| “ | I'm condemned to use the tools of my enemy to defeat them. I burn my decency for someone else's future. I burn my life to make a sunrise that I know I'll never see.
— Luthen Rael
|
” |
Luthen Rael was originally born on Fondor, and enlisted in the Imperial Military under his birth name, Lear. He turns against the Empire after being ordered to take part in a massacre, sheltering the sole survivor as a surrogate daughter. He and the girl, who he would name Kleya, become the initial masterminds behind building the nascent Rebellion from a group of partisans with similar goals to a coordinated fighting force. Luthen understands all to well the strategies and tactics the Empire uses, and has perfected the art of turning them to his own ends.
He is a competent and ruthless spymaster, digging up intelligence and planting moles as high up as members of the ISB, the Imperial Intelligence bureau. He turns this information to instigate acts of terror, seeking to prompt oversized responses from the Empire to provoke fear in the populace, driving them to rebel. The daring attacks also present hope to malcontents, showing them that there are people who are willing to fight against the Empire. One of these includes Cassian Andor, a highly skilled spy and assassin who Luthen comes to rely on.
His ruthless manipulations pan out, as he whips the Rebellion into an organized force, securing their leadership passage to their base on Yavin IV. Luthen, distrusted by the new leadership for his cold and calculating nature, decides to stay on Coruscant to draw the ISB's eyes away from the fledgling movement. This results in him learning about the Death Star, which directly leads to his suicide to deprive the ISB of his mind for questioning. This act effectively decapitates the ISB, resulting the the demotion or death of its most competent members, as well as the eventual dissolution of the Empire itself.
Battle vs Pete Wisdom (by Leolab)[]
Ch. 1: Definitely Not a Halloween Special[]
Luthen stares at a small glass capsule in the drawer behind the counter at The Third Rail, the object glowing with a dim reddish light. It seemed almost alive, as if it wanted to escape, and he hurriedly shuts the drawer, hoping never to have to use it.
His eyes note the position of each object and each person in the import shop. He shakes the sleeve of his loose, purple robe as he walks towards the entrance, where a brown-haired young man in a tan suit stares glumly at a jagged sword made out of a seemingly striped metal, each tooth alternating between a smoky, almost black damascene and a more lustrous silvery-blue that streams diagonally towards the blade’s spine. The handle is inlaid with gold, with a few small spikes jutting out. The youth jumps as he approaches, taking the blade off its stand.
“Forge-welded Valyrian steel and Silverite,” he says, “And the handle is hemalurgic gold; simply having it pierce your skin will allow you to heal yourself. Good for fighting the more… corrosive kind of monster. A fusion only possible in New Latveria.”
“A fascinating piece, yes,” Akechi says, “But sadly out of my price range. The number keeps increasing every time I come in.”
“The cost of doing business, I’m afraid,” Luthen chuckles, “We do take compensation in installments. And in… more volatile currencies.”
“Like what?”
“Money is power, and power is interchangeable,” Luthen says, giving a friendly smile as he puts the sword down, “Do feel free to bring this to the counter if you want to reserve it while you make the transactions.”
He nods to the youth, his robes swishing as he continues around the shop, tapping on his tablet to instruct Maria to create another price tag after closing; the lad was obsessed, and would have to cave soon.
He makes his way towards the other notable pair of customers, informing the others of the finer points of the various objects – both New Latverian and from DFederal – scattered throughout the shop. He finally approaches an older Japanese gentleman, staring disinterestedly at a fine, maki-e glass sake jar and accompanying bowl; behind him, a black-haired youth dressed in the same color plays with a chess set opposite an auburn-haired girl wearing white-and-red.
“This is a fairly typical sake jar, but while the artist is New Latverian, the pigments used in the lacquer are only found in DFederal. Bought from this very store, in fact. The particular shade of purple used on the rim,” he says, pointing at the clear glass, “was typically reserved for royalty in many cultures. Something untouchable by those of us living in the muck.”
“Come on, Luthen,” the man says as the girl loses interest in winning, distracted by some other shiny bauble, “You’ve worked miracles before, what’s extracting some purple from some glass?”
“Getting the purple dye into the glass is hard enough without it being so in demand,” Luthen says, raising his voice slightly, “Getting it out isn’t possible without shattering the glass itself. Something I, as its purveyor, cannot do.” He can’t quite stop a twinge of satisfaction as the black-clad boy stiffens, and he lowers his voice to a whisper, “I’m sorry, Isshin, but my hands are tied here. At least while I don’t know who’s pulling the strings.”
“I understand,” the man whispers back, “But I hope for your sake she returns unharmed.”
Yu Narukami knocks on the door to Rise’s container in the reservation shelter, eyes widening as it swings open. His girlfriend was almost never here, in her official home, rather than his. Seeing her curled up on the bed confirms his fears, and he rushes over to her.
“Rise, what’s wrong?” he says putting an arm around her shaking shoulders.
“I can’t do this any more, Yu,” she says, “I… I think I have to go to New Latveria.”
“Why? Is it the… outbursts? Those have gotten less frequent, and we all know that isn’t really you.”
“They’re worse when they do happen,” she whimpers, “and I can’t handle not knowing when.”
“But New Latveria? They don’t even have a proper hospital…”
“A hospital won’t help, Yu. I’ve told you before that it feels like something pulls my worst instincts to the front and forces me to act on them, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not something. It’s someone. And I think Doom can protect me. But, but I…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to leave you, Yu.”
“You won’t,” he says, pulling her into a hug, “We’ll make it work. And if long distance gets too much, I’m sure Doom can use someone who has experience with the DFPD.”
Rise uncurls, returning his hug and sobbing into his chest. Yu simply sits with her, stroking her back as she cries.
A black tendril slams through a sewer pipe, barely missing a small patch of flesh. Its eyes glow as its wet tentacles pull it across the concrete, which hisses and bubbles as the acid trail turns it back into a slurry. Alex Mercer gives chase, running to the mouth of the pipe before hearing screams on the other side. He shifts his biomass, the rough grey armor blending in quite well with the pipes as long as he stays still.
The officially rogue New Latverian scientist watches as a red-haired girl dressed in black puts her hand out, seizing the fleeing creature as another in red and white pulls a sword out of thin air and slices it in half. Its head bursts, spreading a viscous, deadly acid around the pipe. The girl in black flinches as a glob sizzles through her hair, while the one in red steps up, fearless.
“You think this is worth anything?” she asks.
“Given where we found it, it might be,” the other girl says.
“Hmmm…. this does seem familiar to the… things in the sewers a while back. DFPD?”
“Right. We split the bounty on New Latverian info, use it to get there?”
“Yep,” the girl in red says, “Shame to leave our homes, but we can’t all be Cole or Diarmuid.”
“And live on User handouts?” the girl in black sneers as they walk away, “Wouldn’t want to be.”
