those wolves feel trapped and act in ways they might not, in their natural environment. Such werewolf packs are similar, as they are bound by circumstance or choice, not blood. These packs tend to be more aggressive than werewolf families, with the members clashing more often.

Due to its persistence, enough noospheric power has gathered around the alpha wolf myth for it to become reality. Alpha wolves, as the leaders of these packs are referred to, sometimes to their chagrin, possess powers beyond those of standard werewolves. They are lion-sized in wolf form and stand head and shoulders above other werewolves in hybrid form, just as werewolves tower over humans. Alphas tap into the power of their packs, which allows them to become several or dozen of times stronger, faster and more durable than a normal werewolf - every pack member's prowess is for the alpha to tap into. This drives some alphas to recruit aggressively, in order to bolster their personal power, and las led to the rise of many werewolf warlords.

Alpha werewolves possess enhanced powers of regeneration, being able to heal gunshot wounds from silver bullets, provided the bullet does not remain in a vital area for long. If it passes through, it will leave scars. Impalement from silver blades or spears can also be regenerated from, as can blunt force trauma from silver bludgeons, unless the alpha's head is crushed in one hit, for example.

An ability shared by all werewolf packs is that of coordination. Not just in the mundane sense - werewolves are able to share senses, with every packmate seeing and hearing what every other packmate does and instinctively knowing how best to assist their fellow weres, which their bodies automatically move to follow. This makes werewolves desirable recruits for militaries and law enforcement agencies.

[Strigoi Grey]

Apocrypha: Omake: Own a spear for home defence

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AN: I'll try to write the next substantial chapter soon. In the meantime, I've added an einheri twist to a meme I like. There are many SS versions of this I could write, and maybe I will.

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>I own a spear for home defence, since that's what the Aesir intend!

>Four brigands break into my home.

>"What in Hel?" As I grab my helmet and runed polearm.

>Stab a fist-sized hole through the first man, he's dead where he stood.

>Fling my axe at the second man, miss him entirely because it's not for throwing and hit the neighbour's war hound.

>I have to resort to the ballista mounted at the back of the longhouse.

>"Valhalla awaits!" The bolts shred two of the men, their dying screams startling the cattle.

>Heft my halberd and charge the last raving marauder. He bleeds out, waiting for the Valkyries to arrive, since enchanted blade wounds are impossible to bind closed.

>Just as the Aesir intend.

[Strigoi Grey]

Apocrypha: Family Matters: Peretz

* * *
Caleb knows the explanation - the excuse, as he calls it. He's heard the story so many times, like it's something from Tanakh. It might as well be, he reflects. It could be: one of those ridiculous episodes, immortalised so they might be held up as examples of how ridiculous man could be, at times.

He knows the story, word by word; at this point, remembrance of the telling and retelling might as well be a substitute for actual memories. It is about as accurate, anyway.

He pictures a room, small and dingy, though well-lit (at this point, his father always points out that said room is not often lit like that, the miser, because they lack the means. Caleb shakes his head every time. His father might not be aiming to live up to the stereotype of the stingy Jew, but he manages)...

A couple, not too young, nor too old, though weathered. His hair and eyes are brown, hers dark and blue. The mother is tired and flushed, the father on edge.

Akiva is now expectant in an altogether different way, and there is any number of things he is waiting for. His boy, eyes screwed shut and skin hot to the touch, is mewling quietly. He is not sure that is a good sign. In his experience, newborns are loud or quiet, and those in-between sometimes sickly or otherwise weak. He does not want to lose his son so fast, not after his hope has been rekindled. The leg wound that saw him sent back home from the Great War has him using a cane, even leaning on it when not walking, sometimes, but he is alive. He expected to die, blasted apart by a shell or rotting from the inside because of poisonous gas.

Those are the real killers, not the bullets. Even when they don't touch you, they leave you dead inside. Even now, the sound of a slammed door has him crouching. But such is the soldier's lot. Maybe, one day, they'll stop looking upon his kind with such venom...but he is not holding his breath. This would not be the first war Jews have died in for those who shy away from them at best. Just the biggest.

Akiva looks up from his cane's head, a carved steel eagle, to glare at the doctor. He's been fussing for a good while, a while - though Akiva is no expert in such matters, he feels it is his duty as a father to ask - than might be safe for his son. The boy is hardly moving, and that scares him as much as any moment in the trenches ever has.

He watches the doctor pick up and put down some tool or other, producing a dull sound as it hits the metallic tray, before his hands move to the others. Akiva is fairly sure he's already checked them all. Clearing his throat, the former soldier says, 'Herr doktor, if you don't mind, can't you come here?'

The doctor turns with a guilty look, and, after making his way over and checking the boy's heartbeat, admits he does not believe the lad is long for this world. He repeats the sentiment eight days later, when Akiva and Dalit expect their son to be circumcised. But the doctor hems and haws once more, finally saying that he believes this would put the boy's life at too much risk.

They don't call upon the doctor's services after this, but they quietly agree that no, their boy does not seem too healthy. He only cries when he wants to be fed and changed, after all, and barely reacts otherwise, but for some wheezing gasps.

Caleb did not die, as expected, though he was always more susceptible to cold than the other children, and his scrapes and bruises took longer to heal. He is still, however, the only uncut boy of his faith he knows, and every reminder - usually coming in the form of uninspired taunts about how he must be a Christian in disguise or denial - makes his face turn red. In anger more than shame, admittedly; anger at his parents, who didn't go through when they should have, and at that indecisive idiot, damn his pessimism.

Despite his weakness, despite his bones taking longer to heal than those of his friends, he has broken his fists on the faces of most of his rivals. But at least their faces broke as well, and they quieted down some.

'Bastards,' Caleb mutters heatedly to himself as he makes his way back home, hands in his coat pockets. The cold is biting, and his temper makes things worse, heating up his skin and leaving him puffing like a bellows. His hat only comes to the middle of his ears (a hand down from his father, who must've had the ears of a mouse, he swears) and he no longer has his scarf. He didn't manage to throttle that goddamn bigot, though not for lack of effort. Ratty thing just fell apart halfway through, but at least he put the dog on the run.

Still, he can't help but marvel at the sheer audacity of the hooligan. Not the trick itself - slipping something of yours into the pocket of someone you passed was an old way to pick a fight -, but the fact it was done to him, because of what he is, and in broad daylight at that.

Caleb hunches his shoulders, pulling his hat as far down as it will go. He doesn't like this Hitler fellow everyone's been talking about for years, not least of all because people like the boy he thrashed love him.

Despite his mood, Caleb smiles as he sees the front of the shop their home is built above come into view. For all he can be a pain in the neck sometimes, his dad is interesting. He has all these books about faiths and cults and sects from all over the globe, and Caleb has heard him and his mom talking about branching into philosophy too. His favourites are these "comparative religion" books, which put different beliefs side by side, and...

Caleb watches, frozen, as shards fall from where a blur smashed through the glass front. For an absurd moment, he thinks it must be so cold the glass is cracking, then realises two things.

The first is that, even if it was so cold, the glass wouldn't explode like that.

The second is that, even here, even now, he is refusing to accept the wickedness of the people he knows despise him and all those like him.

And they do not deserve that.

As Caleb turns, a stunned look on his face, he also realises he is in danger, as are his parents.

Then the second brick hits him.

He manages to lift his arms in front of his face, but his wrists break as he deflects the brick, and he stumbles, crying out at the pain. Falling onto his rear, he has no time to see the brick come down on his head, almost lazily. Though his hat spares him the worst, he is still dazed, and can feel blood spread across his scalp, warm and sticky, making his hat cling to his hair.

Lifting bleary eyes, Caleb manages to make out a gaggle of youths make their way towards him (the shop?) with purposeful strides. At first, he thinks they're some of the bigger bad kids, but as his vision steadies and they become less blurry, he makes out their uniforms.

Staggering to his feet right when his father arrives to drag him to safety - but where in the world is that? -, he decides that he bloody hates this Hitler man and his Youth. The oaf he got into a scrap earlier is leading the pack, bringing a sneer to Caleb's face that turns his youthful features ugly.

'There! He has my watch!' the idiot exclaims, pointing at him even as his father drags him away. Caleb's hands reflexively fly to his pockets, and he groans. Son of a...he does have his watch, true enough. Kept it after teaching him a lesson, deciding he was entitled to some compensation.

When he and his parents are huddling in some quiet street corner, praying the shadows will hide them, Caleb, teeth chattering, digs out the damned thing out of his coat. 'D-Dad, I...' he stutters, tears leaving streaks through the grime on hiss face. Swallowing, he continues, 'He...he didn't lie.'

Akiva manages a ragged laugh, even as Dalit reaches for her son's shoulder with a calming smile, and Caleb decides his dad is a million times the man Hitler will ever be, for who else could laugh at times like this? 'Don't be fooled, son,' he whispers, eyes peeled for anyone passing close by their hideout. 'People like them, they don't need reasons to do what they do.'

* * *

The next uniformed group that comes to the Peretz house is made up of men, not thuggish brats. These are thuggish sorts too, though they seem more refined at first.

When they talk about how people like him and his parents have been pushed to the edge enough, many scraping by, ill and starving, he foolishly, foolishly wants to believe they are taking them somewhere, if not better, then safer. Some time has passed since that awful November night, but, though Caleb feels older than he is, he is still a child. And children, he thinks, should not hope to be imprisoned forever, which is what he believes these men have come to do.

Maybe, if they're all locked up somewhere deep in the country, people will no longer come by to ravage their homes.

This hope does not last long, for all it is said that such things die last. After they take him away for all he has known and tear his father from his books and his mother from her clothes, they bring them to a train, sleek and fit to burst. Caleb fancies he can hear it creaking on the tracks, so full of Jews he makes a joke that it must be driven by Moses.

His parents don't laugh.

Caleb falls quiet after that, unsettled by his own joke. How long did his people wander, last time they left a place in such numbers? Too long, too long...and though there are no deserts in Germany, it feels no less a wasteland.

* * *

There is a part of his youth Tamar Thousandhands, as he will style himself over the decades to come, chooses not to think of much. Not because he does not wish to remember what he went through - the work, the hungry, thirsty labour that felt even lowlier than slavery, that saw his parents reduced to thin walking corpses before they were taken away from the last time -, but because, whenever he thinks of it, he cannot help but reminisce of everyone who did not survive where he, ill weakling that he was, managed to.

When he does remember, it is because he craves anger. Seeks the certainty, the power, wrath and spite and hatred bring. Tamar knows better than most how such feelings can be whipped into a frenzy, for it made him suffer, but he is no bigot. Not like his old tormentors. He has no tolerance for intolerance. When you treat others as though they are less than people, you stop being a person yourself, as far as he is concerned.

But those days are far away yet, and Caleb cannot yet dream of the man he will become.

It is here that he meets Sarah, a scowling, rawboned girl who can mould dirt like clay and stack uneven rocks like playing cubes. They smile when they can get together, and she teaches him to skip stones across the narrow, thin puddles the rain leaves behind sometimes. Tamar, thick-skulled as he is, teaches her how to headbutt properly, then - so she doesn't embarrass herself laughing with a nosebleed- how to set her nose.

'How come a stork likes you knows how to headbutt?' she teases him one day.

'How come a goat like you doesn't?' he retorts, almost glad that he's gotten to sallow for his blushes to show. But he's still proud, and doesn't like to let anyone see they've got him flustered. Even the girl he likes.

One day, Amos, a boy Caleb has locked horns with more often than he'd like to (he's too tired, dammit. Isn't Amos? But the horse-faced son of a bitch is like a spinning top, almost), sits down with them during one of their rare breaks. It's shortly after a pitiful meal, just enough to keep them alive, so they can keep making weapons.

'Did you hear?' Sarah mutters, sitting cross-legged like the Indians from one of Akiva's books. At least, Caleb thinks glumly, his dad didn't burn with them. 'Heard said we're getting new guards. These ones like to beat 'em Itzigs don't call each other by their numbers.' She flexes her arm, displaying hers, alongside a small amount of muscle.

Caleb is too dog-tired to remark upon her throwing that bloody word around. It's not like she thinks less of her fellows, or like the jerries are going to stop.

Amos preens, puffing his chest out as he does when trying to appear brave. It has earned him more than one kick to the ribs. 'My name's too good to be forgotten,' he sputters, hair still curly despite the grime they live in, though no longer glossy. 'I'll show 'em what's what.'

Sarah waves him off. 'What'll you show, hmm? Your behind?'

'They can kiss it!' he replies, nodding as he decides that sound good. 'I'll show 'em, just you watch.'

Caleb isn't sure where the hell Amos gets his hands on the scissors, just as he doesn't know whether he should hate him or love him for putting a couple of the few kids younger than them out of their misery. Least he's quick enough to put them through his own throat before the guards get their hands on him.

According to Sarah, the girls Amos ended (not that they were brimming with life, Caleb reflects grimly) were taken away because, more than being Christ-killers, "Like the rest of you goddamned Yids", they liked each other. 'You know, like your folks did,' she added, seeing his bemused face.

He doesn't "know", not really, but he figures they weren't hurting anyone, any more than the rest of them were.

'Maybe some boys got jealous,' Sarah jokes weakly, her humour gone as bleak as anything in their living nightmare, 'that they weren't getting any kisses, and went and told their daddies. Then poof, they were put on a train, eh?'

Caleb gulps, looking around and feeling like an idiot as a result. There's little light to see by after curfew, and even with everyone packed together like sardines (like corpses in a mass grave, Amos used to say), he can't make out anyone's features. He doubts they can see him, either. So, he thinks when he turns back to Sarah, he's just scared of her, and that's dumb.

Running a hand through his short hair, he moves closer to her. 'How about we make someone jealous ourselves?' he asks, voice husky more out of thirst than anything. Sarah's hands move to her mouth, and for a moment, he fears he's crossed some line. Then he realises she's trying to contain her giggles.

They don't make anyone jealous, that night.

But he makes his Sarah laugh, and, Caleb thinks, this matters, in its own way.

* * *

The end of the War feels like something out of a dream, even if it only really ends because new monsters, many not man-shaped, have started crawling out of humanity's nightmares. Caleb is almost a man by now, old if not fit enough to fight, and he has faith. Not in the false messiah so many of the Allies exalt - he loves Jesus as he can only love a teacher of such wise thinking, but the Nazarene was a man, and God is God -, but faith in the Lord.

He does not become a soldier, though he figures he could, given some time. He has faith, and all the lore he can get his hands on, he devours. The teachings of the Kabbalists and their ilk are as mystifying as they are enlightening, but Caleb seeks knowledge of another kind.

Sarah is present when he turns himself into what he must become - how could she be otherwise? She does not hold his hand or lay her hand upon his brow when he shrieks his lungs bloody, for such would be dangerous, and he would never forgive himself if he so much as scratched her, but she is at his side, never out of sight, and that helps.

Two of her hulking golems flank her, like the world's biggest watchdogs, and their solidity is something Caleb craves as the world melts before his eyes, and he falls, for eternity and a heartbeat, into the Hell that many dread.

He is approached, for that is the wont of the fiends, and tempted, for that is their pleasure. But the pleasure of demons are as hollow as they are endless, and Caleb is no longer inclined to indulge those stronger, crueller than him, merely for respite. He turns them all aside. They offer him wealth and joy beyond anything he has dreamed of, the corpses of everyone he has hated, everything and everyone he has ever held dear.

He is even confronted by the one God has designated to test the souls of mortals, and draw out the darkness inside. He is wearing armour of tarnished ivory, thorned vines encircling his limbs and chest, and the young man knows they were grown from the crown laid upon the head of he who walked the world almost like the Lord; who, in doing so, was misunderstood by man.

In his hand, he clutches a sword, bejewelled and polished to a mirror sheen. He raises his bow as Caleb walks toward him, an arrow aimed at the youth's eye, and urges him to halt. Has he no pride? How can he plan to content himself with casting down his broken foes and their works, instead of reigning over a kingdom wrought from their agony forever? Has he no anger left?

But he walks on, and the First of the Fallen shoulders his rifle with an amused huff, his weapon as changing as his mood. This one will prove interesting, he thinks.

'Say, my boy,' he calls out, as Caleb begins scrabbling at the bedrock of his prison-demesne, nails already cracked and bloody. 'I see your conviction, tempered by false modesty as it is. Seek my son, the son who bears my sceptre; you might learn much about being kings in waiting from each other.'

