Shadowfist fiction - Two Fisted Tales: The Beginning
TFT was in several ways, the most ambitious set we did.
We decided to shake the game world up, so not only did we open a new juncture into the pulp era, but we decided to make it matter. Over the course of the year(?) leading into the set's release, we were going to track the results of tournaments, including local Proving Ground leagues, and track the faction of the winners. (Everybody who joined the game's tournament organization would choose a faction and subfaction to be affiliated with. For instance, I'm a Lotus Demon.) Whichever faction backed the most tournament winners would control the pulp juncture, rewriting history in the modern and future junctures.
We actually worked out the general way that things would change for most of the possible wins, though Dave and I never did come to agreement about some of them.
The TFT story itself was also going to be huge, but more on that later.
An interesting thing about the pulp juncture was how it affected the Purists. They'd always been a bit of an awkward fit into the game's stated genre (really, so were the Architects and Jammers, though the latter were somehow helped by all the monkey puns), but sinister masked sorcerers who know mystical secrets that drive them mad? Yeah, that's pretty pulp.
Athena leafed through the pages of her brother's report. There was no question that the Purists were in the middle of a major operation, yet there were no signs of unusual activity in the junctures, nor in the Netherworld itself.
Had they opened a private juncture? Not impossible - there was evidence it had been done accidentally by others in the recent past. But to what era, and how to gain access to the portal?
A sketch caught her eye. He had seen some odd clothing in passing, and she examined what he had drawn. It would be out of place in any of the open junctures, but it suggested a time, and the time suggested a plan.
She called over her youngest brother, and showed him the data. His conclusions matched hers, and he could see no flaws in her plan. One of them might not be enough, but no more could be spared.
As he took one of the growth tanks off-line and began making the necessary modifications, she sought out their father in the depths of the lab. While permission was not required, he was still their father, and he was still the Prophet, so it was best to observe the formalities.
Hong Kong, September 2064
Rhys Engel stepped away from his creation and let his gaze fall upon it. It was a thing of angles and shadows, of madness and paralyzing terror. The sight both pleased and frightened him. It was not yet complete; he knew it was important that he complete it, but the reasons no longer made sense.
A stellated object floating near his shoulder caught his attention. Though it made no sound, he knew it was speaking to him. He listened. The Paradox Cube opened.
He reached inside it, and caught hold of a tenuous thread of rational thought. He recognized it as his own, and pulled. Reason flooded back into his mind, and the madness he had been crafting faded away.
He returned his gaze to the spirit he had constructed. It was already becoming aware of its surroundings, but it was still a lesser construct, lacking the final spark.
Again, he reached into the Paradox Cube. This time, he pulled forth what remained of the soul of his former teacher. He had captured the man's soul after his death and tortured it until it was little more than a seething mass of madness, fear, and hate.
The newly-made spirit reached out toward the soul and eagerly devoured it. Rhys watched as it grew stronger, as the soul's emotions fused with the spirit's nature. He smiled. This was one of his greatest creations. Normally, he would give his new creation a name, but this one refused to be named.
Rhys Engel left his workshop. It had been days since he had eaten, bathed, or slept, but those would wait. He strode to a window and looked out on the city of Hong Kong. It was a quiet day. In the past months, the city's population had returned to their lives as best they could. If they appreciated that the yoke of the Buro's rule had been lifted, they gave no sign. They feared what they did not understand, and there was little they understood less than they did the Nexus Tower and its inhabitants.
Rhys reached out with his mind through the lens of his Paradox Cube, seeking a specific mind. His thoughts brushed lightly over the minds of the city around him, but they were unimportant to him.
He did not find the one he sought, but something in the sea of thought caught his attention. He focused on it.
An assassin. The man's thoughts were calm as he aimed a sniper rifle. He was no fool - he was using a twentieth-century gunpowder weapon, rather than the now-unreliable weapons of the Buro and the CDCA.
As the assassin finished aiming, Rhys met his gaze, despite the distance. He idly wondered if the man had the will to kill someone while looking them in the eye. He smiled.
Rhys felt the assassin's fear, and then his confusion. He knew that Rhys could not possibly see him. He did not understand what was happening.
Rhys gave him understanding. As the assassin's mind collapsed under the truths he was receiving, Rhys stepped away from the window.
After a moment, he returned to the window. Now it looked upon the slopes of Mount Makarakomburu and the jungle around it. This time, he made contact with the one he sought.
Perhaps half an hour later, Rhys waited at the tower's doorway as a man emerged from the jungle. He was tall and wiry, his skin dark brown and his hair grey. Three Paradox Cubes orbited him as he walked. Despite the heat, he wore a robe and cape, but he was not sweating. Once, he had had a name. But names have power, and he did not wish to be subject to that power. Now, he was known only as Primus.