Mercer smiles as they move away, bait set. The incorporation of Xenomorph and Lambent characteristics had made this strain of Blacklight unsuitable for most purposes, but a use had finally been found. He pulls out a vial with small, round membranes inside; each one has a small, scorpion-like creature struggling to free itself. He stows it carefully; another vial would come later, but that was no reason to risk this one.
Pete Wisdom looks up at several knocks on the door, placing the small, glowing glass capsule he was fiddling with next to his steaming coffee mug. The pattern tells him it was someone from his Executioners; from the sound of the raps – less strength, more timid – it was likely Menou.
“Come on in,” he says, sighing. The girl had been unusually hard on herself after her first assignment had ended up a failure, and she’d been in need of the occasional words of reassurance and guidance. Presumably, this was one of the latter, given her current case.
“Visitor for you, sir,” she says, opening the door as a man with white hair in a white suit walks in, looking mighty displeased about something. From how his friend’s icy glare grew harder as they locked eyes, Pete was pretty sure he knew why. He instinctively channels his mutant abilities at the chilling snap of Menou closing the door, a thin membrane of heat keeping him warm as his office frosts over.
“Elijah.”
“Pete.”
“Much as I appreciate the reprieve from the heatwave, I am a rather busy man.”
“I thought you were better than this.”
“That’s usually a mistake, on many fronts.”
“How you’re running DFPD Intelligence, I mean. These little subteams, your ‘Executioners,’ and did you think I’d miss the stunt you pulled with trying to get an entire team killed off to keep your secrets? Pete, I invited you into Planetary to uncover mysteries and keep the citizens safe, not for you to hide them and endanger everyone.”
“If only it were as easy as you think. With New Latveria, and even before, I needed something a bit more. More of an edge. Protecting people isn’t all smiles, friendship, and sparkles, Elijah. It sucks, sure, but sometimes bad things have to happen to bad people.”
“I want you out of here, Pete. You’re sounding too much like a DFSB lackey.”
“And I want to wake up after a night of carousin’ next to a pretty brunette and remember what we did,” Pete scoffs, “Snce when did ol’ Jack Frost have any say in my employment?”
“I don’t, but as your friend I need to pull you back from… what’s that?” Elijah asks, noticing the red-glowing glass capsule, about the size of a pill of cold medicine, sitting next to Pete’s newly iced coffee.
“Oh, this?” Pete asks, grabbing it, “A little magic pill that will help me out of a jam.”
“Does Jesse know about it?”
“Jesse’s on need-to-know, and she don’t. Even I’m not sure what this is.”
“Looks like she thinks you don’t need to know, either,” Elijah says, smirking, “Or maybe thinks you shouln’t.”
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re the spymaster, figure it out. Where’d you get it?”
“It was a gift from the big boss. I just need to shove it in a wound and it’ll shatter, force their revival to go a day back, wiping the last 24 hours from their memory. My New Latverian opposite is trying to pry, and I’ll need this just in case.”
“Are you insane? What if it’s used on you?”
“It can’t be. Some metaphysical bullshit I don’t quite understand means it only works if I make the wound.”
“You…” Elijah growls, turning on his heel and storming towards the door.
“Elijah,” Pete says, causing the man to stop, “I can’t have my staff cleaning ice off their desk all morning. You might want to, ah, chill out.”
The cold intensifies for a split second before cutting out, the head of Planetary chuckling to himself as he leaves.
“And that concludes the current state of DF General’s negotiations with New Latveria,” Bayonetta says, sitting behind the news desk on DFNN’s set, “Both sides are hopeful that they can reach an agreement, though whether they can compromise on military presences is up in the air. Now, on to our newest segment run by our chief political commentator, Lancelot. His partner, Dr. Pennyfarthing, is… currently unavailable, so we put out a request to the Bracer Guild, and will be joined by Klaudia von Auslese.”
“Grr, grar, gragh!” Lancelot growls as the camera crew switches to a small table flanked by rotating armchairs, where the black-armored knight sits across from a young woman wearing a regal, yet practical, purple shirt over a white skirt. A screen behind them shows an aerial shot of the city.
“Thank you, Lancelot. I’m honored to be here as well. Before we get started, I’d like to reiterate that the Bracer Guild as an organization is politically neutral. We are not affiliated with any candidate, we do not endorse any candidate, and our members know that any political work will detract from our ability to help the citizens of Dfederal.”
“Rrrr, grah!”
“Haha, thank you for your trust,” Klaudia says, turning back to the camera, “But yes, after a little more than a year, DFederal's first elections are right around the corner. Voting opens just past midnight, and lasts for three days until the end of Saturday.”
“Grr, rargh, gar!” Lancelot says, resting one foot on his knee and swiveling his chair to point at the screen behind him. Several numbers and bars appear on the screen, the accompanying political symbols indicating the current polling. “Rrah, rargh, grah. Hrargh, grar, rah!” He continues, pointing at them.
“Yes, that is an interesting trend,” Kloe says, “For those who aren’t aware, the threshold for voting is currently a majority, not a plurality; with the numbers looking the way they are, this will require a lot of cooperation between blocs.”
“Grr, rargh, grr!”
“Indeed, thank you, Lancelot,” Bayonetta says as the cameras switch back to her, “We will be keeping a close eye on how things progress. Now we turn to entertainment, with special guest Cody Rhodes discussing RFC’s new Lashing in Latveria event, scheduled for not long after the election…”
Ch. 2: Thirsty Thursday[]
Pete Wisdom leans back in his office, exhaling a puff of smoke that washes over his laptop, making the fans whirr harder in protest. It slows down for a second as he takes another drag, speeding up again as he blows a slow, steady stream of smoke at it. As the whir increases in pitch and intensity to a whine, he inhales, letting the fumes enter his lungs. He sighs and glares at his laptop with suspicion. You just couldn’t trust something that didn’t calm down with a bit of nicotine.
The inane thoughts of a bored white-collar worker are interrupted, as always, by the ping of an email notification. He sighs, wondering which idiot was trying – and failing, through no fault of their own – to get in the graces of one of the two major candidates for the DFPD’s first-ever commissioner. He checks it, groaning internally as he sees the title. He clicks it, hoping against hope that this might finally be different.
We are sorry to inform you that Kadingir Request number D14GNSIVGKYAYUHEIWW5WG has been approved…
Pete pumps his fist, excited to finally have caught a break. He takes a screenshot, bringing up the DPFD’s internal chat application before pasting it into a message to Menou, along with a celebratory gif and a note to come to his office.
They could finally trace the assassin that got away.
Luthen looks up as he hears footsteps, spotting a young man holding a jagged sword. His eyes flick towards his assistant, and the blonde girl nods and makes her way towards another shopper. Akechi puts the sword on the counter, looking resolute. Luthen gives a sly smile, waiting for Maria to bring their other mark over as he picks up the sword, admiring it.
