Storytelling in the Fallen Empire

An Epic Tale in a Pretty Little Package

Hats off to the writing team on Knights of the Fallen Empire. Scooter and I are only up to Chapter VI, but we are thoroughly engrossed. Actually, my compliments to all the folks behind the animation and cinematic cutscenes, as well.

Both Glember and Morrenia picked up new outfits on Ziost, just in time to jump into the expansion story. While Scooter kept the original colors for Glember, I've got Morrenia in her customary black and red. I even sprang for yellow eyes to give her that Dark look, wishing that I had done so some time ago. Five years in carbonite has just made her angrier.

Scooter pointed out that she loves the strong female characters that drive so much of the plot of the game; women who can move mountains and shape galactic events. While Glember's and Morrenia's stories are somewhat similar, they do lead me to wonder, how will the non-Force users' stories differ?

The improved cinematography has led to some epic shots. None handy right now, sorry. Besides, screenshots can't effectively portray some of the angles, pans, and zooms that give KotFE its epic feel. And, true to Star Wars, there are plenty of comedic beats interspersed among the thrilling heroics. I am loving the improved facial expressions and especially the more realistic eye movements on the player characters. The new characters are both well "drawn" and fleshed out, lots of details on costumes and expressive faces to go along with great personalities and agendas, both overt and hidden. I also like that I don't have to be "nice" to people if I don't want be, or think that Morrenia would not be. Not that she's rude, per se, but she is ruthless, and I like being able to be ruthless, even if Koth or someone else doesn't approve. I'm tempted to restart a couple characters just to change how they went through their first few planets.

You Got Some Single-Player in My MMO

The one irritation in all this is how poorly the folks at BioWare have incorporated grouping into the story. On Makeb (Rise of the Hutt Cartel), pretty much every mission conversation was potentially group-based, though not really requiring a group for Main Story mission completion. With the Shadow of Revan, that changed slightly, so that doing the Story missions was similar to how it was in vanilla SWTOR when two characters were the same class. There might be some repetition in the conversations, but group members were not necessarily separated for much of the action and most particularly, the mission objectives.

However, with Knights of the Fallen Empire, there is a significant hurdle masquerading as a new feature. If I am in an instanced area, I can summon Scooter to help complete my objectives. But at the end of every chapter, she is unceremoniously dumped to Spacedock while I  get caught in a cutscene that can't be stopped without exiting story mode and also dumping out to the fleet. So when we are doing her Story, I have missed the first part of almost every chapter so far, and Scooter has to re-summon me after the introductory cutscene ends.

With both of us at essentially the same stage, Scooter and I had to go through fairly lengthy sections with one of us making significant progress while the other was just along for the ride. This got a little better about Chapter IV, when we ended up on a planet that had a few instanced areas. Similar to SoR, we'd do each instance twice, once for each of us, before moving on. I think I will let Scooter just finish out Glember's story through Chapter IX, then we'll go back and finish Morrenia's.

If either of us were going through solo or we had decided to plow through all of one character before returning to the other, I can bet we'd have seen the whole story by now. I can understand how we were already seeing folks at 65 by the end of the evening last Tuesday. They'd probably taken the day off and binged their way through. I can't blame them; as I said, the story is exciting.

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Blaugust the 11th: An Exchange in the Desert

I guess I didn't always dislike Kaliyo. This slightly embellished draft from sometime in 2012 takes place during the second chapter of the Imperial Agent's Story:

"You're just an Imperial Stooge, like Keeper and the rest!" Turning her back on him, Kaliyo Djannis stalked off up the dune. She wanted to just leave him here in the desert to roast.

"Watch your mouth, Kal!" the agent shouted after her.

Even after months together, she felt like she barely knew him. Gideon Sho may not have been the most imposing figure Kaliyo had ever met, but he was potentially the most dangerous. And after her decades in the underbelly of Galactic civilization, that was saying something.

"Why are we even on this mission?" she tossed over her shoulder as she peered across the dunes. "You claim to hate the Empire as much as anyone, yet here you are, doing their bidding."

"However I might feel about the Sith is irrelevant. Thousands of innocent people were lost in that attack, for what? I hate the Sith and everything they represent! I am on a mission that I have to be on the inside to fulfill. I can't blow through the place sowing mayhem and accomplish that."

Kaliyo gave him a hard look. "Inside the SIS or II? Whose side are you on? It's a dangerous game you're playing, 'Agent' Versteckt."

"No more dangerous than the one you play, 'Kaliyo Djannis.' I haven't tried to find out your secrets."

"Only because you have secrets of your own. And what about that crazy ex-Watcher on Nar Shadaa?"

"What about him? He's rotting at the bottom of an urban canyon? Even more likely Vrblther fodder. Whatever intel he had on you died with him in that hangar." Gideon lowered his voice, "Something happened on Nar Shadaa, Kal. I don't know what, but SIS did something. I can hear Watcher X in my head."

Kaliyo stepped closer, trying to see his eyes past the dark, round VEARS* he always wore. "What do you mean, you can hear him?"

"He speaks to me, everything is fine." Gideon shook his head. "I can't get it out."

"You're finally in over your head."

"I need you more than ever, Kal. And I need Vector. I don't know what's going on, what's happening to me. My mission may be compromised."

"Which? The Imp mission? The Rep mission? Your own secret mission?"

Versteckt just stared at her, locked into his conditioning and unable to speak. Kaliyo softened, perhaps for the first time since they'd met. She gripped him by the arms and pulled him close.

"Don't worry, Agent. I still have your back."

*Visual Enhancement & Augmented Reality System
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If you're interested in joining the madness (Vloggers are welcome, too!), Belghast has a set of rules for qualifying for any prizes at the end. Your second stop should be the Blaugust Nook, where Bel is keeping track of everything and community members are sharing encouragement and ideas.

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. If you are reading this post through RSS or Atom feed—especially more than a couple hours after publication—I encourage you to visit the actual page, as I often make refinements after the fact. The mobile version also loses some of the original character of the piece due to simplified formatting.

Finally, a Game Post, Sorta: Silverleaf

Like many Imperial Officers, the Lieutenant Major had ambitions that exceeded his abilities. Probably from some "high-born" clan with a few Force sensitives who had been become Sith. It made the rest of the family feel like they were entitled to things they had not earned. Back on Rattatak, the bounty hunter known as Silverleaf had earned—indeed, fought for—every honor and privilege he had received. That the weasely Imp clearly looked down on the near-human (even the term itself was offensive) looming over him made Silverleaf want to crush the man's skull like an egg.