Caleb does not pay the tempter much thought, busy as he is pulling up the creatures that dwelled below Hell before it was given shape and purpose. Later...he and the cambion who goes by Louis Cypher with much humour do succeed in meeting, sometimes, but, alas, it is mostly for work. The Hellfire Club's president is as skilled in binding and unbinding his uncles and aunts as he is at helping those they held to recover so they might reenter society, or at preparing those seeking to bear them within themselves. Tamar often seeks his counsel.

When they can meet to just talk, Louis, always busy chasing his beaus and belles, comically bemoans the air of responsibility Tamar, family man that he is, brings into his establishments. Whenever Louis hears of the newest member of the Peretz family (which, Tamar thinks with some amusement, is during almost all of their infrequent meetings), he throws his hands up, sighing.

'You keep making all these little ones, my friend,' Louis says one day, alternately pulling at his beard and ponytail, both silver. 'Do you lot not stop?'

Tamar, who finds it quite funny that one of the most dangerous beings in existence is put off by the mere chance of knocking someone up, says, 'Well, Louie, if you want a family of your own, you only need to stop frequenting backdoors.'

'Cal, you know how I work,' Louis says patiently, eyes not even once betraying the hundred millennia they've seen. 'I can't help but end up inside arseholes.' He takes a sip of his hot chocolate, silently daring Tamar to say anything about his choice of drink. 'And don't call me Louie! Damned cartoon ducks...'

There are years between Caleb's transformation and his first meeting with the Hellflamer, however. Right now, it is all he can do to keep his eyes on Sarah, for as long as they last. They are soon replaced by flames that burn without fuel, flames that scorch most of his skin off, leaving only patches, soon to be covered in the words and shapes of binding.

* * *

Hell Decade is nowadays used to refer to the years between the Shattering and ARC's first anniversary. The first handful were defined by fear and chaos, until the world pulled itself together, though it took the coming of the Martians to make Earth present an united front. And, in fifty-five, the world's foremost paranormal law enforcement agency proved itself, again and again, and grew.

Caleb has more experience than most agents when the recruiters come to him. He has spent most of the last ten years alternating between keeping his monsters leashed and, at Sarah's urging and direction, venturing out to stop what menaces he can in their corner of Germany. The fighting helps him think, for he and his creatures align in purpose.

Caleb listens as they list his duties and rights (interesting order...though men more interested in the latter than the former often end up monstrous), nodding quietly, then lifts his burning eyes. 'Will I get to kill Nazis?'

The woman, with skin as dark as onyx and eyes like liquid light, smiles. She has a calming effect on him, he notices. His monsters have stopped screaming for destruction, though they're still walking up and down in his head. 'Perhaps. Many of them have access to supernatural resources or minions...'

'I'll slaughter them,' Caleb says quietly. 'I'll string them up by their guts and stack their corpses like cordwood. I can hurt them, hurt them until they forget death can take them, because I won't let it.'

She looks saddened, though the man, a flamboyant smoker (her Chinese gigolo? He could be, despite the uniform...), chuckles, taking out his pipe. 'I say, he knows what he wants, Aya.'

She looks up at Caleb, schooling her expression. 'That he does, Ying.'

* * *

Rose Palmer - she went by Rosa, back in the old country, though her last name there bore no resemblance to her current one- is terrified as he hunts her. Caleb only regrets that he can't prolong the end and the dread before it for eternity, for his other duties pull him away.

Her blue, blue eyes are wide and bloodshot as she sees her husband's remains shamble across their bedroom, ripping the bed apart as they go. Caleb is only here in spirit, his body clashing with a self-made god of a warlock half a hemisphere away, but it is enough. The little witch has no cantrips left, no hexes, and nothing to kill herself with. Caleb has made sure there are no blades or ropes around, and he won't let her bite her tongue off or ram her head into a wall.

Her brown, wavy hair is in disarray, her white and blue dress tattered. She looks like the housewife she pretended to be, despite the blood staining her - most of her Connor's. What is left of him has bled for so, so long, but it is not enough. There is a hole in Caleb's heart he fears no amount of bigot blood will ever fill, should he spill an ocean of it.

It was almost a clever plan, in its humility. Scurry off to the States like the she-rat she is, find a weak-willed, strong-bodied fool who shares her ideas, and breed a clutch of little monsters. But he stopped her before she could bring her spawn into the world, fouling it further.

Sadly.

Their marriage was something out of a fairytale: everything got done on time or earlier, there were no inconveniences, no fights, and so much luck, so many promotions...to think, all it took was some children's souls, torn from their flesh well before they could decide what they wanted to be when they grew up.

Caleb admits: he is puppeting the husband's remains because it hurts and scares this little whore of Hitler's. He could possess a wall and crush her, but where's the joy in that? Let her fear. Let her tremble, as she feels a fraction of what she and her horde inflicted upon the world.

'You cut so many destinies short, Rosa,' Caleb breathes through shattered teeth, forcing ruined lungs to work. 'And not just the coloured and the queers and the crippled - even those as pure as you dreamed of, just because they did not think the same...but they were useful, weren't they? Rosa...' he makes the abomination smile. 'I'm so sorry!'

He grabs her by the arms, pulling her shoulders out of her sockets as he lifts her. 'I'm so sorry you don't have children to see you squirm!'

Rosa does not die quickly, or well. But every family she stole from receives a piece of her body, mouthless but mewling the apologies carved into their flesh. It is only after everyone has come to terms with the events that Caleb lets her die.

* * *

Paradoxically, his colleagues have stocked up on complaints right when he's almost done killing the Nazis' old guard. He'd laugh if their yapping wasn't getting on his nerves. And to think it hasn't been too long since he's beaten Strauss bloody, to the delighted cackling of his monster. How could they stoke his temper so quickly?

The Heads' meeting has ended, as far as official matters are concerned, and Tamar is left with his peers stares, concerned but judgemental. Growling low in his throat, he slams his palms on top of his chair's armrests, looking up at Aya, who happens (does she, really?) to sit across him. 'What?'

The mummy exchanges an uncomfortable look with the gryphon, but, despite Gilles' boisterousness, she's the one to speak. 'Cal,' she begins gently, 'I understand it still hurts-'

'Do you?' he asks blandly. 'I didn't see you with the other blacks in chains, Reem. Maybe I'm going senile, or stupid, but I don't see how you understand.'

He sees Leon's chest rise, and points at him. 'Don't you start on with how you witnessed their evil because you fought against them.' He stands up, slamming the table with one fist. 'Your goddamned country looked at you like mine looked at me! You just happened to get to hold a rifle!'

Gilles reels back, blinking, and Tamar glares at everyone else in turn. 'Efrat's kid is leaving for Romania, and I don't intend to sit here and be badgered by you lot instead of saying my goodbyes. I barely know Menachem, much less his wife - because, I must add, I'm busy doing what you're about to condemn me for. You're welcome,' he adds bitingly.

Amara's voice betrays nothing as she responds. 'Tamar, you cannot get into fights with every hateful idiot you meet on the street. Threatening to come into their homes and break them if they do not broaden their horizons will only make them hate everyone different.'

'Oh, look who's found her voice!' He flicks a hand at her. 'What's wrong, Ami? Learned your crush is related to you and dried up? Wagging your tongue won't get it back into her, by the way.'

'That's enough, Caleb,' Ying says, voice gravelly, as he also stands up, eyes glowing through his shades. Next to him, Amara is giving Tamar a betrayed look, eyes glistening. 'You are not the kind of man to lash out at his friends for trying to help, and you...' Ying slumps slightly. 'You cannot force people to think like you. Believe me.'

'Oh, yes.' Tamar laughs darkly. 'I guess you have time to think about everything, after you get exiled for being a murderous pervert.' His eyes move to Gerald and Elga, seated close together. The ghost looks deeply uncomfortable. And, for all his anger, Tamar deflates, sitting back down. 'Please don't be scared of me,' he mutters awkwardly, not looking at the Head of External Affairs despite addressing her. 'I know what you went through, and there are women I hate far more - who never gave up on the poisoned lies you did - who I'd wince to see go through a fraction of that.'

Elga does not say anything, but her smile, though shaky, is genuine. Tamar still chuckles whenever he remembers the latest attempt to assassinate her. To think, they'd actually believed a Head would stand aside and let his colleague be killed because, why, he hates the woman she used to be? Not that Elga needed the help.

It's John who sets him off, and after he's just calmed down, too. Propping a translucent elbow up on the table, the chained man says, 'Have you thought that your family's leaving because they're scared of how damn angry you get, mate?'

Not that the table is expensive - but Tamar still elects to jump over, rather than through it, to get at his peer.

* * *

Despite the endless hunger, despite the tireless voice urging her to rend and slaughter, Rivka Peretz is grateful for her ghoulish body, sometimes. No need to sleep, for one. She already sees her siblings whenever she closes her dead eyes - the nightmares used to be unbearable.

She remembers holding little Omri with one arm, as if he were his namesake, Channah - big enough to walk, though younger than her big sister by several years - clutching her other hand. She remembers running behind the dumpster, dragging her wailing sister along on scraped knees, too tired to carry her, too.

She no longer feels the breath of their pursuers that day on the back of her neck, but only because she no longer feels anything. And even the Iron Guard's remains, as short-lived as they are pitiful wherever they form, can scar a young girl, in body and soul.

She is hungry, so hungry. She puked and cried when they started chasing them, fumbling with their pistols. Where'd they get that, in Romania...? It doesn't matter, now. They fired and missed, and fired and missed, but hit her enough times, hit all three of them. Why's she the only one screaming?

Her stomach feels full and burning, and looking down, Rivka can see smoking, ragged tears in her flesh. So why is she so hungry...?

Her eyes linger on the stylised menorah on her hoodie, and she wishes for the breath to curse herself. Would they have known, otherwise? The munchkins did not look like the people those bastards had made themselves hate.

Rivka's twitching eye catch a glimpse of her murderers - for she's dying, she's sure - running away, their handguns tucked back into waistbands or down shirts.

Surely it can't end like this?

She remembers the stories, passed down to her dad from his grandpa, and thinks she might have one chance to set things right. Her grin is skeletal and bloodied, more grimace than smile. She can barely feel her face enough to tell.

'Just...a lil'...' she mumbles, reaching towards the crumpled form of her baby brother, pulling him closer until she can put her mouth to his tummy, like she does when she's blowing raspberries. At the same time she bites down, she scratches a strip of skin off her little sister's arm.

She needs more flesh, she's sure, and she can't bear to hurt just one of them that that much. Better...this way.

During her first meal after undeath - raw and screaming -, Rivka Peretz wonders why God didn't claim her before she died, instead of letting her rise again as a corpse-woman. Later, when she can think straight, think enough to weep over two small, unmoving bodies, she also wonders if her feeding killed them, rather than the gunshot wounds.

The thought would have made her retch, as a human, but ghouls do not give up on what they have consumed. And, for all her family reassurances that she's not to blame, that she's just a scared kid who sought a way to strike back against injustice...for all the years she's spent with ARC, joining them more because their resources should have helped her discover the truth than because she wanted to help people - though that is why she has remained - she does not yet know the truth.

Rivka rubs her eyes, exhaling. She has been unable to get tired in a long, long time, but she swears the letters on the report are starting to blend into each other.

Scowling at the paper, Rivka looks up and, seeing the cross on the hallway wall, wonders why the Lamb, said to love all no matter their beliefs or realm of origin, did nothing that day. Maybe her great gramps is right, and he really was only a man. She usually tends to agree with Tamar anyway, but hearing about his kindness from so many of her agents and acquaintances has her curious, she supposed.

Pushing the report away, she fishes out her phone, dialling one of her best friends. God knows he has enough things on his plate nowadays...but he knows people who just might be able to answer this question, if not tell her if she is a murderess. Half of the postcogs she's asked disagree with the other half. She knows such matters of degree are prone to being interpreted subconsciously, but still... 'Hey, David,' she says when he picks up, crossing her legs. 'Where did you say your dad's hanging out nowadays?'

[Strigoi Grey]

Sidestory: The Zhayvin Files: Trolls

* * *
AN: Hoping to resume posting more substantial chapters soon.

* * *

Classification: mega-humanoid aberrants.

Colloquial names: trolls.

Origin: Earth's trolls appeared several billion years ago, though those who mostly inhabit the Clusters predate the planet and/or universe, depending on the case, by eons.

Description: most trolls, several metres tall and appropriately broad, with muscular physiques (though some can end up corpulent due to their eating habits, this does not actually diminish their physical prowess, and sometimes increases it). They are humanoid, with skin that is several centimetres thick and usually covered in something meant to increase its resilience: scales, knobby protrusions, layers of slime and so on; troll skinn varies in colour and texture in accordance with their environment. It is not unknown for trolls to lose their scales and blue complexion and instead become green and warty when moving from rivers to swamps, for example.

Though most trolls have large fangs, noses (which has drawn several unflattering comparisons between them and the proboscis monkey) and pointed or triangular ears, there are some that simply resemble larger humans without features stereotypised as monstrous (in regards to facial features, mostly; river trolls still possess scales and fins at their joints, mountain trolls still have skin whose texture resembles stone, and so forth).

Behaviour: trolls do not generally behave too differently from humans, an aversion towards the sun aside, although groups of them in certain regions ave displayed a ravenous, greedy attitude and a lack of patience towards anything that does not bring them immediate gratification. Almost all of them, however, display a fascination with places of crossing, usually bridges, though any kind of threshold, including metaphorical ones, might gain a troll's interest. Trolls are driven to oversee passage through such places and make sure no one passes without acting "properly", the definition of which depends on the troll, but usually involves praise or payment being given to them.

In recent decades, the "internet troll" subspecies (for lack of a better term) has appeared, a troll variant that takes great pleasure in tricking and frustrating people.

Threat level: regional. Trolls are capable of pulverising any continent in one strike, shattering tectonic plates and moving and reacting at lightspeed. Trolls are immune to esoteric effects and regenerate from any damage not dealt by attacks containing sunlight or otherwise related to or empowered by the sun.

Tollkeeper trolls, as they are called, are dangerous if localised beings, capable of spontaneously acquiring the appropriate abilities and levels of physical prowess to prevent people from passing without paying their toll, including an immunity to their usual weakness towards sunlight.

Internet trolls, aside from being immune to many physical attacks when manifested in the analog world, are also capable of jumping between non-warded devices, possessing them and reshaping them to suit their whims. This is not limited to computers: any device that enables communication, such as a megaphone, can be hijacked.

Neutralisation: a Warscaled reptilian, aside from possessing more than the necessary physical prowess to incapacitate a troll, can also project sunlight and shape it into weapons. In the case of the digital variants, virus containment and erasure protocols are to be initiated; our firewalls, while appearing literal from an analog perspective, are capable of containing digital entities as well as their manifestations, as they cannot be bypassed by going under or above them.

Tollkeeper trolls, like all beings capable or arbitrarily redefining and increasing their abilities, must often be stalemated until reconciliation is possible. If it does not appear so, quantum entanglement with one of the Collective's datafiles concerning endlessly escalating entities is to be initiated; a tollkeeper troll would be both practical and ironic.

[Strigoi Grey]

Sidestory; Family Matters: Silva (Two)

* * *
AN: Last week, I didn't have the energy to write when I had the time, but I have both now. Similar hiatuses are unlikely to happen again soon.



This is the cobtinuation to the first part of the Family Matters series' Silva storyline. There are going to be at least three parts, but there might be more.



* * *



Mia



I was pleasantly tired when I returned home, thinking that, for once, I might just get to enjoy the drowsiness that was the closest zmei could come to exhaustion.



Should've known better.



I was silently thanking Abyss for helping me get to this point as I walked in and stretched, arms overhead. David's house, which I was starting to think of as ours more and more, had almost replaced my apartment as my usual haunt.



Zmeu country was always nice to return to, but recently, being there just reminded me of what slow progress I was making on my demesne, and the country wasn't the sort of place where you went to skulk.



I was sitting on one of the couches, rubbing my eyes, when I saw the dark shape in the doorway. For an instant, I almost thought it was David, their auras were so similar, but reason quickly caught up with my senses and I noticed the differences.



It was thin, resembling a scarecrow with its sparse form swathed in voluminous black robes. Not gigantic, but its gauntness made it look taller than it was, as if someone had stretched it out and there was only so much left.