“You wish to purchase this? Or put a hold on it?”
“The latter, if you’d please.”
“Certainly, certainly. And what will you be putting down?”
Akechi puts down a small stack of bills on the counter, and Luthen stares at the bundle, placing the sword back onto the counter as he picks it up. He makes a show of rifling through the stack before sighing and shaking his head.
“Not quite enough to cover the deposit,” he says, looking as disappointed as if it ever could have been.
“Then…” the teenager grimaces, looking grim, “Power, you said? I have knowledge to share.”
“An old saying, that. And typically a true one.”
“The DFPD is planning a raid on DF General tomorrow. Not quite sure of the details, but the more ardent supporters of Armstrong in the department have volunteered.”
Luthen smiles, scribbling down some details on a small memo pad. He tears off two sheets as Maria hands him a box, putting one in the container with the blade and handing the carbon copy to Akechi. The detective gives a guilty smile for a second, slipping the note into his pocket. He turns and leaves, giving a friendly nod to the black-haired teen browsing nearby.
Luthen also looks at the other youth, giving him a meaningful smile while looking at the top of a small glass sake jar, now much closer to the counter. The boy’s eyes widen, seemingly having gotten the message, and he hurries back to the tunnel leading to the New Latverian side of the wall.
“You really think the kid’s worth gambling on?” Maria asks, sending a dismissive look.
“Which?”
“Both.”
“Goro’s going to be very desperate very soon. As for Kazuto… not if I thought he’d act alone. He’s got at least one friend he can rope in, one that will make extracting Fujino a lot easier.”
Maria narrows her eyes as she looks at the clipboard, touching her lips with the back of the pen while she sorts through her information. Luthen keeps an eye on the store, waiting for his assistant to come to her own conclusions.
“Oh. Her. That’s nasty. I like it.”
“Yes, her. Given her abilities, it’s far more likely to succeed and cause tension between DF General and the DFPD.”
“Well, I’ll go see if I can find something in the back to replace the sword. Unless there’s a message?”
“Hmm… the latter. Set up the Grievous Collection in concentric hexagons.”
“That’s not a protocol I’m familiar with.”
“I’ll tell you about it when the meeting happens.”
“Vote for Vox Miles!” Avani Kulkarni, one of the members of Para in DFederal, shouts as she hands out fliers to various passerby, “Being ‘generic’ doesn’t mean being ‘lesser!’ Vote for a brighter tomorrow for everyone!”
“Everyone?” a middle-aged British man says, taking a sheet, “I suppose a rising tide lifts all boats, petal, but…”
“No, that’s exactly it, Mr..?”
“Wisdom. My friends call me Pete,” he says, giving a mildly flirtatious smile.
“And mine call me Avani,” she says, returning it, “That’s exactly what we want to promote here. Any time it’s considered acceptable to see someone as ‘lesser’ than yourself, that inequality spreads, festers, and becomes prominent everywhere. Increasing the prominence and equality of myself and the other soldiers and operatives will help you, too.”
“Now that might be the most sensible thing I’ve heard today,” Pete says, laying it on a little thick, “If you’re close to your dinner break, we can…”
“Nope. I’m second on the slate; don’t get those,” Avani says, nodding towards a lunchbox on the table, filled with a Chinese-style paneer dish, “So I’m going to be representing people if we get two seats. It’s my duty to reach out as much as I can.”
“Shame,” Pete says, looking genuinely disappointed.
“My shift’s done in another five hours, around 10. Wanna meet in the Iceberg for drinks?”
“Now that sounds like a date,” Pete says, grinning.
“I’ll see you there. Now, I do have work to do…”
“Of course,” Pete says, scratching the back of his head awkwardly, “See you.”
“Grr, grar!” Lancelot says, slamming his fist into a table as Bayonetta takes her hand off his shoulder, moving to join the crowd ringing around the combative pair. They look to the man across from the black-clad knight, a furred warrior with a bandolier across his chest.
“Raar! RAAAR! Raaaaaaaaah!” Chewbacca yells, slamming a tankard down.
“Grah, rargh, graaaaaah!” Lancelot growls, standing forcefully.
“Raaargh?!” Chewbacc says, standing and jabbing a clawed finger into the Berserker’s breastplate.
“Grrragh! Rargh!” the knight snarks, shoving the Wookiee back and grabbing the mug of Cortyg brandy, downing it in one gulp. “MRAAAGH!” he snarls getting uncomfortably close to Chewbacca’s face as the crowd gasps.
“Rrrarrraarrr!” he yells in response, grabbing the man’s neck and lifting him in the air as the crowd shouts. His grip tightens as the knight slams a drunken fist down on the Wookiee’s arm, barely fazing him. Lancelot then kicks forwards, his foot catching his foe under the ribs. “RRRAAAH!” Chewbacca yells, doubling over and releasing him.
“Grrr, GRAAAAH!” Lancelot slurs as he steps back, grabbing a chair.
“OI!” Kessler shouts, the bartender deftly placing four glasses of ryncol on the counter, Wrex, Grunt, and both Shepards grabbing their drinks. Kessler points to a sign, proclaiming that if anything other than a bottle breaks then both fighters will be banned from the bar.
“Graargh!” Lancelot growls, gently putting the chair down and kicking at Chewbacca’s head, the crowd erupting once again as they continue fisticuffs. The Wookiee blocks and raises his fists, bringing them together and down to rattle the knight’s helmet. Lancelot stumbles back, suddenly lurching forwards and slamming the crown of his helmet into his foe’s face.
“RRRAGHBLE!” Chewbacca growls through a broken nose, stepping in and hooking the knight’s leg. The fight spills to the floor as Bayonetta looks on, smiling as she sips her whiskey while her boyfriend proves strong enough to trade blows with a Wookiee.
“We’ve called you in late, I know,” Garrus Vakarian says, pacing at midnight in front of a crowd of the DFPD’s finest. Or most of them; several were preparing for Pete’s little operation tomorrow. “And I apologize for that. But we’ve recently verified an urgent threat, coming from the supposedly rogue New Latverian scientist known as Alex Mercer.”
Garrus looks around as an image of Mercer pops up on the screen, seeing a bit of discontented grumbling on the faces of some of the DFPD’s older members, and continues, “I know some of you see me as a counterbalance to Wisdom, but I think he’s right. Mercer’s almost certainly not rogue. Regardless, we received this fine specimen from a pair of high schoolers who live in the sewers yesterday,” he says, putting up an image of a bisected insectoid monster on the screen “We verified it recently. Contains genetic material from Blacklight, Lambent parasites, and Xenomorphs. We’re having Lt. Rico of Monster Containment take point.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Johnny says, “And, may I hope for it, future Commissioner!” The room erupts in cheers, to the annoyance and embarrassment of Garrus, and as the lieutenant continues, Bigby Wolf turns to his younger partner.