From the Journals of Dunwa Saleem
September 18, 2003
Until now, I never really knew what fear was. Everything I've worked so many years to achieve could be destroyed in a matter of days.
I knew that eventually my children would join the Secret War. But they are so few, and every hand will be turned against them. I cannot even tell them to wait a few years, to increase their numbers. Barely one cell culture in ten survives to physical maturity. Just doubling their numbers would take years at this pace. And the Secret War is fought with armies, with vast organizations struggling over feng shui sites.
Still, if a few rag-tag Dragons can be thorns in the side of the Lodge and the Buro for so long, perhaps the Reascension can be more than the dreams of an old fool....
The Solomon Islands, September 2064
The two old friends embraced briefly before returning to the Tower. As they walked its twisting passageways, they talked.
"How are we faring on the other side of the portal?"
"Our organization is growing. Slowly, but steadily. Recruiting is much easier there than it was for us. There's no indication that the masters of the juncture suspect a thing. I don't think I'll need to go back to supervise for some time."
"Excellent. I'll tell my assistants to start dumping the paperwork in your lap for a change."
Primus chuckled. "The price of victory. And even now, there's less of it than there was in the CDCA."
"True enough. How is the portal itself?"
"It's stable for now. Kallisti's happy with her new toy, so all is well."
"Until she breaks him. How long did she sulk after killing the last one?"
"Too long. Still, things don't need our supervision as much any more, and he looks sturdy enough to last some time. Have you met him? Big, red hair, none too bright, looks strong enough to break most of our soldiers in half?"
"In passing. Though he didn't seem unintelligent, just very quiet. I do not think I trust him."
"Do you trust anyone?"
Rhys smiled. "Of course not."
"You could always probe his mind if you think he's a spy."
"His mind is closed. It could be natural, but more likely she took him through the Netherworld while bringing him here. If only she were more careful...."
"Ask chaos to be careful? You may as well ask water to not be wet. You know she was a poor choice for such an important role."
"Perhaps, but how many of us can handle the energies involved with anything like that much ease? Besides, it was her idea in the first place. Speaking of which, she's come up with another idea. If it works, it could save us enormous time."
"And if not?"
"We waste a few days, mostly in trying to comprehend her notes." He opened a door. "I've finished the construct you were asking for. I think it's my best work to date."
The two men entered the room, where the thing of madness waited for them.
From the Journals of Dunwa Saleem
September 20, 2003
Athena's plan worked perfectly. The transmitter allowed us to locate the Purists' secret portal, and my feeble abilities at shaping the stuff of the Netherworld were sufficient to make a passageway to it.
She sees so much with so little to work from, and is always so many steps ahead of everybody else. I cannot even imagine what she will be like with a few years of experience. I should feel pride, and I do, but sometimes she terrifies me.
I watched almost all of my children slip through the portal, then I made my retreat, sealing the passage I had shaped behind me. Nobody saw us; the Purists still think they have this new juncture to themselves. Soon, Jormungandr will destroy their only portal, and my children will have free reign.
The Reascension cannot be stopped. Even if they should fall this time, there will be more. And more. We are a wave, slowly building in strength until it washes away everything in its path. While there is breath in my body, I will continue my work.
Perhaps it is time to make another attempt with the Draco cultures.
Hong Kong, December 2064
Jormungandr examined the naked woman. She was unconscious, her breathing shallow. His blow had almost certainly given her a concussion, and the injury might well kill her. No matter.
As he pulled on his clothes, he heard a high-pitched whine, and one of Kallisti's ubiquitous chaos spirits floated into the room. It seemed agitated, its movements more erratic than normal. It probably knew something was wrong with its mistress, but he doubted it was smart enough to understand what.
It settled briefly on a table, and he struck. It struggled in his hand as he crushed it. Its death throes burned his hand, but the injury was not severe, and the damaged skin would replace itself soon enough.
He slipped out of the door. It was the middle of the night, and few of the Purists or their constructs were around, but he was as careful as he would have been were it noon. His footsteps made no sound as he slipped from shadow to shadow.
His departure from the tower would be the hardest part. There was only one exit, and it only sometimes opened upon the correct place.
It was also guarded, but as he approached, he noted that one of them was leaning against a wall, asleep. The other was awake, but hardly alert. He noticed nothing as Jormungandr moved behind him, until one hand suddenly covered his mouth and nose, and an arm wrapped itself around his neck. The guard barely even struggled as the pressure on his carotid arteries rendered him unconscious, then dead.