I knew some people saw my boyfriend as a Grim Reaper figure, especially when he came to take them to the afterlife or end them - power like that makes your perception buckle - but I still felt silly for confusing them with each other.



DEATH didn't have its scythe in the open when it entered the luving room, but, once I stood up and it came close enough that I could glimpse it on its back, it suddenly seemed much more visible, as if it had grown, or like someone had polished its ivory-coloured blade to a mirror sheen.



LADY IN FLAMES.



I nodded in greeting. Names were names, and being acknowledged only deserved so much in return.



I was probably being bitchy, but it had entered my house without asking, and we weren't friends at the best of times.



'Are you looking for David?' I asked instead of saying hello. A ridiculous question, sure; if it was and hadn't found him, my much duller senes wouldn't help. But we had little to talk about otherwise.



It shook its head, a skull covered in pale flesh as thin as paper, one skeletal hand resting on the handle of the scythe slung across its back. I wondered if it was a reassuring gesture, like me drawing upon my inner fire or sharpening my claws.



I KNOW WHERE MY KEEPER IS, it replied. IF I HAD SOMETHING TO SAY TO HIM, I WOULD GO TO HIM.



Nice to know the arm candy wasn't even important enough to pass messages along. Not like we were practically engaged or anything. Better to go tiptoe around someone who half hated you than ask his girlfriend to help, not like she mattered...



I caught myself at the ridiculous thought, blinking. Where the hell had that come from? I had no excuse to be in such a mood, unexpected visit or not. Abyss was a great lover and a better teacher, and David was always one metaphorical phone call away if I wanted to talk or hang out, whether we were together or not.



DEATH must've caught my surface thoughts, or at least the accompanying emotions, because it winced apologetically, the way David sometimes did (had they really started rubbing off on each other already?), and reached out to grab my shoulder, before hesitating.



I nodded, perfunctorily because I was balkibg at my absurd outburst, and its posture relaxed. Its hand was cool as it rested on my scales, light and smooth.



IT IS NOT THAT, it said, shaking its head. I AM HERE TO SPEAK TO YOU, BUT IF YOU FEEL NEGLECTED, PERHAPS I CAN HELP ASSUAGE YOUR DOUBTS ON THAT FRONT.



I smiled awkwardly, sitting back down and gesturing next to me. 'Sorry. Just being stupid. It'll pass.' I glanced at its empty eye sockets as it sat down, then, voice mildly reproachful, said, 'You coulda knocked, ya know.'



AFTER YOU DID NOT RESPOND, it replied, I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE BETTER TO ANNOUNCE MY PRESENCE IN A MORE OBVIOUS WAY.



'Oh.' I blushed in embarrassment, cheeks glowing, and cleared my throat. It wasn't just not paying attention to my surroundings. Had I just ignored a vistor? Geez... 'Have you, ah, been waiting outside for long.'



DO NOT FRET. It held up a hand. IT IS OF NO CONSEQUENCE. I SENT A THOUGHT YOUR WAY, BUT YOU SEEMED LOST IN YOUR OWN MIND. It looked around. I TRUST I AM NOT INTRUDING.



I held up my hands. 'Let's just admit this was awkward and move on, ok?' I asked with a self-deprecating but hopeful smile, and was relieved when DEATH nodded. 'Thank you. You were saying you'd come to talk.'



INDEED. It stood up, looking thoughtfully at its chosen shape. BUT I KNOW THIS FORM UNSETTLES YOU, FOR IT BRINGS TO MIND CERTAIN RECENT EVENTS. PERHAPS THIS WOULD BE BETTER?



As soon as it said the last word, its avatar changed, becoming a creature I hadn't seen in a while.



"Hogge" was spotless as far as people went, much less pigs, though I still almost started shooing it out, instinctively. Its hooves barely made a sound as it made its way to sit in front of me, looking up like a dog, tongue lolling out and framed by its tusks. Its yellow eyes gleamed with an intelligence I was still baffled I'd missed.



My smile tightened, and I wondered what the heck I was supposed to say. Sure, Hogge looked cuter than most of its other forms (at least if you didn't know what it was), less dangerous, but this just reminded me of the way it had spent decades around David, watching and waiting, hiding the truth.



Like Andrei. My smile almost faded at that thought.



Yeah, DEATH's transformation probably wasn't gonna be as reassuring as it had hoped.



Sighing, I took its snout in both hands, scratching it under its chin. 'What are you trying to do, you goofball?'



It snorted, seemingly satisfied, showing its teeth in a grin far too human to have a place on its piggish face. MAKE YOU LAUGH? it tried. WHO DOESN'T LAUGH AT TALKING PIGS? OINK.



I chuckled, despite myself. Wouldn't have been surprised to learn some poor saps had underestimated Hogge only to find out what it really was.



And...yes. This was probably the result of David's influence. I couldn't imagine the DEATH my boyfriend had described early on joking like this.



I let go, and Hogge settled on the floor, resting its head on its forelegs. Its ears flopped to mostly cover its eyes, giving it a dopey look that natched the smile.



'Go on, then,' I said. 'What do you wanna talk about?'



Hogge's head twitched and its ears were suddenly pinbed back, reminding me of a human tossing back their hair. Its corny grin had disappeared too. SEVERAL THINGS, it replied, holding up a hoof and stabbing at the air. I took it as the equivalent to holding up fingers. FIRST OF ALL, I MUST THANK YOU, YOUNG ZMEU.



I arched an eyebrow. 'For?' I asked, bemused. Had I ever done something to help it? I couldn't recall.



FOR BEING THE FLAME IN THE BLIZZARD THAT IS MY KEEPER'S LIFE. Its eyes dimmed, until they were only points of shadow, so much darker than its face that they stood out. HE WOULD DISLIKE ADMITTING IT, BUT WITHOUT YOU, HE WOULD SPEND MUCH LESS TIME HELPING THE VIRTUOUS HE GATHERS, AND MUCH MORE TORMENTING THE WICKED.



The Hierophant had told me this, too. But where the Unbeing had been arguing that I should be worshipped like they venerated David, DEATH didn't really have a reason to convince me I was awesome. Not to mention it must've known everything I'd ever talked with the Creed Ascendant's members.



'That's nice to know,' I said neutrally, neglecting to mention I'd heard it before. 'And I'm glad that being with me helps David stay positive, but I'm not sure why that matters to you.'



I was playing dumb. I had heard that DEATH preferred to give people the afterlife they deserved, but I wasn't sure I believed it. Given its stunt with Andrei, it didn't seem to shy away from doing whatever it took to advance its agenda.



IT MATTERS, DEATH said, BECAUSE GOOD COMES TO THE GOID, AND SUFFERING COMES TO THE EVIL. WHEN THEY DO NOT, SOMEONE OUGHT TO MAKE IT SO.



I couldn't tell if it was lying (small wonder. With how powerful it was, it would've been weird if it couldn't evade my senses), but it didn't matter. Whether it really cared or was just putting on a show, David did care, and he was more than able to give everyone their due.



'You're welcome, I guess.'



Hogge smiled at my response, then went on. THANK YOU. FOR THE REST, I WOULD PREFER IF MY KEEPER WAS HERE, TOO. IN THE MEANTIME, WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME ABOUT YOUR NEWEST LOVER?



* * *



Even with David next to me, soothing my temper, I couldn't help but think how patronising that request had felt. Like asking a kid to talk about school until their parents arrived. And, sure, my flings felt pretty damn childish compared to my relationship with David, but still.



Both of them rushed to reassure me when I voiced these thoughts, but DEATH urged David to let it talk, and he let it, giving me a concerned look all the while.



I squeezed his hand, smiling at him to let him know I wasn't seriously mad at anything, and turned to the Idea of Destruction. It had shed its pig form in the meantime, opting for a black silhouette with ragged edges, resembling an ink-black, partly-flayed man, strips of skin hanging from his limbs.



THAT RELATES TO WHAT I WANTED TO TALK ABOUT NEXT, ACTUALLY, DEATH said, being tactful enough not to talk about blessings in disguise. It took the room in. IF I MAY EXPLAIN?



'Go ahead,' David saud, leaning back into the couch with his arms crossed. He was wearing a loose grey shirt and sweatpants of the same colour, with a couple black stripes running up each leg.



I liked seeing him in casual stuff. He looked great in anything, or nothing, don't get me wrong, but he dressed like this when he could relax. When I saw him in suits or that grey armour he'd taken to wearing a while back, it was usually on the way to or from a mission as Keeper or as the Mover's troubleshooter.



That was my boyfriend. Prince of existence, regent of creation, grand adjudicator of all things wrought.



It always made him laugh when I called him any of then in bed, and I laughed along, because he was cute when he was being modest.



Constantin, who had watched the exchange in silence, took his hands off his chair's armrests to clasp them in his lap. Eyes like slashes of white fire regarded DEATH from a face of crimson flame.



It felt great to know he was protective of me, but I didn't want them to start fighting if Costi disagreed with something, and hoped it wouldn't come to that. He'd always been passionate, and having Uriel in his head had only enhanced that. I doubted the Archangel would stop him from taking a swing at death. Hell, he'd probably encourage him.



'I came here,' God's Mouth began, 'to discuss a family visit with my son and his beloved. I hope it would not be much to ask that you keep this brief, so we might begin talking.'



Constantin was also hoping DEATH wouldn't do something to ruin the mood, or, especially, upset me. He wanted David and my meeting with his parents to go as well as possible.



IT WILL ONLY TAKE A MOMENT, DEATH promised, dipping its chin at God's Mouth. Then, to me, it said, LADY IN FLAMES, I MUST CONGRATULATE YOU FOR NOT REPEATING THE MISTAKES OF MY MIRROR-SIBLING.



I stared at it, waiting for it to elaborate. I had a vague idea of LIFE's mistakes, but I wasn't sure how anything I'd done could be compared with them, or why it was thanking me.



ALOW ME TO EXPLAIN. It spread its arms, and above one hand, a small, glowing white figure, the edges of its glow dancing with all colours of the rainbow, appeared. It resembled two ouroborous snakes, intertwined in the rough shape of a DNA helix. A pretty blunt representation of life and its nature, but I supposed it worked.



IN THE BEGINNING, WHEN THE MY SIBLINGS WERE FINDING THEIR ROLES, I STOOD BACK AND WAITED. I REPRESENTED THE END OF, AT THAT POINT, ONLY THE NOTHINGNESS THAT HAD COME BEFORE. AND I HAD NOTHING TO DO.



I knew I was being unfair to those so hurt only fading into oblivion held any appeal for them, but the thought of death not ending anything was oddly inspiring.



EVENTUALLY, OTHER THINKING BEINGS CAME ALONG, AND I TOOK THEM WHEN I HAD TO, FOR THEY HELD NO FAITH. THAT WAS MY PURPOSE, THOUGH ONE THRUST UPON ME, AND I WAS AS CONTENT AS IT COULD BE. It hung its head. MY TWIN WASN'T SO CAREFUL.



The representation of life began to writhe, the snakes twisting and tearing at each other, ripping out chunks of flesh that were healed as soon as they were bitten off. Some of the wounds, however, were covered by strange growths rather than healthy flesh.



LIFE WAS GREATLY ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT CREATION'S DENIZENS. HOW COULD IT NOT? THEY WERE IT, IN SO MANY WAYS. DEATH clenched a fist, and the snakes' struggle stopped, leaving them glaring and hissing at each other. BUT THAT PASSION GREW SICKLY, DESPITE EVERYONE'S ATTEMPTS TO STOP IT.



The dark silhouette held its hands out in fron of itself, stance regretful. IT PUSHED THE FLAWED - AND WHO WAS OTHERWISE? - TO GROW. WHEN ONE WENT AGAINST WHAT IT HAD DEEMED GOOD AND PROPER, IT BROKE THEM, AND FORCED THE SHELLS TO GROW, TOO.



DEATH began pacing angrily. I TOLD IT TO STOP, AGAIN AND AGAIN, SAID THIS WASN'T OUR FATHER'S DESIGN, BUT IT BRUSHED ME OFF EVEN AS I REAPT THOSE SHATTERED BY ITS MADNESS. IN THE END, IT FELL TO ME TO STOP IT. I LED THE CHARGE, AS IT WERE, AND OF LIFE'S CARCASS, I MADE AN ARMOURY FOR THE TOOLS OF DESTRUCTION THAT FELL INTO MY HANDS, FOR THEY ARE KINDRED TO ME.



DEATH was silent for a while, and its voice was tired when it spoke again. THAT WAS NOT THE LAST SIBLING I HAD TO OUT DOWN. FEAR, IN ITS QUEST TO BRING THOSE WHO TERRORISED TO JUSTICE REGARDLESS OF WHO THEY FOLLOWED, DREW THE IRE OF TOO MANY PANTHEONS, AND I HAD TO CHAIN IT, FOR THE GOOD OF EXISTENCE. ITS CHILDREN BEAR ME NO GRUDGE, BUT HOW CAN I BE FORGIVEN UNTIL IT IS FREED BY THE ONE MEANT FOR IT?



It stopped for a while, stewing over the past. I was about to prompt it when it said, KING SUN'S DESCENT WAS NOT BROUGHT ABOUT BY THESE EVENTS, BUT WITNESSING THEM DID LITTLE FOR HIS FAITH IN OUR CREATOR.



'Solarex made his own bed,' David said, a mixture of sadness and disappointment on his features. 'I cannot say I wouldn't have been angered after losing Mia to cosmic chance, but I like to think I wouldn't have become as pettily cruel as him.'



AS YOU SAY, MY KEEPER, DEATH agreed. MIA, WHAT I MEANT WAS THIS: LIFE COULD NOT BEAR TO SEE THOSE WHO HAD SPRUNG FROM ITS LOINS STRUGGLE. IT KNEW IT WOULD BE BETTER FOR THEM TO GROW ON THEIR OWN, IT HURT TO SEE THEM CRUMBLE EVEN AS IT ENJOYED THE PAIN OF THOSE IT PUNISHED, BUT IT NEVER STOPPED.



It moved closer to me, and the air in the room grew colder, while the moonlight streaming through the windows dimmed and the sounds of birds and crickets outside became inaudible even to my hearing. DEATH laid a hand on my arm as it began to talk. IT IS GOOD THAT YOU DO NOT LISTEN TO THE FOOLS WHO DERIDE THE LOVE BETWEEN YOU AND MY KEEPER. LET THEM CRY CHEATING AND CUCKOLDRY; YOU KNOW THE TRUTH, YOU AGREE TO BE TOGETHER, DESPITE EVERYTHING. SUCH DETAILS DO NOT MATTER.



DEATH smiled as it look me in the eyes, its own pinpricks of white light like dwarf stars. I KNOW YOU HAVE FELT THE TEMPTATION TO CUT AWAY YOUR URGES, TO MAKE YOURSELF LESS THAN YOU ARE, FOR THE SAKE OF MY KEEPER'S OEACE OF MIND. IT IS GOOD THAT YOU HAVE NOT - YOU HEARD WHAT CHANGES UNWANTED BY ANYONE CAN LEAD TO.



'I'd never forgive myself if you mutilated yourself like that for me,' David said, meeting my eyes while placing a hand where my knee would've been in human form. 'Don't worry, Mia. It doesn't really matter that much.'



Constantin smiled warmly but guardedly at us . Likely, he wanted to congratulate us, but didn't feel like opening up around DEATH.



I knew the feeling.



INDEED, DOING SO WOULD, MORE THAN LIKELY, LEAVE MY KEEPER DISTRAUGHT ENOUGH TO LOSE HOPE, AND BECOME THE UNCARING WARDEN OF THE AETHER YOUR LOSS WOULD BRING ABOUT.



'Oh, I get it,' I said in mock anger. 'It's not my happiness that matters. It's all about keeping David happy so he does his job properly.' I blew out some fire. 'Well, I'm orange enough to be a carrot anyway.' DEATH would just have to stay thin enoigh to be the stick.



'Baby!' David said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.



I rolled my eyes with a grin, nudging him. 'I'm joking, you dork.' Then, more seriously, 'Protecting existence comes before what some scaly nympho wants.'



David gave me a look I wasn't sure I understood, then said, 'My worse half has something to say on that note.'



'Later?'



'Whenever you want,' he said, his strigoi side's voice melding with his own as they looked at me.



I kissed him briefly, just a chaste brush of the lips, then turned my attention back to DEATH, who looked satisfied at the display of affection.