“I’m guessing you’re not going?” he asks.
“No, I am,” Akechi says, clearly thinking about something, “Catching him is going to be important to containing the New Latverian threats. Hereward can increase the usefulness of our healers, and can attack from a distance.”
“And when a melee happens?”
“I’ve got… leads on something,” he says, looking notably uncomfortable.
“As long as you’re sure.”
“I am. This is going to be too important to miss, and I need to be at my best to ensure the mission’s success.”
“Look,” Bigby says, seeing his partner trying to convince himself of something, “If something’s bothering you, you can always talk to me.”
“No, no, it’s nothing major,” Akechi says, raising his hand as Lt. Rico calls out for volunteers, “I can take care of it.”
“As long as you’re sure, kid,” Bigby says, raising his hand as well.
Ch. 3: Eskimo Bellboy[]
Kirito sits on a metal chair, across a low table from a white-haired man in a brown coat lounging on a couch, a pair of pistols resting between them. He looks around, confused; he can’t quite remember how he got here, or why the area around them seemed… off. Almost a blend of his apartment in New Latveria and Asuna’s in DFederal. A man in samurai garb stands in a corner, looking at the pair with tired eyes.
“Look, kiddo, I’m just as confused as you,” Crow Armbrust says, “The little lady there called Rean and I over,” he says as a dark-haired man in a whitish coat practically materializes on one side of Crow on the couch, while Asuna appears on the other.
“I’m sorry, Kirito,” Asuna says, her voice slightly distorted, “I’m leaving you for Crow here.”
“Wait, I didn’t consent to this,” Crow interjects.
“I’ll have to just keep trying, then,” Asuna says. As Rean opens his mouth to speak, the samurai claps his hands, and the image cuts out.
Kirito’s eyes pop open as he shivers, pulling himself up to sit on a futon in a traditional Japanese-style room. Asuna does the same on a futon beside him, their hands clasped between them. He feels a lingering warmth on top as a man in a kimono rises from where he had been sitting between the couple, shuffling back a few steps to a pen and paper.
“And those were your greatest fears for your relationship,” he says, “I’ll note that both of you still to fear the other leaving the relationship. Unlike a year ago, where it was to remain single, it’s now in favor of a third party. I’d consider this… not quite a step forwards, but maybe a half step? You’re both still worried about your relationship, but the fear is now related to the other rather than the self. Do you think it might be due to physical distance?” Shinsuke asks, and the pair nods as he jots another sentence down. “And having seen these fears, is there anything you want to say to each other?”
“We’re just friends – ” they both say in unison, “And…”
The therapist holds his hand up, and they stop talking for a second.
“Sorry, Shinsuke-sensei,” the couple says, again in sync.
Shinsuke gestures to Kirito, who continues.
“I’m just concerned about Fujino. I brought her here as a favor to someone in New Latveria I owe a lot to, and she’s been here several months trying to get healthy. Plus, she doesn’t really have anyone to visit her. We get along, sure, but it’s nothing more than that.”
Shinsuke jots down a couple more lines in his notebook, seeing Asuna visibly be reassured, and silently gestures to her to continue.
“Look, I’m more friends with Rean than Crow. I tracked down the number to thank him for putting us in touch with Shinsuke-sensei, but it was registered to Rean. We hit it off, and I think you’d like them, too. They’re really into board games.”
“I’m just not really comfortable with you hanging out with them,” Kirito says, “Or the thought of joining them myself.”
“I do think having friendships outside the relationship is healthy, no?” Shunske finally says, “Some jealousy is fine, but if you’re feeling like she shouldn’t see them at all, well… remember what we talked about during your individual session earlier?”
“That’s… her having friends isn’t my problem. She’s hanging out with the man she hired to kill me!”
“I, uh, also think we should talk about that,” Shinsuke says, jotting down another line in his notes, “Remind me again; you decided to settle where you would live by duels, correct? As those were becoming more difficult for you to stomach, what did you each do?”
“I brooded for a while, but decided to try and talk it out over drinks,” Kirito says.
“I hired someone else to fight the duel,” Asuna says casually.
“Right,” Shinsuke says, sighing and looking at a small pocket watch, “Riiiiight. Shakugan, dear, do I have anything scheduled after Asuna’s session?” he says, raising his voice a little so it carries into the reception room.
“No,” a cheery voice floats back from it, “Nothing for the rest of the day, barring emergencies or DFPD evals.”
“Could you extend her individual by a half-hour? It’s going to take a bit longer.”
“Sure!”
“Shinsuke-sensei?” Asuna asks with genuine confusion.
“We’re still going to do the exercises to deal with jealousy, but first we need to review communication and conflict resolution strategies. Kirito, you’re done for the day. I’ll see you for your individual next week, as usual?”
“Yes, thank you,” he says, rising and giving a respectful bow before walking out through a short stone corridor, terminating in a sterile, white DF General waiting room. He gives a polite wave to the woman in a sleeveless kimono, who waves back.
“You’re good, everything’s already scheduled. See you next week,” Shakugan says, giving him a thumbs up.
“Thanks!” he says, returning the gesture as he picks up his duffel bag from the coat check. He walks out, putting an earpiece in his ear, pressing the sequence of buttons that would connect it to a DFPD frequency. He listens to the chatter as he makes his way to the cluster of single-person restrooms, entering one and locking it.
He unzips his duffel bag, throwing on a coat and slinging his blades over his back. The chatter continues as he puts on a dark grey-and-white wolf mask, pressing the bridge of the nose to activate the HUD within its eyes. He sees a message from his partner for this mission in the bottom left, signifying she’s ready.
He listens to the police chatter some more, trying to get a feel for timelines. It told him that the raid would start in ten minutes; while he waits, he presses a button on his earpiece, swapping the output to his phone. He puts on a quick song to blow away his nervousness.
And I don't wanna give it back/Give it back/I'm driving in a Cad-i-llac, Cad-i-llac/So fuck that –
“Fuck that!” Pete says, rallying the DFPD personnel gathered for a raid, “We’ve only just gotten the democratic process started in this city. Are we going to let some sodding bitch spit in its face!”
“NO!” the small group behind him shouts, sharing his disgust for those who would threaten the city.
“Then let’s go,” he says, marching up to the hospital and throwing the doors open. He flashes the DFPD badge, storming up to the receptionist.
“And how can we help the DFPD today?” the shirtless, furred receptionist asks, hostility in his eyes.
“You have a dangerous criminal as a patient,” Pete says, tossing the warrant down, “Direct us to Asagami Fujino.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have a patient by that name in our records,” the man says after typing something on his computer.