The sleeping guard's breathing never changed its rhythm. Jormungandr arranged the body so it too appeared to be sleeping, and slipped out into Hong Kong.
The Tower was surrounded by an open plaza. There was no way he could avoid being seen as he crossed it. If anyone in the Tower saw him, he could not say, and if anybody in the surrounding streets saw him exit the Tower, they avoided him. Anyone who might wonder why had only to look at the stones of the plaza, at the petrified screaming faces that had been embedded in them since a riot there a few months before.
Once he had left the immediate vicinity of the Nexus Tower, obvious signs of the Purists' presence were rare. He heard an occasional explosion in the distance, perhaps the work of an uncontrolled chaos spirit. A few times, he saw the residue of a failed magical experiment. Most were easily ignored.
A woman, or the image of one, faded into existence before him. She was translucent, and faded in and out of existence as she screamed and wept. She made no sound, but he could read her lips as she begged for him to help her or to kill her. But he could not even touch her, so he continued on his way.
Many buildings were empty, damaged by rogue spirits or failures of old technology, or simply abandoned by their inhabitants. Signs of life increased as he moved further away from the Tower, but the city was clearly dying of fear and neglect.
His destination took approximately twenty minutes of rapid walking to reach. He was sure that the Purists would rather it were closer, but, no doubt much to their chagrin, entrances to the Netherworld still did not ask the Purists where to open.
The building looked no different from the others around it, but he had followed a few of the Purists' agents here once before, and he had no doubts it was the correct place.
The door did not seem to be locked, but would not open. The windows were also sealed, and would not break. The door proved equally indestructible, and the walls were out of the question. He paused for thought. His only chance was carelessness. The door was magically protected, but what about the frame?
His guess proved correct; the frame soon began to give way, and eventually it ripped from its moorings and crashed to the ground.
Jormungandr knew he had wasted too much time. The guard would be discovered eventually. He hurled himself down the steps to the building's basement, and raced through the portal on the far wall. He felt the temperature drop suddenly, and saw the light change.
By the strange, diffuse, light, and the dusty grey walls and floor, he knew he was in the Netherworld. He had learned that the Purists had isolated their portal from the rest of the Netherworld, so he simply had to follow the tunnel he was in until he found it. If there were traps or sentries, he would deal with them as he ran.
Soon enough, the tunnel opened out into a small cavern. The portal stood in the center, surrounded by a frame of gold wire, braided in a seemingly-impossible manner. On the ground by the portal sat a small wooden box. Inscribed on its surface in cold fire were runes from no human language.
The box was as good a place as any to start. He smashed it into kindling with his foot. The runes vanished. If there was anything in the box, its remains were indistinguishable from those of the box itself.
Somebody behind Jormungandr spoke.
"No, that's just a focus."
Jormungandr turned and dived to the side in one motion. A crackling sphere of colored light flashed through the air where he had been standing. Sparks scattered from the portal's frame where the sphere struck it, but it seemed to be unharmed.
Jormungandr's dive turned into a roll toward his assailant, and he came to his feet and struck in one motion. As he did, he noted his foe's appearance. Primus. Strangely, the Paradox Cubes that followed him everywhere were absent. Jormungandr did not know if that was a good sign, or a bad one.
As he wondered, he completed his strike, his hand connecting with Primus' throat. Instead of flesh, he made contact with something hard and smooth. Its texture was odd, neither metal nor plastic. Perhaps some kind of ceramic.
Primus vanished. A Paradox Cube bounced off the far wall. It wobbled slightly in the air, then retreated into the shadows.
"Interesting." Four copies of Primus emerged from the shadows and moved to surround him. Jormungandr noticed that they were keeping their distance this time. He could not tell which, if any, was the actual man. Sound, scent, and body temperature were all identical.
Primus continued to speak. Jormungandr heard only one voice, but could not determine the direction it was coming from.
"You're much faster than a normal human, and probably stronger, if that door's any indication. You can't be a cyborg or one of the Buro's supersoldiers; the devices in you would have failed and killed you months ago."
Four bolts of fire streaked in at Jormungandr from different directions. He dived to the ground, but the bolts dived with him, and he barely managed to roll out of the way, suffering only minor burns to his arm. He came smoothly to his feet, but none of the images of Primus were close enough for him to strike.
"Some transformed animals can stand high levels of magic for months without reverting, but contact with a Paradox Cube would have been too much after all this time."
Jormungandr didn't see the next attack coming; he dived forward purely on instinct. As he did, he felt an intense cold behind him, and air rushed past him to fill the space he had left. This time, his strike was not evaded, but it passed through the chest of an image. He turned his blow upwards, hoping to catch a Paradox Cube, but it danced out of the way. Soon afterward, it once again became an image of its master.
