There is a general understanding among ETH investors that the enhancements from ETH 2.0, EIP-1559 and L2 solutions will result in a sustainable monetary policy with near 0% issuance and the potential for Ether to become a deflationary asset. What is even more interesting is that the net return of ETH as a SoV becomes superior to BTC the moment that issuance is lower than the staking yield. In other words, even if BTC had already ceased issuance, it offers no mechanism to provide yield to long term holders with a negligible risk exposure as ETH does. There is an execution risk that Ethereum will not deliver on what is currently planned, but if it does then what I have explained will become a reality.
You cannot separate BTC/ETH's payment rails from their respective monetary policies. As you are probably aware, issuance is just a subsidy, and without it the network will need to operate as a profitable business with a cash-flow that is entirely dependent on network fees. We are observing a situation that is causing a degradation of the utility of the Bitcoin network. What I mean by that is that the incentive for users to transact directly on the network is being diminished because of the tokenization into ETH and by the introduction of custodians (like Paypal) and traditional banking services who will soon be entering this space. If these trends continue, I suspect that the only activity that will end-up happening on-chain will be done by whales sporadically transacting to hodle and the occasional settlement from institutions. Bitcoin seems fast and frictionless, but that is because you are comparing it to something in the physical world. In digital terms Bitcoin emulates the friction of operation that is found with gold: it is difficult and expensive to move it, securing it yourself is not trivial, and it does not make for a great medium of exchange. I don't think this will be a good dynamic to generate enough transaction fees. That is of course my subjective interpretation of it, but regarding this particular situation it is nearly impossible to make objective assertions at this point. It is possible to assert that, in the digital world, the expectation of frictionless money would entail near instant transactions with negligible cost and without the relative risk/paranoia of dealing with nuclear waste and having a hacker watching your every move waiting for you to make a mistake to snatch it away. Digital money would also need to interact with other digital assets, preferably defined and operated within the same ecosystem. Ethereum is steaming ahead on all ends.
Ethereum is fostering a digital economy (this is a very important part of understanding the value of Ethereum, but I will not be exploring it in this post) with DeFi at its center. It is currently generating about three times as much trx fee revenue as Bitcoin. L2 solutions are going live as we speak, and it appears that they will be much more practical and provide better UX when compared to the Lightning Network. This will help to amplify L1 block space value and push revenue even higher. That will be followed by EIP-1559, which will burn transaction fees. Mining is currently excessively profitable and the hash rate cannot keep up. This means the financial incentive can be reduced and by burning trx fees we achieve the equivalent of an issuance reduction, while stabilizing mining revenue. Eventually the transition to PoS will dramatically cut the operational cost of the network. That means that Ethereum as a business will become more profitable and less reliant on the issuance subsidy. Finally, we will see the introduction of sharding which will scale L1 by up to 1,000 times, compounding the effect of L2 solutions and making it feasible for the network to operate as a platform for new use cases. A solution to the hackenuclear waste security situation is being explored via social recovery wallets. It is still in the early stages of research and design, but it is important to realize that the Ethereum community recognizes it as a problem and is working on a solution.
There is a lot more that can be said about the BTC vs ETH debate and I am working on a full write up that explores each individual element in more detail. Regardless, it is important to pay attention to this trend: the smartest people in this space are shifting their point of view and realizing Ethereum's potential. Raoul Pal is a seasoned investor, extremely bright and open minded. He started with Bitcoin, but it did not take him long to understand the value proposition of Ethereum. Lyn Alden is a brilliant investor and mental powerhouse who initially did not think investing in Ethereum could be justified, but she is also starting to shift her view and now understands that it has a justifiable risk/reward ratio to be included in a portfolio (although she is not personally invested in Ethereum). She has plenty of negative things to say about it, however it appears that she recognizes this is not a black and white situation. I have a feeling she will be revising her analysis on Ethereum again in the future with a more optimist view, but maybe that is just wishful thinking.
The crypto space has a few analogies that have been used to describe technical/economic mechanisms that are somewhat tricky to understand: mining, Ethereum's gas, and the analogy between ether and oil. Crypto "mining" is not like real world mining. It's purpose is not to extract resources, but it is rather a decentralized mechanism to process transactions. Newly minted BTC tokens are not "mined", they are minted by the protocol and awarded to operators. Furthermore, it is impossible to change the total mining output of the network... adding/removing miners does not affect the mining output. If you are new to crypto, you can read a more detailed explanation of mining here. ETH's "gas" is not like fuel (it cannot even be stored). It is just a computational metric that is more akin to the distance a car must travel, but not what actually makes it move. The fuel is electricity and it must be paid for with ether. When you transact you are also paying for the "car" which is the use of all active mining hardware/validators for a fraction of a second. And ether is just money.
If you put too much weight on these simplified analogies, you will not understand the economic actuality behind them. This is a source confusion in the crypto space, and it is used to support false narratives. From an economic perspective, ether is money. Once you understand this, you will know that the narrative that BTC and ETH are not competing because they are different things is analogous to saying fax machines do not compete with the internet.
The beautiful thing about ether is that it is actually not "just money". It is a mixture of a scarce monetized commodity, money, bond and tech stock.

• Monetized Commodity: Ether is becoming more scarce and will continue to do so with the transition to proof-of-stake and EIP-1559. Ethereum does not have a supply cap, but it does have a roadmap for a sustainable security model and if it achieves a positive cashflow then it will not only eliminate issuance, it can become deflationary. An argument can be made about potential issues with Bitcoin's sustainability in the long run.
• Currency: Ether is used as a unit of account and medium of exchange to pay for every activity in Ethereum. It is also used in the same way for venture capital related to ICOs, and Ether is also used as collateral in the DEFI space and new monetary uses will continue to emerge. It is an immature form of money, just like Bitcoin is an immature form of gold. Some people prefer to say that Ether is just a utility token. However, a utility token is just a narrowly scoped form of money. Not only is Ether's scope within its digital economy growing, by next year users will be able to pay millions of merchants with Ether through Paypal. We have never seen the adoption of a new form of money grow organically. New forms of money have always been imposed by authorities. What would the organic growth of money look like? It would look like Ether.
• Ethereum's digital economy: Ethereum has limitless use cases and it is already generating economic activity with real world usefulness. Ether's value will benefit from acting as the native monetary asset for Ethereum. As Ethereum's economic activity grows, the velocity and/or value of ether must also increase.
• Bond: With proof-of-stake you need to lock up Ether to receive a yield in return. It is similar to how bonds work.
• Tech Stock: Ethereum provides a service. That service is paid with ether. The network is controlled by holding ether that is staked. The more valuable the service provided by Ethereum becomes, the more users will be willing to pay for transactions and the more valuable the protocol and the Ether token become. Cloud based services is the entire business model of many companies. The network will be entirely operated by stakers who happen to be the recipients of transaction fees. It is not exactly the same as holding a stock, but there are a lot of parallels.
• Full reserve banking model: This is a bit of a stretch, but it is a potential end-game for Ethereum. It can serve as the base infrastructure and reserve asset for a full reserve banking system. In a nutshell: a consortium of banking companies can be formed to standardize a framework to hold and stake Ether under custody in exchange for wrapped Ether. Customers deposit Ether, banks exchange it for wETH and stake the original ETH. Resting balances of wEther on customer accounts can receive a cut of the staking rewards. Banks get their profit model, customers get to spend wrapped Ether with traditional banking services and potentially receive a share of the staking yield. Customers could also have access to a yield curve based on variable reserve requirements. This would allow banks to create money (which is actually good for the economy when it is done with moderation), but for the first time ever customers would have the choice of how much risk exposure they are comfortable with. This dynamic could help to establish a form of democratic check and balances system that discourages moral hazard. Ether could become a godsend to banks in the land of negative yields. It's a pipe dream, but not entirely impossible. Don't forget that the US OCC has essentially given banks the green light to take the first steps in this direction (US banks have been approved to use the Ethereum blockchain for their operations AND they can become validators... yup this happened).

​
EDIT 1: Adding an analogy to explain why ether is money:
Let’s say I have a car with a 14-gallon fuel tank and I want to take it on a road trip. The car is not aware of the price of gasoline, and it would not travel any farther if the price of gas would double the next day. That’s because the intrinsic utility of oil has nothing to do with its monetary value. The car needs gas because of its particular physical properties and how the ICE is designed to utilize it. If I want to drive from point A to point B and it takes a full tank to get there, it will take that full tank no matter what happens to the monetary properties of gas/oil. This is fundamentally different from how Ethereum uses ether.
Ethereum (the network) is not trying to be money, but it utilizes ether exclusively for its monetary properties and not because it can be magically burned by an imaginary engine of sorts. It costs money to participate in the network as a miner, and their engagement is financially incentivized with ether. Block space is a scarce resource, therefore participants who wish to transact use ether to bid for it. These interactions are utilizing ether as a monetary medium of exchange. In the long run, as the price of ether goes up, the ether denomination of gas prices goes down. That happens because no one is using ether as gas/oil, and it is actually being used as money. In the short run you may see the opposite occurring because of the dynamic between the portion of block space demand that is inelastic and the demand for ether.
EDIT 2: Revisiting key concepts to explain how they will become price catalysts.

1. Wide adoption of L2 solutions: these will amplify the base layer block space value while encouraging further network adoption by a significant reduction of fees. A successful integration with DeFi protocols will dismiss the "Ethereum killers" theory and consolidate market confidence.
2. EIP-1559: reduce excessive financial incentives to miners by burning transaction fees. This will also discourage miners from attempting to artificially raise fees via spam.
3. Sharding: scale L1 bandwidth, compounding the effect of L2 solutions, further consolidating Ethereum's dominance in the DeFi space, making it feasible to introduce new use cases and eventually increase trx fee revenue.
4. The switch from PoW to PoS: discontinuing PoW will eliminate the operating costs related to mining and will allow for a reduction of issuance. Money that was previously allocated to buying mining equipment will be redirected to the acquisition of Ether. Staking Ether will remove it from circulation for extended periods of time. Operating cost will be negligible, allowing validators to withhold most of the Ether revenue. This will be the greatest bull market catalyst in the history of cryptocurrencies and it will eclipse the effect of BTC halvenings.

Bitcoin maximalists will be nay-saying all the way through and past a market cap flip. Do not get caught up in their narrative. If you are not sure, then it is better to rebalance your portfolio proportionally to market caps. If none of these things happen and Ethereum turns out to be a failure, then you would only have reduced your gains by 20%. Otherwise, ETH will be making you mountains of money.
EDIT 3: Ethereum killers
Ethereum killers remind me a lot of Tesla killers, but a lot worse. People need to understand that cryptocurrency platforms targeting financial Dapps are fighting the equivalent force of a black-hole when it comes to Ethereum’s network effect and user retention in this space.
Bigger players, with bigger money, are entering this market and they will not settle for anything other than the top dog. This pattern reinforces Ethereum's position as the premium financial system, which ends up attracting even bigger players and resulting in the black-hole effect. To make matters even more complicated, financial apps are more valuable when they are surrounded by a rich and diverse variety of digital assets and other natively defined Dapps. There is not much you can do with your money in a ghost town.
It is VERY difficult to build this type of environment up because the platform and dapps must also have established full trust from their user base. This is not to say there is no space for other networks to grow, but just don’t get your hopes high that they will be taking Ethereum’s stronghold as a financial system. There are other use cases that do not require the amount of decentralization and security offered by Ethereum, and the networks that can focus on these are the ones who will be able to coexist with in the long-run. Gaming, ERP interoperability and supply chain are good examples of such use cases. Remember that alternatives with cheap transactions have existed for a while and they have barely touched ETH's dominance (EOS, NEO, VET, QTUM, IOTA, LSK, STRAT, ARK and dare I say... TRON).
EDIT 4: Refuting critiques about dynamic monetary policy
If an argument can be made that the financial incentives to operators (miners/stakers) are excessive or insufficient then an argument can be for the implementation and execution of a dynamic monetary policy.
I don't think an arbitrarily picked issuance schedule determined during the genesis of a new highly complex system is likely to be efficient through its lifecycle. Bitcoin's monetary policy provides the certainty of stability and protection from abuse, but it sacrifices the possibility of efficiency and jeopardizes longevity. It would be like if a captain of a ship would point it in the direction of its final destination, set the throttle, then fall back to his cabin for a nice bottle of chianti and hope that the ship would arrive safely. There would be no one at the helm to navigate the seas, no one to make sure it stayed on route, no one to avoid the storms or to take advantage of currents. In my opinion it is a pretty bad approach to something as critical as monetary policy.
With respect to Ethereum's dynamic monetary policy: I don't see any evidence to suggest developers have been enriching their pockets by keeping issuance at the levels they are. Developers are stakeholders and the Ethereum fund holds a lot of ether - debasing ether is against their self interest. There is a great misunderstanding that the one's who are adjusting issuance are the recipients of the new tokens. Is there any documented case of this happening?
EDIT 5: Addressing Bitcoin's immutable monetary policy
The idea that Bitcoin's monetary policy cannot be changed is a myth. It is a false narrative that takes for granted that the issuance subsidy will no longer be necessary at some point, but there is no way to objectively assert this. There is no divine power preventing the monetary policy from being changed. If the security model for Bitcoin was jeopardized because of insufficient cash flow to miners, then Bitcoin's monetary policy would be the first thing on the chop board to go in order to remedy the situation.
EDIT 6: Five years ago naysayers were screaming about how everything that is being done TODAY in the Ethereum network would never work. Now they are calling Ethereum a scam, or that is is a platform for degenerate gamblers, or that the fees are too high and therefore it is useless, or that it can't scale, or that something else better is just around the corner to take its place.... you know... basically all the things that traditional bankers have to say about Bitcoin, maxis are saying about Ethereum.
EDIT 7: The greater the impact a new technology can have on society, the more difficult it is to comprehend its potential. Ethereum has the potential to have a dramatic impact on human civilization. It could take decades for it to be fully realized, but it would change the world in ways that we cannot possibly imagine today. If it happens, the moon will be just a pit-stop.
EDIT 8: Thank you so much for all the awards! Ethereans understand this stuff, and I could feel the frustration in the air every time someone said that Ethereum is not money, or that ETH and BTC are completely different things, or all the other bs attacks that are in great part founded on a lack of understanding of how BTC and ETH actually work. I would love to hear what guys like Raoul Pal, Pomp, Michael Saylor and Fernando Ulrich (for my Brazilian friends) would have to say about some of the things that have been written here. If you know a way to get their attention, then please do it.
EDIT 9: Clarification about Lyn Alden's opinion of Ethereum
EDIT 10: I am still working on a much more ambitious write up. It is focused on economic aspects of money, monetary systems and global asset markets. I still have not incorporated any of the information written here, but I eventually will merge it together. One of the main new ideas that I am exploring is challenging the notion that money has no intrinsic value and that scarcity is the most important attribute of money. I think I make a compelling argument to demonstrate that facilitating economic activity is more important, and how Ethereum has a big edge over Bitcoin in this regard. Here is the link to the WIP doc.
TLDR: Ethereum is not stopping at the moon... it is not stopping on Mars... it is going straight out of the Milky Way galaxy in search for alien life... but you should own some BTC just in case the spaceship malfunctions during launch.