“Then she may be under a fake name. Medical fraud, in addition to her political murders,” Pete snarls, waving Menou forwards. The girl, in an indigo robe with a yellow mantle, opens her book, and the image of a purple-haired girl in black clothing appears.
“Ah, Karin. Her, a dangerous criminal? She’s been laid up for nearly eight months due to complications from aggressive septic appendicitis.”
“Fujino was behind the string of political murders earlier this year,” Pete says, “We need to bring her in for questioning. She can continue her treatment in the penitentiary; we have ample resources.”
“Very well,” Man-Bat says, looking at the warrant with disgust, “Third floor, Humanoid Gastroenterology. West wing of the building, across from Psychology.”
Pete and the other members of the DFPD raiding party march off as the receptionist presses a button, announcing their presence on the intercom. Alistair and Cassandra lead the party, ready to lash out with their Templar abilities if they detect even a hint of magic. As they step onto the landing of the third floor, however, a massive tunnel of wind blasts Cassandra across into Psychology. A black blur coming from that direction speeds past and strikes with a pair of glowing blades, knocking the sword out of Alistair’s hand and slicing it off.
The tunnel collapses as the rest of the raiding party rounds the corner to see a black-clad youth skidding as he turns, blades in hand, while a woman in a blue dress and black-and-blue mask holds a golden, glowing sword. Manou throws her knife at the woman as she slices to the side, only to see it deflected by the black-clad fighter. Alistair rushes forwards as she reels it back with the attached thread, shield in hand as the door explodes, revealing the befuddled face of Fujino Asagami.
The boy runs in, stopping the Templar with a pair of strikes to the shield as the woman walks in, loading Fujiino’s IV bag onto her bed and lifting up the entire apparatus, another swing shooting golden light through the wall. Alistair blocks another slash, but a feint allows the boy to slip behind his shield, one strike chopping off the arm and the other impaling his throat.
The two Wolves, rescue both complete and highly public, leap out through the hole in the wall, carrying their companion back to New Latveria as Pete can only send a flurry of hot knives in pursuit, singing the woman’s dress but not quite able to land a telling blow.
Matthew Murdock sits across from Matthew Murdock, glaring in silence while his client takes an urgent phone call.
“So, how’s life back in the ol’ DFederal?” the New Latverian Murdock asks.
“Just fine. And you? How’s life in New Latveria?”
“Excellent. The environment here suits me quite well.”
“Never could figure out what fuckup could lead any of us three to be like you.”
“I, on the other hand, am pretty certain what kind of fuckup could have made me like you,” Matt says, smiling, “Or the other two.”
The two lawyers tilt their heads in unison, hearing the footsteps of the returning Director of DFederal General Hospital. The door opens, and a harried-looking Dr. John Watson enters, pronounced grimace on his face.
“We accept having a New Latverian guard within the DFederal branch of the hospital, so long as you accept the presence of Rainstorm in the New Latverian branch.”
“The PMC founded by Shigure?” the New Latverian Murdock says, “Certainly, we can accept that. May I ask what caused such a sudden change?”
“The call I just received. DFPD conducted a high-profile, violent raid on DFederal General. With a warrant signed and approved by the very officer leading it. Clearly they’re not quite as trustworthy as we had believed. Rainstorm is to prevent similar occurrences here.”
“I do hope we can earn your trust as the partnership continues,” the Latverian Lawyer says, smiling, “And with that concluded, I believe we can start drafting the contract?”
“Certainly,” the DFederal Murdock says, “Let’s just review the terms from the top. So as Article 1, the contract to construct a New Latverian branch of DFederal General Hospital will be awarded…”
Luthen walks towards the loading dock as Maria taps a few buttons, sealing the DFederal side. His cane raps on the floor as he makes his way to the center of the large collection of shipping crates, stopping in front of a red one labeled “Medical Supplies.” He taps a code on the keypad, stepping back as the door hisses open to reveal two red-haired girls, one with her pal outstretched and the other holding a sword.
They relax their guard upon seeing him alone, moving aside to reveal a hospital bed and a surprised Fujino Asagami. Luthen gives the three girls a relaxed smile, waving them to leave the crate. The redheads grab onto the handles of the hospital bed, wheeling it out into the loading dock.
“Thank you, Luthen,” Fujino says, giving a sitting bow, “I had half-thought you’d leave me there, as we had both completed our part of the bargain.”
“You should thank Kazuto,” Luthen says, “The DFPD presence was too strong for my usual methods, but he and Artoria got you both out though their own initiative. I’m just taking care of the finishing touch.”
“Too modest by half,” Fujino says, laughing, “See, Miu, Misuzu? New Latveria doesn’t abandon its own.”
“But he just said…” Miu starts, only for Fujino to shake her head and cut off the younger girl.
“That’s how Luthen works. He sets up all the dominoes, so that even the slightest breeze can knock them down. And refuses to take credit.”
“Well, if you’re done flattering an old man, I do believe your ride’s here,” Luthen says, gesturing to an ambulance waiting, pointing towards the New Latverian side of the tunnel, a boy in a black coat sitting in the passenger seat while a woman in a blue dress sits behind the wheel.
“So it is. Thank you again, Luthen. And I’ll give Kirito and Saber my thanks when we reach the other side,” Fujino says as the redhead pair wheels her into the ambulance, sitting on the benches inside. Luthen lets his genial smile drop as the doors close, returning to his normal dour expression as the ambulance leaves.
“Laying it on a little thick, are you?” Maria needles, “Well, if you’re done flattering an old man…”
Luthen can’t help but let out a chuckle as his assistant hands him a sheet of paper from her clipboard as they walk back to the store. “That’s how minds are won, Maria. How else do you think the great orators manage to get people on their side?”
“Hmm… it’s by making people think they’re being spoken to alone, even when talking to a crowd?” Maria says as they compare what’s arrived to what was promised, “Ah, so you made her feel appreciated, and… shit, they left the fun container out.”
“What fun container?” Luthen asks, frowning harder.
“The one with all the booze.”
“I’ll make the call,” he says, sighing, “You manage the shop for a bit.”
“Sure.”
Tyrion looks up from the polling projections at a knock on his door, which opens to reveal his strategist, Rise. She walks in, closing it as she approaches his desk. He puts down his pen, waiting a few seconds to see if she would break the silence first. When she doesn’t, he starts.
“So, o great strategist of mine, are you back from your medical leave?”
“I’m afraid not,” she says, pulling a letter out of a handbag.
“And when will you be?”
“I won’t. This is my resignation, effective immediately. The… medical issue is affecting my health too strongly.”
“You will be missed,” he says somberly, looking over the letter, “And I wish you the best for your health. Where will you be going?”
“Out of the city,” she says, and Tyrion raises his eyebrows. She then pulls out three more envelopes, each marked with a number. He looks them over briefly, holding the one labeled with a “2” up to the light for a second.