But Mako had determined that the little schemer was essential to luring their true quarry down to the planet. So the hunter kept his impulse in check. The Cathar wench at the Imp's side set the Rattataki's common sense atingle, though. Her lack of interest in their conversation was just little too studied. But the Lieutenant Major prattled on, oblivious, and Silverleaf remained silent about her.

*****

The Rattataki were known across the galaxy as fearsome warriors. Clans and tribes had fought over the planet's meager resources for centuries. Weak or stupid individuals didn't usually last past childhood. Xuxuy Tesig was neither, and he had proven himself time and again not only in battle, but also the often more vicious gladiatorial combat that passed for entertainment on his homeworld. The scars running down his face from the nexu he'd battled in The Cauldron were proof of that.

At only 20 standard years—and already a veteran of the Games—the silver-skinned goliath had left Rattatak to seek adventure in the galaxy. After a few years as a mercenary, Tesig met an old bounty hunter named Braden. Claiming he'd never seen a man with a steadier aim nor a cooler head in battle, Braden recruited the Rattataki onto a team looking to get into the Mandalorians' Great Hunt. Braden's dataslicer, Mako—a Great Hunt enthusiast—insisted that the freshly minted bounty hunter needed a nickname, dubbing him Silverleaf.

*****

"All I need you to do is create 'problems' for a few of the local operations that are not under my personal jurisdiction," the weasel was saying. "My superior's reputation then suffers, and I will be in a position to replace him."

"I'm not exactly in the sabotage business, bub."

Mako cut in, "But I'm sure we can work out a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Excellent," the Lieutenant Major actually rubbed his hands together in excitement. "This is actually a bounty of sorts. Here are the coordinates to the munitions factory. I already have a slicer inside. Her escort squad was decimated by the malfunctioning droids, and she refuses to carry out the plan without an extraction team. Force her to slice the factory, then take care of her. No loose ends, if you know what I mean."

"Understood," replied Silverleaf. "Get in. Do the slice. Do the slicer. Get out. We'll be back before sundown."

~~~~~~~~

If you're interested in joining the madness (Vloggers are welcome, too!), Belghast has a set of rules for qualifying for any prizes at the end. Your second stop should be the Blaugust Nook, where Bel is keeping track of everything and community members are sharing encouragement and ideas.
~~~~~~~~

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. If you are reading this post through RSS or Atom feed—especially more than a couple hours after publication—I encourage you to visit the actual page, as I often make refinements after the fact. The mobile version also loses some of the original character of the piece due to simplified formatting.

These are the Voyages of the U.S.S. Crazy Horse. . .

Captain's Log, 92803.64, Donovan T. Locke recording: After a successful tour of duty on the Klingon Front, I have received a promotion to Captain and a new commission, the Vigilant Class U.S.S. Crazy Horse. Accordingly, I have recommended for promotion and invited all of my senior staff to the new ship. With a total crew of only 50, we have a tighter focus as we head into Romulan territory. The Republic is allied with the Federation, and our mission is to counter the efforts of other factions—most notably Sela's "Empire"—to destabilize New Romulus.

The U.S.S. Crazy Horse, NCC-93330-A, is a Tactical Escort (TE), Vigilant Class, with a Gallant "Saucer," Gallant Refit Nacelles and "Pylons," and a Vigilant Refit Hull with a red and green Virgo paint scheme.

Plaque Dedication: "All we wanted was peace and to be left alone."~~Chief Crazy Horse

I put some of the terms in quotes because the STO customization system designated them thus, but they don't serve the same structural functions as the corresponding parts on other ships. The "saucer" is simply the small forward section that houses the deflector on the Defiant-like TEs (the forward section painted with a chevron in the picture above). The "pylons," rather than holding the nacelles away from the ship, are small weapons modules (shown on either side of the bow of the ship). Unlike most of the TEs, the Gallant "saucer" is a bit stubby, being slightly recessed in the Vigilant refit hull. I like the way this ship looks a bit like scarab beetle. I did not purchase the refit ship in the C-store, but for some reason, I have access to the TE refit skins.