[first] [prev] [next]
"So the kid, right, he starts the second grade. Now, his dad and mom are still worried he's going to slack off on his grades like he slacked off all summer on his chores, so his dad promises him anything he wants if he gets straight A's," Casey said, looking down one of the barrels of his partially disassembled minigun.
Vuxten and the others nodded, Vuxten glancing at Addox to see if the scout drones had returned. When Addox shook his head head Vuxten knew they were still out.
"So the kid, right, he really busts his ass. Buckles down doing homework, extra credit, all of it, right? So he gets straight A's and his dad's all: son, you can have whatever you want. A trip to Zaginaw Beach, a tour of Titan, even a trip to Mouse Planet," Casey said. He locked the barrel back in place and begun unscrewing the next one from the housing.
"The kid looks at his dad and goes: Father, I just want a single pink golf ball," Casey said. He lifted the barrel up and looked down the inside. "The father is all "A single pink golf ball? I offer you anything your heart desires, my son. Surely you want more, despite being only a second grader. Surely there is something in this grand universe that you wish." The son replies, just a pink golf ball father."
Casey tilted the barrel, checking for gouges in the barrel's rifling.
"The father thinks to himself: well, bright children are often strange, and buys a single pink golf ball. When he presents it to his son the kid runs off with it, and the father doesn't see it again," Casey said. He suddenly looked up. "Drones coming back. Get ready."
Vuxten nodded. There was always a chance that Precursor machines could follow the drones back.
The drones settled in their cradles on Sergeant Addox's shoulders and Vuxten knew the Terran sergeant would have his armor systems and his greenie compile the data into a usable form.
"Hey, Sergeant Casey, can I ask a question?" one of the Telkan with third squad asked.
"Go ahead, kid," Casey said.
"Aren't you worried about the fact you're just in a loading frame? Why not fab up power armor?" the Telkan asked.
Casey stared for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't do power armor any more. Back a couple centuries ago I was part of Ninth Armored Guard, an Old Blood unit, a historical Vodkatrog armor division," Casey said. Before the Telkan could speak he held up his hand. "I was a damn good power armor troop. Powered Orbital Drop Assault."
"That's a fast life expectancy for someone without SUDS. Ninth Guard is one of the Old Blood units that expect you to die during assaults, you don't get dropped to a non-Blood unit for dying," Glory said from where she was sitting on a pile of uncrushed ore. "How in the burning chrome Hell did you get out of that alive?"
"I was better than the enemy. Too good," Casey locked the barrel in on the minigun and looked back up. "I suffered a bad case of Operator Identification Syndrome. Part of me still yearns for it."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Glory said softly, turning slightly and looking away as if the big combat mech was embarrassed.
"I wasn't patterned on your big dropship ass," Casey laughed.
Glory laughed and it felt like something that Vuxten didn't understand had been cleared from the room.
Vuxten could feel some sort of weird longing from the big Terran.
"Patterned? What's that?" Wextuk asked.
"It's when you develop an emotional attachment to the VI or eVI assist systems in your power armor, robot combat power armor, tank, whatever," he said. "It's pretty rough and if you get a bad enough case you end up needing hospitalization and therapy."
"How did you get it?" Wextuk asked. Vuxten thought about telling the Telkan Private Second Class to shut up, but figured that they might as well talk about something while the maps were being compiled.
"I was a power armor jock. Good one. Deep insertion, heavy assault, had an 80mm railgun on my right shoulder that could hit orbital targets. Rapid fire rapid reload missile rack, point defense, battlescreen systems, the whole nine yards. Toughest suit ever produced by the Confederacy or anyone else in the Universe," Casey said.
"The NovaStar-VII," Glory guessed. "You were a NovaStar pilot. By the Digital Omnimessiah, I thought all of you were dead."
"What happened?" Wextuk asked.
"One drop went bad, hell, the whole war went bad, and I spent literally two years in my armor. Never getting out of it," Casey said. "Once I was able to get out of it, I spent five years where the only time I got out of my armor was to do field repairs on it or to briefly talk to survivors I'd rounded up."
"You can stay in armor that long?" Wextuk asked.
"Yes," Casey said. He reached forward and tapped Wextuk's armored chest. "Your armor is designed for you to live in, without removing it, for up to five years."
Wextuk shivered.
"It's not advised," Glory said softly.
Casey reached down and wrapped his hand around the firing grip for his minigun and Vuxten saw the weapon's smartwire go live.
"When did the drop go bad?" Addox asked, not looking up. Vuxten knew he was going over the maps and the data.
"I barely got to the ground," Casey said softly. "It was a horror show aboard the CSFNV Sulaco less than an hour after we docked with Thule Station. One minute everything was green, the next I was fighting for my life. I was actually in the shower when it all went sideways."
Vuxten noticed everyone glanced at each other as small arcs of purple electricity wound around the barrels of Casey's minigun.
"I barely made it to Jemila and get her wrapped around me before almost everyone was dead," Casey said. "Had to fight my way to the drop pods and launch it manually. For almost two years Jemila was my only company aside from terrified civilians and the enemy. I couldn't leave her embrace, couldn't take the chance. After a while, I didn't feel safe unless I was in her embrace, unless I could hear her voice and feel her touch me, feel myself become one with her."
"Chromium Saint Peter," Glory swore softly.
He suddenly looked up and gave a sudden grin that made Vuxten wonder just exactly how many teeth humans had in their mouths.
"After that, I went Administrative for about ten years, then Maintenance for about twenty years, then went into Ordnance before rotating to an Old Blood unit," his grin seemed to get more friendly and the electrical arcs vanished. "And that, boys and girls, is how Uncle Casey ended up in Ordnance."
"Map's done," Addox said, looking up. "My little brother's about to have a fit."
"It's Mantid make, Precursor Omniqueen era," Casey guessed.
"Yup," Addox said. He shook his head. "It's really obvious once you hit the maintenance spaces."
"I assume it gets worse?" Vuxten said. "Live Mantids?"
Addox shook his head. "No. Pressure suits, hazardous environment suits, greenie toolkits, the whole nine yards. Looks like one of the larger ones, the ruling caste, is supposed to be overseeing this thing but from the scan data it looks like it was retrofitted for full automation. Got the old style horseshoe command center with the upraised central pit in the middle."
"Got us a route?" Vuxten asked.
"Several. Easy to forget how big the ruling caste was," Addox pointed at Casey. "Bigger than him in his loading frame."
"Can you get us a route that won't have us fighting everything between here and there?" Vuxten asked.
Addox nodded. "Yeah. Not for Glory, though. She's gonna have to stay here," he said.
"Great, finally get a date and you all ditch me," Glory laughed. "It's because my butt's big, isn't it?"
"You know it," Addox said.
"I don't like leaving her behind. We should pull her braincase and take her with us," Casey suddenly said, turning from where he was staring at the dead conveyor belts.
"No, I'm good, Casey," Glory said.
Vuxten heard his armor chirp as Glory opened a private channel to Casey, his officer hardware alerting him to the communication's existence but not the contents.
"I'll come back for you if I have to," Casey said.
"I know you will," Glory said.
"Got the route," Addox said. He looked at Vuxten. "Give the order, sir."
Vuxten stood up. "All right, move out by squads. Let's see what this thing's brain looks like."
The blue line appeared on his visor, showing the way.
"Let's get going," Vuxten said.
He led his men into the dark maintenance spaces of the beast.
-------------------
General No'Drak looked over the data and Ge'ermo'o watched, slowly being able to make more and more sense of the Confederate labels.
"Can you get a deep level scan of where the three mountain ranges join?" No'Drak asked, puffing on a cigarette.
The pink canine-human-feline chimera shook her head. "Too many atomic explosions to get a good ELF reading or seismic reading. Unless you want to have the Dinochrome Brigade and Third Armor to stop firing and give us a few hours to do deep level crust geo-mapping."
No'Drak clacked his mandibles in irritation.
"So we have no idea what that machine, who has managed to reach speeds of nearly a hundred miles an hour under the ground, is heading toward?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not, sir," the Military Intelligence Analyst said. "I can give you a WAG if you wish?"
WAG? Ge'ermo'o wondered. He checked his implant and nodded. Wild Ass Guess.
"By all means, Sergeant, wag your tail," No'Drak said, putting out his cigarette and pulling the pack out in the same motion.
"Refit base. Probably extensive. Continental plate drift on this planet is slow but steady, which means we're looking at a machine that has probably been largely asleep for millions of years," she said. "Combine it with the fact that the Precursor mining machines all have armor that grows stronger when exposed to heat and pressure and we're looking at deep mining machines. Probably transition zone between the mantles capable so it can access the really exotic materials."
"This planet produce any exotics?" No'Drak asked.
She checked her display and shook her head. "Our dataslicers have cut through the Lanaktallan records. They've only been here thirty thousand years, but before that the native species had to deal with a lack of fissile material and rare metals like lithium and neodymium."
"That machine and any companions might be why," No'Drak mused. "Mining it down in the transition layer before it can be brought up closer to the surface of the crust through geological means."
The Terran chimera nodded. "That's what my Section Leader believes."
"Which means, there might be a bunch of..."
"STATUS CHANGE!" someone called out.
Ge'ermo'o watched as No'Drak spun in place, looking at the tank.
"Third Armor's Third Brigade, Fourteenth Regiment just issued authorization for Mjölnir rounds!" someone called out.
"Time for Trucker to authorize release?" No'Drak asked.
The slim male human with bright pink hair and black warsteel cybereyes checked his console. "Sixty-two seconds, his combat gestalt usage jumped to eighty-three percent of combat bandwidth during that time, up twenty-three percent from current theater combat bandwidth usage."
No'Drak nodded. "Allow it. Patch us in via satellite."
Ge'ermo'o looked up the Mjölnir phrase on his datalink and all six of his eyes opened up wide.
"You are authorizing such rounds?" he asked No'Drak. "I do not seek to interfere but..."
No'Drak nodded. "They're about to engage a Precursor machine the size of a city that's using its onboard manufacturing capabilities to pump out thousands of combat machines as we speak. The longer it has to dig in and acquire resources the more difficult it will be to stop it."
General No'Drak turned and looked at the holotank as the massive machine was shown from orbit. It was surrounded by dust and smoke, its crash having shattered a fifth of the megalopilis it had landed on. Huge cracks, hundreds of meters wide, could be seen in its hull, and craters that were measured in the kilometers glowed sullenly with molten metal from where Space Force had engaged the massive Precursor ship and caused it to crash land instead of continue its orbital bombardment.
"That thing can win the war all by itself," he said.
"STATUS CHANGE!" the shout came again.
Ge'ermo'o felt himself tense.
"3-14 is firing," the same person called out.
Ge'ermo'o felt his tendrils curl protectively under his jowls, felt his crests inflate protectively.
The Precursor's battlescreens were thick, thick enough to resist nCv shots. Thick enough to tear apart the tiny tanks that had just emerged from the flaming hell of a burning chemical refinery.
The whole holotank went white.
----------------
01001111 01010111 00100000 01001101 01011001 00100000 01000010 01000001 01001100 01001100 01010011 activated the additional battlescreen projectors, feeling the electronic equivelent of anxiety as the power level dropped. It was running on backup reactors, its primary reactors dead and in the damaged sections that were little more than wreckage.
The feral lemurs and their damnable kinetic rounds that bypassed the initial battlescreens had hammered it until it had almost begun to break up. Till parts of its superstructure had begun to break up. It had been forced to dive for the planet, narrowly avoiding the massive tanks the size of a Precursor ancillary vehicle, and had slammed belly down into the city.
It was the first time it had ever been in a gravity well and despite the fact the OEM coding had protocols for it, 01001111 01010111 00100000 01001101 01011001 00100000 01000010 01000001 01001100 01001100 01010011 did not enjoy the experience.
The tanks, small pathetic things of strange matter elemental alloy armor wrapped around a massive cannon, with their own battlescreens nearly as powerful as 01001111 01010111 00100000 01001101 01011001 00100000 01000010 01000001 01001100 01001100 01010011's own screens, all leveled their barrels.
The Precursor could detect the rapidly shifting complex battlecode between the tanks, linking them together and linking the tanks to a larger network, but it had learned that to expose itself to the feral's battlecode meant exposing itself to madness as feral attack VI's would swarm it.
The Precursor tensed. It didn't know how it knew, but it knew, that the ferals were about to fire at it.
----------------
The main guns all fired, seconds apart, in one rippling long wave. The Lanaktallan tanks fired first, their shots hitting the battlescreen in rapid succession, all within a single second.
The rounds, fabbed up and assembled by 15th Combat Sustainment, V Corps, III COSCOM, went off as designed.
An atomic detonation to drive a warsteel explosively forged penetrator into the battlescreen.
01001111 01010111 00100000 01001101 01011001 00100000 01000010 01000001 01001100 01001100 01010011 watched the power suddenly drain past its ability to manage, watched the battlescreen projectors overheat and fail in one cataclysmic failure as they tried to resist not only over a hundred 125kt directed atomic explosions, but the warsteel penetrator slightly ahead of the shockwave.
The Precursor's battlescreens failed, nearly 15% of A'armo'os shots streaking forward to hit the forward prow of the Precursor. Those drove craters five hundred meters deep into its armor, blowing out armor in a hundred meter radius as the EFP's did their work.
Before 01001111 01010111 00100000 01001101 01011001 00100000 01000010 01000001 01001100 01001100 01010011 could adapt, could manage the brutal hits it was taking across its prow, which was already damaged from the crash...
...the real rounds streaked over the prow, sailing across the hull.
For an instant 01001111 01010111 00100000 01001101 01011001 00100000 01000010 01000001 01001100 01001100 01010011 thought the rounds had missed. Some of them fired a full two seconds behind the leads.
The rounds were spaced precisely, the math triple and quadruple checked by the green mantid engineers in addition to the fire control computers.
01001111 01010111 00100000 01001101 01011001 00100000 01000010 01000001 01001100 01001100 01010011 had enough time to detect that the shells contained components usually found in crude omnidirectional nuclear weapons. It computed that, based on weight and the standard 0.004 kt/kg explosive weight ratio where all species that developed superluminal flight gave up atomic and nuclear weapons, it could survive even the massive amount of explosions it would suffer. The fact they were omnidirectional meant that the majority of the explosive force would be wasted even if the rounds performed an airburst to hammer compressed atmospheric gasses against the Precursor's hull.
The ghosts of billions of Mantids, uncounted Mar-gite, and races gone from the universes all howled with laughter.
Ge'ermo'o could have even told it that what it was about to receive, it would not be grateful for.
The shells, each weighing 'only' two-hundred and some change kilograms, oriented point down, the warbois shrieked with glee, and then detonated the round.
Those races, who had met the humans toe to toe, or even Ge'ermo'o, could have told 01001111 01010111 00100000 01001101 01011001 00100000 01000010 01000001 01001100 01001100 01010011 that ascribing the achievements of other races to the maddened lemurs of TerraSol was a mistake.
The rounds were directed enough, were too powerful, to be counted under atomic protocols by the Confederate military, which had an upper limit of 2.25 megatons for directed atomic weapons.
The Confederacy counted them these rounds as 'nuclear'.
The backblast appeared, from orbit, like a blast sustained over a full second that came out to just over 50 megatons.
But that was the blast that drove the hammer home, like explosives used to drive a drill into the granite of a quarry.
Those 50 megaton blasts drove the real payload into the Precursor's body like nails of hellfire from a nailgun. The nails five hundred meter wide tubes of ravening energy that were the equivalent of 250kt blasts. The tubes ripped past the armor, the energy release of the 'backblast' and the 'tube' lasting for nearly a full second.
Each 'payload' detonated deep inside the Precursor. Mathematically precision to place each 'payload' within the edge of the adjacent payloads in order to compress the in between matter to the point that even the dullest elements would undergo fusion.
Even battlesteel.
Each of the payloads detonated, the Tsar warheads, with a net explosive weight to system weight ratio that would make any race who had not witnessed it stare in disbelief.
One hundred and thirty megatons detonating in an enclosed area.
The still 'ongoing' blast tube driven by the 'backblast' prevented the blast inside the Precursor from exiting through the channel ripped through the armor by the 'nail'. Instead, as explosions followed the path of least resistance, it was squeezed and pushed into the body of the Precursor.
From orbit, through the few sats still in operation, the entire top of the Precursor vanished in bright white light.
01001111 01010111 00100000 01001101 01011001 00100000 01000010 01000001 01001100 01001100 01010011felt nothing as its surface armor exploded outward and boiling matter ripped apart by the most basic of universal reactions consumed everything inside the armor.
The ground rippled like water for nearly two hundred miles.
The detonation was strong enough that it bounced off the molten core of the planet and caused an echo earthquake a third of the planet's circumference away.
Where the Precursor had been battlesteel burned.
----------------
"Tango down."
[first] [prev] [next]