"A sorcerous construct or supernatural creature would have been obvious, so that leaves martial arts. However, your movements are too raw, too untrained. You're relying on natural talent rather than years of rigorous training. An interesting conundrum. Rhys will want to take a good look at you."
Two glowing rings appeared around Jormungandr, one at his knees, one around his upper torso. There was little room for him to move without touching them, but there was enough. Jormungandr was far more flexible than a mere human.
Ducking and leaping at the same time, he slipped between the rings, and hit the ground rolling. This time, he didn't attempt to strike Primus, but charged for the portal. He slid behind it to give himself a little cover from Primus' attacks, then he grabbed the frame and pulled.
The wires cut into his hands, but soon gave way. The entire frame tore itself apart in a brilliant shower of sparks, dazzling him.
Instantly, he dived backwards, rolling and dodging in an attempt to avoid the attacks that would come. As far as he could tell, they did not. Soon, his vision recovered.
The portal still stood. The devices that created it were no more, and it hadn't even noticed. He barely even paid attention to anything else until Primus began laughing.
"You really don't understand, do you? All this effort, and for nothing. What made the portal isn't important. Who made it is all that matters. Kallisti is the gate. Kallisti is the key. You would have to kill her to close the portal, and you would have to destroy her soul to stop us from reopening it. And you are unlikely to do either. I am tired of playing games."
Kallisti stirred uneasily. Her head hurt, and her thoughts were muted and confused, as if her mind were buried in a thick fog. As she struggled to clear her mind, she began to perceive an enormous amount of power flowing through it. She was holding it in check, but it was in the way. She released it without a second thought.
As her thoughts cleared, she realized what she had just done.
Kallisti began to laugh. This would be entertaining.
Jormungandr sidestepped another bolt of fire and struck again. Another illusion. One of the Paradox Cubes lay shattered on the ground, but he could not land a blow on the real Primus. One of his legs was badly burned, and blood flowed from a number of small injuries. He was losing. The only reason he was still alive was that Primus didn't want to kill him.
The portal was no escape. He could dive through it, and Primus would be a fool to follow, but that would alert the Purists in this new juncture, and his siblings might be discovered. He could reach the cavern's mouth, but in the confined space of the tunnel, he had little hope of avoiding Primus' assaults. No, he would fight here, and if he could not win, he must make certain that Primus killed him. He could not risk the Purists learning what he knew.
He lunged towards one of the images of Primus. As soon as the old man began to react, Jormungandr reversed his momentum, forcing himself into a spinning leap backwards at the Primus that had circled behind him. He felt ligaments snap in his injured leg as he did so. He also felt his other heel strike flesh, and heard the crack of breaking bones.
Jormungandr forced himself to his feet, forced his leg to function despite the pain. There was only one Primus now, leaning against the cavern wall. The Paradox Cubes hovered protectively in front of their master.
Their eyes met. Both knew it was time to end this. Jormungandr tensed his good leg to spring. Primus straightened, drew a ragged breath, and spat out some blood. The Paradox Cubes began to glow.
Before either could act, the ground began to shake. Jormungandr crashed to the ground. Primus clawed at the wall to keep his footing. A deep, low moan shook their bones, almost as if the Netherworld itself was in pain.
The edges of the portal flared with light. As the spots faded from his eyes, Primus looked for his mysterious foe. The man was gone. The Paradox Cubes assured him that he had fled through the tunnel, not through the portal.
Primus didn't think he could catch him. He wasn't even certain he wanted to. He was far more concerned with what had happened to the Netherworld. If he was correct about its meaning, he and Rhys had much to do, and little time in which to do it.
The lost and forgotten of the Netherworld huddled in their makeshift homes as the Netherworld shook and moaned. They did not know what was happening, and they were afraid. Some of those who had lived there a very long time did remember what it meant, and they were even more afraid....
Ming I raised the obsidian knife high above the latest sacrifice. As she brought it down, the Darkness Pagoda began to shake. She missed the victim's heart, and the blade shattered as it struck the stone altar.
As the shaking subsided, the botched ritual was the furthest thing from her mind. Long ago, she had ignored a similar occurrence, and she continued to pay for it to this day. Now, it would be somebody else's turn to fall.
The Queen of the Ice Pagoda and her new husband sat upright in their bed. He turned to her, and she read the question in his eyes. "Go," she whispered.
As the shaking subsided and bits of junk stopped raining from the ceiling, the Prof crawled out from beneath her worktable and began cursing. This wasn't a good time. The Dragons were too few and too dispersed to be able to react properly. But then, had there ever been a good time for a new juncture to open?