“What are these?”
“My final bit of strategic advice. Open the letter with the number of your placement after results come in.”
“Thank you,” he says, holding out his hand. They shake, and she turns to leave. “Godspeed, Rise,” he says.
“Thank you, Tyrion. Goodbye.”
And as she leaves, he sighs. Something was clearly going on, but leaving now put him in a lurch, with the final day of voting still requiring an extra push. He picks up the phone, dialing his communications officer.
“Send Mr. Watts up to me. He’s always claimed to be able to do better than Rise. Time for him to prove it.”
Ch. 4: Things Unsaid[]
Pulses of healing energy wash through the sewer pipe and over Akechi as Hereward appears behind him, posing with his bow as several blue-grey orbs of magic swirl around a group of glowing zombies. The energy causes them to rupture, a glowing light pulsating as they explode. Shards of acidic flesh sizzle on other zombies, not slowing them down in the slightest.
He sees one of them opening a glowing red eye, and swiftly pulls out his pistol and unloads a clip into it. The fire from several different guns shreds the eye, the attempt at mind control fizzling out as the zombie also explodes. The cries of pain from an officer quickly turns into a sigh of relief as the constant waves of healing magic neutralizes the acid.
“Runner broke through! Akechi, you’re up!” a shout comes from the front line, and he spots a glowing, mutated quadruped rushing towards him. He flourishes his blade, swinging it at the beast’s neck. The silver-and-black serrations slice through his foe, the Valyrian steel striking true as the Silverite neutralizes the acidic poison. It then explodes, throwing him back and getting some liquid on his face.
He tightens his grip as the gold spikes pierce his flesh, the stored health knitting the skin back together as he wipes his brow. He looks to the side, hearing a sizzling sound coming from the wall. It crumbles and collapses, revealing a fresh nest of whatever these creatures were.
“More on the left!” he shouts, “Reserve fighters, half of you with me!”
He rushes forwards, slicing left and right as he commands Hereward to unleash a barrage of spells while other members of the DFPD run to his aid. The sword was seemingly paying itself off already, but he’d need to get a lot more use out of it. Both to assuage his wallet and his conscience.
“To third dates!” Pete says, clinking a whiskey glass against Avani’s.
“To third dates!” she says, as they take a drink, “And to finally having time to relax.”
“Oh, I’ll drink to that,” Pete says, following through, “You’ve done all your campaigning, and I’ve finally caught a break on a big case.”
“What’s the scoop?” she asks, leaning towards him, “Or can’t you tell me?”
“Hmmm…. no details, but big picture? I think I finally might have evidence of a New Latverian spymaster.”
“Truly?” Avani asks, leaning a little closer, “That’s huge!”
“Finally got a surveillance request through, got it just before I came here. Three people, all using similar routes. I can trace those, I can find a link in the chain. Follow it all back to one person.”
“That is big!” she says, clapping him on the shoulder, “Sounds like all your work’s paying off.”
“It is indeed,” he says, as the two knock back another drink and share a laugh. He tilts his head, catching a small phrase from the Iceberg’s TV, and reaches out to squeeze her hand. “Hey, let’s hear if yours did.”
“And we have the first tallies of the night,” Bayonetta’s voice resounds from the TV, sending the bar quiet, “The Shelters and the One Percent, totaling fifteen seats. A quarter of the seats on the Council. Remarkably, the results are quite close – four apiece from each of the major three parties, with the Prosperity Front making up their deficit in the Shelters by an additional seat from the One Percenters. The Monarchists have additionally picked up one seat in that district, with Vox Miles picking up one seat in each for two total. These results came remarkably early thanks to the lower population in those two districts. We’ll have the full reports as they come in.”
“Two seats?” Pete says, turning to his date with a big smile as the crowd erupts, “That means…”
“It does!” she shouts, lurching towards him and wrapping him in a hug, “I did it! I’m in!”
Pete feels a sudden warm, wet pressure on his lips; he sweeps her closer and returns the kiss, as they separate after a moment. Avani blushes, clearly excited and swept up in the moment, considering things for a second. But rather than pulling away, she leans in again, stealing a slightly gentler – but hungrier – peck on the lips.
“Petal…”
“Let me make a quick call,” she says, voice heated, “They can do the rest of the night without me.”
“I’ll be waiting,” he says, goofy smile on his lips as she slips out of his arms and heads towards the bathroom.
A man with white hair and a matching suit walks up to a stately stone building. The words “The Faden Repository of Weird Bullshit” rests on the upper edge of the inverted triangle that marks its entryway. He walks into the darkened cutout, almost pitch black at night as the external lights lit up every other part of the building.
A soft blue light guides him into the building itself. He walks in as it resolves into a spiral of triangles and elongated hexagons lining the floor and walls, waving to the middle-aged man in brown robes sitting at the front desk. The man waves back, picking up a phone.
“Faden, it’s Kenobi. Snow’s here for you,” he says, hanging up before waving towards the set of lounge chairs, “Have a snack while you wait, Elijah.”
Obi-Wan levitates a veggie tray as he types on his computer, setting the fresh vegetables with two dips – ranch and humus – down in front of the museum’s most recent visitor. Elijah partakes as he waits, and soon enough he sees Jesse’s red hair melt out of the darkness, followed by the rest of her. They nod at each other, and Jesse raps on the counter to get Obi-Wan’s attention.
“Hey, could you close the museum until we get back?”
“Certainly, Director,” he says, using the Force to prod and poke at small sections of the wall to bring the museum’s gates up as he continues working on his report, “Don’t take too long. Profits are slim as it is.”
“Of course, of course,” Jesse says, as she and Elijah walk through an exhibit hall in silence.
He looks through the massive litany of things that used to live in Dfederal; some are pinned and mounted, like a specimen of spider native to the Lower District while it was still a shantytown in the Blue Collar District. Some were sketches with a story, many of these tales of the various monstrosities in the sewers from the venture that found Kaiju Containment. A few were inanimate objects stored safely behind a similar dark glass to the capsule Pete had, and there was even a stuffed Greench. Perhaps most disturbingly was a lone black flower, held in place with green-glowing magical wards.
“I’m not taking you to the containment cells,” Jesse says as they near the end of the corridor, which has a large mural depicting two massive entities fighting each other. The birth of DFederal as what Jesse called a “Place of Power” in its own right. Elijah sighs, reminded again just how many things were yet unknown, and gets right down to business.
“Pete was given a capsule containing what I suspect to be Hiss.”
“WHAT?”
“It seems inert, and considering who he got it from I don’t think we have to worry about it going off by mistake.”
“But it might go off on purpose? Is he insane?”
“He might be. Been mighty insistent on seeing New Latverian activity everywhere. Thinks they have a spymaster of their own.”