I really like the handling of the Tactical Escort, which apparently has the best turn rate of all "large" ships in the game. Most of the my current loadout consists of hand-me-downs from my last two ships, but I am replacing them as time and credits permit.
~~~

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A Parting of Friends

Elisa Flores was practically bubbling over with excitement. "I got the Exeter! Captain Millibrand needs a new junior tactical officer. Can you imagine? Me, on the bridge of a 'ship of the line'!"

Lissia looked at her sidelong. Elisa spluttered, "Oh! I mean. The Bennett isn't—I mean. It's a great ship and all. . ."

"No, I get it. It's not the Exeter." They lapsed into an awkward silence.

Along with many of their classmates, Lissia and Elisa strode along a path across the central quad of Starfleet Academy. There was a celebration scheduled at Club 602. During the graduation ceremony, slightly delayed due to recent events, she'd received the James T. Kirk Award for original thinking.

But Lissia wasn't sure how far original thinking was going to get her out in the black. During repairs on the Bennett, she'd had been through a series of briefings involving the Klingon threat, as well as changes to her command staff.

"True that competent commanders can be developed with years of training and experience," Quinn had told her during one such private session. "But Starfleet has found that some of the most crucial traits of a great starship captain—that is, those most suited to command—can't be taught. More than just administrators, they inspire their crews to be greater than the individual members thereof. I have seen that quality in you, Lieutenant sh'Thlaspi. Captain Taggart also had confidence in your abilities, which is why he picked you among all your peers to be his Exec. And frankly, his confidence was well placed, given the events at Vega Colony."

"But, sir, most of my new staff are not my peers from the Academy. They'll have more experience in space—"

"You're right, lieutenant. The captain is often not the one aboard with the most experience. Rely on your command staff for advice. They are experts in their field. Your field of expertise is Command. As professionals, they'll abide by your decisions."

"Yes, sir."

Most of the rest of the cadet crew were being reassigned across the fleet. At least she still had Zarva down in Engineering. The Bolian's affable efficiency would be a welcome anchor to the new Captain. Upon her offer, Lieutenant Su'al had also elected to stay aboard as the Bennett's Security Chief. The Saurian was good in a firefight, that was certain.

With the departure of Ensign Flores, she needed a new XO. And T'Vell would have to be replaced at comms/science. The latter was an easy choice. Ensign Latur, a Ferengi with glowing reviews, was up for reassignment from the Peregrine. Lissia had reviewed a few candidates for First Officer, narrowing the list to two: LtJG Rohl Jesta, a Bajoran with experience on a couple cruisers, or Lt. Ambrož Horacek, a Human from the escort Black Hawk. Too bad interviews were not part of the selection process. She was also going to need a Chief Medical Officer, though the EMH enabled her top put that decision off for a bit.

At the gala, Lissia spent her time bidding farewell to her classmates, promising to correspond with a few as time permitted. Flores had wandered off somewhere, which was perhaps just as well. Lissia nursed a glass of Andorian ale, dancing with Ensigns Morek and Wright—putting off thoughts of crew complements and ship components. With music playing and libations flowing, tonight was for celebrating.
~~~
I haven't had as much time playing Lissia as I had expected. And I haven't fleshed out the backstories of the Bennett crew. Ironically, I've been devoting a lot of time to Locke and his Duty Officers, since Lissia isn't high enough to start that side game. I've been doing just a bit crafting, too, which was integrated with the DOffs interface at some point. Of course he's way behind, and I can't even imagine what it will take to get Rowan up to par, sitting at 50. One odd thing about the DOff system is that it levels my Captain. Much like GW2's XP for crafting, I'm not sure how I feel about that.

~~~

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Star Trek Online: Back in the Black

Lieutenant Vindillissia sh'Thlaspi looked out over the lobby of Starbase 1. She could just barely see the U.S.S. Bennett undergoing repairs on the other side of the enormous facility. Her ship. Not just the one she'd been assigned, but now under her command. Her meeting with Admiral Quinn had not gone as she had expected. The debriefing had turned into a confirmation of her field promotion, and Quinn's offering her the chance to sit in the big chair permanently. Despite her outward confidence, Lissia wasn't sure she was ready for the responsibility. Only days ago, she had been just another cadet at Starfleet Academy, preparing for her graduation training cruise. Now, she was responsible not only for herself, but about 200 other souls. She thought of Captain Taggart, her predecessor. His sacrifice had saved the lives of most of the cadets and, indirectly, those colonists they were able to rescue from Vega. Lissia wondered if she would be have been able to do the same in his place. She was determined to live up to his legacy.

Inspired by some podcasts I have listened to recently, and with the recent passing of both Leonard Nimoy and Harve Bennett, I decided to jump back into STO. I started a new character, because I figured, if the game systems are as different as Earth Spacedock, I need to start over. Rowan and Locke (not to mention my other two characters) are still there, waiting for when I am comfortable making character progression choices. Seems like that was a concern the last time I played.

Lissia is an Andorian Tactical Officer, in the vein of Tarah, Rowan's "Spock." Thlaspi is the genus for a collection of herbs known as penny-cress. Other than working out her name, I don't have much backstory for Lissia yet. I may need to read up a little more on Andorians, or maybe binge on some Enterprise episodes. After discovering I couldn't change my first Bridge Officer, Elisa Flores, I jettisoned her and my science officer in favor of some purple ("very rare") Boffs I had waiting in reserve on Locke. I'll come up with some RP reason later, like Elisa was given her own command or something. The rest of my Bridge crew is in place, though I think I need another Science Boff soon, to be a medic. We're a little Tactical heavy right now.

The U.S.S. Bennett (NCC-93037) was named for Admiral Robert Bennett, Starfleet Chief of Staff in the late 23rd Century. In reality, named for Harve Bennett (1930-2015), producer of Star Trek II-V, and who passed away a few days before I decided to return to STO. She's been through a lot, but is—as they say—"a tough little ship." Bennett's plaque dedication quotes Carl Sagan:

“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.”

I find it interesting how some of my ships take an article (e.g., the Bennett); while others, like Rowan's Wayfarer and Sojourner, are simply known to their crew (and me) by proper name, sans article. In any event, the Bennett is a Light Cruiser, ShiKahr Class, with a Miranda Strut and Centaur pylons, and a Blue and White Cygnus paint job. I didn't realize until looking at old screenshots how closely the Bennett resembles Rowan's first ship, with only the strut and the paint scheme being different. There's obviously not much choice of designs at the lowest ship level, with everyone getting a light cruiser.

~~~

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Gallow Humors

Beware of SPOILERS

Flint and Lave have been spending time in the town of Gallow in the Algoroc valley. You could say they've been deputized, since the local constabulary seems inadequate to the task of protecting the townsfolk. As you may know, Gallow is the hub of several mining operations, as well as a robust ranching enterprise. (You may also note a certain lilt in my speech. It seems the local dialect may rubbed a bit off on me.)

Unfortunately for the Gallowites (Gallowegians?), a group of thugs led by a Krogg named Morek Throg has arrived in town to claim the valuable loftite in the area for the Darkspur Cartel. They've been terrorizing the good folks of Gallow, and also facilitating the distribution of the bootleg beverage known as Slush.

After losing his arm to a cowardly attack by Throg, Judge Kain has enlisted the help of Flint and Lave to break the stranglehold of Throg's gang and their allies, the Crowes. The walking mountain and his kinetic companion have been making mincemeat of the bandits and bootleggers.

Because dispensing frontier justice on the edge of a blade is how we do it in this big valley, pardner!

Bear witness to the Blind Justice of Blaugust!

~~~

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Unexpected Guests

Flint Buckthorn looked out across the Algoroc Valley. The sun was just peaking over the mountains. Loftite spires reached up into the sky, shards of the strange ore floating around them as if in orbit, catching the dawn's rays. He had been in the area just a few weeks, but it was already growing on him. The sparse environment reminded him of his village on Gnox, but he pushed that down. Even three centuries later, the rejection of the Free Companies by the Granok chieftains felt like a fresh fissure. A heavy sigh came out from under his mustache. He wasn't even middle-aged, but Flint felt old. He leaned on his sword, squinting into the distance. A ship was landing across the valley, but he couldn't make out its markings.

"Heya, Flinty!" Lave came bounding up the boulder he was standing on. Jumping onto his broad back and clinging to his shoulders, she asked, "What's so interesting up here?"

Flint barely felt the young Aurin's weight. The burden of her history was a different story. Seven years ago, he'd been part of the operation on Arboria. Unfortunately, they couldn't save the Aurin homeworld the way they had Gnox centuries earlier. Lavender Daisy had been orphaned by a Chua planet reaper attack that razed her village, and Flint's team was the first on the scene of destruction. He had found her huddling in a pocket under the rubble. The Aurin girl had scarcely left his side since. Flint had sworn that even if he couldn't rescue them all, he would make sure Lave wmade it out.

"Ship touched down over yonder," he responded, pointing. "I don't know that we're expecting visitors today. Might be the Marauders."

"Ya wanna check it out?" She dropped off his shoulders, landing lightly.

Flint hefted his claymore over his back and grinned at his companion.

"Sure. I love a good asskicking in the morning."

It's not too late to enjoy the Battle of Blaugust. Field Marshall Belghast has promised spoils for the victors.