We decided to shake the game world up, so not only did we open a new juncture into the pulp era, but we decided to make it matter. Over the course of the year(?) leading into the set's release, we were going to track the results of tournaments, including local Proving Ground leagues, and track the faction of the winners. (Everybody who joined the game's tournament organization would choose a faction and subfaction to be affiliated with. For instance, I'm a Lotus Demon.) Whichever faction backed the most tournament winners would control the pulp juncture, rewriting history in the modern and future junctures.
We actually worked out the general way that things would change for most of the possible wins, though Dave and I never did come to agreement about some of them.
The TFT story itself was also going to be huge, but more on that later.
An interesting thing about the pulp juncture was how it affected the Purists. They'd always been a bit of an awkward fit into the game's stated genre (really, so were the Architects and Jammers, though the latter were somehow helped by all the monkey puns), but sinister masked sorcerers who know mystical secrets that drive them mad? Yeah, that's pretty pulp.
Athena leafed through the pages of her brother's report. There was no question that the Purists were in the middle of a major operation, yet there were no signs of unusual activity in the junctures, nor in the Netherworld itself.
Had they opened a private juncture? Not impossible - there was evidence it had been done accidentally by others in the recent past. But to what era, and how to gain access to the portal?
A sketch caught her eye. He had seen some odd clothing in passing, and she examined what he had drawn. It would be out of place in any of the open junctures, but it suggested a time, and the time suggested a plan.
She called over her youngest brother, and showed him the data. His conclusions matched hers, and he could see no flaws in her plan. One of them might not be enough, but no more could be spared.
As he took one of the growth tanks off-line and began making the necessary modifications, she sought out their father in the depths of the lab. While permission was not required, he was still their father, and he was still the Prophet, so it was best to observe the formalities.
Hong Kong, September 2064
Rhys Engel stepped away from his creation and let his gaze fall upon it. It was a thing of angles and shadows, of madness and paralyzing terror. The sight both pleased and frightened him. It was not yet complete; he knew it was important that he complete it, but the reasons no longer made sense.
A stellated object floating near his shoulder caught his attention. Though it made no sound, he knew it was speaking to him. He listened. The Paradox Cube opened.
He reached inside it, and caught hold of a tenuous thread of rational thought. He recognized it as his own, and pulled. Reason flooded back into his mind, and the madness he had been crafting faded away.
He returned his gaze to the spirit he had constructed. It was already becoming aware of its surroundings, but it was still a lesser construct, lacking the final spark.
Again, he reached into the Paradox Cube. This time, he pulled forth what remained of the soul of his former teacher. He had captured the man's soul after his death and tortured it until it was little more than a seething mass of madness, fear, and hate.
The newly-made spirit reached out toward the soul and eagerly devoured it. Rhys watched as it grew stronger, as the soul's emotions fused with the spirit's nature. He smiled. This was one of his greatest creations. Normally, he would give his new creation a name, but this one refused to be named.
Rhys Engel left his workshop. It had been days since he had eaten, bathed, or slept, but those would wait. He strode to a window and looked out on the city of Hong Kong. It was a quiet day. In the past months, the city's population had returned to their lives as best they could. If they appreciated that the yoke of the Buro's rule had been lifted, they gave no sign. They feared what they did not understand, and there was little they understood less than they did the Nexus Tower and its inhabitants.
Rhys reached out with his mind through the lens of his Paradox Cube, seeking a specific mind. His thoughts brushed lightly over the minds of the city around him, but they were unimportant to him.
He did not find the one he sought, but something in the sea of thought caught his attention. He focused on it.
An assassin. The man's thoughts were calm as he aimed a sniper rifle. He was no fool - he was using a twentieth-century gunpowder weapon, rather than the now-unreliable weapons of the Buro and the CDCA.
As the assassin finished aiming, Rhys met his gaze, despite the distance. He idly wondered if the man had the will to kill someone while looking them in the eye. He smiled.
Rhys felt the assassin's fear, and then his confusion. He knew that Rhys could not possibly see him. He did not understand what was happening.
Rhys gave him understanding. As the assassin's mind collapsed under the truths he was receiving, Rhys stepped away from the window.
After a moment, he returned to the window. Now it looked upon the slopes of Mount Makarakomburu and the jungle around it. This time, he made contact with the one he sought.
Perhaps half an hour later, Rhys waited at the tower's doorway as a man emerged from the jungle. He was tall and wiry, his skin dark brown and his hair grey. Three Paradox Cubes orbited him as he walked. Despite the heat, he wore a robe and cape, but he was not sweating. Once, he had had a name. But names have power, and he did not wish to be subject to that power. Now, he was known only as Primus.