[First] [Previous] [Next]
-----
"I swear, sudoku was invented by the Japanese to make people hate numbers." said Sam, staring in abject confusion at a puzzle booklet.
"The French." corrected Kay inbetween bites of a cafeteria burger.
"Huh?"
"Sudoku's French. It only became sudoku after a Japanese company renamed it that for a newspaper."
"... Huh... Fuck the French."
Kay's laugh was interrupted when she shot ketchup out of her nose.
"Who punched you?" asked Percy jokingly, coming up to the table with tray in hand.
"The French." Kay replied as she wiped her face clean with a napkin. "Get bent, Sam."
"Bend me yourself, coward." he snarked.
They exchanged platonic middle fingers.
"What's the go, Perce?" asked Kay, tossing the napkin Sam's way.
"Not much to say. 'Till we get more funding, all we can do is pile up blueprints and hope one of them sticks when we get the chance to chuck 'em at the wall." He sat down at the table. "The most interesting thing I can say is that we're considering adopting nilina for external plating."
"But I keep telling 'em that it's too unstable for anything external; you'd be safer strapping nukes to the hull." cut in Richard, taking a seat.
"Speaking of nukes, I've got a bomb idea for Christmas this year." said Kay.
"That wasn't clever."
"Quiet. I'm heading up to California to meet my folks, and I usually stay at their place while I'm there. But this year, I'm treating myself to a room in the Catamaran, and I was hoping to invite all you guys! My treat, of course." She wore a broad and hopeful smile.
Sam almost choked on his water. "A-are you insane?! That's a few thousand bucks per person just for rooms!"
"I'm frugal where it counts, I can cover it, no problem."
Sam stammered. "N-no shit, I wanna go!"
"Count me in." said Richard plainly.
Percy felt the weights of expectation and temptation bear down on him, but he had to remain strong. "Sorry, I can't join you. I already arranged to meet up with Finn and Marge for Christmas." he said regretfully.
"Oh, okay. Well, say hi to them for me, okay?" asked Kay.
"Will do." said Percy with a smile.
"Finn... Isn't that Mark's boy?" asked Richard.
"Yeah. Made the House this year. He's the up-and-comer calling for more funding."
Richard thought for a moment. "Middling height? White-blonde hair? Face like a model on an off day?" He gave appropriate gestures.
"Sounds like him."
"So he was the guy on the news this morning."
Percy stared. "... What was he on the news for?"
"Said he was already working with his team and other Representatives in putting a bill together. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say it involves that funding you mentioned."
"God damn, that kid works fast!" exclaimed Percy. "Too bad he won't be in office 'till January, that'd be one hell of a Christmas present."
Everybody at the table had the sense to let the conversation end there. Percy couldn't help but wonder how the holiday would have turned out if Mark were there. Thinking about it, he realized that plans wouldn't change at all: He, Jaali, and Angavu would still drive up to Jacksonville to meet up with Finn and Marge, and they all would head out for a day of fun at the local amusement parks. The rest of the holiday would be spent with good, home cooked meals and exchanging presents. The events would still be the same, but Mark's absence would change everything. He still looked forward to the festivities, but for the first time in decades, his anticipation felt numbed.
~~~
'I should've been planning for Christmas by now.' thought Mark.
Julu soup bubbled on the stovetop, filling the room with a gamey smell that took Mark back to the days where rabbit stew was on the menu. 'That's what I should be eating.' Mark thought. 'A nice, hearty rabbit stew with my family. Not chunks of featherless stab-birds, with only convicts for company.' He absentmindedly lifted a dumbbell as he cooked; it was the least he could do to keep up with his slow deterioration. His grip threatened to sink into its bar. 'That's not fair. They're convicts to the letter of the law, not the spirit. They're not criminals, not really. They're quite nice, really.' He deflated, saving the metal in his palm from an impromptu reshaping.
The doorbell rang. Mark let Arnd and Jan'u in.
<"Aren't you angry?"> asked Arnd.
<"No point."> replied Jan'u. <"Unless that anger can make a positive change, it's just wasted energy. Morning, Mark.">
"Jan'u. Arnd."
<"Hey, Tiny."> said Arnd inattentively. <"But don't you want to get out of here?">
<" I do, but I don't see why I should kick up a fuss about it when it'll change nothing. Julu soup?">
"Got it in one." replied Mark. "Look, guys, I'm sorry about all this. I'll try to make it up to you."
<"I'll live."> said Jan'u nonchalantly. <"Besides, it'll let me keep an eye on this one.">
Arnd held up a finger. <"Jump on it.">
Jan'u was unfamiliar with the gesture. <"Mark, what have you been teaching her?>
"Nothing she doesn't need to know." He began ladling soup into bowls. "On that topic: it's 'bullshit', not 'buhsit'."
<"Bullshit, got it."> Arnd's eyes followed the bowl being laid on the table, and caught a glimpse of Mark's hand. <"Whoa, what happened to your hand?">
"Therapy." Mark said curtly.
Arnd's eyes narrowed. <"It had better be the last of it. I don't want to have to step around a tissue replicator again, thank you very much.">
"Trust me, this is the last of it. It isn't pleasant at the best of times, let alone when you've got the whole world watching you. Good thing they stock gloves in the wardrobes here." He began eating, and with gusto. "Afraid I can't stay for long. I'm starting my workout in a 'lo, then I gotta head out for some fresh clothes."
<"You'd better ask for a lift, then."> said Arnd, deciding the reason for the lift wasn't worth asking about.
Mark paused for a moment, then sighed. "Alright Arnd, look. I'm trying to become a citizen, y'know, make my life simpler while I have to stay here, get outta your fur, all that. My public perception - which I don't doubt is part of why I'm not a citizen right now - is bad enough, so what do you think people will say if I get chauffeured around the city in a limousine owned by a government official? As tempting as it is, I've gotta stick to public transit."
Arnd opened her mouth to argue, but stopped herself short. <"Fine."> she said apprehensively. <"Just, stay safe, alright?">
"That's the plan."
The trio ate silently, communicating in nothing more than occasional glances. Those glances were more than enough to communicate that all three were in agreement: this was a horrible idea.
​
The store's doors opened. Apparel for all occasions hung on racks arranged neatly around the floor. Soft, rhythmic humming played through wall mounted speakers hung next to scrolls depicting various models dressed in trendy clothing. Mark adjusted the gym bag on his shoulder, took a breath of the comparatively warm air, and felt safe.
<"Mister Stevens!"> said an elderly voice from across the store.
"I told you, Ch'yn, just Mark is fine!"
<"Nonsense! You make as much use of my work as you do, you lose the right to casualness."> A balding woman - and the store's namesake - whose age brought her down to Mark's height, walked out from behind a rack, a bundle of coats in her hand. <"So, what's the occasion?"> she asked.
"I need some new clothes. Something smart."
A glint appeared in the woman's eye. <"Ooh, moving up in the world, are we?">
"Not exactly." said Mark coyly. "I just need something for an event I'm attending in a week."
<"That shouldn't be a problem at all. Anything specific in mind?">
"Actually, yes. I was wondering if you'd like to tackle human fashion."
Ch'yn's ears perked up, and she spun around to look at Mark with surprising speed. <"Yes!"> she said excitedly.
Mark recovered from the shock. "In that case, I have a few diagrams here."
He handed the woman his data pad. She studied the images for a while, her face a portrait of concentration.
<"It's certainly interesting, Mister Stevens. Humans must not like showing their arms much."> she observed.
"Cold aside, you'd be surprised." said Mark vaguely.
After a moment, Ch'yn smiled. <"Alright, let's see what we can do here.">
Mark transferred the diagrams to Ch'yn's device, and the woman got to work. Mark split the time between checking the news and watching Ch'yn work her magic. Rumours flowed out of X'oland claiming that the military's efforts in quelling extremist activity were too little, too late, with entire towns being overrun before military patrols arrives; the government, when pressured on the matter, continued their radio silence in order to stay true to their anti-extremist strategy. Meanwhile, scattered reports stated that arguments relating to Mark's presence in the city were breaking out city-wide, in some cases, escalating into physical violence. Police claimed that they were looking into methods of stemming the violence. Reading this, Mark couldn't help but feel responsible, and hoped that the searches along the Men-te Jump Line finished soon, with conclusive results.
He was pulled out of this sullen mindset when Ch'yn called from her workroom. Mark entered a room that looked for all purposes like a fabric storeroom with sewing machines and mannequins hastily added. It gave off a feeling of silky possibility.
<"Mister Stevens! Right here, son. What do you think of this?"> said Ch'yn.
Laying on a table nearby one of the many sewing machines was the same diagram blown up to life-size, upon which laid a number of fabric squares. Mark ran his hand over each, enjoying the smooth sensation against his palm.
"That's basically perfect. But do you think you could find something a tad more rugged for the tie? The red piece."
<"Got something just for it."> replied the tailor, quickly pulling a square of red fabric off a rack.
Mark rubbed it between his fingers and thumb. "Oh yeah, that's the stuff."
<"Excellent. I'll begin right away!"> said Ch'yn confidently.
"Don't you wanna-" Mark began, stopping short when he looked back to the diagram on the table. "You saved my measurements, didn't you?"
<"You're a high profile customer. No businesswoman in her right mind would throw information like that away. Now unless you want to watch, I suggest you head along, son."> Her words only wore the skin of a request.
"Okay. See you when it's done, Ch'yn." He waved her goodbye, then left the store.
Mark forgone taking a bus back to X'rtani House, feeling that a nice winter's stroll would do him some good. Experimental, jazzy tunes from a popular X'etish group filled his ears as he sauntered down city streets.
He didn't hear the siren.
​
Se'te's Forge was a popular gym, and it was in full swing. People stood at every machine, each in the pursuit of fitness, or at least any number of ends that rippling muscles could help them meet. Many ignored the doors opening, such was their dedication to exercise, but those who did got to see a rare sight.
Steam billowed off Mark as he weakly shuffled through the doors, brushing snow off himself and his bag. His movements were lethargic, and hampered by intense shivering. His face was paler than usual, almost stark white, and his breaths were heavy and ragged. He plodded up to the front counter. "How much for a shower?" he breathed.
The clerk stared at the frozen human. <"I-it's free.">
"Okay. Thank you." Mark shuffled across the gym floor, past machines and gym-goers, to the showers. When he left sight, most simply returned to their workouts, but one patron in particular stared at the empty doorway, hardly believing her eyes.
'Four minutes.' Mark thought as hot water breathed life back into his body. He was angry, angry at the world for stranding him here, angry at the people for leaving him out there to face it alone, and angry at himself for allowing everything to happen. Right back at the beginning, back on Earth. If he had been that little bit faster... He exhaled. As much as he wished it was, here was not the place for painful reminiscing.
​
In a few minutes, Mark once again emerged to the gym floor, bag in tow. Soon, he picked out a spot, and began his warmup routine.
<"Spaceman?"> said a familiar voice in the direction of the cable crossover machine.
"Wrench?" asked Mark, looking up from his bag.
Sure enough, Uns'la met his gaze, and a smile split her face. <"What in Se'te's name are you doing here?!">
"I could ask the same of you." The two clasped hands, Uns'la trying in vain to overpower Mark. She stopped when his smug smirk lasted for an uncomfortable amount of time.
Uns'la spoke quickly, trying to recover from her embarrassment. <"Yeah, um... I'm ex-military. I joined after the War, just did basic and a deployment to Neresh. I only took home two things from that: money, and a rockin' bod. The money ran out, but I thought: 'Might as well make something last from all of this'. So I just, kept working out. But why are you here? You essentially have a private gym back at the House!">
"I just come here for the atmosphere and to have a more relaxed day once a week." Mark said plainly.
<"Yeah, you came in looking like you needed it. On that topic: WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?!">
​
Arnd sat at the cafeteria, scrolling as she ate lunch. It didn't take long for her to find the videos. The sound of her utensil clattering on the floor didn't register to her ears.
​
"Not here, Uns'la." said Mark quietly.
As eager as she was to know exactly what was going through Mark's head for him to do what he did, she abstained. <"Well, are you okay, at least?"> she asked.
"I'll live."
The casualness with which he said it was enough for Uns'la. She had gotten a more than sufficient feel for how hardy the man was. With a mutual understanding, they split off, and went about their workouts.
​
Uns'la's truck drew closer to X'rtani House. Mark asked that she take a side road so as to avoid the main square, and sure enough,the sound of the exact reason why drifted into the street running along the sheer cliff facing the city.
Uns'la leaned back in the driver's seat so Mark could hear her easier. <"I can hear those bastards from here.">
"Yup." said Mark, deadpan.
<"You want me to drop you off here?">
"Yeah, there's a side entrance not too far from here." explained Mark, grabbing his bag from beside him.
Uns'la brought the vehicle to a stop in a parking space just barely within view of the anti-Mark crowd. They paid them no mind, not noticing Mark exiting the truck.
"Well, I'll see you when I see you, Wrench." said Mark.
<"'Till next time, Spaceman."> Uns'la waved him off, then pulled away.
To the tune of a crowd chanting <"We are not alone! We are not alone!">, Mark soon slipped into the porte cochère to the left of the main entrance to X'rtani House, greeting the guard stationed at the door as he entered. He hadn't quite realized how common a presence he had become in X'rtani House, because when people began staring at him en-masse again, he once more felt uneasy, exposed.
He walked up to the cafeteria, and Arnd walked up to him.
<"Are you hurt?!"> she asked frantically.
"Uh, not really. Unless you count a post-workout strain." Mark said in a soothing tone.
Arnd's expression grew deadpan. <"Mark, I know you're tough, but if you think I'll buy you walking out of Se'te's Breath unscathed, you're a fucking idiot.">
That phrase was the last thing he wanted to hear. He remembered the chill like it never left him.
​
Mark was focused on walking, letting the music carry him along. He didn't notice that the streets had become bare of pedestrians until he had rounded two corners. The siren still blared, and it suddenly hit him; he knew what that siren meant. His eyes swiveled back and forth as he ran, looking for any open door, any safe haven he could find in what little time remained. People looked at him through car and store windows. Some debated whether to let him in, others wouldn't risk trying, others still were too far for him to hear them over the siren.
Then the siren changed.
The rhythm it chimed in, alongside it's steadily rising pitch, told Mark all it needed to.

1. Mark dashed to the nearest storefront.
   
2. Its doors were shut.
   
3. Mark waved frantically for help.
   
4. He and the owner's eyes met.
   
5. Hate stared down at him.
   
6. Mark stood staring in disbelief.
   
7. The last cars on the street shut off.
   
8. Mark seethed.
   
9. Mark turned away.
   
10. Mark braced.
    

The air grew sharp, turning Mark's breath to ice. No amount of safety videos could have prepared him for its sheer immensity. He saw it coming for him, blanketing his view in an ever-growing curtain of white, eating the city an entire block at a time. Trees ahead of him were stripped bare. Cars either slid or rolled as it barreled into them. Mark closed his eyes.
Se'te's Breath struck.
Mark was slammed backward by a city-sized hammer made of ice. Learning forward to fight the gale, Mark's feet slid out from beneath him, leaving him scrabbling for an inch as he was swept along the street. Reaching out, he caught hold of a road sign, and gripped like his life depended on it. Every sucking breath felt like inhaling knives, and the ice made every desperate twitch of his muscles burn. He got his second hand on the pole and began to slowly right himself, only for it to finally snap against his weight, and for him to tumble backward, smashing his back against his bag's contents.
His stamina had been sapped, and his entire body wracked with agony. In desperation, he curled up, hiding every exposed inch, and prayed to every god both human and x'erren that it would end soon.
It did end eventually, but all Mark could do for a solid minute was lay in a fetal position, shivering against the cold that still wracked his body. Slowly, he stood up, snow falling off him in clumps as he rose. He quickly realized he had stopped in a gutter with his back to the sidewalk. Feeling like he had just experienced every winter nightmare scenario in one, all he could think to do is warm up.
'I saw showers last time I was there. I'm headed there anyway. Just keep going, your image keeps you safe.' he thought unsteadily as he found his feet.
With glacial steps, he plodded along to Se'te's Forge.
​
With effort, Mark shook the memory.
"Look..." he said placatingly. "Yeah, I took a few lumps, but I got right back on my feet, warmed myself up, and I'm perfectly fine."
Arnd knitted her brow. <"Bag down. Now.">
Mark knew better than to argue, laying his gym bag down gingerly. "Okay."
Before he could finish talking, Arnd had vanished, and the back of his shirt had been peeled off. <"Bullshit you're perfectly fine!"> Arnd bellowed.
"I can't even feel it!" said Mark desperately. Arnd slapped the blue, bar-shaped bruise on Mark's back. Mark yowled. "Argh, mother fu-! You bitch! What was that for?!"
<"Reminding you that you're mortal! You'd be surprised how many don't realize that, you included, apparently."> She pulled out her device and scrolled to the comment section of the video she watched of the incident. Though worded in near uncountable ways, the general mood was succinctly captured with the highest rated message:

This thing is fucking unkillable.

Mark allowed the unearned sense of pride he received from that comment pass. "In my defense, I was locked outside with nothing to hide behind that wouldn't careen into me."
<"So fucking what if you put a dent in some rando's cruiser? Compared to facing Se'te's Breath head on, I'd turn that thing into scrap metal with my bare hands if it kept me safe!">
"The last thing I want to deal with right now is someone suing me for property damage, I already have enough on my plate." He readjusted his bag's strap and walked past Arnd. At this point, all he wanted was to sit down and watch that one sci-fi movie that came out a week ago.
Arnd stammered. <"T-that's it?! You're just gon-">
Mark spun around, momentarily stunning the x'erren. "Look, Arnd. If you want to continue berating me, then come along and do it in private; people were staring before, now they're leering."
Arnd didn't need to look around to know that Mark was right.
​
Without sunlight being able to pierce the thick snow bank on the window, Mark's room was almost pitch black until he turned the light on. He laid his bag down beside the sofa and turned to face Arnd. "Alright, fire away." he said.
<"You're going to get yourself killed, you idiot."> Arnd said strongly. <"I know you like being helpful and you have an image to maintain and all that, but none of it will matter if you end up dead.">
"This coming from the woman who chose to fight rather than hand me over to pirates?"
<"They would've killed us anyway."> she snapped. <"We just got lucky in picking you up instead of one of our own. I'm sorry for imposing that on you.">
Mark remembered the doors to the Star Chaser's prison hold opening, and the near-paralyzing fear he felt. He sighed, both in exasperation and because he realized he was holding his breath. "Looking back, I would've fought either way. Nothing much else to do in that scenario." Arnd silently agreed.
"Anyway, I gotta go put something on this thing, I can still feel your hand on it."
<"There should be numbing cream and ice pads in the cabinet above the basin."> Arnd muttered to herself, making for the bathroom.
"Arnd, I can-"
<"Sit down, Stevens."> she commanded. Fired though she was, she still had all the qualities that made her captain, voice included.
Mark sat down in the sofa and waited. It wasn't long until Arnd returned. She placed the ice pads on the lounge room table, and squeezed some lime green cream from a small tube onto her fingers. <"Alright, shirt off.">
"Arnd, I can-"
<"Can you?"> she retorted sharply. <"Alright. Show me.">
Mark stared at her for a moment, then put some cream on his own fingers. He reached up under his shirt, and paused halfway through, wincing. After a second to adjust to the pain, he put his fingers to the contusion.
It took half a minute for the pain to subside, and for him to uncurl. Blushing, he removed his shirt.
<"Thought so."> said Arnd smugly.
Her hands were silk over Mark's injury, with the cream cooling him as Arnd spread it over the long blue patch on his back. Looking at it felt like a miracle to Arnd, like she was staring at something that shouldn't exist. She had seen people unfortunate enough to be caught outside during a Breath before, and bruises were the least distressing thing they made it out with, if she could even see them on the mangled mess that was once a body. To see someone not only survive, but walk away with little more than a blue mark on their back - despite the stone-hard proof of such being in her very palm - was impossible to believe.
<"Believe it or not, I don't like seeing you hurt."> said Arnd quietly. <"I don't like seeing any of my friends hurt."> Her hands slowed as she thought. <"I want you to promise me that you'll think more about yourself.">
"Why? I-"
<"Promise me, or I slap you.">
Mark couldn't help but chuckle. "Oh, heavens save me from the might of Arn-" He felt her press into his back. "Okay, okay! I promise to be a bit more selfish, okay?!"
<"... Better."> She continued applying cream. She swore it had grown a tiny bit since she began treating him.
While Arnd was busy spreading balm on his back, Mark picked up the television remote. If he was going to be stuck there while being tended to, he might as well take the half-minute it took to set the film up while he had nothing better to do.
Arnd spared a glance at the screen. <"I've been meaning to see that; I've been doing a marathon of that director's films. Hand please. Other hand."> She scooped up the remaining cream on Mark's fingers.
"Huh. Is his work good?"
<"I'd say so. His action cinematography could do with some work, though.">
"It did look a bit shaky in the preview." Mark agreed.
Arnd leaned over to grab the ice pads. She paused halfway through. <"Well?">
"Well what?"
<"You looking for an invitation? Start the movie!"> she insisted.
Mark chuckled silently, and started the movie.
​
It was fun. Basic, and with hard-to-follow action, but fun. The ice pads certainly helped in Mark's enjoyment. That, and the running commentary by the woman that applied them.
<"I liked it."> said Arnd, sipping a mug of ramut.
"You did nothing but throw jabs at it! I don't think you said one positive thing the entire movie." replied Mark as he tended to rukwa pieces in a pan.
<"I was quiet during the good bits.">
Mark considered the lengthy silences between criticisms. "Fair enough."
<"There really was too much camera shake during the action scenes, though.">
"Agreed."
Mark served up the rukwa wraps. Arnd dug in immediately, while Mark was distracted by his device buzzing. 'F'ejen?' he thought. 'F'ejen!' he thought happily.

Are you sure, Mark?

​

I'm sure. There's nothing else on the planet that I can think of that'll work.

​

Alright. I'll see what I can do. Do you need anything else?

​

A mirror and a stylist.

<"Who're you texting?"> asked Arnd.
"F'ejen."
<"Why? Is something wrong? You getting your back checked out?">
"No, my back will be fine. I'm thinking of getting a haircut."
Arnd thought a moment about the scenario presented to her. <"Tidying yourself up a bit? Even it all out?">
"You could say that. I'm going short again."
<"You're always sho- wait, like how you got here?">
"Yup."
<"You sure that's a good idea?">
"I've got an event on in a week, and I've gotta look nice."
<"Yeah, but, short? Couldn't you make this look work?"> she gestured to the human's scraggly beard and nearly shoulder-length hair.
"I prefer it short. Simple."
Arnd deflated a bit. <"Ah. That's a shame."> The pair continued eating for a minute before Arnd asked: <"What's the event?">
Mark smiled cheekily. "It's a surprise."
Arnd pouted, and left it at that. <'That event had better be worth it.'> she thought. <'Long fur really does suit him.'>
~~~
Drivers were still sorting themselves out post-Breath when Du'fra arrived at the town house, briefcase in tow. Police aided in restoring order nearby, but Du'fra knew why they were there in the first place. He was heartened with the knowledge that soon, underhanded tactics such as had been employed would be obsolete. Once the woman was in office, Du'fra could wash his hands of the whole ordeal and let fate take its course. He knew from the beginning that this plan would only work with widespread public support, so if there was enough support to get a woman elected, there would be enough support from the anti-Mark crowd to get the attention of investigators.
<"Bora, you're going too far!"> said a woman around the corner. Du'fra paused at the doors to the house to listen.
<"How? We've got to do something about it before it strikes!"> responded a brash-sounding young man.
<"What's he even done?! Defended himself from pirates, stopped a runaway cruiser, and took a jab at people spreading hate speech!">
<"Hate spe-?!">
<"The worst thing he's done is butcher a bit of X'rtan!">
<"Are you seriously fucking defending it?!">
<"From the man who attacked him? Yes!">
The snow seemed to freeze in the air during the silence, not daring to disturb the moment. The young man turned the corner, briefly meeting Du'fra's gaze. Du'fra averted his eyes when he noticed that the youth had a rifle slung over his shoulder. Completely legal as it was, the fuming look on the boy's face told Du'fra that he wasn't afraid to use it. <'So long as Vuk'li is taken down, it'll all be worth it.'> he reminded himself, and entered the building.
The room briefly fell silent when video of Mark surviving Se'te's Breath was projected on the far wall. Then, predictably, came a vitriolic uproar. Many stated and restated that the monster was too dangerous to be left to its own devices; calls for banishment eked their way out of the periphery. Du'fra could finally hear them clearly, hate-fueled demands that he hoped were just a figment of his imagination, but we're now too loud to ignore: some in the crowd wanted Mark dead. Du'fra had little to worry about on that front, given the human's durability, but the sentiment alone was enough to shake him. <'Just get this cunt onto the city council, and you can disappear. It'll sort itself out from there, and you'll be in the clear.'> he thought.
[Continued in comments]

