Advance Australia Fair [Old World of Darkness]
Ridiculously Average Guy
I'm you, but stronger
- Location
-
[X] Ask about the things that live in the... 'Umbra' you think it was called? Things that aren't meant to survive on Earth for long. Ask about rakshasa
Remember. Democracy was a Technocratic invention intended to prove to the world that the masses are dumb and can't be trusted.
Therefore I will be dumb and untrustworthy and vote [X] Revlid.
No, this is Democracy functioning as an optimal technocracy when we do trust the masses! The average voter does not have the time nor inclination to actually think about the mass variety of choices for any given update in this quest, and thus they offload that responsibility to someone who is willing to specialize in reading said updates and making an informed choice!
The fact that Revlid hasn't actually put forward any opinion is irrelevant; it in fact shows that he's proven his value to voters in the past and thus they'll trust him over their own feelings! This is great, because it allows for the true voting elite to be able to overcome low information voters that might choose something else due to populist sentiment or Dunning-Kruger effect!
The only thing that might be better would be if there was some way to start training Elected Voters from birth such that they could devote their whole lives to studying the issues and acting in a just and rational manner. Probably through making the position hereditary, as that way a parent could naturally instruct their child in the craft.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
I don't think he had a choice.
It was unlikely to help anything. It would explain to her what happened to us, yes, and it would cause tensions between her and her peers, but wouldn't be good for much else. By making a show of ignoring us and accepting our situation as a 'necessary evil' while at the same time doing his best to integrate his other child prodigy into the organization he ended up in a position to help us, a position where they overlooked him as a loyal lapdog.
By the way, he hoped that his children would be free from the division. Instead, Lakshmi got snatched by the Union and got entangled with them while being ignorant about their ways (would she choose to be with them if she knew it comes at a cost of her brother?), and Meg got shoved into outcasts and we suspect will be drifting towards the opposite end of the spectrum. From that point of view, we aren't the only victim of the circumstances, as what happened to his daughter was equally unfortunate, though at least her cage is a gilded one.
Chapter Thirteen: Secret History
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
"Australia," you say.
"I know of it."
You grimace. Cipher gives you a blank look.
"Apparently I don't know the first fucking thing about what's going on in my own home so I'd appreciate a rundown," you continue.
"S'kind of a broad question."
"Then elaborate. I've got time."
" 'kay. Back in 1210-"
"Don't you think that's a bit far back?" you interject, suddenly worried that you're going to have to listen to Cipher's barely-awake mumbles for several hours. He just looks at you. Or through you, rather.
"Ascension War backstory's important," he says with a shrug.
"Okay. Uh. Go on then."
Cipher half-turns and takes his hand out of his pocket, waving it half-heartedly. Every screen in the room responds in unison, linked somehow. You wander past him, scan them as he speaks. Text scrolls across the screens, files and documents, pdfs unearthed from some corner of the net or another all with some kind of big fat [TOP SECRET] or [REDACTED] or [FOR EYES ONLY] marker at their head. The TV is easiest to read. You come to a stop beside the couch, leaning on it with one hand.
"Used to be there were just mages. 'Just' meaning there were a hundred different variants on any given faith structure but like... y'know the whole 'your god doesn't exist' thing? That kinda thinking's more recent than you'd think. Used to be back in the old days you'd just say 'your god's shitty'. Nobody really denied their existence, just believed theirs was better. Things were competitive, even destructive, but not in the same way. You weren't retroactively erasing them from the history books."
"So it's a religious thing?" you ask.
Cipher's bloodshot eyes stare into yours. Your brow furrows as you give him a concerned look. "... nah?" he says at last. "Mean, in a metaphorical sense kinda. If you think of the Council of Mystic Traditions as a bunch of pagan sects and the Order as the Church coming in to say they were actually all worshipping Satan all along then burning them. Metaphorically."
"Metaphorically," you say somewhat dubiously. "You mentioned the Order. Order of Reason? Dad mentioned them I think."
Cipher nods. "Y'know Hermetics, named after Hermes Trismegistus? Nevermind, not important. All you really need to know is the Order of Hermes are probably closest to whatever you think of first when you think 'Mage'. And back in 1210 their brand new subsidiary the Craftmasons went rogue and took out one of their favourite chantries at Mistridge. First time anyone had the idea to fight magic with a gun. Cannons, I mean."