From the Journals of Dunwa Saleem
September 18, 2003
Until now, I never really knew what fear was. Everything I've worked so many years to achieve could be destroyed in a matter of days.
I knew that eventually my children would join the Secret War. But they are so few, and every hand will be turned against them. I cannot even tell them to wait a few years, to increase their numbers. Barely one cell culture in ten survives to physical maturity. Just doubling their numbers would take years at this pace. And the Secret War is fought with armies, with vast organizations struggling over feng shui sites.
Still, if a few rag-tag Dragons can be thorns in the side of the Lodge and the Buro for so long, perhaps the Reascension can be more than the dreams of an old fool....
The Solomon Islands, September 2064
The two old friends embraced briefly before returning to the Tower. As they walked its twisting passageways, they talked.
"How are we faring on the other side of the portal?"
"Our organization is growing. Slowly, but steadily. Recruiting is much easier there than it was for us. There's no indication that the masters of the juncture suspect a thing. I don't think I'll need to go back to supervise for some time."
"Excellent. I'll tell my assistants to start dumping the paperwork in your lap for a change."
Primus chuckled. "The price of victory. And even now, there's less of it than there was in the CDCA."
"True enough. How is the portal itself?"
"It's stable for now. Kallisti's happy with her new toy, so all is well."
"Until she breaks him. How long did she sulk after killing the last one?"
"Too long. Still, things don't need our supervision as much any more, and he looks sturdy enough to last some time. Have you met him? Big, red hair, none too bright, looks strong enough to break most of our soldiers in half?"
"In passing. Though he didn't seem unintelligent, just very quiet. I do not think I trust him."
"Do you trust anyone?"
Rhys smiled. "Of course not."
"You could always probe his mind if you think he's a spy."
"His mind is closed. It could be natural, but more likely she took him through the Netherworld while bringing him here. If only she were more careful...."
"Ask chaos to be careful? You may as well ask water to not be wet. You know she was a poor choice for such an important role."
"Perhaps, but how many of us can handle the energies involved with anything like that much ease? Besides, it was her idea in the first place. Speaking of which, she's come up with another idea. If it works, it could save us enormous time."
"And if not?"
"We waste a few days, mostly in trying to comprehend her notes." He opened a door. "I've finished the construct you were asking for. I think it's my best work to date."
The two men entered the room, where the thing of madness waited for them.
From the Journals of Dunwa Saleem
September 20, 2003
Athena's plan worked perfectly. The transmitter allowed us to locate the Purists' secret portal, and my feeble abilities at shaping the stuff of the Netherworld were sufficient to make a passageway to it.
She sees so much with so little to work from, and is always so many steps ahead of everybody else. I cannot even imagine what she will be like with a few years of experience. I should feel pride, and I do, but sometimes she terrifies me.
I watched almost all of my children slip through the portal, then I made my retreat, sealing the passage I had shaped behind me. Nobody saw us; the Purists still think they have this new juncture to themselves. Soon, Jormungandr will destroy their only portal, and my children will have free reign.
The Reascension cannot be stopped. Even if they should fall this time, there will be more. And more. We are a wave, slowly building in strength until it washes away everything in its path. While there is breath in my body, I will continue my work.
Perhaps it is time to make another attempt with the Draco cultures.
Hong Kong, December 2064
Jormungandr examined the naked woman. She was unconscious, her breathing shallow. His blow had almost certainly given her a concussion, and the injury might well kill her. No matter.
As he pulled on his clothes, he heard a high-pitched whine, and one of Kallisti's ubiquitous chaos spirits floated into the room. It seemed agitated, its movements more erratic than normal. It probably knew something was wrong with its mistress, but he doubted it was smart enough to understand what.
It settled briefly on a table, and he struck. It struggled in his hand as he crushed it. Its death throes burned his hand, but the injury was not severe, and the damaged skin would replace itself soon enough.
He slipped out of the door. It was the middle of the night, and few of the Purists or their constructs were around, but he was as careful as he would have been were it noon. His footsteps made no sound as he slipped from shadow to shadow.
His departure from the tower would be the hardest part. There was only one exit, and it only sometimes opened upon the correct place.
It was also guarded, but as he approached, he noted that one of them was leaning against a wall, asleep. The other was awake, but hardly alert. He noticed nothing as Jormungandr moved behind him, until one hand suddenly covered his mouth and nose, and an arm wrapped itself around his neck. The guard barely even struggled as the pressure on his carotid arteries rendered him unconscious, then dead.