~~~

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The Alexandria Initiative: The Will (Revised & Expanded)

By way of introduction, this is my entry into the first phase of the "Alexandria Initiative" writing contest, a fan-organized contest with venues on the The Secret Forums and councilofvenice.tumblr.com. It's an expansion of a story I previously posted here, but I hope you enjoy it.

~~~

Most people go through life on a sort of autopilot. Not that they can't make decisions, they just don't—beyond the trivial. They have no problem deciding what shirt to wear in the morning, but then simply fall into love affairs, careers . . . parenthood; perhaps even believing they are happy. They lack the Will to do otherwise. They follow instructions, they do what they're told. These are the sort you find are easily turned. They succumb to the Will of other, more powerful, forces, like sheep for the shearing—or cattle to the slaughter—realizing too late that they've never had the option in the first place.

A rare few have the power to exert their Will—their "Anima"—to withstand the influences of forces beyond the capacity of the rest to comprehend, or even perceive. In a population of billions, they number perhaps in the thousands. These few "Animated" individuals are all that stand between the sheep and the long cold night of oblivion.

"It's like shooting fish in a barrel," Xander Hayes quipped. The blond, blue-eyed Canadian took aim at the barnacle-encrusted behemoth over the sea wall where he and Sam had taken cover. Whereas Sam's rifle was a up-converted M4 MWS, Hayes sported an Orochi Occultech rifle. ("I like to call it Hard Rain," he'd said.) On semi-auto, he made short work of the incubators that had begun to advance on their position. Sam focused on the big one. The red and gray creature screamed in pain and anger, recoiling briefly before renewing its advance.

Unlike the soggy former residents of Kingsmouth, the beast they fought now was clearly from the depths. It towered at least four meters, with giant lobster claws and a gaping, saw-toothed maw in its torso. And still it advanced, despite Sam emptying a full clip into it. Almost within striking distance, it reared up.

"Time to go," said Hayes, as he dodged to his right, out of the blast wave. Sam wasn't so quick, and the spray of water knocked her on her back. Chunks of seawall went flying. Sputtering, she looked up as the creature raised its claw to impale her. The small hairs on her arms stood on end as a tendril of brilliant white flashed into view, enveloping the creature and causing it to seize up for an instant. Momentarily forgetting Sam, it turned toward the source of its new pain, Xander. As it lumbered toward him, Sam dragged out her own claws and leapt onto the beast's back.

She failed to gain purchase and tumbled off. The Canadian was driving fireballs into the creature's maw. Sam jumped again—more determined this time—and drove her claws into the creature's back, using them to climb higher. The beast screamed in pain and anger, but Sam made it to the shoulders. With one set of claws embedded for leverage, she stabbed into the creature's head with the other. Over and over, she drove in her claws as the beast flailed its pincers, unable to reach her. Xander kept up his fiery assault as the creature stumbled and fell.

The impact threw Sam clear of the carcass. As she lay there trying to catch her breath, Xander came and stood over her.

"You all right?" he asked, lending a hand to help her up.

"Yeah, I think so." She looked down at her slacks and jacket, formerly so professorial, now drenched in seawater and gore.

"You ever read Harry Potter?"

She looked at the Canadian askance. "Yes, why?"

"Remember what it said about the Killing Curse, Avada Kedrava? You've got to mean it! I don't think you meant it until you got up on that beast's back."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Sam answered, bemused by his mispronunciation of the infamous spell.

Hayes peered at Sam intently. "I'm telling you, when you really mean it, you won't even need bullets in that gun." He then flashed her a grin. "Meanwhile, you'd better reload."

Samantha sat near the back of the local church. She wasn't religious, too much time spent studying the influence of dogmas on history. But now, she'd seen the realities behind a few of the myths, terrifying realities. She needed time to think, and the sanctuary seemed an appropriate place to mull things over. She stared at the business card Xander had given her, inviting her to a meeting in London. "Beyond the Veil," it read, promising further knowledge, perhaps? But the last time she accepted such an invitation, she'd fallen down a deeper rabbit hole than she could possibly have imagined.

The local pastor, the Reverend Henry Hawthorne, came and sat beside her in the pew.

"You seem a little more thoughtful than many of my current crop of visitors, my dear. What's on your mind?"

"What isn't on my mind? My world has been turned upside down. Just days ago I was a simple college professor. Now I am expected to take up arms in some conflict I knew nothing of before. Not just some cold war between ancient conspiracies that pull the strings on world politics, but a fight for existence against even more ancient things that care nothing for the petty power plays of the human race. We may as well be warring ant colonies. I don't know what to make of the creatures we face out there. The dead rising, but not alive. Lovecraftian sea monsters. What's next, giant insects and walking scarecrows?"

"Actually I have heard rumors," he answered, scratching his chin absently. "But never mind that. The surviving townsfolk are grateful for your help. With enough—special—reinforcements, perhaps we can stem the tide and bury our dead."

"How can we fight this?" she asked. She shook her head. "How can we possibly hope to win against a relentless bombardment that drives us mad and can't be killed?"

The pastor stared up at the altar, pondering. She followed his gaze to the candles burning there.

"You know the funny thing about Darkness?" Hawthorne asked, then answered his own question. "It can be driven away by the light of a single flame. You know, at its heart, that is the creed of the Illuminati, the Enlightened Ones."

He held up his Bible. "The Good Book is full of such imagery. 'Ye are the light of the world… Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.'

"The World is a dark place, my dear. Shadowy forces seek to destroy it, to devour it whole. But Gaia is strong, she calls forth bright warriors to fight the Darkness. Of course, we may disagree on how that battle should be fought, and who should lead it. But the Three will prevail, complementing each other's strengths while compensating for each other's weaknesses. Rest assured of that."

~~~

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. If you are reading this post through RSS or Atom feed—especially more than a couple hours after publication—I encourage you to visit the actual page, as I often make refinements after the fact. The mobile version also loses some of the original character of the piece due to simplified formatting.

Like a Stroll in the Park

A snippet of a story project I'm working on.

Samantha stepped out of the portal, and the stench of the corrupt sea hit her. The ancient Viking longboat was like an old friend that she would have been happy never to see again. There was a chill in the air she hadn't expected. The Five Burroughs were sweltering in the dog days of July, but the Fog had somehow locked Kingsmouth Town in an eternal October. She walked down the draw, sighting Boone's camp just off the road.

"Dr. Hawthorn!" he greeted her as she approached. "Long time, no see."