The results are in for Match 3…
After one final wood-splintering impact, the clock tower suddenly fell back to it’s relative silence, broken only by the constant mechanical whir of the heavy gears. Keith glanced down through the central railing, and upon seeing Jenny’s writhing, pain-cursing, barb-filled body embedded into the wooden floor four stories below him, wiped blood from his nose before limping toward the south wall.
The Temple had made no effort to conceal their newest addition, at least not yet; two walls of a completely different color jetted out of the southwest corner of the building to form a sort of corner-closet, protected by a heavy locked door. Spying a toolbox still open next to the setup, Keith’s eyes rolled as he sent a remaining cactus clone down to the fifth floor to see if the handyman had the key on him. He drew a long breath, the thought of his lost teammates still weighing heavy on his mind; the fight had let him vent the frustration from the news of their loss, and the anger he felt was likely to thank for pulling him through. With any luck, this whole scheme would be for something-
”Eeaaaugh..!” A scream from the earpiece Keith removed during the fight made him jump, immediately reaching for his pocket to re-equip the device. Metal objects fell onto a marble floor followed by something heavier, “Peart you… fucker… that book… since when..?” Heavily labored breathing made background noise tough to parse, but the deep voice of the reply was clear enough.
“As I said before being so rudely interrupted, Mr. Killian, Fate blesses it’s devoted with myriad gifts; open eyes to see the path before us, and a bulwark of faith to see our journey safely.” The voice grew louder, approaching Kilroy’s body. “Trespassing onto this holy ground will not go unpunished, for you nor your friends in the tower. Tell Ms. Stanton when you see her that her district is now in better hands.”
Keith gritted his teeth, running to the ladder to meet his cactus clone halfway with the key. That Syndicate idiot better have been right about this... He fumbled at the lock, clicking his tongue as he finally got it to turn. Inside was an almost completely barren set of shelves, holding only a small clear plastic case containing what looked to be a bloody heap of rags. Keith was momentarily transfixed, half-surprised to see anything at all, reaching in to grab the case and peer at it from different angles: it was two pieces of connected magenta-colored cloth, one thin and sporting what looked like eye holes while the other was larger with a cartoonish smile design, both badly faded and covered in blood; a mask of some kind? It looked like some kind of combination of a domino mask and a cloth mouth-mask, anyway…
Before he could remove it from the container, a loud crash of glass came from below, pulling Keith back to the present and over to the railing.
Jenny’s body was gone from the fourth floor below, leaving a trail of blood droplets leading to a nearby now-broken stained glass window. Keith nodded, making for the nearest ladder and sliding down to follow in escape. Stepping out onto a vertical path of cacti footholds, sirens and alternating red-and-blue lights approached the gate to the grounds below.
The Winner is Keith Moon, with a score of 71 to Jenny Kidd’s 67!