Peeping tom? Nah, folks. Just making sure one of the three scariest people in all macrocosms keeps his head in the game.



And if I could help with that...well. I'd never thought I'd do much with my life. Now, if only I became powerful enough to be more than dead weight should David need help...



I'd keep working on my domain. I was getting there. I could already separate it from both zmeu country's wilds and the demesnes of other zmeu, even if I couldn't shape it in any meaningful sense. It would take a while until I could tap into it while outside zmeu country, but Abyss had assured me we would get there.



'Was that all?' I asked DEATH, wrapping a hand around David's.



The Idea of Endings scratched its narrow chin. FOR NOW. THAT IS, I HAVEN'T SPOKEN ABOUT THE FUTURE. YOUR CHILDREN...



I looked at David as it trailed off, obviously prompting us to talk, and in his eyes, I saw nothing had changed since our last talk about kids. 'What about 'em?' I asked DEATH.



YOU CANNOT SIMPLY HAVE THEM. SOME FAITHCRAFT, A LITTLE IMBUED DIVINE POWER, SHOULD SUFFICE TO MAKE AN UNDEAD FERTILE AGAIN, BUT IT HAS NEVER BEEN DONE. MORAL OBJECTIONS, DISTRACTIONS, UNLIVES ENDED PREMATURELY...SOMETHING ALEAYS INTERVENES. THIS IS NO COINCIDENCE.



David groaned the way he sometimes did when, while telling me about the Mover, he realised something it had teased him about, which was obvious in hindsight.



Not to say that was the reason for the reaction: simply, the exasperation was similar.



'Nothing's changed, then,' my strigoi grumbled. 'I must still give of myself if I want to become a father.'



GIVE OF YOURSELF, AND ALL THE UNLIVING WILL BECOME ABLE TO SIRE HEIRS ONCE MORE, DEATH confirmed. FOR SUCH ACTIONS ECHO ACROSS CREATION, AND THE RIPPLES THEY CAUSE MIGHT BECOME TIDES. It looked almost mortifird when it looked at me. BUT THAT IS NOT ALL. LADY IN FLAMES, KNOW THAT, IN BEING TAKEN BY MY KEEPER, ONE OF YOUR SCIONS WILL BEAR A TRACE OF MY NATURE, THOUGH THEY MIGHT WELL SURPASS ME IN POWER.



That was...not unexpected. I hadn't given much thought to what our kids might be like, but I knew unions between powerful beings often resulted in children who resembled their parents, and their parents' patrons, in terms of powers.



In fact, I'd been so focused on living in the moment, when I wasn't looking for ways around David's infertility (you'd think someone like him could just shapeshift or warp reality to somve that, but it wasn't that simple. Something to do with unlife being unable to beget life being a fact of creation) that I'd almost forgotten about DEATH's influence. I gave it a steady look. 'Won't love 'em less,' I said, 'marked by you or not.'



And it better keep its grubby mitts off my kids. I didn't give a rat's ass if it took me forever to love them the way human mothers were supposed to from the start. No one was going to hurt them or take them away, cosmological constant or not.



THAT IS GOOD, DEATH said, FOR GREAT DESTRUCTION WILL FOLLOW THEM, AND THEY WILL BREAK WITHOUT MEANING TO, AS CHILDREN DO.



* * *



After a few more congratulations, and promises that it had our backs, DEATH left, or at least altered its avatar until I could no longer perceive it.



I pressed two fingers between my nostrils, having no nose to pinch, then tried to smile as I looked up at God's Mouth. 'You were gonna tell us about your folks, Costi.'



'Right.' Constantin laced his fingers. 'I can only speak about the people I remember, for I have not seen them since they died in my boyhood, but...they were good, Mia. They did not judge. They were openminded, for those days, even if more...' He coughed lightly. 'Ah, rustic, than you are used to.'



'Oh?' I said innocently, enjoying the way he shifted in his seat. I was being a twat, but Constantin was smart enough to know there wasn't anything to be nervous about, teasing be damned.



'Well,' he said, eyes flitting between me and David, who had that thoughtful look he wore when trolling people. 'Well, that is, they were traditional.' He stood up, smoothing down his habit. 'Perhaps it would be better if you explained why you do not curb your instincts. This should prevent any dismissal or misunderstanding that you enjoy sleeping around.' He gave me a sympathetic look. 'I know you hate when people talk like you're an animal, unable to help itself.'



'Thanks,' I said. 'What about everything else.'



'The same should go for revealing you enjoy all kinds of lovers,' Constantin said, deliberately calm, as if he were talking about my preferences in food. 'By which I mean, it would help if you explained it is a conscious choice. Not an urge.' He scratched the back of his head. 'They did not have much contact with zmei, and I know you would dislike being pitied for no reason.'



I gave him a thumb's up, looked at David, and said, in a pompous voice, 'Truly, you have the patience of saints to indulge your whorish woman to this extent, our grandson.' Leaning forward, I asked, in a hushed tone, 'What does she give you, in exchange?'



'I'm sure you will like each other,' Constantin said. 'They were no bigots, my dear. You just have to be understanding.'



More like everyone would have to be. Speaking of understanding... 'When are you going to tell us how you and Rivka got it on?'



Costi, who had briefly turned his head to look out the window, met my gaze. 'Hmm? You haven't talked at work?' He stroked his beard. 'Surprising. That woman never stops talking, even when you think she shouldn't be able to.'



I wiggled my eyebrows, and he smirked, before saying, 'I would rather tell it once. She promised to notify me as soon as her schedule is cleared.'



God's Mouth, due to what his duty entailed, had close ties to both ARC and the various Abrahamic organisations, since he often had to work with them. Classified information wasn't going to be an issue, thankfully.



That dubious honour went to something else. 'Andrei and Simona...Costi, from what you told me about your parents, they'd think Andrei is a gutless coward for leaving David like he did, then hiding himself.'



'They're still coming,' Constantin said. 'I've talked with them, when they are able to break apart long enough.' He gave me a somewhat mortified look, and I tried not to laugh. Andrei and David's mom were making up for lost time, among other things.



Initially, I'd been unsure about taking them along, but I'd understood Constantin's reasoning, and David had chimed in, agreeing.



Looked like all was left was to collect them, Constantin's ghoul friend, and pack our bags.

[Strigoi Grey]

Sidestory; Keepers Past: First

* * *
AN: The first part of the sidestory series focused on David and Arvhek discussing DEATH's former Keepers.



This chapter references my originial fantasy story, the Scholar's Tale, which you can see in my signature, among other series.



* * *



I knew most supernaturals with this power would've scoffed at how thankful I was for being able to be in multiple places at once, but screw 'em; they've been doing it since mankind's ancestors were bashing each other's brains in over who'd stolen the last fruit.



It was wonderful. No longer having to worry about spending too much time in one place and being absent for something else, no more being late (something that, despite my best efforts, occasionally plagued me from grade school to the day I became DEATH's Keeper). All I had to keep in mind, now that I'd gotten the hang of it, was to remember not to speak through all my selves, or do or say something that had nothing to do with what one self was doing because I was focusing on another.



Thankfully, the more I used this power, the more my mind expanded, adapting. I understood the temptation to grow, the lure of power that had kept Sofia's lucid mind under the sway of her magic, back in Siberia.



This ability let what you could've called my main self (without being too innacurate) talk to Arvhek, while another body arranged the trip to Heaven with Mia, pops, mom and Andrei, a third, wearing my ARC uniform, confronted illegal necromancers, and many, many more pursued their own missions a ross the breadth of creation.



I allowed myself a smile. I was finally, finally helping as many people as I could, and they were talking about me, too. Yes, fame felt downright petty next to what the regency of creation entailed (and boy, did I feel like a fraud being appointed by the Mover instead of, at least, elected...); yes, infamy came right along with it.



There were people saying I'd engineered all the bullshit I've been through to gain pity (ha!), others that it hadn't actually been that bad, or that I wasn't that scarred by the events. This second group counted among its ranks a number of bigots who didn't think strigoi were really people.



But it didn't matter. As long as I could help people live and die and reach the afterlife with dignity, as long as I could defend existence from the threats beyond and be there for my girlfriend and my dad and the family I'd found, I'd be happy.



And, one day, that family would grow. To be honest, I was orders of magnitude more confident about fighting the Mover forever than being a father, but that just said something about me, not about being a parent.



If I could be half the father Constantin had been, was, for me, I'd be proud.



Something long and silken passed over my knee, and I turned to see the hem of Arvhek's cloak retract to its usual length, a wisp of a smirk briefly forming on my predecessor's face, before it became featureless once more.



'Enjoying the perks?' Arvhek asked.



I shrugged, then stretched my arms overhead with a grin. 'Just appreciating what I have, Arv. The power to make things better.'



'For the plebs.'



My smile faded. 'You really shouldn't think of them that way.'



His head barely moved side to side inside his hood as we resumed walking through the blackness. 'It is my experience that, the more numerous the masses, the more childlike they are.'



'Yeah, mobs are stupid,' I agreed. 'That's why it helps to make people think for themselves.'



'Is it?' he asked, sounding curious. 'Last time you thought for yourself, your macrocosm almost ended.'



I couldn't be arsed to glare at him. Nothing I'd ever do would make up for that. 'Because I was selfish, I replied, moving closer to meet his gaze, eyeless though he was. 'Blinded by grief.'



So incensed by people close to me sufgering, I'd been easy to convince nothing really mattered in the Dream that had been.



Solarex's logic. Disgusting.



Not a day passed without me thinking about how I'd imprisoned King Sun. Was what I'd planned (too strong a word, really; creation would've ended without me having to do anything) that much better than what he'd done out of lust and anger and pride?



You could say his grief still burned, that he'd have snapped again, change of heart or not. That I should've imprisoned myself, too, or become a hermit. But, as much as it may grate, creation did need me, as did its counterparts.



The Mover's arcane moral compass meant that, while it had stopped another Maker from destroying its macrocosm, it might one day decide to let another Creator, or one of the vermin in the Ur-City, obliterate it and point at the result as proof people hadn't focused on bettering themselves enough.



Or it might take matters into its own hands, try to enact a far worse version of what LIFE had done before being sealed. And then I'd have to stop it.



Looking at the man next to me, and I used that term loosely, I wasn't sure I wanted Arvhek manning creation's battlements. He'd almost done far worse than I'd had, and he'd been saner then.



Arvhek snorted as our surroundings became what a human would've seen as a circular tunnel of stone the colour of ash. 'Oh? It was dark as coal when I did this. You certainly leave an impression, grey god.'



An image of a deity from another creation, eyes feverish and the straight razor that was his namesake in hand, flashed through my mind. 'It seems I do. So...' I paused. 'Last time you did this?'



Arvhek inclined his chin. 'It is by no means a rule, but, at this point, it is practically a tradition. Five coincidences make a rite, I say.'



Take that statement back to Earth and watch everyone disagree? Tempting, tempting...



'What is? Former Keepers walking with their heirs?'



'Aye. An initiation to mirror that done by DEATH.' For an instant, he seemed nostalgic, then disgusted. 'I walked around mine, not with him, and the conversation doesn't deserve the name, but these things happen.'



He raised a hand before I could open my mouth. 'We will get there. We cannot start with the third in line, can we? Besides, there is more to say about him than the first two Keepers - that's what happens when you work out of sight and in silence - and I prefer to start with the easy things.'



One thing we had in commong, alongside dislikkng to start in the middle. Arvhek had, earlier, confessed to once following a series of war dramas that always started in medias res and explained how things had ended up like that through randomly-spaced flashbacks.



It had been a guilty pleasure of his.



'Same here.'



Taking that as prompting, he went on. 'Army thing, you know. When I fought for the Empire under the Bloody, we slaughtered the children first. The elderly. The cripples, the ill.'



Nothing I hadn't heard of, but my eyes still hardened. 'Did you, now?'



'Psychological warfare was deemed less costly than the conventional alternative. The Marshal of Defence,' he held a hand over where his heart had once been, 'had to keep such things in mind, when quashing dissent.'



'I bet you did,' I said, unable to keep myself from sounding cold.



Arvhek did not respond until we reached the first niche, which extended into a wall as far as the main tunnel itself seemed to. When we stopped in front of it, he said, 'Do not judge too harshly, David. You have only read dry words, written by dry, dead men. I am not here to tell you stories, but the truth. You will learn much about me, too, when the time comes.'



I flashed him a fanged grin, flexing my claws. 'I can barely wait.'



'I wager you do. But, as a friend of many who understand the time and place of necessity, know I did the best I could.'



I affected a sad moue. 'Is the poor war criminal asking for forgiveness?'



'Architects of genocide do not ask for things they do not care about. One must know their desires well to go for something so irreversible.' He folded his arms. 'Sadly, my displeasure at my duty never swayed the First Emperor. I was good at keeping the borders secure, the heartworlds stable and the metropole prosperous, and that was what mattered.'



Arvhek gestured at the figure in the niche, a monument to the First Keeper that could be directed to shed light on its inspiration's nature.



The being's shape leaned towards the reptilian and the amphibian, with a long tail and limbs, scales over the vital areas and smooth grey skin covering the rest of the body.



There was something of the fish too, with small, vestigial fins extending from the joints, and the tail's end split for better swimming. Their head resembled that of a hammerhead shark, though their three eyes, glowing a soft blue, wre placed in a diagonal line.



'An Yvharn,' Arvhek said, 'from the Scholar's Midworld. No more of them to be found there.'



Sadly. The Yvharnii's exuberance, their love of life and knowledge, had only been equalled by their dislike of violence - for even that, they could not hate. It had only been a matter of time until smaller, jealous powers had allied against them to tear down their works and plunder their corpses and ruins.



The time that had passed since their exitinction was proof of how an universe's timestream did not align with that of others, even if time flowed at the same rate within them. It also led one to ponder metaphysics: it was appropriate that, in a reality as hostile as Midworld, where almost everyone struggled to survive to the point they forgot about everything else, history advanced so slowly.



'Her name was One Who Observes the Flourishing and Wilting of Existence Under Her Broadened Gaze; not her hatching name, but the one she took as Keeper,' Arvhek said. 'You will have read her mostly being referred to as Flourish in the records, for she was flamboyant.'



He sounded grudgingly approving.



'A kindred spirit, Marshal?'



'Please, no rank. I'm retired.' Arvhek indicated our surroundings with a gloved hand, the metaphorical cabbages he was tending to, like all old killers who had hung up their swords.



There were some things to be compared between the Roman Empire and the Eternal one Arvhek had helped carve out, but some big names' tendency to fade into obscurity had not been one of them for a long time.



'But yes,' Arvhek allowed. 'I did appreciate shock and awe for much of my career - occupational hazard - and so did Flourish.'



I rested my back against the wall, looking up at the facsimile. Each of its six hands was opened in welcome, while its face was split by a hesitant smile. It held little of the warmth Flourish must've had in life.



And there was something haunted in its eyes, something I doubted the Yvharn had ever showed for long.



After all, in her last moments, she'd only had time to lament what had been lost for an instant.



* * *



'I did accept,' Flourish said at the reminder of her oath, frowning slightly. 'And I did "keep" you, as long as my might and wit enabled me. But I fear I cannot, any longer.'



SENTIMENTALISM, the sepulchral figure towering above her hissed, TO COMPOUND YOUR FAILURE.



Flourish's spine straightened, despite the looming Archetype's glare. 'I have never shirked my duty.'



HAVE YOU NOT? 'TIS THE FIRST TIME I HEAR, DEATH replied acidly. CERTAINLY, YOUR SPECRACLES HAVE FRIGHTENED SOME COWARDS INTO PRESERVING THE SANCTITY OF LIFE, AT THE COST OF SCARRING THE SUBSTANCE OF CREATION...it slammed a skeletal hand against a corner, shaking DEATH Keep to the bottom of the Spiral Atrocious. BUT THOSE WOULD'VE LOST HEART SOON ENOUGH, ANYWAY.



It spreads its arms, its stance and slim form reminiscent of a raptor opening its wings. AND WHILE YOU SIMPER ABOUT PEACE AND UNDERSTANDING, THE TRUE MONSTERS RAMPAGE ACROSS EXISTENCE! BUT YOU WILL NOT RAISE A CLAW AGAINST THEM, FOR "CONFLICT IS THE DEATH OF VIRTUE"!



'And it shall always remain so,' Flourish said. 'If you will not let me use the powers of my office to preserve my people. I do not need them.' Her hands tightened at her sides. 'I cannot let so much be lost! Release me, and may you find the attack dog you seek.'