"I'm surprised you remember me, Mr. Boone," she replied.

"Call it a knack. It's my business to remember folks. How've you been? Looks like your adventures have taken you to sunnier climes."

"I've been everywhere, it seems. Ms. Geary keeps me busy."

He chuckled.

"And how is Kiki these days?"

Sam grinned.

"She's fine, I suppose—as long you don't call her that to her face."

"Fair enough," Boone smiled.

"Well, I want to check in on the folks in town before . . . Say, you don't happen to have seen a new group of Orochi agents around, have you?"

"Not any new ones. Just the folks out on the bridge north of town, and at the airport. And at the base camp. Y'know? There are an awful lot of those corporate types around. But I haven't seen any new ones. Of course, you don't all come by here to chat."

"True. All right, then. I'll see you 'round, I guess."

"Keep your head down," Boone tipped his hat, and Sam returned the gesture with a smile as she strode off toward town.

~~~

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. If you are reading this post through RSS or Atom feed—especially more than a couple hours after publication—I encourage you to visit the actual page, as I often make refinements after the fact. The mobile version also loses some of the original character of the piece due to simplified formatting.

LoneStarBelle: The Phoenician Agenda

This picks up where this other tale by Katzushima leaves off. Katzu already had something published by the time I got this "on paper." But you know what? We're all the hero of our own story. :) Not sure how we'll continue this, I may edit and reuse some of this later, but wanted to get something out for Action Monday.

Much as she wouldn't have minded kicking Majors in the ribs herself, Samantha was not about to stand by while the Phoenician leader beat the shit out of him. She strode up behind the man and put her hand on his shoulder. Summoning a bit of elemental power, she deadened his nerves, which rendered his arm useless. As he turned in reaction, he found one of her Colt Pythons pressed against his rib cage.

Samantha leaned in close to the Phoenician and whispered in his ear, "Y'know, I don't think anyone here besides your friends would particularly mind if I made a corpse o'you."

The Phoenician's cohorts started to draw their weapons, but not before a pinstriped figure stepped out of the shadows, guns akimbo.

"Now, now, lads. That'd be a very poor choice of action," Alasdair said affably, letting his pistols provide the menace. The Templar nodded at Sam.

The Phoenician delegate already at the reception came over just as Consigliere Castiglione appeared, a small contingent of Council security personnel close behind him.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked the Italian.

The Phoenician thug spoke first, gesturing at the Golden Way agent. "This woman has stolen something from us."

"I believe you may have misspoken, sir," said Castiglione. "The report I received was that she has stolen from the Council. Therefore, Council Security will investigate the matter. But I thank you for your concern."

The Phoenician delegate fumed, "This is outrageous! The Brotherhood cries for justice!"

"I assure you that justice will be served. Meanwhile, your men have disturbed this gathering, and if they cannot abide in peace I must ask them to leave."

Glancing around, the Phoenician leader assessed the precariousness of his position.

"Very well, Consigliere," he moved out of Samantha's grasp, and turned to her. "You I will not forget." He spat on Majors, who was still on the ground.

With that, the Phoenician glanced at the Golden Way agent, who had been taken into custody by two Council security officers, and stalked out of the Library.

Castiglione glanced an order to the security guards flanking the girl, who frogmarched her towards their offices. Nodding at Samantha, he stalked off. With an amused expression, Alasdair reached down to help Majors get up.

Taking the gesture of help, Majors quipped, "Nice suit, Fairholm. Where'd you pick it up, Couturier Corleone?"

Alasdair pushed his hat toward the back of his head. "Soprano & Sons. I love your cologne. Lynchburg Musk?"

"Touché." Majors turned to Samantha. "Hawthorn, I oughtta string you up. When are you going to learn to follow orders?"

"You're welcome," she said sarcastically. She looked around to find the Golden Way delegation had melted away into the now remixing crowd. "I follow orders, just not yours. Thanks for backing my play, Alasdair."

"Anytime, Sam. Even if it means saving this clown's ass." Alasdair wandered off into the stacks again.

Majors huffed. "I'm not kidding, LoneStar. If you fuck up this mission, you won't see fresh air until Ragnarok."

"Aw, Katzu," she smiled in mock sympathy. "Ragnarok has already started. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an assignment to complete, one you yourself arranged." And with that she walked off in search of Lugosi.

Majors stared at her as she left, fuming. Xander came and stood next him.

"She is so damn aggravating," Majors said. "What does the Eye see in her?"

"Well," said Xander. "She gets results, despite—or maybe because of—the drummer she marches to. And—except Antida, of course—there isn't another person on this planet I'd rather have watching my back."

LoneStarBelle: The Sunken Library

I highly recommend this short story by Katzushima. The following continues from it and The Masquerade.

Sam loved the smell of old books. No matter how much information could be obtained online these days, there was nothing quite like wandering the stacks of a great library.

Venice's Sunken Library was one such place, though Sam was surprised at the humidity levels, wondering if there weren't a better place for these treasured tomes. Guests from the reception had filtered down into this maze, discussing various topics. On a lark, she'd talked Drake Kipling into chatting up John Majors about "the merits of the Templar approach" before seeking out Lugosi again. She laughed to herself, imagining John in misery listening to the Templar pontificating. Rivals though they may be, it paid to have actual friends in the other factions.

Majors' voice crackled over the tiny comms device in her ear. "Hawthorn, do that again and I'll have you steri-wiping the surgical suite for Zurn."

Sam rolled her eyes, but feigned innocence, "What? Isn't that what the Council is about; fostering understanding?"

"No. It's about providing us all a semi-legal eye on what the others are up to." And with that he cut comms.

"Pompous ass," Sam said to dead air. Steri-wiping the surgical suite!

She'd come around a bit to the Lumie philosophy, especially since the vote of confidence from the Pyramidion—over Kiki's objections at that. Sam often did not toe the party line. Not that the Templars were complete saints, either. Firebombing entire villages when more surgical methods would be appropriate didn't fit her definition of a reasonable group of people. But Majors had fully drunk the Illuminati Koolaid. The Eye appreciated that not all Visionaries had the same vision, even if Majors did not.

Chuckling to herself, she resolved to repay Kipling soon. Right now, she had a mission to complete. Presently, she found Lugosi refereeing an animated discussion about order and chaos between a Dragon and a Templar. She slipped her elbow into the crook of his.

"Signore, how about that tour you promised me?"

His eyes lit up, and he absently smoothed his comb-over. "I would be delighted, Dr. Hawthorn. If you'll excuse me, sir, madam."