Category	Winner	Point Totals	Comments
Popularity	Underground Exodus	19-11	A reminder that a two-vote lead can go a very long way when exactly eight people get votes in, what started as an initial lead on Jenny’s part transformed over time into exactly the opposite in number by the end.
Quality	Tie	21-21	Reasoning
JoJolity	BADD GUYS	21-25	Reasoning
Conduct	Tie	10-10

Industrial District, Red Clay Correctional Facility, Later That Night
The metallic canine maw of Kaksi yawned, disinterested in the droning speech coming from the other side of the plexiglass wall. His user sat motionless on the prison cell bed, bathed in bright halogen light from all directions as she chewed away at her fingernails, staring blankly at the wall ahead of her with a tired expression. An attorney stood flanked by armed guards in the hallway adjacent, rattling off legal technicalities and case details at the seemingly distracted Emily. “...is apparently dismissible in court. I guess the court of Los Fortuna hasn’t heard of Stands yet, so evidence gathered using one is ‘tantamount to circumstantial at best’. Morons.” Aile sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of her nose before continuing her ramble.
Emily shot a glance at the suited attorney while her eyes were closed. Why are you doing this, Aile? Her eyes shot back to the wall ahead of her before she could be caught. Months together and I couldn’t give you the time of day. Refused to. I treated you like dirt, you had every right to leave and never look back… but you still…
“...and the trip here, good lord.” Aile’s legal rant had, at some point, turned into a personal one. “Those ANVIL pricks seized the bridge, apparently. Had to get in by police boat, thank god the city could spare one in all this chaos. And even with an armed police escort, I was stopped every ten seconds by some checkpoint! The guards must be stressed out of their minds, some of them were just staring off into space, like we weren’t even there! PTSD, maybe? I swear, when the city council hears about the conditions of this facility…”
Would take an army to stop you, wouldn’t it? An army, or one heartless idiot with her head up her ass… I was afraid. Afraid of dragging you into this fucking catastrophe I call a life. I didn’t believe you were strong enough…
The electronic bleep of a guard’s radio interrupted the one-sided conversation. “Thirty seconds, Ms. Panther, facility is going on lockdown.”
“Lockdown!? I’ve been through hell to be here for five minutes and you’re kicking me out?!” AIle’s hands wrung her manila envelope violently, nearly tearing it’s documents in half. “I am legally required to relay my client all necessary information pertaining to her case and-”
“Out of my hands, ma’am. We got an incoming prisoner and the facility is already at maximum alert. All non-staff need to be escorted out to secure the indoctrination process. Twenty seconds.”
Aile sighed angrily, straightening out the red sleeve cuffs underneath her blazer before addressing her client once again, stepping closer to the glass and speaking in a hushed tone. “It’s chaos out there, Emmie. The city’s enough of a wreck that it’s spreading out here. I’m doing what I can, but if things get any worse…” She sighed, putting a hand on the glass to eagerly await a response.
You’ve done too much already! Emily’s eyes were still fixed on the wall ahead of her, feigning indifference even now with her mind racing. I’m sorry for using you, I’m sorry for putting this damned city ahead of you, I’m sorry for everything! Aile, please..! Standing from her bed, Emily turned away from her company and moved to her sink, muttering a blunt: “I’ll live.”
“Time’s up. This way, Ms. Panther.” Aile took in a shaky breath as she stepped back, clearing her throat and turning on a dime to begin marching down the hall with a scowl. Looking back at Emily, who’s hands were planted on her sink looking down at the running water, the attorney ended the meeting with a very curt, impersonal, and disappointed response:
“Goodbye, Emily.”
The intrigue of the Gambler, the Church, and the city of Los Fortuna continues to build up. Meanwhile, under new management from the super-stylish Man in Black, a security company outsources developing a training regimen to four unscrupulous Stand Users. There’s only a few hours left to vote in that when this post goes up, so please give it a look - and a vote - if you haven’t!
Scenario:
Midnight Sun University District - A basement space underneath CaraMel’s Confectionery - Afternoon
“Hmmm hmm hm! Hmm hm hmm! Something something I don’t know any Japanese~”
Cutesy hum-singing filled the small, dimly lit well-ventilated chamber, as large bronze boots tapped against the sterilized floor, dark hands washing intensely before donning heart-covered rubber gloves, goggles, and a face mask, arranging and rearranging all number of medical-looking equipment, strange vials and flasks. Of course, she was still wearing plenty of pink, a lab coat over shorts over leggings, looking quite a bit more like a mad scientist than a chef, minus an onion-shaped hair net. Just because she was dressed for the utmost of lab safety and sanitation didn’t mean CaraMel Dansen couldn’t be cute, after all.
She leaned in towards one particular test tube, kept within a glass case, holding a cluster of mysterious white semisolids which seemed to be moving, throbbing, and giggled, waggling her finger at the glass. “Feeding time’s soon, don’t worry! Oh, I wish I could put this on Insta today… But I must be strong!” She pumped her arms. “For his memory’s sake, I will resist you, social media!”
Down the stairwell outside, a pair of sneakers hurried, let through a backdoor by the restaurateur’s younger brother, then hurrying down a stairwell, quite audible in the franticness of its pace. Finally, a sweaty pale hand moved towards the locked door.
Knock knock knock knock.
Rhythmic. Fist positioned against different distinctive parts of the door. This was the secret knock.
So, a Stand body emerged to superheat a locking mechanism, causing its metals to weaken and the door to open, the yellow-hatted thirtysomething on the other side giving CaraMel an unamused look. “That’s a huge fire hazard, you know… If it was anyone but you, you would be yelling about that.”
“Well, I’m just different! Anyway, c’mon, check out what Violet found me in Drankwater’s houseboat-lab! You know what it is, don’t you?”
“I… No, how could I?” Theodore Lloyd was confused, stepping in and idly tapping at his eyepiece-Stand, ‘To Make Believe,’ as he continued, “just because I’m Institute doesn’t mean I can identify every weird thing that one of you guys discovers with a passing glance… Why was she going through his things anyway?”
“Because I asked Oh No to ask her to!” She peppily answered, before growing, momentarily, more serious, “after what happened with the Ocean Soul… What he died for, and having that taken away in an instant, I just couldn’t help but think. The old wizard didn’t just do things for no reason, yeah? The sort of explosive growth you could accomplish with Calamus Root… I knew for certain he must have something in mind for it, some reason to go capture it personally. Something he was working on, yeah?”
“I… I suppose that makes sense, but.” Teddy blinked. “You say that like No didn’t care about that part, so then why-”
“All Oh No wanted was to learn to talk to that sea monster… Communicate, get it to open up. His entire term for the Institute’s cooperation with Peres was that Holiday would split the Stand off, let him keep and help the big angry sea monster communicate with a world that it never got the chance to understand. If you talked to him, you would’ve known that way way way before me!”
“That… That sounds like that person, yes.” He stammered, pacing around carefully.
“Mhm!” She nodded. “Anyway, one of the things that fascinated the Wizard most was Bert… Both as a harmless novelty, a ‘homunculus,’ and then, as the thing that destroyed Capital Island, broke fate, and killed like twenty-thousand people. He’d been studying his actions, researching his history, all for what’s in this tube here.” She gestured to it again. “A ‘bioweapon’ meant to be capable of ‘killing Bert…’ That’s what was in the Water Tower, hidden away, and what I intend to finish, with or without those groundbreaking medical advances people literally died for only for that to be wasted at the last moment!” Her voice grew even higher and cuter; a sure sign she was seething so hard she could set a person on fire. “No is still grieving over the Ocean Soul, so I wanted to ask you to arrange for it… Get the Institute to watch over this thing, and let me help cultivate it.”
“I see… Heh. Guess he’s looking after us even now, then… Of course I’ll help.” He tilted his head, reading over what he’d just discovered of the ‘bioweapon’ with his own Stand… Unsurprised, ultimately. “Where do you factor into this, CaraMel? I thought you’d totally lost interest in biotech… I didn’t even know you’d kept all this stuff.”
“It’s for when I get the food science urges!” She pivoted and huffed, crossing her arms over her chest and shaking her head. “And anyway… I became a chef instead because I wanted to make people smile. To be fed and happy and enjoying good food in a nice place and living, yeah? I know Drankwater would scoff with Dollars behind my back for that, but… He was still a mentor of mine, and this is something I can do so the final projects of his life weren’t for nothing. That ‘Bert’ is a threat to the entire planet if not dealt with… And nobody can smile in a world so terrible!”
She kicked her boot against the ground, then, before adding with a roll of her eyes and a grumble, “plus, now that Byron went and got himself labeled a terrorist and killed a bunch more people, basically every big plan I had in the works for celebrating this February is shot. So I almost have something sort of resembling free time now!”
Teddy chuckled at that, and was about to ask what else he could do, when his phone began to vibrate, and despite not recognizing the number, he had a strange feeling about this… It needed answering.
“Y’hello, Mr. Lloyd… Is your refrigerator running?”
A chill ran down his spine, then. That old, jovial voice… It couldn’t be..! Paralyzed with unease at what he was encountering, all he could say, then, was a small, “y… yes..?”
“Well…”
A dial tone rang out at Teddy’s feet; the very floor tiles below him seemed to transform into cell phone screens beneath him.
Then, as his companion tried to shout something, tried to send her Stand forward to retrieve him, a Sonic blast from those newly-reformed floor tiles sent him and her Stand flying into the walls, knocking over countless pieces of equipment with a very clearly audible punchline to the booms.
“YA BETTER GO CATCH IT!”
The girl’s Stand only just able to stop anything from outright killing the weaker, older Stand User proved, predictably, far from the end of the troubles in the room. As Teddy struggled to stand with CaraMel’s Stand’s support, an old man in a bike helmet, flanked by a Stand of his own, stepped into the doorway, cracking his knuckles.
“Eheh… Refrigerator running. Sometimes, the classics can still crack you up, yeah?”
Naturally, CaraMel was knocked to the ground as well by the blast having struck her Stand, not to mention her own proximity to it, ears ringing and pained as she tried to gather her bearings, hearing a thumping against the walls closest to the ventilation shaft for the small room, only for the grate to be knocked out as something oblong and vaguely humanoid emerged, dress shoes stepping down with feet by her head, before with entirely too much flexibility, a stark white one-eyed figure was staring down at her and twisting his neck.
There was something dark atop the being’s head, something she was having trouble making out, resembling… A cap of sorts, resembling a buck-toothed dog, with…
Bert was wearing a fucking hat in the shape of Goofy, still boastfully bearing the tag from Walt Disney World.
“Yes, hello, I’m here to pick up an order… I hope you’ve kept it warm.”
CaraMel was alarmed, confused, in a horrid state of fight or flight, as her Stand could only be in one place at all, yet needing to protect Teddy, herself, and the bioweapon… How the hell was she supposed to do all three while boxed in like this?
“You gave quite the speech, Dansen…” Bert continued as they paced around, the air tense even through the funny joke Lemon had cracked. His hand rested on the table the weapon’s tube sat on, and and he continued, “it was quite inspirational, I think… And quite enlightening.”
He reached for the weapon, and CaraMel called out. “No, don’t!”
“Don’t what? You are developing something meant specifically to take my life… Is it unfair of me to wish to investigate that? Now, let’s see what-”
With a look on his sole eye indicating genuine surprise, Bert’s hand accidentally slipped and knocked the specimen meant to kill them to the ground, where it spilled out with a crack! The chef and the art school dean both cried out.
“…haha! My fingers slipped! And right now, I don’t feel very dead… Not ready yet, as you said. Though that shouldn’t be a surprise, with what a nostalgic sight that was.” He contorted his neck to the tense scene with Lemon, Lloyd, and CaraMel’s Stand, over 180 degrees away, though turning his head the opposite direction would have been easier. “Lemon, companion and ally, tell my story, why don’t you? Or at least, introduce it…”
“Gotcha!” The old man agreed, “see, my buddy Bert here… Some stuff in a lab made him, and he got out! And then they came here!” Lemon knew more, but he knew a bit when he saw one, and knew that Bert would want to hear themselves talk. It was why, for a Bertsmas gift, he got his good pal two cell phones.
“I was born by what many deemed random luck, some chemicals mixed together just right in some lab… But such things, the creation of life anew, are not the domain of happenstance, or of old men with white beards… No, it’s as I told Walter on my sabbatical, when I popped into his secret chambers to discourse on life extension.” He took a seat on a counter. “‘New life’ is the realm of ‘God,’ don’t you agree? Yet I exist, and I uniquely survive, and I will find a way to yet create life anew myself.” He stood up, then, spreading his arms. “To blaspheme in this way is only within the realm of I, Bert, the one who subverted fate! Who raised the dead! I am going to supersede God itself, whatever form He takes. What chance did two graduates cooking in a basement have to deter me?”
“You…” Teddy stammered again, clearly terrified, but looking to CaraMel, stood. “Your self important vision will die. You will be nobody’s God… You’ll be just another footnote in this city.” He turned, then, to his companion. “CaraMel, recall your Stand. Protect yourself, please. I won’t slow you down here. Do what you must.”
“But… N-no! I refuse to let you play hero now! Think about-”
“Ahahahahahehheaaahhh!” Bert laughed heartily, then, and Lemon snickered as well. “You have gall, you two… I can acknowledge that much at least. Yet it’s funny to me that you think either of you is leaving this room.”
Around the start of CaraMel and Teddy’s conversation - The streets of the College Town

hey casey jill’s rly upset cuz a friend of hers did some dumb bullshit again
the journalist? oh no… how bad?
not like war crime bad but ‘legit a srs dick move and self important about it’ bad
ugh. that’s always a pain… why tell me, though?
well bc im tryna console her an figured she could cope with sweets!
as one does.
as one does
anyway yea. u mind runnin to caramel’s an pickin up some of those sweet onion cream filled donuts? just a huge dozen to go to town on. ill pay u back promise. well have girls night itll be gr8
sure! jillian seems nice, and i never mind helping a friend of a friend!