SO MUCH, DEATH repeated disdainfully. ONE SPECIES FROM ONE UNIVERSE. HOW MANY TRILLIONS OF TRILLIONS HAVE DISAPPEARED BECAUSE OF YOUR GUTLESSNESS?



DEATH's hand encompassed the aether, the echoing crypt it had become. LOOK AT THEM! SENT TO A GODLESS ETERNITY BECAUSE THEY DID NOT EVEN GET THE CHANCE TO DEVELOP FAITHS! CRYING OUT IN MINDLESS TERROR, LOOKING FOR AN EXPLANATION, AND WHAT AM I TO EXPLAIN?



Flourish closed her eyes tightly. Already, she could feel the coalition encircling the last remaining fleet of her people, in Midworld, but she would not weep.



'I return your boon,' she said, 'and I will no more trouble you with my failures. In exchange, I would ask for one last thing.'



AND WHAT IS THAT?



'Preserve a part of me, the smallest part that can think and speak, so whatever poor fool you choose to serve you next knows what came before, and what duties await them.



NOW YOU CARE ABOUT PRESERVING THE SOUL? DEATH laughed darkly. VERY WELL. VERY WELL, KEEPER MINE. RETURN HOME, EMPTY OF POWER AND FULL OF HOPE. TALK YOUR DESTROYERS INTO SURRENDERING. THIS WILL NOT BE THE END FOR YOU.



The last Yvharn to die did not begrudge her people their choices, for she had made the same ones. She did not even begrudge them the moment some contemplated turning on her for not managing to return with power, pondered hurting a thinking being for the first time, before their better natures won.



Flourish had no hatred for her killers, either, even as she faced them standing in a pool of molten flesh and slagged bone that had once been her wife and the daughters they'd taken in as if they'd been theirs.



She pitied their greed, however. But that, like the Yvharnii's other sentiments and words, was no defence.



* * *



'Know, then,' Arvhek said, voice bitter, 'the cost of not knowing when to strike back. Flourish was given to whimsy and crafting: she wrought beautiful things, she changed her body into many others - you will see her spoken about as if male, in some stories - to learn how others lived, but she was too gentle.



The previous Keeper brought his hands together. 'I have killed many such folk. Was the moral victory worth it? When the scrap of spirit left of Flourish told the Second Keeper about how she'd lived in peace, was there joy in her voice?'



His shoulders drooped. 'That, I think, only she could say.' His gaze was murderous as he looked at me. 'But I would have butchered those petty bastards to the last, virtue be damned. I wouldn't have died a lamb.'



I mulled over his words, head lowered, as he looked away. The Scholar, when he'd learned of my plan and helped make it reality, had been almost ecstatic at the value of what helping the Mover remember itself and its past creations could accomplish.



Like the Yvharnii, he sought knowledhe as well, thiugh he had never been one to shy away from doing harm. His life hadn't let him be gentle.



But, despite that...he'd stuck by his friends, his crew. His lover. He'd kept his mind together, when memory and sanity threatened to leave him. Despite so much seemingly encouraging him to give up hope and become an empty shell, or a monster.



And he'd never, ever thought about letting everything be destroyed because the world was cruel to those he loved.



It was funny. I'd never met anyone with greener eyes, nor him anyone more jealous...

[Strigoi Grey]

Sidestory; Keepers Past: Second

* * *

My brief consideration of the Scholar's past and future paths came to a halt when Arvhek, not bothering to see if I was following, walked away from the niche housing the monument to Flourish, cloak swishing.

I followed, shaking my head in equal parts amusement and irritation. You'd have thought the crotchety bastard was still all brass and duty, expecting people to go along. But then, you didn't contemplate omnicide if other people's opinions bothered you. I knew, even if, at my worst, I hadn't dreamed of destruction a sliver as thorough as what he had brought upon the Ur-City.

Granted, I hadn't been aware of the things beyond my macrocosm, then...and I didn't want to think if I'd have finished what Arvhek had started, if I had.

Quickly catching up with the Lovelorn - a nickname I advise anyone weaker than me against using -, I said, 'You know you could undo it, Arv. Unmaking nothingness is a parlour trick for destroyers weaker than you've ever been after you saw nothing.'

He didn't reply, or react save for a subtle tightening of his broad shoulders. I waited until we reached the next niche before I grasped his shoulder; I had this feeling he wouldn't have appreciated being stopped in the middle of the walk.

'Your Empress could live again,' I said, softening my voice, just in case I'd sounded too accusing or confrontational. 'You could bring her back.'

A sardonic laugh escaped him in reply. 'And lessen her lesson? I think not. I think not, my heir.' Under his mask, I could see the outline of a smile like those sported by madmen when they managed to restrain themselves a hair short of biting your throat out, baring their teeth at the effort required. 'You think trying to make your peers happy will make the Mover lay off and not stop you from lifting the little people up? It won't even if it worked. It cares little for me, that creature. You don't love your a knife, however cleanly it cuts.'

Maybe it was how morose he sounded, or the fact I wanted to get this - whatever "this" was going to entail - over with, but I found myself not even wanting to crack a joke about Arv basically calling himself a tool. Before I could respond to his monologue, he said, 'You fret over your own beloved, Keeper. Leave Xialla's memory to me.'

'I'm just trying to help, man. You sound bittersweet whenever you talk about her-'

'It took her going to her end to make me listen, give existence another chance. I'm sure she'd be relieved to learn history vindicated her...'

I chanced a smile. 'Exactly! Imagine how worried she must've been as she disappeared? This would be a chance to make things right.'

Arvhek clicked his tongue, leaning forward to rest one hand on the outermost tendril of the Second Keeper's statue. 'I've learned a thing or two about disappointing the women I love. How to deal with the consequences was one of the first.' He looked at me sidelong. 'How about this: I might decide to think about bringing Xia back, to tell her she was right. I doubt she'd be surprised, with how she won all our arguments, but maybe her heart would be lighter than when my mantle of power ushered her into oblivion.' He closed his eyes, lowering his head slightly. 'It is not a worthless idea, I admit. Now, will you stop pestering me?'

'I accept you apology,' I said smugly, smirk only growing when he started grumbling about how I'd inherited Ned's passion for being a matchmaking busybody.

It's not my fault, everyone. I see people as...as crates. I can't help but ship them.

And Arvhek had been the death of both his wives and his paramour, in one way or another. If what I'd read was even halfway to the truth, the old warhorse had the tendency to have happiness snatched away from him right when he thought there no longer was anyone or anything capable of such.

I'd like to say I couldn't relate, but I prefer to be honest when bragging.

The statue was beautiful in the way certain abstract pieces sometimes were, when you could stop focusing on details enough to see the whole and notice patterns. Its tridimensional fraction would've appeared as an almost perfect tentacled sphere, two handfuls of tendrils pressed against the ground on either side, as if they were legs, while several more were raised.

The creature was a pale, greyish blue - not uncommon colours, when it came to DEATH and its Keepers -, speckled with lighter circles across its core and the tips of its limbs, which almost glowed white when light passed over them.

Even though this was only a faint echo of the Keeper who had been, I could still feel its love for those it had defended, and the dutifulness that had come with that. In fact, its whole aura reminded me of...

'Your Gardeners,' Arvhek whispered, reaching up to grasp a tentacle gingerly between his hands. The statue shone, illuminated from within, in response. I caught a ghost of a smile dancing across my predecessor's face, but it was gone as fast as the glow. 'They are always fascinated when they get to meet their uncommon ancestor.'

I quirked a brow at his phrasing, and he nodded, indulging my curiosity. 'Most of the beings who would become the Gardeners were not like this one. And yet, several of their thought-lines could trace their ancestry back to if, if they cared to.'

'It was flesh. Deathless flesh, but still an organism. It was not wholly of the mind.'

'Not even when DEATH lifted it up,' Arvhek agreed. 'For its desires, though altered, still echoed those of its former life, and so many other lives.'

'Heard it turned itself into a colony,' I grunted, crossing my arms. 'Had people burrowing into its skin and organs, sheltering them in exchange for favours.'

'It brought benefits, though I doubt most would agree with such an existence. Think of all the bacteriophobes scared of the little things inside them, which they can't even feel. Now, imagine being able to sense both them and their thoughts.'

I laughed. 'You're making it sound almost selfless.'

'Not at all,' Arvhek replied. 'It was no effort at all to house those smaller than itself. When you dwarf most intergalactic empires, it is easy to contain multitudes. And their gratefulness certainly sweetened the deal.'

The proto-Gardener had not been greedy, exactly. If one wanted to ascribe humanlike emotions to it, you could've said it'd craved appreciation. The Bountiful One (as Bounty went by formally, after its tenants named it so) had been able to feel every grateful thought of those it had shielded from the dangers of its long-gone universe: the terms of its deal, and the payment it had asked for in exchange for protection.

Many had accepted its offer, literally carving out new homes into the cosmic being's innards, feeding upon its inner flora and fauna. Thankfulness had been its coin and its meal, and the arrangement had lasted until DEATH had come to the living ark with an offer of its own.

Bounty had all but pounced upon the deal: now, it could feel everything across creation! It wasted no time in taking up the mantle of Keeper, a process during which it turned itself inside out to cast its inhabitants into the void. When DEATH had voiced its disapproval at the demise of decillions, Bounty had talked it down, saying it had put off the ends that would've been theirs if not for its generosity forages. The Idea of Endings had not fully agreed, but, with some grumbling, it had begun training Bounty.

The Second Keeper's records were rather sparse; I had the feeling DEATH was somewhat embarrassed about the glory hound it had hired, even if it had been competent at its job, which was more than you could say for most divas.

Bounty had come up with a few ideas, too, I thought as I metaphorically jotted down the type exchange it had favoured. It was more palatable than some of the currencies I'd glimpsed in Earth's futures, and I knew I could refine it.

'You don't sound like you disagree,' I pointed out.

'With Bounty's methods? Or its results?' He shrugged. 'My boy, I could not care less what the common folk worship. I'm no longer in the business of purging people for thinking wrong.' For a moment, it was like a cloud hung over him. Then, he set his shoulders and stood up straight again. 'And it did decent work. I'd say better than Flourish, but almost anything is better than nothing, when it comes to Keeping life and death.'

From his bitter tone, the Lovelorn still hadn't got over his irritation at the peaceful First Keeper. I wasn't sure how I felt about it, myself. Ture, it was a damn shame that the Ylvharnii had let themselves be slaughter, but I'd almost let everyone die because I and a handful of those I loved had suffered. Could I put my selfishness over their fixation on cherishing life?

Of course you can, fool, my strigoi side hissed, sounding something between affronted and exasperated. And you should. They all draw breath only thanks to us. We envisioned salvation. We rallied them. Everything there is, everything we could want, is ours, by right of conquest!

I inwardly gave it that patient look I reserved for insistent idiots. My mirror was one of its favourite hangout spots. And? You're saying like there's something we want but aren't taking. Before it could proclaim its privation, I went on. Mia loves us, and lets us love her. She has even agreed to build a family with us. I choked a little, briefly closing my eyes. Being the guardian of the magna-macrocosm was one thing, fatherhood quite another. I knew Mia was still scared of whether she'd make a good mom, but my love was just being silly. I knew how warm her heart was.

I, meanwhile, was an impulsive bastard who tended to fly off the handle the instant someone I knew was in danger. Brooding fucks with a tendency to snap didn't usually make for model dads, but I'd change. I'd do my best.

To be honest...back in my human life, I hadn't put much thought in romance, besides a few flings in college. I'd seen the drama too many couples got into and sneered, telling myself I'd have time for love after I made it big, if I still cared about it.

I swear I used to be dumber than I remember every time I look back. I should've taken Mihai and Adriana as examples, or Lucian and Bianca, not the worst relationships. Just because Alex, who'd been so altruistic it hurt for as long as I'd known him, hadn't wanted to "burden" a woman by growing close to her, I shouldn't have, subconsciously, gone along.

Not that I'd had much in my head, back then.

My worse half wilted at my response, walking to stand beside me in our mindscape and laying a hand on my shoulder. I am, of course, beyond happy that our beloved lets us adore her. And we will care for our little ones, just as we have dedicated our existence to serving her. Its eyes gleamed wildly. But meekness will bring you nothing, David! You have heard my words. Still, you do not heed them.

I'd heard them, all right. My instincts wanted to, essentially, get everyone in one spot and make them bend the knee, one way or another, before making them worship me like the Unbeings did - in addition to giving them the order to slaughter everyone who did not believe fervently enough.

Which was, in my opinion, more proof that a strigoi's instincts were the evil within their hearts, not their "more honest face". Whoever had come up with the nonsense that our angry, hateful moments represented who we "really" were needed to pay me a visit in DEATH Keep, so we could discuss psychology.

As for my worse half...I was never going to let it have free reign.

'True enough,' I agreed. 'But DEATH didn't take long to grow displeased with it, too.' Bounty had one day come up with the idea to, among other things, piece the minds of godless ghosts back together, not out of kindness, but so they could worship it, and it could feed on their joy. I could practically hear the pulsing of its throbbing body, grown fat and strong on psychic feed.

DEATH might've let that slide, since it hadn't really hurt anyone, even if the motive had been scummy. But then...

'You know,' I said, unfolding my arms and resting my back against a wall, 'the balls on this guy were almost funny. Avoiding torturing those DEATH deemed wicked so they could thank it for its mercy? It had to have known it wouldn't work.'

'That would've been embarrassing enough,' Arvhek chuckled in agreement, 'but the fact its Keeper brushed off several warnings and a mountain of advice did not help the old husk's mood. But I'm unsurprised it wouldn't write that down.'

I nodded. Bounty's ego trip had only ended out of necessity: with DEATH stripping it of its powers, the proto-Gardener had been reduced to its a shadow of what it had grown accustomed to.

Worse, actually. Even if people had been willing to live within it again (and no one was that gullible or that much of a thrill-seeker: they feared the Bountiful One would send them on a surprise spacewalk the instant it got something shiny dangled in its face), it had made plenty enemies in its tenure as Keeper, who were eagerly waiting for it to act up.

Nowadays, the Bountiful One hung around the edges of the Multitude of Minds, begging for admission. But, while the alien alliance had several neighbours they protected in exchange for being allowed to sample their thoughts, not even Bounty's descendants, the children of its fellows who had seen the births and deaths countless universes during their evolution, were charitable enough to welcome the telepathic leech into the fold.

'Say what you will about the Gardeners,' Arvhek said, as if picking up on my line of thought, 'but they can at least put some steel into their spines when necessary. That it took so long for them to find unity of purpose was deplorable, but not as much as what was done by this...attention whore, I believe you call such people?'

'Yeah,' I agreed absently. Then, narrowing my eyes, I said, 'Hey. I was just thinking about the Gardeners, the Multitude. Did you guess...?'

'I must've read your mind...' Arvhek breathed, the fingers of one hand twisted into an arcane gesture.

'Telepathy jokes. Ha,' I replied flatly, but my mind was already elsewhere. I've stepped in trash I had more sympathy for than Bounty, but...it had even been barred from going to the Deep Thinker, despite its insistence that it no longer wanted to live, and that it wasn't strong enough to kill itself. Literally or in terms of willpower, it hadn't said.

The Multitude's god in all but name was the result of their members' minds forming a gestalt when they grew weary of existence. A few of their allies had been extended the privilege, after earning the telepaths' respect. Over time, the psychic creation had grown more powerful than most Archetypes, being completely in sync with the Idea of itself as well.

I wondered...had Bounty grown enough to accept fading into the Thinker, losing its sense of self save for when someone called for one of the wrought god's departed components? If it was allowed to be part of the Thinker, for a moment, would it want to go back?

Would it find peace?

Arvhek took a step back from Bounty's monument, letting his hand linger for an instant before retracting it with a sigh. 'Now, then,' my predecessor said. 'I could not speak of the Third without speaking of the Empire we built.'

[Strigoi Grey]

Sidestory: The Rise of Empire, Part One
* * *
Arvhek

'In the interest of knowledge, I must advise you to never go through a record produced earlier than the Second Age of my Empire,' I told David Silva. My successor, who was leaning against a wall, hands in his pockets, would have been trying too hard to look insouciant even without the intense expression adorning his features.