Despite what she'd heard from Geary and others, the Council Archives weren't completely mired in the eighteenth century. In fact, that was about where the Archive digitization project had reached. They'd maintained original copies of centuries- and even millenia-old documents and tomes, but most of the information since the 1700s had been catalogued and was available on the Council intranet. In many ways, that made Sam's job easier.

"Signore Lugo—"

"Please, Doctor, call me Antal. And may I call you . . . ?"

She smiled, pouring on a little Southern charm. "Samantha."

Dazzled, he returned her smile. "Ah! what a beautiful name."

"Thank you, Antal. The work you are doing is amazing."

"Thank you, Samantha, we have a relatively small staff. There's not much prestige in cataloguing the exploits of others, even if it is necessary and sometimes distasteful."

"Distasteful?"

"Oh, yes. For instance—" Lugosi briefly searched the books in the stack they were walking past, before pulling a book off the shelf. "—have a look at this."

Samantha opened the book, a fourteenth-century report in the Venetian dialect tracing the course of the Black Death. Samantha read little Italian, but grasped the gist.

"Does this say what I think it does? The Plague was engineered?"

"Yes, and the anti-Amina component strongly resembles the infection on your Solomon Island."

Sam felt slightly ill. Lugosi took the book and returned it to the shelf. He put his hand on her shoulder.

"Samantha, are you all right? You're very pale."

"Y-yes." Accepting his support, she took a deep breath "The Black Death was a turning point in European history. But . . . all those people. . ."

"Yes. All those people, all those family lines, snuffed out."

"But why?"

"I have a theory that it relates to the device recovered from that train in Egypt, the twin of that which defiled Tokyo. Come, let me show you something we have been working on. Something a little more cutting edge than these old tomes. Arturo likes to call it 'The Room.'"

He led her deeper into the Library. Moving around a wall emblazoned with the Council insignia, they entered an expanded chamber filled with server racks. Lugosi stepped to a console and typed in a keycode.

"Our field agents have been feeding us data on various locations around the world for this project."

Samantha adjusted her glasses as schematics flashed past on the terminal monitor.

Lugosi continued, "I'm not fully familiar with the technical aspects of the Room. Like you, I am more at home with books than computers."

"Yes. Well, university libraries are far automated than they used to be. But I understand. I'm not a computer expert either."

Just then, Sam's earpiece crackled. "LoneStarBelle, this is Katzushima. . ." Sam listened for a moment, then turned to Lugosi.

"We need to find Minister Castiglione."

LoneStarBelle: The Will

Most people go through life on a sort of auto-pilot. Not that they can't make decisions, they just don't—beyond the trivial. They have no problem deciding what shirt to wear this morning, but then simply fall into love affairs, careers . . . parenthood; perhaps even believing they are happy. They lack the Will to do otherwise. They follow instructions, they do what they're told. These are the sort you find are easily turned. They succumb to the Will of other, more powerful, forces, like sheep for the shearing—or cattle to the slaughter—realizing too late that they've never had the option in the first place.

A rare few have the power to exert their Will—their "Anima"—to withstand the influences of forces beyond the capacity of the rest to comprehend, or even perceive. In a population of billions, they perhaps number in the thousands. These few "Animated" individuals are all that stand between the sheep and the long cold night of oblivion.

"It's like shooting fish in a barrel," Xander Hayes quipped. The blond, blue-eyed Canadian took aim at the barnacle encrusted behemoth over the sea wall where he and Sam and taken cover. Whereas Sam's rifle was a up-converted M4 MWS, Hayes sported an Orochi Occultech rifle. ("I like to call it Hard Rain," he'd said.) On semi-auto, he made short work of the incubators that had begun to advance on their position. Sam focused on the big one. The red and gray creature screamed in pain and anger, recoiling briefly before renewing its advance.

Unlike the zombified former residents of Kingsmouth, the beast they fought now was clearly from the depths. It towered at least four meters, with giant lobster claws and a gaping, saw-toothed maw in its torso. And still it advanced, despite Sam emptying a full clip into it. Almost within striking distance, it reared up.

"Time to go," said Hayes, as he dodged to his right, out of the blast wave. Sam wasn't so quick, and the spray of water knocked her on her back. Chunks of seawall went flying. Sputtering, she looked up as the creature raised its claw to impale her. The small hairs on her arms stood on end as a tendril of brilliant white flashed into view, enveloping the creature and causing it to seize up for an instant. Momentarily forgetting Sam, it turned toward the source of its new pain, Xander. As it lumbered toward him, Sam dragged out her own claws and leapt onto the beast's back.

She failed gain purchase and tumbled off. But the Canadian was driving fireballs into the creature's maw. Sam jumped again–more determined this time—and drove her claws into the creature's back, using them to climb higher. The beast screamed in pain and anger, but Sam made it to the shoulders. With one set of claws embedded for leverage, she stabbed into the creature's head. Over and over, she drove in her claws as the beast flailed its pincers, but unable to reach her. Xander kept up his fiery assault as the creature stumbled and fell.

The impact threw Sam clear of the carcass. As she lay there trying to catch her breath, Xander came and stood over her.

"You all right?" he asked, lending a hand to help her up.

"Yeah, I think so." She looked down at her slacks and jacket, formerly so professorial, now drenched in seawater and gore.

"You ever read Harry Potter?"

She looked at the Canadian askance. "Yes, why?"

"Remember what it said about the Killing Curse, Avada Kedrava? You've got to mean it! I don't think you meant it until you got up on that beast's back.

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

Hayes peered at Sam intently. "I'm telling you, when you really mean it, you won't even need bullets in that gun." He then flashed her a grin. "Meanwhile, you'd better reload."

Hmmmmmm

To WriMo or not to WriMo? That is the question!
I'm truly torn.

Storytelling

Syp has a post up about some issues he sees with ArenaNet's storytelling technique—or lack thereof—in Guild Wars 2. Slurms says they're working to rectify the problems.

I'll admit that even having come back in to the game recently, I am avoiding the living story elements like the plague. I am so far behind, that it doesn't seem worth even trying to catch up. For a world so obviously steeped in lore and history, Tyria's current events lack a certain je ne sais quois. It just doesn't grip me.

The hearts of GW2 and beer-battered boar rib runs of World of Warcraft are where my interest lies. The Secret World's faction leaders keep saying to keep the big picture in mind. But the PCs keep helping the little guys, beating back the darkness one zombie—or one ancient demoness—at a time.