The sleeping guard's breathing never changed its rhythm. Jormungandr arranged the body so it too appeared to be sleeping, and slipped out into Hong Kong.
The Tower was surrounded by an open plaza. There was no way he could avoid being seen as he crossed it. If anyone in the Tower saw him, he could not say, and if anybody in the surrounding streets saw him exit the Tower, they avoided him. Anyone who might wonder why had only to look at the stones of the plaza, at the petrified screaming faces that had been embedded in them since a riot there a few months before.
Once he had left the immediate vicinity of the Nexus Tower, obvious signs of the Purists' presence were rare. He heard an occasional explosion in the distance, perhaps the work of an uncontrolled chaos spirit. A few times, he saw the residue of a failed magical experiment. Most were easily ignored.
A woman, or the image of one, faded into existence before him. She was translucent, and faded in and out of existence as she screamed and wept. She made no sound, but he could read her lips as she begged for him to help her or to kill her. But he could not even touch her, so he continued on his way.
Many buildings were empty, damaged by rogue spirits or failures of old technology, or simply abandoned by their inhabitants. Signs of life increased as he moved further away from the Tower, but the city was clearly dying of fear and neglect.
His destination took approximately twenty minutes of rapid walking to reach. He was sure that the Purists would rather it were closer, but, no doubt much to their chagrin, entrances to the Netherworld still did not ask the Purists where to open.
The building looked no different from the others around it, but he had followed a few of the Purists' agents here once before, and he had no doubts it was the correct place.
The door did not seem to be locked, but would not open. The windows were also sealed, and would not break. The door proved equally indestructible, and the walls were out of the question. He paused for thought. His only chance was carelessness. The door was magically protected, but what about the frame?
His guess proved correct; the frame soon began to give way, and eventually it ripped from its moorings and crashed to the ground.
Jormungandr knew he had wasted too much time. The guard would be discovered eventually. He hurled himself down the steps to the building's basement, and raced through the portal on the far wall. He felt the temperature drop suddenly, and saw the light change.
By the strange, diffuse, light, and the dusty grey walls and floor, he knew he was in the Netherworld. He had learned that the Purists had isolated their portal from the rest of the Netherworld, so he simply had to follow the tunnel he was in until he found it. If there were traps or sentries, he would deal with them as he ran.
Soon enough, the tunnel opened out into a small cavern. The portal stood in the center, surrounded by a frame of gold wire, braided in a seemingly-impossible manner. On the ground by the portal sat a small wooden box. Inscribed on its surface in cold fire were runes from no human language.
The box was as good a place as any to start. He smashed it into kindling with his foot. The runes vanished. If there was anything in the box, its remains were indistinguishable from those of the box itself.
Somebody behind Jormungandr spoke.
"No, that's just a focus."
Jormungandr turned and dived to the side in one motion. A crackling sphere of colored light flashed through the air where he had been standing. Sparks scattered from the portal's frame where the sphere struck it, but it seemed to be unharmed.
Jormungandr's dive turned into a roll toward his assailant, and he came to his feet and struck in one motion. As he did, he noted his foe's appearance. Primus. Strangely, the Paradox Cubes that followed him everywhere were absent. Jormungandr did not know if that was a good sign, or a bad one.
As he wondered, he completed his strike, his hand connecting with Primus' throat. Instead of flesh, he made contact with something hard and smooth. Its texture was odd, neither metal nor plastic. Perhaps some kind of ceramic.
Primus vanished. A Paradox Cube bounced off the far wall. It wobbled slightly in the air, then retreated into the shadows.
"Interesting." Four copies of Primus emerged from the shadows and moved to surround him. Jormungandr noticed that they were keeping their distance this time. He could not tell which, if any, was the actual man. Sound, scent, and body temperature were all identical.
Primus continued to speak. Jormungandr heard only one voice, but could not determine the direction it was coming from.
"You're much faster than a normal human, and probably stronger, if that door's any indication. You can't be a cyborg or one of the Buro's supersoldiers; the devices in you would have failed and killed you months ago."
Four bolts of fire streaked in at Jormungandr from different directions. He dived to the ground, but the bolts dived with him, and he barely managed to roll out of the way, suffering only minor burns to his arm. He came smoothly to his feet, but none of the images of Primus were close enough for him to strike.
"Some transformed animals can stand high levels of magic for months without reverting, but contact with a Paradox Cube would have been too much after all this time."
Jormungandr didn't see the next attack coming; he dived forward purely on instinct. As he did, he felt an intense cold behind him, and air rushed past him to fill the space he had left. This time, his strike was not evaded, but it passed through the chest of an image. He turned his blow upwards, hoping to catch a Paradox Cube, but it danced out of the way. Soon afterward, it once again became an image of its master.