We were between "exhibits", the monuments to Keepers past, so I allowed myself to pace in front of him. Ah, to be a man again, when such descriptions were accurate, not mere analogies for cosmic actions...but it was too late for that, far too late. I was not entirely beyond nostalgia, however, for, as I marched back and forth, I felt as if I were once more briefing my troops, telling them why this splinter of mankind must be smothered or snuffed out.

Inhumanity, for humanity. I will not pretend I didn't enjoy some of the crackdowns, the purges...I had never bought into the Bloody's insistence on what man became when left alone in the dark, but I had cleansed cultures that had passed beyond redemption, rehabilitation, or reintegration into the greater human community. When flesh was twisted past such a point that births as humans knew them could no longer occur, when every "life" brought into the world could only be described as spawned rather than newly born...the cleansing fires of the atom began looking merciful.

Void, how long it had been since I had destroyed something deserving...but I had kept my promise to my love, and she had been more right than even her beautiful mind could've predicted.

Starlight Crowned With Ivory wasn't the only one to have been moved by the moment of unity.

I looked at David, the features of my faceplate crinkling like flesh to form a smile. 'The official ones are garbage. You might be able to find one written by a dissident and preserved against all odds...it could prove enlightening.' I'd burned nine out of ten such writers alive, alongside their materials, but the ones that got away? They honestly deserved passing their knowledge on.

Granted, most of them, I'd spooked enough they'd needed ages before they could even speak around others, much less publish anything...I ought to send them something as recompense, I think. One of these days. The severed head of someone they hate? That always cheered me up.

Ah, but I was reminiscing, as was the wont of old men. David was not here to hear my inner monologue, not that he was listening in on it.

* * *

The Eternal Empire was not born on a young, untouched world. At the time it rose, Old Earth was not simply called that because of deep time: like a dying creature, it had been emptied of almost everything useful, wounded by both time's arrow and the malice of its enemies, not all of whom were offworlders.

The twentieth millennium, as reckoned by a calendar whose true name and origin were no longer remembered, was the latest part of a post-apocalyptic age. The disasters that had begun twelve thousand years earlier had passed out of living memory and into legend, the devastation was winding down and the various worlds of man were, if not healing, at least no longer bleeding.

That is not a metaphor. The living planets fashioned by the old galactic order's favourites had been torn open in the war that had toppled mankind's first galactic civilisation, and oceans of blood hot enough to make steam of steel filled the void between them and their neighbours.

The Workers' War had, in hindsight, been coming for centuries. But just because some people can take the long view, it does not mean they can't willingly blind themselves at the same time. At first, the Confederation of Earth's common folk rejoiced the invention of the thinking machines and the labour automatons - at first. It just seemed to make sense, this miracle long in the coming, for had leisure not always been the purpose of humanity? However much philosophers spoke of exchanging the sweat of one's brow for the necessities of life, surely man did not live to work...

Perhaps not. Perhaps, had the changes been implemented slower, civil war could've been averted. But that is sophistry, and we speak of history.

With robots being able to delve into the most hazardous areas with no issue, and needing far less protection that their creators in the worst places, much off the Confederation's workforce was able to return home, and make whatever they wanted of themselves. Not all knew what to do with so much free time, for they were simple sorts who had always had tasks to perform, before, but the synthetic servants they found themselves surrounded by were programmed to provide distraction and comfort.

The Confederation's roboticists hadn't been as foolish as the Lhamshian Crownhold's forebears as to bring their creations into the world unshackled. There is nothing wrong with wrought beings who can think for themselves - but if you forge them so you have something serve as tools, at least make sure they're not smart enough to realise that, or resent you.

These scientists avoided this pitfall, but could not escape the result of their research. First, they came for the workers...

Accounting and mathematics followed. A common android, with a processor the size of a human brain, could focus on dozens of thoughts at once; with lightspeed processing, eidetic memory and sensors far keener than human senses, however, they seemed to be far more capable than any number-cruncher born of a womb. Soon enough, there was no need to keep financial details in mind, when a living calculator was all too happy to take care of them.

The greatest of these artificial brains, nestled in mountainlike spires they occupied most of, could outperform the combined populations of their worlds at intellectual tasks by orders of magnitude: not even the teeming trillions of an ecumenopolis, should they have pooled their efforts, would have been more than a drop in the bucket to these thinking engines.

The Confederation, a result of humanity's desire to start anew after they had exhausted Old Earth's bounty in pointless, petty wars and overly-ambitious grabs for wealth, had spread across Orion's Arm over four thousand years, borne across space by generation ships. These sailors of the void, eager to make their names, or at least something of themselves, maybe even send back enough to bring Earth back from its living half-death, had sired children who did not anticipate what their creations would bring about.

They came for the scientists next...

Biology, chemistry, physics; it seemed there was no branch of knowledge the robots could not dominate, discovering more (and more often) than their fleshly predecessors. The invention of the wormhole and the matter-energy converter sped interstellar expansion up tremendously, with the first galactic society taking form in mere decades. When one could make the distance between any two points as nothing, or turn a kilo of gravel into wheat, water and any other substance, there was no planet too far-flung or hostile or deter human explorers.

But this came at a cost, for the lives of many were upended. Many thinkers saw themselves put out to pasture, reduced to making appearances on curiosity programs where they spoke of the strides they used to make, before the machines took over.

That was when the phrase was coined, you know. The machines taking over, not through warfare and bloodshed, but by performing any jobs that used to fall to humans. In a few generations, the only duties that really mattered - as these self-described disgraced scientists saw it, at least - were those of the roboticists: the menials who performed what maintenance self-repair protocols could not, the programmers and engineers who shaped the machines' thinking and built the housings of those minds, and the overseers who directed the projects.

I must take a moment here to say that what sparked the Workers' War was not the result of some conniving cabal's scheming. Most of the Machinists, as they came to be known despite their creations being automatic (for their detractors saw the robots as nothing more than puppets), were quiet souls who wanted a peaceful corner to tinker in. If the fruits of their labour could better society so that everyone was spared drudgery, well, where was the trouble?

But they did not understand their fellows as well as their children of steel and lightning, or mayhap they would have stopped there.

The Confederation had, for hundreds of generations, operated as a loose alliance, for their technology only allowed communicating and travelling as fast as light. Worlds were left to order their own affairs, though statelets formed within some star systems. The arrival of the machines made the galaxy smaller, and there was much talk of colonising the universe entire, or even peering beyond it, if there was anything there. Suddenly, everyone knew what everyone else was doing. A stronger constitution was drawn up and elections held across the length and breadth of the Milky Way. For the first time, mankind stood on the cusp of becoming a truly united polity.

The suggestion of "aiding" voters, made innocently, if thoughtlessly, was the spark that lit the fire, ending a gilded, if not golden, age that had spanned centuries. For the first, but certainly not the last time, flesh was turned against metal.

Democracy was not new to the confederation, though the form that was proposed was unheard of - but then, machines had never achieved such heights of perception before, either. Several notable Machinists had only started campaigning when a programmer, in the interest of ease, had proposed a more efficient process of choosing leaders.

There was, he said, no need to waste time having people think about each candidate and debate their merits against those of their competitors. Wouldn't it be simpler if voters simply described their vision of the ideal leader and let a machine calculate which of the candidates came closest to it?

I have never been a man of science, even back when I was a man, but I imagine that, from a savant's point of view, this advice seemed practical, if not friendly. In reality, it was the last piece of ammo needed for the shot that was heard 'round the galaxy.

The programmer would later be found inside out, a pile of protoplasm-drenched flesh that looked vaguely human. Unable to die, and unable to kill itself, either, it could only scream, for all it had no mouth, in the hope someone would be vexed enough by its hellish cries to end it.

Would it surprise you to learn this poor creature was among the last to die in the Workers' War, David?

...Of course not. You've always had a sense of irony, my boy.

Those the machines had pushed out of almost every research field had gone beyond the outskirts of their civilisation, under the pretense of coming to terms with to the new direction society had taken, and maybe discovering something, in the process. Ordinarily, robotic explorers would've been sent on such an endeavour, directed by their more advanced brethren, but the respect for these sages of yesteryear was enough that no one disagreed with letting them - as they saw it - lick their wounds.

After all, it wasn't like they were dangerous. If they could build things more powerful than those that now worked where man once had, they wouldn't have ended like that in the first place, no?

But it wasn't silica and caged lightning they turned to.

My universe was a late bloomer, when it came to paranormal powers among humans (not that there were other species around, save for those created by man, and of those, few lasted). At the time the Workers' War was brewing, the most widespread human paranormals were minor psychics. Folk who could always have coins land how they wanted, guess cards right every time, that sort of trick. If not for the tests some of them willingly subjected themselves to, their feats could've been chalked up to luck.

There were some such paranonormals scattered across the scientific expedition: bodyguards, prostitutes, cooks. Even a few of the researchers had developed various abilities, from instantly burning through calories to turning off their sense of pain. And there, in the darkness beyond the Milky Way's edge, they bent their intellects to the task of breeding creatures that could topple those who had stolen their prestige.

Through eugenics and genetic splicing, growth hormones and temporal acceleration fields, they brought into the galaxy a twisted host, numbering in the tens of trillions and bringing to mind mankind's ancient nightmares, now reality.

The Convention For The Confederation's Restoration had few supporters, which disheartened them not at all. They had their monsters, and could always make more. If they though of the galaxy's common folk at all, it was as raw materials and test subjects.

The Machinists did not hesitate when their rivals revealed themselves; they updated and refitted their creations, turning them into engines of war, as vicious in war as they had been steadfast in peace. The Confederates, who had grown accustomed to peace and ease in their age of plenty, wanted none of this insane war, and barricaded themselves in their homes, now empty of the devices that had made their lives pleasant - no chassis could be spared from the war effort.

Their resentment towards both factions only grew when the Machinists, losing ground against beings that could warp reality with a thought and twist spacetime like yarn, began disassembling their homes and possessions for resources, leaving them at the mercy of chance. Those who protested the most were placed into stasis fields, to await compensation following the war.

The Machinists, honourable as their intentions and code of war were (for they had not imagined bending the human form so far. Indeed, sparing their fellows from the dangers of radiation and other bringers of mutation had been one of the driving forces behind their program), never got the chance to keep their promises. Had they survived, I'm sure they'd have regretted this.

Do you know why we call it the Workers' War, David? Not because the Convention portrayed themselves as honest labourers taking back jobs that had made their lives meaningful, before the machines had stolen them. Few took them seriously, even in their time. No, it is because of what they did to those who could not evacuate their homeworlds and the space stations they inhabited fast enough. Not out of necessity, but to sate their egos and snub those who had humbled them by breaking their toys.

As the Convention saw it, most of the Confederation's population consisted of greedy, materialistic sheep easily conquered with enough shiny trinkets. Had they been worth anything, they'd have opposed their silken enslavement and the marginalisation of their betters (you can guess who) both. But now, it was too late.

The Machinists' lockstep legions would encounter masses of glassy-eyed, dull-witted people on the worlds the Convention had passed over on their way to Old Earth, the restored heart of the Confederation and its network of thinking engines, which they hoped to tear out. These unspeaking mobs did not so much as glance as the chrome soldiers, even as they were questioned, too busy raising statues to whatever sorcerer-scientist had overcome them.

The robots, their processors already overclocked from repeatedly purging errors with no apparent source, attempted to destroy the monuments, in the hope this would divert the traumatised humans' attention, so they could get some answers; brain scans resulted only in scrap data that needed to be cleansed lest it impact a robot's functions.

Through trial and error, it was determined that the statues were to blame. Whatever they were transmitting was harmful to the thinking engines' systems, to the point constructs that got too close to one, or lingered too much around it, went rogue and began attempting to destroy its companions.

The war only escalated from there.

To thwart a Convention plan centred around using the forcibly-aligned stars of the Perseus Arm in order to power a ritual that would remove the Machinists from history, the engine-makers destroyed it, unleashing a prototype device that barred the use of paranormal powers in its "blast radius".

In response to the creation of the Severed Arm, the Convention struck the rich regions of the galactic core, to deprive their enemies of some of the resources needed to craft and maintain their machines. The forces they unshackled there turned the black hole at the galaxy's heart into something far more baleful than a spacetime-bending pit of gravity, as later spacefarers would discover, to their dismay.

All the while, the Confederates were caught between the clashing titans, scurrying from here to there lest they be crushed underfoot. Between being hunted for sacrifices and meat suits immaterial creatures could use, and seeing those conquered by the Convention being bombed to quarks alongside the statues they built just in case they were the building blocks of some dangerous working, they became embittered.

Nobody won, in the end, but you could say everyone lost. The stockpiles of reserve weapons, living and otherwise, opened in the last days of the War haunted the galaxy for millennia. Stealers of skins, faces and thoughts, mechanical monsters caught in glitched madness who saw humanity as too dangerous to live due to their metaphysical potential...it is no wonder that the Milky Way of the 21st millennium was ripe to be exploited by the cunning.

* * *

The Earth of that age was a half-burnt rock, with those living in relatively peaceful areas still occasionally clashing with the Martians; an arcane focus shattered long ago atop Olympus Mons meant hydroponics and the other measures that allowed human life to bear the rigours of the once-again harsh world failed when such errors would cause the most despair. The Martian humans had developed a pessimistic culture as a result, raiding Old Earth for supplies during such occasions almost as often as they raided each other.

Neyhus Othlan, the man who would become infamous as the First, Bloody Emperor of the galaxy, was not born in an impoverished area. One could go as far as to say the Near East dominated by his Clan was as close to a paradise as you could find on Old Earth. Powerful enough even the Martians preferred to trade, threaten and posture more often than steal, the holdings of Clan Othlan housed, among other wonders of ages past, a senile, half-mad thinking engine that, nevertheless, rarely failed to provide solutions to problems that stumped humans.

This machine, half-mockingly, half-affectionately referred to as Grandfather Clockwork, spent most of its time mumbling to itself, but controlled facilities that could turn dirt into bread or regrow limbs and organs - arts the Othlan had lost.

It was one of the reasons they tolerated its presence, the other being that they were unsure if they could successfully storm the mechanical mountain that housed its frame.

More fortunate than those who married into the Clan, or were adopted by it if useful enough, Neyhus was born into the core Othlan family. He had everything an earthling of that age could've wanted; not all of them were born with a steel sword in hand and a railgun in the other, and Neyhus made great use of both to mow down the scavengers who often skulked around the edges of his parents' holdings.

Not that he had much love for them. But filial duty called, appearances needed to be kept and - and this, I believe, allowed the Bloody to smile when necessary - he loved spilling blood as much as anything, especially when it could be done without much a fight. And if one lost their nerves and started begging to be spared, Ney's day was quickly brightened.

Even in those days, he had that dark sort of charisma mad geniuses sometimes do, the kind that made you want to listen even if you disagreed with him or loathed his guts. His recruitment of the Crimson Chancellor was proof enough, though only the first step on the path to building his inner circle. He did begin looking into expanding his clique, at the time a gaggle of cousins and their lackeys. This clique of noble striplings idled away their days with such luxuries as Grandfather Clockwork could provide, though Othlan and some of his more martial relatives often joined his Clan's enforcers in hunting down criminals or just commoners who did not show due respect to their masters, two things that were one and the same in Ney's mind.

Honestly, I was a spoiled princeling too, for the first part of my mortal life, but I knew beating your peasants for imagined slights brings riots more than anything before I could even write.

I know what you are thinking, David. His parents must've been either uncaring or utter bastards to rear such a son. You would not be entirely wrong; he could've certainly used a firmer hand. But ill luck had struck Clan Othlan, and Ney was the only scion of the core family. His parents were loath to alienate their lone child, so they let him do as he wished, in the hope their indulgence would be repaid when he came into his own.

I hardly need to explain that few people spoiled rotten in their youth develop that kind of mindset. When it comes to debts, they feel they are owed everything, not that they owe anyone else.

I mean, look at me. If I'd been a little humbler, you might not have needed to fill my boots after I went mad and became unworthy to keep a garden, much less life and death.

The Bloody's father, Dhardyn Othlan, was yet to give up hope on siring another heir by the time Neyhus became of age. Though neither he nor his wife Marhaya was in a rush to tell their son, they did not trust the little madman not to run the Clan into the ground after they passed, and Clockwork was either unable or unwilling to halt or reverse aging.

Unfortunately, Dhardyn was not the most virile man, so he and his spouse had to resort to surrogate fathers. Years before he knew what lovemaking was, Neyhus became used to seeing strange man after strange man walking the manor grounds and the mansion's hallways, shadowing his mother, while his father skulked behind them, wringing his hands.