“Christ I hope not. But if I were Doom, I’d be sure to. I’ll ask Polaris to keep an ear to the ground for any Hiss resonance; be there if he uses it. Pete probably won’t trust me if I try to be preventative, so I’ll react this time.”
“Thanks, Jesse. Genuinely don’t know how you do it.”
“Help from some friends,” Jesse says, looking at the glyphs around the flower, “That and spending my days off absolutely wasted with Jack. Now let’s get back so I can reopen. Obi-Wan nags like a mother-in-law.”
“Fair. On both counts.”
“Yes, that is concerning. I’ll take care of it on my end, and I’ll be sure to make an additional delivery. Just a little bonus, for the trouble,” Luthen says, wrapping up a phone call as Maria ensures their late-night guest is comfortable. He waves her over as the call completes, not hanging up despite the line going dead. A few seconds later, she scribbles some gibberish on her clipboard as they talk.
“What does she want?”
“To leave for New Latveria. I haven’t told her the conditions, but with her position I’m thinking the trade is information.”
“There might be something else,” he says, “Pretend you’re on the phone for a bit. Dial 1-1-3-8 once I’m in the room.”
She nods, taking the receiver and pretending to answer questions for a client as he walks out, crossing the store and stepping into a private room, where a young, brown-haired girl sits.
“So, Rise,” he says, “What can The Third Rail do for you?”
“Help me immigrate to New Latveria. With your contacts…”
“Well, I can,” he says, “But surely you’ve heard about the citizenship conditions?”
“Yes. Any one applying to be a New Latverian citizen must have some contribution to the nation as part of the naturalization process.”
“It just so happens that the contribution can be a favor for me,” Luthen says, smiling, “I am in need of someone who is discreet, good with computers, and can be reached on extremely short notice. That last bit, unfortunately, precludes my typical helper.”
“I don’t have the connection myself, but I can put you in touch with Chalis. One of her… workers is pretty good with tech, and she can keep secrets for the right price. I’ll give her a call?”
“Please,” Luthen says, smiling as Rise takes out her cell phone, dialing a number on it.
“Hey, Chalis? It’s Rise. I’ve got a client for you; needs 9S urgently… No, not who you’re thinking of. This is a job job. I’ll put him on?”
Rise holds her phone out, and Luthen scoops it up, happy to plot on someone else’s line. The negotiations last a few minutes, and he then hands the phone over to his newest client.
“Maria will put you up in the shop tonight,” he says, “We can get you over the border in the morning.”
“Thank you!” she says, giving a deep bow as Maria hears her cue, hanging up the phone and making her way towards them.
“I leave her in your hands,” he says, throwing on his coat, “I’ve got another long night ahead.”
Much later in the night, as it turns to the next day, the sound of piano music floats through the halls of the Engineering Guild, where the Party for Popular Progress has made its election headquarters. The musician and head of the party, Olivert Reise Arnor, leans back and cracks his neck as his fingers play the last few notes.
The music evaporates in the guild’s shop floor as he spots a girl with blonde hair, wearing an oversized blue coat, making her way to him. She totes a tray with two glasses, which she puts down on the table beside them.
“Sit, Tita,” he says, smiling.
“Sure, Olivier,” she says, grabbing the glass of juice and sitting next to him, as he takes the wine, “How’s it look?”
“We’re optimistic,” Olivier says, “It’s quite close, and we still have more than half the seats left. I don’t think a supermajority’s in the cards, so Robin and Shepard – the one on our side – is reaching out to Vox Miles. Our parties have similar views, and cooperation will help fortify our ranks.”
“I… ah… see?” Tita says.
Olivert chuckles at her almost comically befuddled expression, patting her on the head before simplifying the explanation.
“Not as well as we’d like, but still good.”
“Great! Hang in there. I’m rooting for you, and even if they’re not allowed to say it I know Estelle and the rest are!”
“That’s more heartening than you know, Tita,” Olivert says, “Now I feel a rendition of Amber Amour coming along; you get yourself to bed before Agate kills me.”
“Okay, good night!” she says, heading over to the napping rooms as the prince flexes his fingers and begins playing once again.
A few hours later, a jubilant outpouring of rock resounds from the Hunter’s Guild, where Fire and Lead has their headquarters. As the last guitar note of the ending solo fades, Armstrong walks out on stage, pumping his fist into the air as the crowd shouts his name.
“We’re in the last stretch, folks!” he shouts, nanomachines amplifying his voice, “Third to Home. Olivert and I are tied for seats, it’s true. But what remains?”
“The Lower District!” the crowd yells.
“And where are we most heard?”
“THE LOWER DISTRICT!” the crowd yells again, louder.
“Be ready, for tomorrow will see First Councilor Armstrong!”
As the sun threatens to rise, Tyrion slumps in his chair at the Stacked Deck. The general mood in the Prosperity Front’s election headquarters was subdued; they were dead last in the three-way contest, though at least ahead of the fringe parties by a wide margin. He fishes out an envelope from his bag, marked with a 3. He flips it over, smiling as he sees it sealed by a sticker, featuring a chibified, frowning version of Rise’s face.
He looks inside, seeing a simple message.
If you can’t become a king, make one
– Rise
Tyrion nods, considering it, before sighing, his eyes growing resolute. As always, his chosen strategist knows exactly what to say. He raises his head, looking around at his fellow party members. Disheartened, but not defeated.
“Gather around, all of you,” he says, “We may have fallen short of the big time, but that doesn’t mean we’re done yet. We’ll need to get in touch with…”
Ch. 5: Weak Ends[]
Pete walks out of Avani’s bathroom, buttoning up his shirt. He shakes the remaining water out of his hair, walking down the hall to the kitchen. He sees her there, frying some eggs as a timer counts down in front of a French Press. She’s in a sleeveless bathrobe, exposing all her libs, and the spy blushes as he remembers how those felt last night. The beeping of the timer chases the thoughts away, and the smell of cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and coffee tickles his nose.
“That smells great,” he says, walking in, “I can finish the eggs; I know the fancy coffee stuff gets finnicky.”
“Thanks,” she says, handing the spatula to him as she operates the press, “I assume you take it black, too?”
“Always.”
The pair share a smile as they make and eat a simple breakfast of eggs, toast, and coffee. Pete even found himself appreciating the salty brown powder Avani sprinkled over the bread, and drains his second cup of spiced coffee as quickly as the first. They share another kiss just before he heads out.
“Fourth date?”
“Tomorrow. Today’s going to be long,” she says, retrieving the knife she had embedded in the door last night. Apparently the Para’s equivalent of hanging a sock.
“Tomorrow. Enjoy your new job, Councilor.”
Pete smiles as he walks out, door snapping shut behind him. It had been a while since he’d started a morning feeling this satisfied. That feeling fades rapidly as he hears his phone ring, seeing the words “Pick this up, Pete” as the caller ID.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Someone you should meet,” a rough, older man’s voice comes through, “There’s a park three blocks from you, across from that tacky Skull Octopus mural that could be Spectre or Hydra.”