"A sorcerous construct or supernatural creature would have been obvious, so that leaves martial arts. However, your movements are too raw, too untrained. You're relying on natural talent rather than years of rigorous training. An interesting conundrum. Rhys will want to take a good look at you."
Two glowing rings appeared around Jormungandr, one at his knees, one around his upper torso. There was little room for him to move without touching them, but there was enough. Jormungandr was far more flexible than a mere human.
Ducking and leaping at the same time, he slipped between the rings, and hit the ground rolling. This time, he didn't attempt to strike Primus, but charged for the portal. He slid behind it to give himself a little cover from Primus' attacks, then he grabbed the frame and pulled.
The wires cut into his hands, but soon gave way. The entire frame tore itself apart in a brilliant shower of sparks, dazzling him.
Instantly, he dived backwards, rolling and dodging in an attempt to avoid the attacks that would come. As far as he could tell, they did not. Soon, his vision recovered.
The portal still stood. The devices that created it were no more, and it hadn't even noticed. He barely even paid attention to anything else until Primus began laughing.
"You really don't understand, do you? All this effort, and for nothing. What made the portal isn't important. Who made it is all that matters. Kallisti is the gate. Kallisti is the key. You would have to kill her to close the portal, and you would have to destroy her soul to stop us from reopening it. And you are unlikely to do either. I am tired of playing games."
Kallisti stirred uneasily. Her head hurt, and her thoughts were muted and confused, as if her mind were buried in a thick fog. As she struggled to clear her mind, she began to perceive an enormous amount of power flowing through it. She was holding it in check, but it was in the way. She released it without a second thought.
As her thoughts cleared, she realized what she had just done.
Kallisti began to laugh. This would be entertaining.
Jormungandr sidestepped another bolt of fire and struck again. Another illusion. One of the Paradox Cubes lay shattered on the ground, but he could not land a blow on the real Primus. One of his legs was badly burned, and blood flowed from a number of small injuries. He was losing. The only reason he was still alive was that Primus didn't want to kill him.
The portal was no escape. He could dive through it, and Primus would be a fool to follow, but that would alert the Purists in this new juncture, and his siblings might be discovered. He could reach the cavern's mouth, but in the confined space of the tunnel, he had little hope of avoiding Primus' assaults. No, he would fight here, and if he could not win, he must make certain that Primus killed him. He could not risk the Purists learning what he knew.
He lunged towards one of the images of Primus. As soon as the old man began to react, Jormungandr reversed his momentum, forcing himself into a spinning leap backwards at the Primus that had circled behind him. He felt ligaments snap in his injured leg as he did so. He also felt his other heel strike flesh, and heard the crack of breaking bones.
Jormungandr forced himself to his feet, forced his leg to function despite the pain. There was only one Primus now, leaning against the cavern wall. The Paradox Cubes hovered protectively in front of their master.
Their eyes met. Both knew it was time to end this. Jormungandr tensed his good leg to spring. Primus straightened, drew a ragged breath, and spat out some blood. The Paradox Cubes began to glow.
Before either could act, the ground began to shake. Jormungandr crashed to the ground. Primus clawed at the wall to keep his footing. A deep, low moan shook their bones, almost as if the Netherworld itself was in pain.
The edges of the portal flared with light. As the spots faded from his eyes, Primus looked for his mysterious foe. The man was gone. The Paradox Cubes assured him that he had fled through the tunnel, not through the portal.
Primus didn't think he could catch him. He wasn't even certain he wanted to. He was far more concerned with what had happened to the Netherworld. If he was correct about its meaning, he and Rhys had much to do, and little time in which to do it.
The lost and forgotten of the Netherworld huddled in their makeshift homes as the Netherworld shook and moaned. They did not know what was happening, and they were afraid. Some of those who had lived there a very long time did remember what it meant, and they were even more afraid....
Ming I raised the obsidian knife high above the latest sacrifice. As she brought it down, the Darkness Pagoda began to shake. She missed the victim's heart, and the blade shattered as it struck the stone altar.
As the shaking subsided, the botched ritual was the furthest thing from her mind. Long ago, she had ignored a similar occurrence, and she continued to pay for it to this day. Now, it would be somebody else's turn to fall.
The Queen of the Ice Pagoda and her new husband sat upright in their bed. He turned to her, and she read the question in his eyes. "Go," she whispered.
As the shaking subsided and bits of junk stopped raining from the ceiling, the Prof crawled out from beneath her worktable and began cursing. This wasn't a good time. The Dragons were too few and too dispersed to be able to react properly. But then, had there ever been a good time for a new juncture to open?