As Neyhus grew older and understood what was happening, he began looking down on his parents. Not just for their desperation (who needed another child when a specimen of manhood like him was poised to take the reins?), but because of the process itself. Though Dhardyn and Mharaya were closemouthed on the matter, servants talked, especially with a sword at their throats or a gun to their heads.

Now, Ney knew, intellectually, that his father didn't watch his wife coupling with other men because it brought him pleasure, but because he feared the possibility of these gene donors upsetting or roughing up Mharaya. Dhardyn, a gentle soul who'd been looking forward to a life of art and philosophy, had found himself married to his cousin after a large number of Othlan men disappeared on a mission to discover if there were other places like their realm left on Earth. He'd never imagined he'd have to make choices like this.

Their marriage was as happy as an arranged one between blood-kin could be, until their awful boy came along. Sometimes, I wonder if the Bloody noticed the irony when he outlawed incest as a source of abomination and worthlessness.

Mharaya was a more dominant sort than her husband. Unlike many Othland womenfolk, both alive and from the family histories, she was fond of the sport of arms, and had used to fight off the raids of brigands from all over Old Earth in her youth. Even in her old age, she was a strong woman, in body and spirit, who brooked no nonsense. As stern to most as she was gentle to her husband.

Neyhus, who had few better uses of his time than getting offended over things that didn't affect him, did not appreciate this dynamic any more than he did Dhardyn's "cuckold tendencies". During the middle of one of his hunts for dissidents, a word that fit a broad category of people when used by him, he hatched a plan to cleanse his lands of this perceived deviancy.

A few years before his coup, Neyhus became acquainted with, and grew close to, a travelling peddler who went by Mhalvur Bramus. Thin but a strong, with leathery, wrinkled skin and a mane of grey hair that reached his shoulder, Bramus looked like the sort of older uncle who always had some whimsical story to tell his siblings' children. But on the inside, the man was as venomous as the snakes of his homeland; a realm he refused to name, but from which he had been exiled for being a murderous thief.

He had a passion, old Bramus, for keeping history alive. On ruined Old Earth, he was never short of relics to find and cherish, but, alas, he did not limit himself to old things scattered in the dust of ages. From family heirlooms and spoils of war to bought gewgaws and homegrown, unique plants, earthlings had so many things that deserved to be preserved, but languished in the hands of unskilled or uncaring owners - as Bramus saw it.

As far as passions went, Neyhus was not too keen on a man collecting knickknacks instead of spending his time in the fighting yard or at the shooting range, but Bramus was decent in a scrap (having little alternative, when confronted by the outraged owners of what he sought, or by people he'd wronged in the past) and possessed many dangerous artefacts besides. Items of power that might even right the wrongs Neyhus saw himself as surrounded by, in the right circumstances.

The Othlan heir was determined to bring such circumstances about himself. For a man so short-sighted and prone to tunnel vision, he had a knack for planning things stretching over vast spans of time. Chalk it up to aristocrats being full of contradictions.

All his adult life (a short span of years, when he and Bramus enacted their plan), and for a large part of his boyhood, Neyhus had pestered his older relatives to try and tweak Clockwork's production facilities, or preferably, the machine itself. Though the thinking engine never left Mount Ararat, for it hadn't been built for that kind of ting, and even in its prime, it would've required extensive modification to become mobile, it was more than happy to allow human to visit its factories, or what passed for its personal chambers.

When it decided to do business with the outside word, it sent or crafted robotic couriers, simple things with simpler commands burned into their processors. Some fell apart as soon as they made their deliveries, while others were built to last. Clockwork itself couldn't have told you the criteria or building methods, any more than it could have told you its origins (though it, and many humans, theorised that it had been built to sustain a community of Machinists and those close to them, before the Workers' War broke the galaxy and, perhaps, left the engine befuddled).

It built other things, too, scouts and sentries to see those approaching its mountain and turn them away should they prove hostile. But the Othlan were old friends, close friends, who had lent their armies to the cause of Clockwork's safety. Self-interest? Of course, David. Do you think people who balked at anything more complex than a calculator could truly love something this advanced, no matter how helpful it was?

But Clockwork did not need to know that, as far as the Clan was concerned. Even if it would likely forget it shortly.

As I age without end, I find it sadder and sadder, the way the young sometimes take advantage of their feeble elders. It does not become easier to watch just because an elder is clad in chrome, with a manmade star for a heart.

It was customary, for the elites of the Othlan, to journey to Ararat yearly, both to make requests of Clockwork, if necessary, and to thank it for its service during the last turn of the world around its sun. On those occasions, the machine reminisced, as much as it could, and the Othlan sometimes found themselves pitying the hobbled but godlike creature.

Dhardyn and Mharaya were surprised when their son insisted to accompany them on that year's visit. They had not forgotten his complaints about the thinking engine's inability or unwillingness to craft weapons of war to conquer Old Earth with. In truth, though the Othlan Clanholds were a powerful polity, they would've had little to gain from a world war, and much to lose. Their rivals might've been few and scattered across the planet's scarred face, but they were there, nonetheless, and lesser nations would've pounced on the weakened victor of such a conflict in a heartbeat.

Had Clockwork provided, say, terraforming devices? The Othlan might've gone for a slow conquest, by another name, offering to remake others' lands in exchange for fealty. But it had not, so they did not. But they were content, or close enough, within the borders of their oasis realm, where they wanted for nothing but better heirs.

Dhardyn, who was suspicious of his son, but unsure of his intentions, urged his wife to make Neyhus change his mind; the young man certainly wasn't listening to him. Mharaya expected some inane attempt by Neyhus to turn Clockwork's foundries into war factories, or some other nonsense, but she also saw a chance. If her son suffered some accident on the mountain's slopes or in its tunnels, struck down by some hidden beast or malfunctioning mechanical guardian, they would have all the time in the world to get over the tragedy.

And, if they failed to have another child, in the meantime, the Clan's leadership would pass to whatever family their peers found the most competent. There would be scheming, assassinations, maybe civil war, but the Clan would not fall. It had weathered worse.

Neyhus' parents grew more wary when their son asked to have Bramus brought along. Mharaya saw him as an opportunistic kleptomaniac, which wasn't far from the truth, while Dhardyn was appalled by the man's insistence on hoarding art and knowledge, or sharing it with the highest bidders, instead of sharing it with the masses.

[Strigoi Grey]

Sidestory: The Rise of Empire, Part Two

* * *
'Do not fear,' Neyhus told them, with a smile. 'My venerable friend wishes you no ill. Why, he wishes everyone well!' He stepped aside, allowing Bramus to step forward, cradling what looked like a tablet of aluminium and crystal. Mhalvur's expression was officious, his eyes warm and soft. The elder Othaln were not fooled for a heartbeat.

' 'Tis a teaching device,' the travelling peddler explained. 'An auto-educator, I have heard it called. It can simplify even the most arcane concepts and procedures, or, if the owner so wishes, guide a layman through a process, after shaping itself into a harness to move their limbs.'

Machines that took over a human body, even in such a crude way, were going to be frowned upon at best, no matter how useful. It would take lifetimes before it was accepted, but...

'Do you intend to ask Grandfather Clockwork for...technical advice?' Dhardyn asked, wondering where the old thief ad found such a thing. Clearly built to withstand sandstorms, and threaded with circuits like veins, it looked to be of Martian Make.

Maybe having caught his look, Bramus smiled disarmingly, hefting the tablet as if it were a child. Spoils of war. The ambush did not go my attackers' way, sadly for them.'

And all decent folk alive, Dhardyn thought, inwardly rolling his eyes, but saying nothing. He was still waiting for an answer.

'In regards to your question - in a way.' Mhalvur gave a mischievous, boyish shrug that he was far too old for, dark eyes gleaming. 'I believe that, once this repository of knowledge can be made to interface with the thinking engine, Clan Othlan will learn and be able to make everything Clockwork itself can, from new limbs and nourishing repasts to perpetual motion machines.'

Mharaya grunted. It sounded interesting, provided the bent backed little magpie didn't steal Clockwork and run, somehow - she wouldn't put it at all beyond Mhalvur. Moreover, what if his piece of Martian garbage didn't work as intended and instead broke the mountainous machine? The Clan's star would fall, and never rise again.

But...Clockwork could be a prickly sort, however genial its manner. When pressed to change its function, or explain what it did not want to, it could viciously defend itself, as it had in ages past.

Was it so unlikely that, feeling threatened by the contraption from the Red Planet, it would lash out through its sentries, and get rid of these two nuisances that still darkened her bedchamber, despite all the hints that it was time to leave?

The Othlan matriarch could've laughed. What was she thinking? Neyhus was disliked, not to mention feared, enough that few would've batted an eye if she outright admitted to killing him, even within the Clan itself. Bramus was scarcely more liked, and only by those who did not know him in person. He kept looking down her blouse, not lustfully,, but in search of necklaces or other small pieces of jewellery that wouldn't be missed, in case she had any in her cleavage. She rubbed her wrists, making sure her bracelets were still there, as she padded over to the window. The sun should've been rising, but the horizon was dark still.

Turning back to look at her soon, she suppressed a scowl once again. Between the shoulder-length dark hair (had he started imitating the old goat?), pulled back by golden laurels, and the bangles and rings, he looked like a thuggish mystic, as likely to pick your pocket while reading your palm as to crack your head open.

Ancestors...had she really raised this boy? Not for the first time, she wished she'd used a firmer hand with him, but those days ere past. The greying woman rolled her wide shoulders, saying, 'Just you two, then? Clockwork dislikes large crowds, says they make it feel trapped. Between us and the guards, we'll be straining its hospitality as it is.'

Neyhus' smile was all flawless teeth. She managed not to punch him in the mouth. 'I am sure that everyone who matters will fit in there there.'

Revered dead, he spoke like a theatre villain. This man was going to take over after she died? 'It is late enough, I think,' she said briskly. 'We should raise a prayer to those who have left us behind, lest the engine, in its madness, smite us where we stand with its arms of ruin.'

Neyhus' eyes, a strange colour somewhere between black and gold, hardened at that. She used to think his distaste towards worshipping their ancestors was merely boredom caused by the rituals, something many children suffered from. But it was something deeper than that, worse, she feared. What would he do with the cult, he wondered, once he stepped to the forefront of the Clan?

'This again, mother?' he groaned more than asked. 'Not once in the history of our kindred have the dust piles you worship put their hands on the scales. If we are to die, we will die regardless of wasting time on our knees.'

'Knock on wood,' she replied tightly. 'Do not bait misfortune.'

Neyhus appeared to be on the verge of walking out of the room. Dhardyn, who'd been about to join her in prayer, looked torn, glancing between his wife and son as if he were at a paddle-ball match. Bramus, to his credit, didn't try to make things worse, something that tended to follow him opening his mouth.

'Your mother is not wrong,' Dhardyn added from the edge of the bed, flinching when Neyhus turned his glare on him. Unconvincingly clearing his throat, her love went on, 'T-Think about it, my boy.' His grin was sickly, but bless him, he was trying to help. She'd always respected that, despite his weakness. He was a good man, one who'd never looked down on her love for war, or the scars that had brought. 'If the priests are right, the virtuous will be welcomed into an eternal paradise by their forefathers. If they are not, then there is no loss in living virtuously, is there?'

'Keep your philosophies to yourself,' Neyhus said dismissively. 'I have not prayed for years, and have I been struck down?'

'Leave, then,' Mharaya said, hoping she did not sound as tired as she felt. 'Your father and I have matters to attend to, after we observe the-'

'Ah, yes.' Neyhus cut her off with a nasty smirk. Not looking at Dhardyn, he said, 'You have another man coming to try and give me a half-sibling, don't you, cuckold? Maybe if you had a cock instead of a paintbrush-'

Neyhus staggered back, holding a hand to his face. He tongued a couple loose teeth, tasting blood, and gave his mother a flat look. Crossing the room faster than he could react, not that he'd been expecting the punch, had taken more out of her than she was comfortable with giving, these days, and she was panting lightly, nostrils flaring. Her knuckles throbbed, and she thought one might have split.

Then, his head whipped towards his father, and he spat, a spurt of blood only missing the older man's lap by centimetres. Dhardyn scooted back, yelping, his spectacles almost falling off.

Neyhus cackled like a hyena, sticking his hands in the pockets of his leather breeches. 'Afraid it will snap and fall off, eh? I wouldn't worry about nothing, in your place.'

He was still laughing as he turned and left, Mhalvur following moments later, pulling up his brown hood, though not fast enough to hide his amusement. Mharaya, trying to shake off the memory of the venomous look her son had given her, looked at her husband with a calming smile. His breathing was still quick, though he was smoothing down his greying brown hair. It tended to stick up when he got scared, surprised or excited, something she'd discovered in the bedroom, to her great delight. 'Come on, darling. Forget him. I will make love to you tonight, I think, and we might call for a surrogate once you are spent, if there is still time.'

Dhardyn nodded distractedly, staring at the doorway. 'He hates me, Raya. He can't stand the sight of me. If I were more-'

"You are enough," she said gently but firmly, pushing him down and climbing onto the bed. 'And a thousand times the man he will ever be.'

If nothing else, they made great use of their last night together. In the last moments of her life, before cursing her son for one more time, Mharaya wondered if praying, as she'd planned to, instead of giving in to passion and seeking comfort, would have helped her.

* * *

Neyhus sat on his haunches, letting his viblade shake itself clean as the vibrating weapon's sensors noticed the conflict was over. It was a clever thing, the sword - cleverly-designed, that is, for Neyhus trusted no hunk of scrap that could think for itself: it could detect heat, motion, electricity, anything that would betray a concealed or invisible opponent. It could then reorient itself, "wielding" its holder, though it took training not to be tugged around by the shaking sword.

To his pleasure, he'd delivered the last strike to his mother, ending the hateful one bitch with a slash that made mist of half her torso. To his regret, he hadn't scored first blood...but this wasn't a fair world. The fact he didn't rule it was plenty proof.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Bramus rummaging through the remains of the thinking engine, like a rat through garbage, or a vulture through carrion. The old man's learning tablet had split into two, thinner mirrors of what he called its full version a while ago; one was held by Mhalvur himself, connected to Clockwork's core through a cable covered in hooks and barbs and shining protrusions like lamprey mouths. Form following function, he supposed.

The other tablet floated over the wreckage, held aloft by low-powered thrusters, recording everything of value. Together, Neyhus hoped, they could do what the humongous machine had achieved by itself. For Bramus' sake, he did not entertain the thought of failure. It would be tiring to properly torment his old friend before giving him death, but he would, lest incompetence in this moment taint the memory of their friendship.

Not that the scavenger needed to know that. Let him keep thinking Neyhus Othlan was a murderous dullard, same as his parents had. Let him start thinking he was pulling the strings, if he wanted. He wouldn't get to enjoy it for long.

Mhalvur paused in his muttering as a great slab of metal shifted above their heads, eyes flicking up. By chance, his gaze met Neyhus', before lingering on his sword hand for a few moments.

The Othlan heir - head, now, he reminded himself - buried his anger at the world once more. They did not live in a cosmos where a true man was given his due - yet. Letting his warrior's bearing betray his rage would only delay the birth of his dream.

'After combat,' Neyhus said, sitting up, 'it is not unheard of for a man's flesh to quiver in the grip of the strength he did not get the chance to unleash.' He smiled apologetically, showing his pity on Bramus, who'd only ever fought for survival, not for its own sake.

The old man nodded, meeting Neyhus' eyes once more. 'I am aware. I have been through it, myself, and have read that delayed fear and shock-'

'Only those who water the field of battle with their vitae have the right to write of such things,' the noble interrupted, 'and they would not speak of such illusions as fright. Snivelling men of letters overstep themselves. Pay them no mind.'

Bramus closed his mouth, gingerly stepping over the corpse of an Othlan household guard. His boot caught the edge of a blood puddle, making him stumble, but he caught himself. As if emboldened by the movement, the tablet in his hands let out a soft ping, calling its sibling back to it. Mhalvur smiled shakily and let go, the device's cable retreating into itself as it floated up to rejoin its other half.

'It is almost done,' he told Neyhus. 'Ordinarily, we would be finished by now, but such a great quantity of information would take time to be processed even without the corrupted data to sift through and remove.'