Casey Williams looked over that text log again as she made her way to the Confectionery which had so often been a hotly desired source of nutrients and socialization about the college town and adjacent areas, frequented by students, faculty, and people just living in the very expensive college town alike, but most popular of all among young women, children, and couples, no doubt because of how cute and pink the place was.
Food was damn good, even if it tended to be pricey. One of those onion donuts honestly sounded real good right now, though…
Thus, to that end, Casey kept walking, stepping off of a trolley and moving through a piece of environmental art she’d grown entirely used to by now, something where that Andre guy sought to successfully recreate something looking like a recursively looping set of stairs in the middle of a public park, only to notice something in the corner of her eye; Perseus Drakos was sitting up high on one of the stairs in question, waving down at her and, with a cheery tone, calling out, “afternoon!”
Then, he seemed to slip off of the heavy drop, yet still bore a confident look on his face. This time, he’d have an awesome heroic entrance; he’d do a somersault and jump up right in front of his teammate, and it would be so awesome, and-
“Ow!” He winced, hitting the soft grass below as Casey looked concerned, offering him a hand up.
“Are you alright? That was a hell of a-”
“I’m fine!” Desperate to save face, Perseus jumped up, putting his fists at his hips and puffing out his chest. “The glass dragon won’t shatter like that! That’s all I wanted to prove to you right now!”
“Are you well? You must let me catch you before you run off like that!” The Stranger’s ethereal voice came through, then, as it manifested, fixing Perseus’ posture as he tried to shoo his Stand away.
“I got it, c’mon. I know what I’m doing!” He sighed, then, before turning back to face Casey. “So what brings you out this way? Mind if I tag along? I’d been trying to survey this area for signs of trouble or villainy, but so far it’s… Pretty safe. I think I could use more scenery!”
“Oh, I wasn’t doing much, actually,” Casey answered, “just headed down to CaraMel’s to pick some stuff up for Violet… Cheering up a friend, so basically an emergency, yeah? I’m sure it wouldn’t be any trouble for you to hang out, though.”
The Stranger and Perseus both gave Casey blank expressions.
“What? Don’t want to after all?”
“CaraMel’s closed early today. Like, right after breakfast early…” Perseus huffed. “I was gonna buy myself lunch there, too, so it was really bothersome…”
“…huh, really. Hope nobody’s sick or something.” She got her phone out. “Guess I’ll just let Violet know that-”
“Wait.” The Stranger’s voice cut her off, then, and Casey and Perseus looked to him. “Think about who we’re dealing with here… This Violet Lange. It isn’t the first or last time she’s goaded one of us towards something or another on secretive, even duplicitous pretenses. And with how connected she is… There’s no way she didn’t hear anything about that. Couple that with how CaraMel’s has been used as a base of operations for the University Board before, and…”
“She was trying to get me to do something else?” Casey asked, catching on now. She considered Violet a friend, but she really could be a pain sometimes like this…
“Exactly. Whatever it is you were actually sent there for… Proceed with caution, if you mean to proceed at all.”
“Forget that!” Perseus defied his Stand’s warning. “If it’s that important, and that dangerous, we’re going to be a part of it! Don’t abandon your friend, and don’t even say a word about leaving me out, either! Because if you do, I’ll just follow you anyway!”
Casey… Couldn’t rebut a word of that, and neither could The Stranger. Both simply nodded. “Follow my lead, and don’t do anything crazy, alright?”
“Why are the ceilings so high here..?” Perseus asked as he led the way into the closed-yet-unlocked door. “I mean, it’s basically a bakery with house space above it, right? But so much bigger than everything else…”
“Because it’s artsy… And I imagine Mr. Dansen appreciates the distance from all the kitchen noise, with his condition.” Casey mused. “Makes for a real nice climbing spot. Once I ran into that ‘Black Angel’ eating up there with Wrenn, and it really is a great view-”
Their conversation was stalled, then, by the realization of what lay before them, tossed through a glass display case and with a rolling shelf knocked over. A tall, hurt-looking figure with blue hair was struggling to keep it from crushing him, a sight which, with an “oh my God!” from Casey, both MFAs hurried to remedy, helping pull him free and sit him up.
“What happened?!” Perseus asked, not noticing a response, before realizing exactly why… The man’s ears were bleeding profusely, worse than anywhere else he’d been injured.
“Hhh… hhahh…” He struggled to steady himself, trying and failing to stand and move towards a backdoor. “Sister’s… Still down there… Old man… Phones… Ghk, fuck..!”
The young man collapsed again, quickly being steadied by Casey, who looked him in the eye and spoke slowly, yet firmly. “Don’t worry. We’ll help her. Just… Clear out.”
Someone is attacking CaraMel’s..? But what for? Violet… Is this what you really sent me for?
With that, then, she had to pick up her pace and run into the backdoor stairwell. Perseus had already begun to charge in.
The stairwell was decorated with pink carpet and soft orange wallpaper, the railings a clean, sleek white. It was quiet… Uncomfortably quiet.
Then, a door down below opened, and Casey had to grab Perseus by the back of his shirt to stop him from rushing blindly down to meet the threat.
“I swear, to try and assassinate me with the first trick I ever learned… The audacity of it all. Well, at least that’s been nipped in the bud.”
Casey and Perseus both froze, then, feeling their skin crawl. Of course, both had heard the recordings of Jack Aurel’s final stand, of the way a serial killer and an artificial human challenged him… And that self-important tone was unmistakable.
“Hehh, yeah. Say, d’you think her brother’ll still sell us bagels? I know the sign said they’re closed today, but I really got a hankerin’ for an everything with dog-cream-cheese.”
“Regardless of his willingness to sell to us, there will be bagels, my friend. I assure you they will be delectable!”
“Ehehh, awesome! Can’t wait to-” Lemon Demon stopped, then, his humorous tone momentarily evaporating. “There’s someone up there. Two of them, looks like.”
“Ah! Excellent catch,” Bert praised Lemon. “Lucky we ended that fight unscathed and unexhausted, then… I have a feeling that they’ll be more of a worthy trial than those two were.”
Casey gasped, then, still trying to bide her time, observe their moves, now that the element of surprise was gone completely.
“Yeah, you’re telling me, Bert. Imagine if we were hot off the heels of those Red Carpet guys, or Jack, or even that keytar guy… I told you about how I barely beat him, right? Still a dang shame, that… Gotta respect a man in a thong rockin’ and rollin’ in the ID. Reminded me of me back in the day!”
Perseus felt himself grow even tenser, then… Angry, beyond even his usual hatred for villains, at such words passing. “Casey… This guy… I think the old guy has to be the one to…” He had seen how utterly devastated Aaron had been at the news of Rudolf’s death, and to hear someone speaking so casually about it, having clearly seen it, been there, probably been responsible…
He called out, heroically, “Hey, Bert! Old-timer! Chat up all you like, because this is the last fight you’ll ever fight! Here and now, it’s over for you!”
Before he could charge, however, Casey grabbed him and began running up the stairs, well aware that at this point, a fight in the stairwell was inevitable… Hell, hearing something like that, and knowing what was at stake, she couldn’t back away in good faith either!
Every fight she’d been in so far, she could run away, leave the dirty work to someone else, but here, she wasn’t going to simply cower behind a child. She would get them a tactically advantageous spot, work out a plan, and beat these bastards here and now!
“Those kids sound kinda mad… Hope I didn’t strike a nerve there.” Lemon remarked, nonetheless preparing for battle. He knew kids, how hotheaded they could get. This wasn’t a situation he could defuse with a funny joke or two, and hell, he didn’t really want to.
“We’ll be striking more than just nerves in a moment, Lemon… We’ll be striking up another chapter in the Book of Bert. Just try not to bring the whole house down. Those bagels won’t taste half as good with drywall and concrete in them, after all.”
OPEN THE GAME!
(Credit to CaptainSpooky27 for yet more awesome match art!)
Location: Inside of a stairway. This is a general reference image of the layout of the stairway. Note this image does not match up to the stairway in the match, only the general structure. So the railings, floors and stairs themselves are different.
Here is a top down view of the general layout. The left and right sides are flat and the south and north are the stairs. The center is completely open. The stairs go upwards following the arrows.
The flat portions are each 5 meters long and 2 meters wide. The stairs are 1 meter wide and there is about 9 meters between each floor.
Bert and Lemon Demon start at basement level (on what would be the right side) and Casey and Perseus are 25 meters vertically above the other team and on the left side.
Goal: RETIRE your opponents!
Additional Information: Leaving the stairwell over the course of the match is prohibited. After all, there are civilians and bagels that will be in great danger if you retreat now!

Team	Combatant	JoJolity
Suburban Regalia	Bert	“I see, you're above me... you're hanging on a branch, huh?!” You are starting from the very bottom of this stairwell, but rise and rise you will, until you tower over this entire city! Make creative usage of the verticality and arrangement of the stairwell!
Suburban Regalia	Lemon Demon	“What would Koichi think if he sees a lit lighter resting on top of a piece of bread..? Would he think nothing of it? Definitely not! He would extinguish the flame!” Last big fight you went in, you destroyed an entire factory, and that looks like it got people real mad… Best to avoid that, and besides, bagels are on the line! Ensure that the stability of the building isn’t compromised over the course of the match!
Masters of Funky Action	Casey Williams	“If they stand just 'above' you, it'll be over.” You have the high ground, and you intend to make damn good use of this fact. Make creative usage of the verticality and arrangement of the stairwell!
Masters of Funky Action	Perseus Drakos	“For 24 hours, you are to guard that lighter without letting the flame go out!” These guys think they can just bust into someone’s home, someone’s business, and smash it to bits like it’s nothing? You will protect this place, and its occupants! Ensure that the stability of the building isn’t compromised over the course of the match!

Link to the Official Player Spreadsheet
Link to Match Schedule
As always, if you would like to interact with the tournament community and be among the first to get updates for the tournament, please feel free to PM a member of our Judge staff for an invite to our Official Discord Server!