I am far more involved with the "personal lives" of the NPCs in TSW than with any figure in GW2. I think the problem starts with GW2's personal story and spirals from there, with the players becoming less and less the focus of the game story. However, I believe WoW has suffered in a similar way, mistaking "adventurers" for "Heroes." And then having done so, still shoving them aside in favor of Beings that "truly" matter.

I've said it before, but part of the appeal of TSW for me is that the player character is so much a blank slate. Everything about their personality—up to and including their voice—is in my imagination. GW2's PCs are not really mine, any more than SWTOR's PCs are, despite the illusion of choice those game systems attempt to convey.

Perhaps it is fitting that TSW's latest Halloween mission series deals with decidedly "personal" Urban Legends, rather than some Mad King out of the world's past. One Dark Pharaoh is enough.

LoneStarBelle: The Masquerade

Sam stepped out onto the Grand Staircase of the Palazzo del Consiglio on the arm of John Majors, sheathed in a silk and chiffon column of cobalt blue that accentuated her eyes, and a lightly sequined midnight blue bolero jacket. A sapphire-encrusted pyramid pendant hung around her neck on a platinum chain. Majors, for his part, was outfitted in a tuxedo that matched Sam's jacket, the same pyramid on his lapel and cuff links. He handed the herald their card, who then called out their names:

"The Honorable John Majors and Dr. Samantha Hawthorn!"

Sam laughed inwardly. "'Honorable?'"

Majors looked sidelong at her as they headed down the stairs. "Well, despite your opinion, Hawthorn, I do have a reputation and rank in this organization. Not everything can be solved by pulling a trigger."

"No, but squeezing a couple times usually does the trick in this line of work."

"Not this line of work," he corrected her.
* * *

Thirty-one hours earlier . . .

Majors plunked himself down in one of Kirsten Geary's Barcelona chairs, waiting for her to get off the phone.

"No, no. . . I don't care. Keep those stooges from the CDC from sending more people. . . I don't know. Lose the paperwork, falsify a report or something. . . Yes, that is why I have you down there. Handle it. Ciao ciao."

Ending the call, KG turned to Majors. "Did I say you could sit down, Katzu?"

"Funny, I didn't bother to ask. I don't answer to you anymore, remember?"

Geary folded her arms and sat on the edge of her desk. "Then why are you in my office?"

"We need to get a better handle on the situation in Tokyo. The files we pilfered from the Orochi mainframe included some rather disturbing, if fragmentary information. And the Council scooped up that device from the Cairo train before our agent could get a good look at it."

"You act like I'm not reading the same reports you are. Tell me what you're doing to remedy the situation."

"I'm attending a Council reception tomorrow night in Venice. I want to bring an agent that can infiltrate the Council Archives and find out what they know about this device and how it relates to Tokyo. We also need to see how far into bed they've gotten with the Serpent."

"Looking for an excuse to jettison the agreements?"

"Not necessarily," Majors said. "But the Winged Lion is increasingly toothless, and I think it maybe an abscess that we can root out."

"So you want one of my agents?" she asked.

"Yes, I've already called her in. She's due any minute."

"Look, I don't appreciate you poaching my people, Katzu."

"Trust me, Kiki. This wasn't my preferred choice. If one of my own could do this, I wouldn't be coming to you."

Geary narrowed her eyes, but kept her cool.

"More like end-running me, which is going to cost you," she said through clenched teeth. "Who do I have to reshuffle then?"

With uncanny timing, the distinct sound of boot heels echoed up the ramp from the main floor of the Labyrinth. Geary rolled her eyes as first a Stetson, and then sunglasses and red hair came into view. Samantha Hawthorn looked like a character out of a Louis L'Amour novel, from her hat and boots to the antique Colt Peacemakers holstered at her side. Her blue eyes were masked by nearly opaque aviators, the only sign that she didn't belong on some nineteenth-century trail between Deadwood and Tombstone.

"Ah," said Majors. "Here's our Lone Star Belle now."

Geary glanced from one to the other. "I thought you two weren't on speaking terms."

Samantha glowered at the Company man from behind her shades. "We're not. He blames me for what happened at the Wabanaki casino."

Majors waved dismissively. "Bygones. I have a job to do, and you're the perfect person to help execute my plan."

"Well, I am good at executions," Sam quipped, folding her arms. "But who says I want to work for you?"

Majors stood up. "Look, I don't have time for this. The limo's downstairs. We need to get you over to the Garment District, and traffic will be horrendous at this hour. I'm sure you've got nothing appropriate for this occasion, and our couturier will need time to make you something 'fabulous.' I'll brief you on the way."
* * *

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Sam muttered to Majors, as she looked out over the small crowd of people already gathered in the Salone da Ballo.

"You've never been to a ball before? I thought you Southerners were all about debutantes and cotillions," he said.

"First of all, why does everyone assume that the South is Gone with the Wind? Secondly, I am a military brat. Cotillions weren't exactly a thing in Germany when I was a teenager."

"Texans don't dance?"

"Yes, but I'm more comfortable with the two-step than the minuet."

"No minuets here. You'll do fine. This is just a meet-n-greet like all those faculty mixers I'm sure you've attended."

"None of those mixers involved such high stakes."

His response was cut off by the approach of the Illuminati delegate to the Council. Lyndon Rezník was a debonair—if slightly weasel-faced—gentleman attired similarly to Majors, with slightly more ostentation that distinguished him as a diplomat. Despite his status on the Council, Rezník was not Beestung. His beady eyes raked across Sam before settling on Majors.

"John!" He made a show of shaking Majors' hand. "How good to see you again."

Turning to Sam, he grasped her fingers. "You must introduce me to your lovely companion."

"Of course. Lyndon Rezník, let me present Dr. Samantha Hawthorn, one of our top field agents."

"Enchanté, Doctor," the diplomat said, raising her fingers to his lips. Sam suffered the gesture, though the weasel made her skin crawl slightly.

"I've read the reports of your exploits on Solomon Island and Salamanca."

"Then not all of my 'exploits' have been declassified," she responded, a bit coolly. Majors gave her a warning glance. She put on her best Southern smile, but escaped Rezník's oily grasp.

"Indeed," he said, returning her smile and giving no sign if he'd taken offense. "Allow me to introduce you to the other members of the Council."

The delegate led them to a short reception line. Despite a large bureaucracy, the Council itself was rather small, only about a dozen members, including the Society representatives. But not all were in attendance. Majors gave her a subtle signal when they greeted Sam's mark, Signore Antal Lugosi, a Hungarian-born consigliere and Curator of the Council Archives. The balding, bookish Lugosi had a soft spot for tall redheads. Pouring on her Southern charm, she lingered a bit with him.

"An archivist! I'm actually a historian by education," she touched his arm and leaned in conspiratorially. "I'd love to see your . . . collection." Ugh, I can't believe I'm doing this.