'Fascinating,' Neyhus said in a tone that indicated it was anything but. 'Is the damned thing going to fall onto our heads in the meantime?' He did not fear danger, but being crushed like cowering vermin was not the end a man deserved.

Bramus scratched the back of his head, before pulling his hood up. 'It shouldn't. Small parts might break off, but the Machinists built to last. If Grandfather Clockwork is going to collapse, it is going to happen long after we are gone. Days, at the least maybe weeks.'

'Will it take the mountain down with it?'

Mhalvur rubbed an elbow, as if it ached, and Neyhus wanted to spit. It was vile, how the body of a man betrayed him even if he knew his way around a fight. Aches with no source, sicknesses...such were the province of women, especially those bloated with the offspring of their betters.

Better than to be bloated with delusion, Neyhus thought, stepping over what was left of Mharaya. The further they got from the purity of providing meals and pleasure, of raring children, the more dangerous they became, to themselves and to the men they mistook themselves for.

Neyhus looked at his father's body, and a laugh built up in his barrel chest. Things were just as awful when men thought themselves women, or worse, eunuchs or some other laughable abomination. He'd heard some even lusted for other men, or no one at all, or wished for womanly bodies because their own, perfect for making war and providing, were not to their liking. At least one such creature had been laid low today.

The spray of toxic gases Clockwork had released from a hidden valve, in its confused panic, had left the sorry excuse for a man more than black and blue. Greens and yellows and more besides covered parts of the cadaver, as if it were one of the canvases Dhardyn had loved so much.

Neyhus would've had him tarred and lit on fire, showcasing his ironic mind and wit, but one couldn't have everything in an universe crawling with degenerates. At least none of the replacements the limp-shafted monkey had sought for himself had managed to get a child on Mharaya (not that the hag had found better luck in her searches), or thinking of him would've raised his choler again.

There were few dearer feelings to a man than his wrath, but it had its time and place. Soon enough, in the span of a man unaltered by the twisting of genes or the addition of gears and pistons, he would bear his fury freely, and no one eaten from inside by decadence would be left to condemn him.

'It might,' Bramus answered, pulling Neyhus away from his daydreams. The old man was rubbing his chin with two fingers as he glanced upwards, eyeing Clockwork's shards with a dubious look. 'This one didn't grow into the stone, like others of its kind might have - but it did hollow Ararat out, scooping out rock, carving tunnels...'

'Of course,' Neyhus scoffed, drawing the collector's eyes to him. At Mhalvur's surprised, questioning look (to his knowledge, the Othlan had never shown much interest in the history of thinking engines). 'It is only fitting that this vile contraption would eat way at all is solid and natural, and bursting with the earth's bounty.'

Bramus turned peevish at this. 'Would it bother you to appreciate the keys to your kingdom? This thing...diminished as it was, was still a marvel. Would you mock a dead soldier while their corpse was still cooling?'

'Ha!' Neyhus barked, making Bramus put a hand on his hip; his other held the tablet as he waited for elaboration. 'Had it been able to give proper battle, mayhap, but this crazed scrapheap remains the tool it always was. Not even an honest tool, like a sword.'

The part about it being crazed was true enough, the historian supposed. Grandfather Clockwork had catalogued all of its visitors as friends, and when they had fallen upon each other, it had lost its composure: hidden weapons were revealed and fired haphazardly, while robotic guardians fell on whoever they could get their claws on.

Neyhus had initially positioned himself behind his parents, ostensibly to show reverence and protect them from hidden killers if necessary, The two, who hadn't bought it for a moment, shortly had him placed at the front of their party, with their household guards between them and their son. Mhalvur had also been strongly advised to stand beside Neyhus.

Whether the then-heir of Clan Othlan had anticipated this, he'd definitely made good use of it. Dhardyn and Mharaya's attention had slid off him during the battle: Neyhus had crossed swords with the head guard mid-talks, then they had been swarmed by the babbling Clockwork's sentries. Neyhus had taken one down, after being dealt a wound, and had pretended to sob over Mhalvur's supine form as the old man faked injury. Then his mother, an arm mangled and blood streaming down her chest, had come too close, seeing a chance to end the scourge of their line, and...

Truthfully, Bramus had caught little of the swordfight. He'd sprung to his feet, before Clockwork, its shell unfolding, could make more war machines from itself or the mountain. The teaching device, ordinarily meant to freeze whatever software or hardware it pulled information from, had proven too invasive for the old machine, and had pushed it over the brink of existence, into wherever things like Clockwork faded when they could no longer sustain themselves.

Mhalvur found himself ambivalent about the...murder. Euthanasia? A...life, something like one, a great life gone sickly in its twilight, had been ended by his hand. He regretted being unable to preserve Clockwork - how much could he have learned from it, about the world as the engine saw it? -, but who knew what it would've done in its insane grief? Even assuming it didn't topple Ararat and raise an army from the rubble, it could've birthed a thousand other menaces.

And if witnessing a coup had pushed it over the end, then, clearly, the Othlan's golden goose, like their arrangement with it, was too fragile.

A shame.

Bramus sighed, weighing whether he should shelve the matter. 'Let us be off, in any case,' he murmured, though with the cavern's acoustics, he might as well have been shouting. 'Should my predictions prove wrong, we won't make it even if we sprint, but it's better to be safe than sorry.'

Neyhus shook his head, grinning, even as he swaggered over to the entrance. 'That's the problem with you men of letters: you waste so much of your lives pushing pens, you forget what life is really like. What's the point of worrying about things you can't change? No.' His eyes shone, the way they had when he'd revealed his plan to Mhalvur. 'Scurrying away like rats is not the solution here.'

After slowing down so the older man could catch up with him, he tapped the tablet with a thick, rough finger. 'This can make anything the machine knew, can't it?'

'It can teach people to make anything the engine knew,' Bramus corrected. 'Why? Surely you aren't intending to put it to work right here?'

Neyhus' expression was boyish as he shrugged. 'Why not? If you are wrong, we'll be crushed like insects, and that is no man's death. I say we try our luck.'

Luck... 'What about the guards outside?' Mhalvur asked, judging himself lucky they hadn't come looking already. Had no sign of the struggle been perceivable from the mountainside, or were they still on their way? Maybe negotiations with Clockwork usually took longer than this, so they weren't concerned?

'What, no longer sure the mountain is going to fall?' Neyhus asked, voice lazy, eyes lidded.

Bramus almost rolled his. 'Why do you not want to leave, anyway? What is left to do here? I have the data; they,' he waved a hand at the corpse-strewn floor, 'are gone.' Did he want to gloat? Of all the puerile...but then, how many warlord had he cozied up to who hadn't been man-children, at their core?

Neyhus put a heavy hand on Mhalvur's round shoulder, and the collector nearly yelped, knees buckling. 'Let me tell you of what is to come, old friend...'


* * *

The improvised power armour wasn't the worst thing Bramus had walked into potential danger wearing, but that really said more about his lack of fortune than its quality.

The teaching tablet's harness form was a brilliant engineer and metalsmith...but it wasn't magical, not like the artefacts of ages past that had torn the galaxy asunder. It could only work with what it had, not make something from nothing.

So it was that he and Neyhus staggered out of the tunnel wearing the scavenged shells of Clockwork's defenders; not truly power armour, if he was being honest, for they bore the weight of the exoskeletons instead of the suits supporting themselves. They did, could, enhance the wearer's strength, true enough, but only by the crude means of rocket boosters placed almost haphazardly over the armour, to lend more power to a punch or a counterforce when lifting.

The guards who'd stayed looked them up and down, skeptical. Neyhus lifted his visor, smiling through bloody teeth, and held up a hand as the guard commander began demanding an explanation. Neyhus obliged her, only to be met by growing disbelief as he regretfully described his parents' death at the hands of a contraption that had finally given in to its madness.

'You expect me to believe the lord and lady died, just like that, in a place with no witnesses?' the officer asked. 'In a battle you and the thief riding your coattails conveniently survived?'

'My lord,' Neyhus added softly, managing not to quiver in outrage. 'For I am nothing less than that now, woman.'

Her smile was bitter. 'My lord, everyone who knows you knows also of your disdain for those who brought you into the world and made you the man you are.'

'You know so much of me, yet you believe I would lead them to their deaths at the hands of another, like a coward?' the Clan head asked, sounding passably incredulous. 'Surely you jest. I do not scheme. When have I ever slain my enemies in any other way than while staring them in the eye, weapon in hand?'

Before the veteran warrioress could argue further, the mountain path they were on began cracking, shaking as it, and Ararat as a whole, began sinking towards the ground.

For the first time since he'd put the ugly thing on, Bramus was grateful for the exoskeleton's visor. He believed he had a good cards face, but betraying anything at this juncture would ensure his and Neyhus' death, more likely than note. And while the end of an useful pawn was nothing to weep over, he did very much want to stay alive.

The bomb Neyhus had convinced him to make - well, to program the tablet to make - had been a tricky thing to build on the spot: powerful enough to damage the mountain's insides and prompt a slow collapse, but not so destructive as to bring the thing down on their heads in moments. Sure, the exoskeleton's specs suggested they'd survive the rockfall, but Mhalvur had no interest in remaining buried under an avalanche until he died of thrist.

'And if the blast expands too slowly,' the Clan head had said, 'Ararat has always been prone to such rumblings. Why, it's likely what they passed the tin can's destruction as.'

'Landslide!' Neyhus called out, his bass made booming by his suit's speakers. 'Hold onto me!'

Leap made blurringly fast by the explosive power of his propellers, Neyhus seized as many Othlan troops as he could wrap his arm around, with the guard captain (perhaps to keep an eye on him, and a hand? It could give her a chance to kill him if her suspicions remained, provided she had a weapon powerful enough to overcome the armour...) wrapping hers around his neck. It was an awkward sight, no less than the one Bramus found himself dealing with heartbeats later, as he also fell into the role of the alert saviour.

Though the exoskeletons made him and Neyhus many times faster than a man, the "slow" collapse was only such when compared to Greater Ararat's size. If only Clockwork had been built into the smaller peak of the compound volcano...but there was no point carping about it now. They managed to avoid several falling boulders, the size of houses and greater, but right when they reached flat ground, and he and Neyhus threw their charges to safety as gently as they could, as they'd talked, the edge of the rockslide caught up to them.

Minutes later, Bramus was being peeled out of his armour by warily grateful guards, not having to fake his groans of pain at all. He'd be purple as a plum for a while, he wagered, but that was better than death.

Anything was.

Slurring his words a mite, Mhalvur explained that, while the landslide itself was over, the disturbed environment would remain quite dangerous for the foreseeable future, so it would be better to return to the Othlan's inner holdings.

The guards nodded, rolling shoulders and stretching legs; their uniforms might've protected them from a landing that would've pasted unarmoured folk, but they were still shaky. Better than crushed or trapped under the fall of boulders, though, as several of them mumbled. Likely, they were unused to thanking him and Neyhus.

The Othlan leader laughed roughly, telling his troops that this was nothing for a real soldier to worry about, that he and his faithful friend would be well in no time.

Perhaps I underestimated him, Bramus thought. Perhaps there is some cunning buried under that petty viciousness. The story about Dhardyn and Mharaya's deaths had been dog water (what else could Mhalvur have expected after having his suggestions ignored?), true, but the collapse plan, the armour, "sacrificing" themselves to get the soldiers to safety, thus being able to weave their plots and gain sympathy while convalescing...Neyhus might prove not to be stupid, in the end. Not so stupid, after all.

And what end do you seek, boy? Bramus thought. Wealth, women, the power to do as you wish, kill where you want, when you want? Is what you have not enough?

The last question was no condemnation; merely curiosity. Going against Neyhus would only gain him an enemy, if not a strangulation in their shared sickroom. Going along with him...all the treasures of the Milky Way, lost and known, would end up in his hands, where they belonged. Where he could keep them away from the ignorant and the uncaring, all who didn't or couldn't appreciate them.

Months later, a recovering Neyhus stood at a window of his growing palace's throne room, once the ancestral Othlan compound, gazing down at regiment after regiment of marching, power-armoured troopers with an almost fatherly smile. His troops.

Not men, for there were also women within the ranks, along with what the newly-crowned Emperor of Ararat called other sorts: those mutated or altered, genetically, cybernetically or metaphysically, often because the bodies they'd been born with had been unaligned with their minds. Bramus had no quarrel with such folks - their queer minds often produced unique works - but he had no desire to try his Emperor's patience either, friend and Chancellor or not.

Neyhus, Mhalvur reflected, could've recovered in less than a day, after setting up the necessary facilities with the tablet's guidance. But by remaining injured, he'd gained his people's admiration for his fortitude and (Bramus could've laughed) honesty, in the sense he didn't shy from admitting weakness.

'In the end,' the Emperor said, seemingly to himself, though he knew Mhalvur was listening, 'we will be rid of them.'

Bramus nodded absently, chin in hand as he studied a map of the Sol System. He knew what Neyhus meant: as soon as Old Earth, Sol Three as he called it, fell under his sway, all deviants would be done away with. Save for the extraordinarily useful, no women would have a place left in the army, lest they become like his superstitious sow of a mother, while those who loved and lived improperly (the latter category consisting of those who mutilated the proper human form and mind, the former of those who reminded Neyhus of his mild-mannered father, even if they were not drawn to the opposite gender; Bramus was somewhat mystified by the correlation there, but Neyhus often, loudly and heatedly explained how a proper man laid with his woman, or women, and set the pace of lovemaking. The historian supposed the Emperor had grown to dislike anything that deviated from the bond between man and wife, or wives, after learning of his father's tendencies to, ah, spectate) would have no place left in society at all, any more than the faithful did.

Neyhus, who often derided religion as an outdated, hobbling practice that held humanity back, like a coat they'd outgrown, had no problem making use of its trappings. Every day, work crews raised monuments to the Bloody Emperor, so named for blazing across the lands between Ararat, the Atlas Mountains and the Himalayas (soon to be flattened and processed so he could expand his palace). Meanwhile, a service of watchers, trained to detect and culled those who thought wrongly, passed between their fellows hidden in plain sight, with bribes in one hand and threats in the other, depending on how one had failed the Emperor or rebelled against him - a category of actions as broad as those of people Neyhus loathed.

The Bloody brought his hands together, turning to stride towards the table his regent was sitting at. His red cape fluttered as if it made its own wind, while his golden power armour caught the light and made of it a harsh radiance. A golden crown, tipped with crimson, held back Neyhus' dark mane and proclaimed his mastery of his expanding Empire, one he was already sure would stand forever.

'What say you, Chancellor? What then?'

"Then" being wherever after the purge at Little Ararat was done. The memorial made of its larger sibling, for the sake of appearances, irked the Emperor, Bramus knew,, but success demanded sacrifices, and the monument to his parents and their soldiers was planned to be toppled during the mass executions, so he would endure.

'Mars,' Mhalvur replied, placing a finger above the image of the Red Planet. 'With them behind us, the Jovian moons will follow, if only for plenty's sake. The void knows the fractious bastards have never backed down from a war they'd lose.' He huffed. 'I've heard legends of Neptune, too, my Emperor...but we have time.'

Time, he thought, they would need more of. Youth serums were good and all, as were shackled biokinetics, but Mhalvur wished, not for the first time, that bigoted little dullard he'd found himself allied with would be a bit more openminded about transhumanism, if the was already so hypocritical. He didn't want to keep taking time out of his day for immortality checkups, and not only because they'd cut, he was sure, into the time he'd need to order the assassins to silence those who whispered of their Chancellor and Emperor's unending vitality. Dead gods, the skulking bastards already had their hands full scouring the world for psychics and mages and whatever failed, useful experiments remained from the Workers' War.

"For only under the Eternal Empire's yoke can their vile talents be put to good, proper use."

Bramus wondered how many people did not care about the ideological contradictions as long as they got homes and meals and the little pleasures idiots needed to make it through the day.

He scratched at the scruff of his beard. Likely, those who chafed under the mandatory service in the armies and the demands they keep track of suspicious acquaintances found reasons to complain there, too.

They were lucky Old Earth was such a dump most of the chaff would do anything to be lifted up from the irradiated wastelands they'd been left in, since the last time the world broke.

* * *

AN: The next two parts of this arc are going to cover the (highlights of the) Eternal Empire's First Age expansion and fall. This will tie in to the story of DEATH's Third Keeper, which will cover the subsequent Ages alongside Arvhek's.