RR link
Previous chapter (#2 - THE TWISTED HEIST)
#3 - THE INELUCTABLE DUEL
Observers of the Middle System had named it Rosetta. This comet was a newcomer. It had started its long dance within Solaris beyond the dwarf planet of Eris. Its veil of ice had amazed many despite the disastrous consequences. For Rosetta had crossed the highway linking Mars to the main belt, wreaking havoc throughout the area. Its marbles, sometimes the size of a basketball, hit several ships at a prodigious speed.
And guess who was in the middle of it all? Me, the Kitty and to get lost in the details: Ali.
“We’re gonna die!” she shouted as the sound alerts from our radar were tearing my eardrums apart. “Look at the screens! We’re gonna fucking die!”
The control computer calculated the best trajectory, but was unable to find a path safe enough to lead us to safety through the tail of the comet.
“Full steam ahead, Kitty!” I roared as the first impacts could be heard on the armor.
Already, the cockpit windows cracked under the shocks. We had to fold up the metal flaps and continue blind. At the speed we were flying, it didn’t make much difference anyway. It was then a long quarter of an hour like a winter night; listening to the rain falling on the roof. Except that we weren’t warm under the quilt. It wasn’t rainfall! And, yes, we were most certainly going to perish pulverized!
A more violent impact suddenly shaked the cockpit. The dashboard abruptly turned off. A few sparks came out of the control panel and the life support systems. Shortly afterwards, a slight hissing sound of depressurization escaped from the cargo bay behind us.
“Hold on, Kitty! I trust you, darling!”
Then everything stopped. The Swallow had passed through Rosetta’s trail. Miraculously, we were still breathing.
“Are we alive?” Ali asked, patting my lower back.
“For the moment, we are. But not for very long.”
Indeed, on the central polychrome monitor of the dashboard, the control computer was listing the damages by order of seriousness. Without emergency intervention on the drive, now shut down, or the air filters of the LSS, we were doomed.
“What is the nearest station?” I asked.
Her harness unstrapped, my human opened the system map on the side CRT while I was trying to restart the Baltimore reactor despite the numerous leaks of Blue. A column of azure bubbles escaped from the hold then floated across the cabin. The liquid was penetrating through the electronic instruments.
Cleaning the cooler off her blond hair, Ali answered me between two very distinguished swearwords:
“Yggdrasil! A few hours away from here… fairly isolated from the celestial highway.”
Yggdrasil? This name hadn’t been heard for a long time. Once, it was a simple M-type asteroid that escaped from the main belt. It had been used as a base of exploration before setting up colonies on Ceres, Vesta and Pallas then quickly abandoned. It was many of them’s fate when the new generations of post-nuclear engines, developed by Lucie Baltimore and her engineers, flooded the market.
At the peak of its glory, however, Yggdrasil had transformed itself into a station in its own right, where even real earth had been brought back from the original Blue Planet. The first settler families had grown a wonderful tree in the heart of the gardens. This tree had quickly become gigantic thanks to the reduced gravity.
“Do you think it’s still inhabited? It’s no longer a listed port,” Ali pointed out.
“That’s because it doesn’t belong to any corporation…”
But Yggdrasil was more than busy. Once in range, a couple of days later, we could guess an asteroid teeming with life. The station had been dug into the pure ore which was now only an indestructible shell. Numerous cylindrical windows dotted its surface. On the other side, lush gardens mottled the rock walls. It was like a gigantic celestial terrarium of nickel and glass.
But the most impressive was indeed this titanic tree that occupied the entire planetoid in its height. Its trunk and leaves were perfectly white which gave a wonderful contrast with the emerald forest that covered its roots.
“I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time,” Ali said.
Yet it was just a simple tree, dirt and tons of mutagenic green moss. Humans were so melancholy about our home planet that I couldn’t understand why they had ravaged it in this way.
But the station was more impressive once inside. People lived all over the inner surface, in burrows and anchored nests covered by round vegetation. There were no taxicabs, nor any traffic for that matter. One could only take comfort from the birds’ singing and the wind turbines’ whirling, ensuring the good circulation of air. This piece of cosmic heaven had nothing to do with the shipyard of yesteryear.
We clamped the Kitty in one of the only two pods of Yggdrasil, run by a Lilliputian with shoulders so broad that one would have thought she was a dwarf from ancient tales if her beard had been bushier. Alas, just like the children of Vala Aulë, she announced a huge bill for the realization of her art. But it was unfortunately justified. Rosetta had absolutely ravaged our only means of transport.
My beautiful Swallow…
“All we have to do now is find a small job!” Ali had confessed to me while I was verifying one by one the expenses on the receipt in recycled bark.
“Alas! I doubt that there is an interesting contract under this thick foliage.”
I was right. The following days were nothing but disillusionment. There was work on Yggdrasil, but no one wanted to entrust it to two marauding bounty hunters. To be perfectly honest, this was the case in most stations and towns in the system. The Alliance wasn’t a respected institution. Auxiliaries were more hated than the F musical note or We Built This City song.
“Scratch again, I spotted something in the green spot!” Ali guided me.
She had refused to dive to the bottom of the dumpster herself. I had to submit to the search for nutrigel residues floating in the hazardous gravity.
“There is nothing! All we have to do is eat moss!”
I had come up to the surface to find her crouched in the grass, a winged caterpillar in hand. The bryophyte and its fauna were once again going to be our evening meal when a young boy landed barefoot in our organic banquet.
“Can I ask what ye, scummy bounty hunters, are doin’?” he questioned us as he snapped one of the multicolored slap bracelets on his arms.
He then introduced himself under the name of Benàn. He was the son of Yggdrasil’s main gardener whom we met shortly afterwards when the teenager invited us to his house for a real dinner. His family lived in a gigantic sclerotic tinder mushroom against the metal wall of the ancient asteroid.
“May ye forgive the folks here. Isolation has made them bitter. And abundance stingy,” his father, Alàn, apologized with the same nordic accent as his son.
He was a little man with a wide neck and sparkling yet tired eyes. Very jovial, he didn’t care that we were auxiliaries. His mustache and braided coppery beard jumped at every word. Despite his wife’s efforts to wash him, his face was constantly stained with brown mud.
“Hold op, Diligua! Would ye want to stop?” he cried.
Diligua scolded him, unhappy with her husband’s marshy appearance in front of her guests. She was his exact opposite, tall, fine and elegant. And without clods of dirt in her blond hair. She was wearing them twisted and braided in a bun on the back of her head, as expected to be in a micro-g environment.
Alàn was at first reluctant, but soon entrusted us with the simplest work in exchange for a roof and a good daily meal. We finally had enough to survive in this Smurf Village.
As for our invoice, Diligua had gone to negotiate with the dwarf of the hangar to obtain an amendment. She was the engineer in charge of the wind turbines and often had spare parts to trade for services.
“Decent people here”, Ali said to me once in our own private room at the top of the giant family mushroom, after our first day of work.
“For a change…”
The following days on Yggdrasil were pleasant. The company of this family proved to be very much appreciated. Benàn, for example, was an energetic teenager. He kept talking about his dreams of escape and space conquest. He was fed up with living in that aquarium, but his father had always resisted a premature departure.
“He promised to buy me a roun’ trip to Ceres-by when I was twelve years old then a secon’ one when I was sixteen. And finally, let me leave for the Marine Academy once I will reach my majority,” he told us once we were chilling under the shade of a giant dandelion. “But he had always refrained from keepin’ his word so far! He thinks I’m not ready!”
In a rage, he closed his record player and threw away the last can of Pepper Coke soda from our picnic as it slowly swirled near a rotten log.
I was surprised when he mentioned the Academy.
“I thought you wanted to be a pirate. Why would you join the Marine Corps?”
“To learn how to handle weapons! My pa refuses to let me use his and the armor he hides under his workbench. I don’t even know how to wield a revolver!”
Ali then passed him her gun, barrel in hand, without a word. I didn’t even realize she was listening. It was a habit of hers; following a conversation while sleeping.
The boy feigned hesitation, but the sparks in his eyes betrayed his excitement. My human didn’t need to insist any further, because seconds later he already had the gun between his fingers.
“It’s so frackin’ heavy," he said. "It’s different with my virtual reality console.”
“Try it out,” Ali proposed as she put the needle back on the first track after reopening the portable turntable.
From her chin, she then pointed to the can Benàn had thrown a few minutes earlier. Together, they practiced in music all afternoon. The yardman’s son had almost exhausted Ali’s ammunition when Diligua picked us up on her sail Solex for dinner.
This was our daily routine for the next two weeks: working in the morn, hanging out in the evening. We had been so productive that Alàn no longer needed us to maintain the station. To be fair, I suspected that he had dismissed us because of the meager gardening skills of my sapiens. That girl had two left hands but no green thumb. And it wasn’t the funniest part.
“What’s happening to me?” Ali asked one night, feverish.
“Unbelievable!” Diligua answered, staring incredulously at the thermometer going up. “You are allergic to real vegetables! Nobody’s allergic to real vegetables! What kind of human being are you?”
“Gimme pizzas...” muttered my dying nutrigel-raised partner, white as the giant tree’s leaves.
The next morning, Benàn finally introduced us to his spaceship. He had begun to assemble it by repairing the worn parts of the hangar with his mother’s tools. Its name testified to his ambitions: The Arcadia.
I had to reckon. This taciturn rascal was a mechanical genius. However, he needed my skills to set up the control computer and program the out-of-gravity draining of the post-nuclear engine. My sapiens, meanwhile, was improving the prototype of a jet-pack, a slice of pizza between the teeth. The young boy had stolen it from a pirate who stopped by a couple of months ago.
In the following evenings, Ali and Benàn often exchanged stories of buccaneers and adventurers. He was fascinated by the freebooters from the Golden Age of Jupiter’s colonies: King Xiao and the Lost Triad, Amadeus the Traveler, Osborn the Freak or Marcellàn Iron Fists and his famous hand-to-hand fights. The latter was the boy’s favorite and he would talk about him for hours.
What they had in common was that they showed Goldsun, the privateer, the respect he deserved. And this even though he sided with the Marine on the recent conquest of Pluto.
“It is said that the Sun King, Goldsun’s vessel, shines like a star. Forstår du? And that is how he camouflages himself in the celestial firmament!” Benàn exclaimed. “His fleet is so frackin’ fast that even the Marine’s Interceptors can't compete in pure speed!”
Our amateur raconteur wasn’t holding back his ardor. He knew hundreds of stories about pirates. Like everybody in Solaris, we already knew some. In fact, there were so many of them that we didn’t distinguish the truth from the myth. Indeed, the majority of these criminals and adventurers had never existed.
But the vacations were shortly ending. It was only missing a few coats of paint on the Kitty and Alàn boasted every night that he would soon have one last job for us. However, I suspected him of monopolizing the floor so that his son would no longer broach the subject of his emancipation. And this was confirmed in the following twilight:
“Wait! Both of you. I gotta talk to ye.”
He took a look at Benàn, who had grabbed his virtual reality console before going outside.
“Amalrik, the station storekeeper, told me that ye’ve emptied his entire soda supply…” he began, clearing the remains of his nattmal.
But that wasn’t the most important thing.
“...and .50 AE ammunition. The kind of bullets we used to hunt hvaler... whales or Soviet cosmodons!’
“We shouldn’t have hidden this from you, Alàn, we’re sorry,” Ali apologized. “We just wanted to teach the kid how to shoot.”
We saw Alàn smiling shyly through his beard.
“There’s no harm, rest assured,” he said after a short silence. “I just yearn this pirate story would get outta his head…”
“He’s a descendant of the first settlers… of course he has a taste for adventure,” I reported.
“Ja! I know. ‘was like him…”
Our host’s eyes were full of nostalgia.
“You wish…” corrected his wife, who was fixing a modulator in a corner of the room. “This child has more potential than the whole clan put together. He has passed the age to play with his Spirograph.”
“Again, I know. ‘saw the boy handling the absurd handgonne Ali uses as a gun,” admitted Alàn. “And for sure, he’s also undoubtedly smarter than me.”
“So why not let him go?” Ali asked.
The gardener then showed us his right leg by putting it on the table. His calf was studded with scars and burns. The same wounds slept under the dry earth that permanently covered his hands.
“There was an age when I craved to see what was happenin’ in the solar mines of Mercury and the colonies of the Outer Worlds. T’was a beautiful time of freedom that was already comin’ to an end,” he said as he readjusted his pants to hide his pink topographic map of Mars. “What will he find now? The ruthless Marine and this durn Technocratic corruption? Cyber-psychos on the run? Irradiated moons? Nej. There’s nothin’ for him in the deep space.”
“The armor was from when you had served?” I asked, alluding to Benàn’s words about the assisted exoskeleton.
“Served? I’ve never served anyone but the giant plants of Yggdrasil,” he said.
He scratched his beard; his gaze was lost in time. Then, when he addressed us again, he made us promise to stop encouraging his son’s sweet utopias. After that, he floated off to his workbench on the second floor.
“How can we tell him that he’s living in his own illusion?” Diligua asked rhetorically.
Diligua had finished repairing the modulator, but she threw it in the garbage anyway. Tomorrow, Benàn would secretly retrieve it to improve his radar system. She ultimately left the room after wishing us a good evening. The sadness could be seen on her face.
She was right, though. When their child celebrates his eighteenth Martian spring, Benàn will leave for Ceres or the Red Planet… if not before. Yggdrasil and his burrows were far too small for a boy like him.
“My father was like that too,” Ali concluded.
The final days were quieter. Diligua and the station’s technicians had activated the wind turbines. This ingenious system dispensed a fine mist inside Yggdrasil. The fog had invaded the large windows separating the pastoral town from the vacuum. A curious surrealist vibe reigned from then on.
With the humidity, Ali’s haircut had doubled in volume, giving her a Bob Ross vibe. Benàn and I both enjoyed seeing her like this before she threw her iron cup at us. Despite the lack of gravity, it almost tore off my right ear.
“The mist will only last a few days. It’s good for the skin. Just like the mud and…” Alàn preached.
“Alàn—” his wife started.
Diligua’s commentary was interrupted by a knock on the giant mushroom’s door. It was strange because since the beginning of our stay, nobody had come to visit Benàn and his family. From the yardman’s opinion, this didn’t bode well.
“Enter!” he shouted as he slid off the table to face this unexpected intruder.
The door opened slowly before a man in a beige raincoat rushed inside. Water was dripping from the edges of his round hat and long pointed nose. He wiped his mustache from the back of his sleeve then plunged his gold circled gray eyes into each of ours. When he met Alàn’s gaze, he gasped.
“What a shock! What they say is true!” he shouted with a thick english accent, hands on his hips. “Marcellàn Iron Fists lives on this moldy stone!”
Marcellàn? Was he mentioning the pirate? Marcellàn Iron Fists who pulverized his opponents with the strength of his fist? That Marcellàn would be Alàn?
Ali didn’t seem to make the connection. She was for the moment too busy finishing her meaty dagmal, the bottom of the bowl almost stuck to her forehead.
“I don’t know what ye’re talkin’ ‘bout,” replied our host coldly.
“Cut the crap, old man!” the visitor laughed. “I am responsible for some of the scars on your back.”
He then opened his coat, revealing an AAJ’s badge and the stock of a rifle with a scope hanging from his shoulder.
I recognized him. We were looking at Nigel Hemingwest, a second-generation bounty hunter. Obnoxiously famous for his gross blunders from which he had always come out as white as snow.
“Marcellàn, who fought bare hands in his shiny red titanium armor, relegated to the simple rank of a gardener! This is beyond prodigious!” Hemingwest continued, taking a step towards the table.
He was stopped by Diligua, a sharp knife ready:
“If you’re not here for any Yggdrasil-related business, I’d appreciate it if you’d get the hell out!”
Hemingwest stumbled backward, hands up, but visibly amused by the situation. His smile faded as he looked at Ali who had now put his bowl back on the table. His eyes lingered for a moment on her own badge.
“Lovely wife. Anyway, I see that the bounty is already coveted…”
My partner wiped the tip of her nose with the back of her hand, also revealing her .50 caliber before granting her unexpected opinion on the matter:
“We ain’t give a shit about the dollar credits. Alàn has offered us shelter and food. No harm will come to him.”
Hemingwest opened his eyes wide. It must have been a long time since he had been so dissed, but unfortunately that was Ali’s trademark.
Nevertheless, my associate had just indicated that she wouldn’t fulfill a contract, which wasn’t common for an auxiliary. Unusual and punished by a severe reprimand if the high authority got wind of it.
“Whatever,” Hemingwest squeaked. “But I’m no fool, Alàn the florist. I’ll be waiting for Marcellàn and his armor at the foot of the Big Tree for a duel tonight. A legend like him can’t refuse, even if he had pissed calcium for twenty years by living in low G. Because, otherwise, the whole system will learn where his family is hiding… rightly or wrongly!”
And he left by slamming the door.
“Well, that explains all the praise for Marcellàn coming from Benàn!” I said to Ali, breaking the awkward silence.
“There’s no way I’m goin’ to accept this cursed challenge,” Alàn grumbled, back at his seat.
Benàn had risen, red with anger:
“Ye’re goin’ to let yerself be humiliated like that?”
“Can’t you see that your father has moved on?” his mother spoke in the same tone.
We didn’t say a word. Ali grabbed me by the paw before leaving the table. She had judged that the rest of the conversation had nothing to do with us. But when we arrived at the front door, Benàn passed us and withdrew first, visibly furious at Diligua’s answer.
“This Hemingwest klaphat hasn’t turned over a new leaf and I know him, he won’t let go,” Alàn grunted with his hands on his eyes.
“We ignore if he has any hard evidence. But if he does, I’ll bet he has nothing solid and is attempting to bluff us…” tried to reassure his wife before we closed the door.
Outside, against his mother’s flying Solex, Benàn was tearing off the pieces of moss covering the ramp to their fungal home. His anger had subsided and his eyes filled with tears when he saw us:
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who my pa was… but you were bounty hunters…”
“All fathers have secrets,” I replied. “Yours is worth a lot of dollar credits. And this Hemingwest is no joke…”
“My pa hasn’t wrestled for decades,” Benàn explained. “And yet, even with porous bones, he could crush this rat’s skull if he wasn’t such a coward!”
I noticed he had lost his nordic accent.
“Your father is anything but a coward, you know…” Ali intervened, sitting next to him.
“Is he? Then why does he refuse to fight? Why did he stop his life as a pirate and adventurer? Why does he prevent me from leaving?” Benàn shouted as he stood up. “Because he’s a fraud!”
He then swam in the void before disappearing into the fog.
“What an ingrate!” grumbled my human.
“Don’t blame the boy,” said his father, who had now joined us. “He also inherited the worst of his parents’ nature… especially his mother.”
A cast-iron cup from the house brushed against his head before getting lost in the mist.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“This afternoon? Dig out the contours of the water recycler. And if ye’re not ashamed to help an old pirate, I can employ you for that last job,” he says. “As for tonight? Absolutely nothin’. Hemingwest could wait for the Ragnarök that I wouldn’t give him satisfaction.”
Then we worked. But not without concern. Because we had no news from Benàn for the rest of the day. By dinner time, he was still missing, which worried his mother. And rightly so.
“Alàn! Alàn!”
The voice came from outside. The station storekeeper, Amalrik, stood below.
“Alàn! You’re not gonna believe your ears!” he continued after we had joined him. “The pirate Marcellàn is on Yggdrasil… and he’s struggling with Nigel Hemingwest!”
The real Marcellàn jumped and grabbed the flying Solex before his wife took control of it. The machine unfolded its wings and made its turbine roar then took off, forming a tunnel in the fog. After storming out of the house, Ali and I chased them to the foot of the Big Tree. It was there, in the center of the station, that Hemingwest had set its cruel rendezvous.
Unfortunately, just like our hosts, we arrived too late. The fight was over.
“By the 79 moons of Jupiter… no…” I meowed.
Hemingwest, who had disappeared, had mercilessly crucified his victim with huge cactus thorns on the gigantic white trunk.
“It can’t be…”
Thanks to the clan, Alàn and his wife were able to quickly take down the exoskeleton of the tree. As I thought, inside lay Benàn, shot from behind with a bullet in the back of the neck.
“Alàn? I recognize these colors and this symbol! Is this the armor of Iron Fists?” asked a technician in a brown work suit.
“Is this ye boy, Alàn? What is he doin’ in the exoskeleton of a pirate!” wondered the Nelwyn of the garage.
“Enough!” Diligua bellowed as Alàn was frantically removing the last metal plates.
Silent and livid, the gardener then took the body of his son in his arms. On his knees, he cried. His tears mingled with the droplets from the haze.
We subsequently left on foot to the tinder house after Diligua had collected the pieces of armor. But we ran into another surprise. Hemingwest was waiting for us at the foot of the access ramp, leaning against the trunk of a butterfly tree. He was polishing his rifle threatened by humidity.
“Ye!” shouted Alàn, putting his son in the arms of his wife.
“What? You can only blame yourself, Alàn the florist,” Hemingwest said. “You’re the one who should have been in armor under that tree. Not your foolish child. As far as I’m concerned, I was just doing my job! And giving you a chance on top of that!”
Alàn wanted to punch the murderer but Diligua stopped him immediately:
“Marcellàn! Not here. Not now.”
He understood. They had a child to bury.
Diligua transported Benàn’s body a few meters further, at the foot of the wall against which their house was fixed. Alàn moved silently towards it without adding anything more. Unlike his wife:
“He will meet you under the tree. Tomorrow. At dusk.”
Hemingwest withdrew, a smile up to his ears.
The funeral service was brief. Contrary to galactic custom, Benàn was buried in the soft earth of Yggdrasil. For his final journey, he was dressed in his father’s armor. There were no stones nor grave; just a rhodiola with yellow petals that the mist could never hide.
“We should have done something earlier,” my partner said as she was folding our luggage, the next day. “Did we fuck this up?”
“It's not like Marcellàn was a saint. It was nothing but a truce,” I answered. “Staying out of this was our choice.”
She sighed. I could see anger in her eyes.
“That’s just another way to say we fucked up...”
“These kinds of things sometimes just happen, Ali...”
But it wasn’t the end of it.
“Hemingwest made its last mistake there!” she exploded. “Leave him to us, Alàn!”
The former pirate, who until now had been listening to us from afar, entered the room.
“Definitely not. I’ll take care of this,” he declared. “My mistakes. My boy.”
He grinned. His eyes were still red with pain, but he was smiling. It was also the first time we saw him without a trace of dirt on his face or hands.
“But how are you going to do without your armor?” I asked.
We had the answer in the evening. Alàn, the father and not Marcellàn the pirate, was waiting for his opponent at the foot of the Big Tree. All around the improvised arena, the community of Yggdrasil watched anxiously.
Hemingwest was late and the crowd began to express their dissatisfaction. Only Alàn remained calm as a monk, searching for his foe in the fog that was finally dissipating.
A spark ignited the white foliage where Hemingwest had hidden for his ambush. A gunshot followed. The deceiver must have used the same strategy the day before.
The gardener was hit in the shoulder and fell to his knees. Then, a second bullet struck him in the middle of the thigh, knocking him against the ground.
“Alàn!” cried Diligua as she tried to reach him.
Hemingwest, delighted with his ploy, let himself slide down to the roots not without tearing a whole chunk of bark with his reinforced gravity-boots. With the rifle now stowed in his holster, he exalted as he prepared a fatal stab.
“Is that all Marcellàn can do without his armor? A miserable snail out of its shell, that’s what you are now! I wasted my time!”
He laughed at his joke and was the only one.
But that was short-lived. Alàn had recovered as if nothing had happened. Left shoulder and leg backwards, fists clenched in front of his jaw, his body moved into a fighting position.
Hemingwest swore and threw his knife, which slithered into his opponent’s forearm. The latter withdrew it immediately before tossing it into the peat slightly further. With a quick gesture, the bounty hunter then grabbed his rifle and leaped about ten meters back. His reflex was too slow because the pirate was already on top of him. His rain of punches met with little resistance.
Hemingwest was knocked to the ground with a sweeper, but not without giving back a few blows. When he tried to get up, Alàn gave him an uppercut and then a hook that pushed his right cheekbone trough the nasal walls. Hemingwest spat out teeth and crushed flesh before escaping inaudible gurgling noises. The murderer was being reduced to a bloody mush by Alan’s long trained gardener hands.
One never truly knew if the stories were authentic or if the exploits of these yesteryear’s legends were pure fabrication. But on that day, the gardener reminded Yggdrasil what a freebooter’s fury was. Alàn was a real brute even without his armor.
“Have you had enough?” asked Alàn, grabbing the murderer’s throat. “Because I want ye in yer ship and far from here in the next half-Martian hour.”
Hemingway nodded slowly in approval, risking losing what was left of his cervical vertebrae. But when Alàn turned away from him, the bounty hunter had his rifle in his hand again.
“Watch out!” I yelled.
Fortunately, Ali was even faster. She had fired instantly and her projectile had hit Hemingwest’s fingers, tearing off his index and thumb. He wanted to scream in pain, yet Diligua silenced him with a last kick to the gut.
She then ran to her husband and they just went home.
Shortly after that, the onlookers had abandoned the scene. None of them will ever talk about this fight or acknowledge the presence of a certain Marcellàn on their station. All that remained was Nigel Hemingwest, still breathing the filtered air from this haven of paradise.
With the surviving fingers stuck in the dirt, the bounty hunter had started crawling to the hangar where our respective ships were parked when we fell on him. Actually, it wasn’t difficult to follow his tracks because of the bubbles of blood and the urine’s smell that he had sown in his path.
“What the hell do you want from me?” he stammered as he replaced his incisors at each syllable. “You’re finished too, once the Alliance is informed.”
As my human sat on his back, with a heel against his neck, I climbed on his hand while he tried to grab his rifle under his coat.
“The Alliance is far too tolerant nowadays,” I said. “Because of sleazeballs like you, we have a tainted reputation.”
“Even worse than criminals,” my partner added. “And we don’t have stories singing about our deeds. Something I’d surely like to.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” screamed Hemingwest.
“Ali. Stay focused, please.”
She then continued:
“I don’t know what doggone protection you got, but let’s make a deal, dick-nose. You don’t tell anyone about this story and we’ll forget your new little blunder that cost our friend Benàn his life and dreams.”
An agreement like this one was yet a gut-wrenching affair.
“Screw you, punks! My brothers are going to…”
My sapiens smashed his skull with her foot before placing the still hot barrel of her gun at the base of his neck. She then concluded:
“Who cares about your brothers, may they be Vito Corleone or cousin Vinny. Am I right, Lee?”
“Indeed, partner.”
Without further hesitation, yet a few punches in the nose, Hemingwest finally accepted the arrangement. A minute later, he was gone.
The next day, it was Diligua who came to say goodbye once the Kitty was completely repaired and ready for flight. She entrusted us with some equipment from her son’s ship as spare parts, his virtual reality console and the jet-pack my associate had worked on.
“Where are you going? If it’s not indiscreet,” she asked us while finishing to screw a last rivet badly tightened under the wing of our beautiful Swallow.
“Towards the belt… Ceres,” I replied. “Hunt down real gnarly guys, sleep under the gaze of the nebulae and, why not, pursue the majestic Wes Goldsun on Pluto.”
Diligua smiled.
“All the same! Why do you have to run after chimeras?”
“What else do we have left?” concluded my sapiens.
The ramp closed, the control computer greeted us. As for the engine, it hummed as its first day.
Back to business…