“And why should I meet some random sodding bloke who calls me first thing in the morning?”
“Because every hard drive in Surveillance that has ever held a Kadingir recording has been locked.”
Pete hangs up, dialing the police station. After a few rings, he hears the second-least welcome voice he’d heard today.
“Pete. You need to come in, now,” Garrus says.
“Is this about the computers in Surveillance?”
“Yes.”
“I’m chasing a lead on that down. Calibrate stuff on your end if you can, chap.”
“Fuck off, Pete. And take care; whoever did this has a lot of access.”
Pete takes off at a jog, quickly finding the mural the man had talked about. He turns, seeing a deserted square made from irregularly-cut red cobblestones, a pair of water fountains in the back feeding two channels that converge at the entrance. He sees an elderly man sitting on the lone bench, cane in one hand with the other hovering over the head.
The old man presses down, an audible click letting the mutant know that his blackmailer had pressed a dead man’s switch. He forces his growing rage back, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket as he walks to the bench. Luthen pulls a lighter out of his coat, and Pete uses it to light up. He sits, takes a drag, and looks at the other man.
“So. What is it you want?”
“From you? Nothing. Just a bit of confirmation. As a man in the same business, and the same position, knowing is everything.”
The pieces rapidly click in Pete’s head. The other man was Doom’s spymaster. The man whose tail he had been trying to catch, finally in his reach. His rage rises, weighing the computer system’s integrity against capturing the second-biggest threat to DFederal’s security.
“I can see what you’re thinking. It will do you no good,” Luthen says, his free hand back under his coat
Pete snaps at the bait, trying to summon his Hot Knives as he snarls. Until he finds his power out of reach.
“Mutant inhibitor? How…” he wonders aloud, distracted for the split second it takes Luthen to level his pistol, the sharp pew and burning pain of blaster fire grazing his heart returning his focus to the situation.
“She did say you stayed for breakfast,” Luthen says, letting go of his cane and fishing a familiar glowing capsule from his pocket, “Quite a gentleman.”
Pete barely has time to react before the capsule is shoved deep into the wound, ripping it further open. He slumps down, feeling the inhibitor weakening as the toxin flows out of his body. He concentrates, trying to find the willpower to break through as his consciousness wanes alongside it.
Luthen rises, collapsing his cane and striding quickly out of the park as he wipes the blood off his hands with a rag. With what Doom had been able to find out about the capsule, it was a good idea not to linger. Pete manages a spark before he passes out, the capsule cracking as his life ebbs. His body glows with a reddish light as he rises into the air, his mouth moving without his consent.
“You are a worm through time. The thunder song distorts you. Happiness comes. White pearls, but yellow and red in the eye. Through a mirror, inverted is made right. Leave your insides by the door…”
The sound bursts outwards, filling the park but stopping at its edge, where a red-haired woman stands, hand outstretched. Jesse Faden walks in as Polaris neutralizes the Hiss resonance in the air, silencing the chanting as she levels the Service Weapon at Pete’s head, three spikes floating in the air above it. She pulls the trigger, releasing the explosive bolts as they shred his body.
She puts her hand forwards, straining to cleanse the park of its Hiss corruption, and after a few seconds manages to do so. She looks at the mangled body of Pete Wisdom for a few seconds, muttering to herself as she texts Elijah.
“And the final results are verified,” Tyrion Lannister says.
“I have reviewed them, and concur,” Armstrong says through gritted teeth.
“Olivert Reise Arnor is hereby given the title of First Councilor,” Tyrion continues, giving a ceremonial mace to the taller blonde man.
“Thank you, Tyrion,” he says, looking out to the first elected DFederal Council. 18 seats were controlled by his party, 17 by Armstrong’s, 14 by Tyrion’s, 7 by Vox Miles, and the remaining 3 by the Monarchists. Securing the 31 votes needed to become First Councilor was far simpler than managing the elections, but his task was just beginning.
“Fellow Councilors, I believe our first order of business is drafting the DFederal Constitution. To that end, our first sessions will be a constitutional convention. We’ll start with the must-haves. Anything that you, or your party, considers vital.
Elijah sits back at his desk in his home office, sighing. He gets up, walking over to brew himself some coffee as he considers the papers he had laid out on the desk. His file on Pete, a necessity to be able to call upon the other members of Planetary for things they could do. The man had been growing erratic in the days since the election, growing paranoid and frustrated. Something that was putting heavy strain on his relationship with Councilor Kulkarni, which Elijah would otherwise have tried to lean on as a stabilizing influence.
He walks back to his desk, glaring at a small black sphere appearing in front of it. It shrinks to reveal a ten-year-old child, wearing a long, blue hoodie with bear ears. She gives him a calculating stare and a cold smile, only more disturbing because of her youth, as she shakes a few documents in her hand.
“Parcel,” he says, taking the documents from her, “What are these?”
“Something the boss thought you might be interested in,” she says, watching him carefully.
“And curious about in my reaction?” he asks, setting the stack down and lifting one up.
“No. But I am.”
“I’m not an exhibit,” he mutters, looking over them and stopping cold as he sees the contents.
We are pleased to inform you that Kadingir Request number PDENSF1AJKOWVDXTTD3B1G has been declined. You will need to investigate Elijah Snow using your own resources.
He quickly shuffles through each paper, seeing the members of Planetary named multiple times. All except Pete. Elijah looks over his desk, glaring at Parcel as cold radiates from his body with a silent question.
“Carol did think you’d need someone to be mad at,” she says, chuckling, “Pete thinks one of you betrayed him to New Latveria, resulting in his death a few days ago.”
“And is he right?”
“I can’t say either way,” she says, grin turning malicious, “But he’s head of Surveillance for a reason.”
She vanishes into another black sphere, leaving him alone with his thoughts. The possibility of a Planetary member giving information to New Latveria. Akechi’s new sword, which had been instrumental in fighting against the zombie-like things in the sewers, and the twinge of guilt every time he wielded it. The import shop, which dealt in information as well as money.
Elijah sighs, the pieces clicking into place. He scoops the requests for Kadingir access – the very surveillance system he and Pete had once fought against – into the spymaster’s folder. He takes it to the trio of document safes, contemplating them. One has a red wheel, for enemies. One has a blue wheel, for allies. And in the middle has a green wheel, for neutral parties.
He looks between the file and the safes, wondering which to put it in.
Expert's Opinion[]
The match was close, with the ultimate decider being Luthen's ability to play the long term with a smaller, more dedicated team. Pete has a wider net for recruits and was far better in the personal combat needed to decide the match, but Luthen's ability to prepare what he needed was able to cancel that out.