Thoroughly bewitched, Lugosi unconsciously smoothed his comb-over. "Perhaps that can be arranged."

"Oh, good," she smiled again. "I look forward to speaking with you later."

Illuminata: Visionary

In character as Samantha Hawthorn:

So I've been at this whole Bees-ness for a while now, following KG's orders to the letter—if not the spirit—and basically doing what I think is right despite her. After dealing with the mess in Egypt, I was kind of feeling unappreciated, to be honest. But KG's acting like I had any other choice but to stop the Heretic King. She says I'm an "Instigator." I really don't give a crap whether the Orochi Group got their nose bent outta shape. They were messing with things they clearly couldn't handle.

I just don't think the self-centered, what's-in-it-for-me corporate culture of the Illuminati is my cuppa tea. I don't fit in with the backstabbing politics going on at HQ. Katzu can have his Manhattan lunches, wrapped around KG's finger. I'd rather be out in the field doing actual work, helping actual people where I can. I have managed to help a few people—I hope—and even made some historical discoveries, like the Loyola Manuscript and the Darkness War. But . . .

After recovering the Orochi data for Senator Cicero, I guess I got a little leverage. I got this call, from the the Eye-in-the-Sky, Mr. "Pyramidion" himself:

"Where there is no vision, the people perish. I spy with my All-Seeing Eye, a New and Improved! woman of vision. It's a Small World After All. I love it when a plan comes together. There's a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow. Thank you for your support."

KG wasn't particularly thrilled about it, but she has made some concessions to my style. "Yes-people have their place," she said. "They make neat dogs. But sometimes the Company needs Instigators."

I may just fit in after all.

A Scuffle in Tokyo

A bit of adapted fiction from my last NaNoWriMo. This one is for is Frank:

The Way teaches balance. There is Order in apparent Chaos, a duality of Nature: Light-Dark; Hot-Cold; Life-Death. However, the ordered mind recognizes that of these vectors, the "negative" is simply the absence of the "positive." There is really only Light, Hot, Life.

Truth: only people are chaotic in their dualities: Good-Evil; Innocence-Guilt; Mercy-Justice. These vectors are active. Evil is more than simply the absence of Good; and Good is not simply the absence of Evil. The Innocent must have Mercy. But for the Guilty, there is only Justice. That is balance. That is the Way.

The night was alive with energy, pulsing like the heartbeat of a great beast. It was a good night. And Hinageshi had long been a creature of it. The scent of food wafted her way from the nightclub district. Hinageshi inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. Her stomach growled, and she headed down the avenue toward the aroma.

The streets of Tokyo never seemed to empty. People laughed and dashed from this club to that bar through colliding techno beats. Hinageshi ran her fingers through her close-cropped green-and-yellow tinted hair. In some ways, she was downright conservative in this crowd. With the whimsical costumes sported by so many, no one noticed the punky girl with eyes that matched her hair and the tattoo decorating the side of her face.

Except the ones who did. She stopped at a snack stand, and caught a glimpse of them. Four punks; much like herself, truth be told. They ducked back, and she acted like she hadn't seen them, purchasing yakitori and moving on down the boulevard. She was clearly without companions in the crowd. She knew they were following, looking for an opening. Smirking to herself, she decided she would give them one. They could be yakuza; she hoped they were. Meandering down the avenue, she ate the kabobs.

She turned down a darker street, away from the crowd, as if heading home. It would be harder for them to disguise their pursuit. Indeed, she perceived that they had been joined by friends, making seven in all. So much the better. Ever the easy prey, she turned down another street.

"Hey, sweet thing," their leader called to her. "Don't you know it’s dangerous for a girl out alone in the night?" A couple of the others chuckled.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” said the leader as he got closer.

Another thug called, "You need an escort home, little thing? We'll keep you safe."

At this point, she glanced back over her shoulder, "Somehow, I don't think so."

She picked up her pace. So did they. Ever closer they came. She glanced back over her shoulder again, a scared look on her face. Perhaps in another block or two they would give up and leave her alone.

But they continued their pursuit. Hinageshi started to jog, half a block more, then down a blind alley. It smelled slightly of rotting garbage and stale urine. The leader grinned like a predator, she was making it too easy. She reached the end, turned around, terror etched on her face. They had her cornered, and the yakuza moved in for the kill.

The leader grabbed Hinageshi by the arm. He pushed her up against the wall of the building.

"You shouldn't have run away like that, little thing." he said, still speaking as if to soothe. "We just wanna have a little fun." He moved closer to plant a kiss on her trembling lips.

She could feel the adrenalin surge, her heart beating faster, time slowing down. She saw all of them, gauged their positions relative to her and to each other. The precepts of the Way flashed in her mind. "In Chaos, Order. For the Innocent, Mercy. For the Afflicted, Comfort. For the Guilty . . .

"Justice."

The kata of the Way guided her body. The ebb and flow of thousands of battles of her forebears refined her movements. Allowing herself to be pulled closer to the leader, she drew one of her wakizashi from its scabbard hidden in her sweater. The terror he saw in her eyes evaporated. Two flicks—The Rising Tide—and the punk’s fingers were falling to the ground. He screamed. The others registered surprise, then confusion. Hinageshi's second blade glinted in the streetlight.

The second thug found his breath cut off, then his life, as Hinageshi’s blade passed through his windpipe—The Rushing Wave—on its way out the back of his spine.

The third tried to defend himself, drawing a Beretta that clattered to the ground, still gripped tightly by his severed fist—The Whirling Breeze—followed closely by his head. The fourth tried to flee—The Wind in the Reeds—but found himself unable to run effectively with no feet. Hinageshi continued her swing—The Sudden Calm—ending his misery.

The fifth thug had drawn a knife, but a series of downward strikes—The Hailstorm—deprived him first of of his weapon, then of his lifeblood. The last two had time to fully draw weapons, but wisely chose to run screaming into the night. Hinageshi let them go.

She turned to the leader, whose cry had faded to a whimper. He was on his knees, rocking. He clutched the stumps of his hands under his arms. His pants were soaked in his own urine. Looking up at Hinageshi in fear, he babbled, begging for mercy. Her yellow-green eyes stared down at him. Before relieving him of his head, Hinageshi leaned in close, and whispered in his ear, as if to soothe:

"For the Guilty, Justice."

Such is the Way.

Evil creatures from other dimensions encroach on our reality, hungering; befouling Nature, sowing disorder. Sometimes the World’s monsters don't come from another place. The Way answers them all.