Applications are now closed!

Thank you to everyone who has replied. I will literally try to shift through 60+ of them, so you can expect a response within two days. I will reopen the google form if any future DM's want to copy the application's format.

EDIT - Finding Applicants With Wrong Discord Tag

Christin, your discord tag you sent me was wrong. Please send me yours through DM on Reddit, or re-apply with the correct discord tag.

Greetings LFG! I am 13th, short for The_13th_Legend.

I'm an avid Homebrew D&D DM that is always experimenting with 5e mechanics and the what-not to make combat and roleplay more immersive and exciting. I am looking to run a long-term campaign from 7:00 P.M to 12:00 A.M EST weekly on either Saturday or Sunday, dependent on how many players I found to be compatible in the group that I am making!

Pitch: An Interlude to an Age of Rising Chaos & Complacent Lords

The world of Atalan has known a quaint peace for the last 300 years when a great hero created a method of consolidating the chaos ravaging the world into a singular rune called a “Crest.” Taught to several of the highest nobility in every nation, the term “Lord” was now used to refer to the Crest-bearers whose mission is to create the ultimate Crest to destroy the chaos.
In the recent decades, however, the lords of the land have grown complacent, wanting to keep their crest and power for their own gain. Chaos has crept over the land again, raising ghastly abominations and unnatural beasts that have the potential to lay waste to entire settlements. Meanwhile, two super-alliances have formed to contest each other’s ideology in an almost certain, imminent war over the world. At the current rate, the world will never recognize the dream its inhabitants share to rid the world of chaos forever.
Your role, adventurer, begins in the Blue Pyke Inn. Whether it be destiny, circumstance, or random coincidence, you find yourself in the company of three others who share in your fate on that peculiar day. You often look back fondly at this day, remembering that it was when you all met, and where your story begins. Will you find or become a lord, or will you embrace chaos as a natural state; it is perhaps in your hands to change such a world as Atalan, for the better or the worst.

What I'm looking for:

Enthusiastic players who like to roleplay more than “rollplay.” Maturity matters more than age, but an age of 18 - 30 is preferred if it comes down to it due to the content inside this universe..
A friend recently asked me what kind of players I would want in a campaign. My answer was for my ideal person: Talkative but not interruptive, active but not hogging the spotlight, willing to listen and learn but not always follow as if you were an NPC.
If you only want to dungeon crawl, this isn't the campaign for you (But I do make kick-ass dungeons in RPG-Maker so my players can adventure in it for plot purposes.)
If my campaign interests you at all, please fill out the somewhat daunting application. Filling out the application is already proof of the commitment I would expect from you, as I will commit my best as a DM for you to explore the universe I have set up.

What I provide:

My philosophy on DMing a game is that the best preparation is both none and everything. By that, I mean that everything you do - the path you take, the choices you make, or the lives you save - will be entirely on you. I improv based on your actions, and I move the world while considering whether or not your actions will impact the future.
This is what I mean by “none,” in which you are not railroaded heavily into a plot, but rather have free will in my universe. By “everything,” my preparation includes said universe. I have prepared a full on interactive map using Inkarnate, a calendar system via google documents, and an entire wiki with the history, players, characters, lore, and homebrew mechanics of this universe.
Additionally, I will provide a premium experience (literally, I’m paying for premium) on roll20, including dynamic lights, castles or housing you can build (no, literally, I can seriously make a map via RPG-Maker if you decide to build a house or live in a castle), dungeon maps with environmental hazards and unique, homebrew mechanics such as teleportation squares or a chandelier above a fragile yet evil sorcerer, and professional battle / RP maps made by Neutral Party (Google his maps; They’re amazing and beautiful.)
Lastly, I can guarantee a unique, one of a kind experience in my homebrew campaign that will feature nations at war, lords of all kinds you will meet, armies that you can command, one-on-one sessions for those rogue players that want to explore a sewer for treasure but can't because they feel bad for wasting the group’s time, and just a good time in general.

Important Information:

Alignment:

This is a good to neutral campaign, with a very hard exception for anything evil-aligned provided that you prove your experience with playing those types of characters while also playing near perfectly with the group that is formed.

Communication & The Platform Used:

Our main form of communication will be Discord, and we will be using Roll20 as our D&D platform.

Homebrew Elements:

You can expect nearly everything to be homebrewed aside from the core 5e mechanics, with a few examples below. The combat examples in specific can be macroed easily with roll20; in other words, don’t worry! I am willing to teach and help you with all the new homebrew mechanics introduced.

Combat Examples:

Flanking:

By aiding an ally in combat by flanking (being in the direct opposite of said ally) an enemy, you and your ally gain +1 to all attack rolls as long as you are in the position to flank.

Five Foot Step:

By using all your movement, you may take a five foot step by moving 5 ft. anywhere without provoking an opportunity of attack (AOO) on you.

Roleplay / Out of Combat Examples:

Downtime Expanded:

My version of downtime is severely more powerful than the 5e variant or suggestions. I will recommend a list and will always encourage you to do something while the day goes by. With this said, I am providing an in-game calendar with holidays or known events in both the discord and the roll20 platform.

Chaos, Mages, and the Crest:

With the pitch being said at the start of my post, I am introducing an entire new system of how the world, and magic in extension, that is different from a regular 5e game. This involves a wikipedia that I made, and was inspired by a D&D-like show that I give credit to inside the wiki.

Homebrew Classes

I place a heavy emphasis on choosing one of the several homebrew classes I created specifically for this world. This, however, does not mean you must play a homebrew class. I am allowing barbarians, bards, and fighters, while the wizard, sorcerer, and warlock classes have been heavily altered to fit the lore of this universe. Additionally, Paladins have been completely removed and replaced with a homebrew class called a “Lord.”

Politics: High

Roleplay: High

Combat: Medium

Exploration/Mystery: High

Player - DM (Me) Arrangement

Starting straight from after you filled out the application linked below, I will consider and interview you with the intent to see if your attitude, personality, and mentality is a good fit for our group. Being new to Roll20 or D&D is not a disqualifier or an issue if you obligate yourself to learning 5e mechanics as well as my homebrew elements before, during, or after our sessions.
Within a week, I will handpick good fits from the applications filled out to go towards the interview stage. Provided that you pass the interview, we’ll eventually break the ice with the other three or four players that I find as a good fit for my campaign and plan a session zero.
Lastly, if you are too humble to apply with fear of thinking you might not be good enough or take someone else's slot in my D&D game, then you are exactly the person I’m looking for. To repeat what I said earlier, “A friend recently asked me what kind of players I would want in a campaign. My answer was for my ideal person:

Talkative but not interruptive, active but not hogging the spotlight, willing to listen and learn but not always follow as if you were an NPC.”> I want players that are humble but active, and that is a hard thing to find.

Thank you for taking the time in reading the huge wall of text, and have a great day in LFG. Hopefully you will find a group you deserve.

Final Note:

This campaign will be LGBTQ+ friendly. Homophobic and racist persons will not be considered as applicants.

I have an Asian accent. Worry not, for English is my first and only language.

This campaign is based off of 5e rules with several homebrewed elements as well as major to minor changes in classes that I will be happy to explain.

There is a race lock of the following (meaning you can only choose these races for lore reasons) - [Humans] [Elves] [Half Elves] [Halflings] [Dwarves]

Warning:

This campaign will feature discrimination, racism, and a few other abhorrent horrors that makes this campaign preferably 18+. However, this does not mean details into things such as gore will happen. In the application, if you mark down that you do not want a certain element into this campaign then I will take it to heart and avoid the subject.

Credits

Lastly, I give credit to the “Record of Grancrest War” for providing both content and inspiration for the creation of this D&D universe.

Application Link

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScSohQKZj2jiwTEm9Qob3lviq_hvsO_DsSRD_orz9vaw-AbSQ/viewform?usp=sf_link