"Then what?" you ask. "I mean... what I saw under Sydney was one thing, but this was eight hundred years ago. How did some guys with first-gen gunpowder artillery wipe out magic?"
"You're asking two different questions, man." Cipher shrugs slightly. "How'd the Craftmasons take down Mistridge? With everything they had. Primium-barrelled cannons. Knights in magic-cancelling armour. Every mercenary group within riding distance that was insane enough or greedy enough to take the contract. And a shitload of peasants with hoes and clubs and tin pots for helmets who were just sick of being treated like worms. Most of the Sleepers died. Accurate casualty rates were never taken but it was a lot. But even back then mages weren't gods. They got tired and worn out and they made mistakes. They dulled themselves grinding through all the meat, and the knights decapitated the lot of them and demolished the place with cannonfire. If it's any consolation, these days they'd just use homunculi for the human wave tactics," he adds with a tone that you think is supposed to be ironic. You don't find it funny. You just think of Ms. Jenkins.
"And then second question?" you ask, eager to dispel the image in your mind.
Cipher shrugs again. "Nobody gave a shit. Why would they? Was just a Hermetic civil war to them. They didn't know the Craftmasons weren't gonna stop at just one chantry. And for ages it seemed like it had ended there. Then they captured the White Tower."
An old medieval illustration flashes on the TV. It's not the most realistic depiction of things but you get the gist well enough. A woman in black robes has her hands raised, various arcane designs hovering in the air before her. Desperately repelling a volley of gunfire from some distinctly anachronistic arquebusiers while a small cannon is primed and aimed at her. Death of Yoassmy of Brittany, c. 1325 (reconstruction from archive) it reads.
"That's when they organised properly. Put all their ducks in a row and rebranded themselves the Order of Reason." The TV rapidly flicks through old pictures, official documents and census data from the fourteenth century. Synced with his speech, far too quick for you to read. "Artificers, Gabrielites, Celestial Masters, High Guild, Solificati, Cosian Circle and Void Seekers. And Craftmasons at the top. Various mage groups play catch-up about a century and a half later to be the 'Council of Mystic Traditions' and rip the White Tower back down again in 1745. 'Last alliance of men and elves' sort of deal."
A painting appears on the screen to match his words. He wasn't kidding. It looks like something out of the latest summer blockbuster, hundreds of millions in CGI on the screen. Bolts of lightning flying in every direction, fireballs and cannonballs, a boiling mass of fighting men and women in the shadow of the tower as dragons circle the highest levels, bright gouts of flame splashing across the white stones. The Battle of White Tower, c. 1745 (reconstruction from archive).
"You should hear some people talk about it. It was apocalyptic shit. They had armies from five continents, Akashics punching clockwork mechs in half, Chakravanti teleporting in to assassinate officers, Cronos Seers accelerating time around the Hermetics so they could throw fireballs faster, Dreamspeakers pulling things out of the Umbra and dropping them on the Order's lines - and the monsters, man, don't forget about the monsters. Dragons and trolls and fairies, fuck, even vampires and werewolves and some of the Fae joined up because they might not have given a shit about humanity but they sure as hell gave a shit about themselves and that's exactly what the Order was threatening."
More pictures, flashing past too quickly to check the sources, in every medium you can think of and besides. A woman with a shaved head in simple robes standing firm before the barrel of a cannon, redirecting the burning ball it just fired right back into the gunners. An Indian man wielding two short blades driving them home beneath the arm of a clockwork behemoth as the Caucasian man in robes on its other side freezes the other arm with a chilling spray from his hands. A shape shrouded in black mist - it's only due to the masterful dynamism of the composition, and its blood-dripping claws, that you can tell the sixteen mutilated men falling behind it are its handiwork.
"So... how come they're in power then?" you ask.
"It didn't matter," he replies, one corner of his mouth upturned ruefully. "It never does."
"Why? Did they have another headquarters, a secret one?"
Cipher sort-of laughs. "Yeah, kinda. Society. The Industrial Revoluton started like fifteen years later."
"... oh."
"Yeah. Ripping down the White Tower didn't mean jack shit. Order were fighting a completely different war, hearts and minds stuff. Industry got stronger and stronger, Order's influence expanded. They were in deep with all the big players in town, got to influence policy. Prince Albert came along and gave them brand name recognition and a tagline. One World, One Truth, One Order. Forward the Union."
"Sounds like our slogan," you say, uncertain of how else to contribute.
"Exactly," Cipher replies. You nearly groan. He keeps going. "Thing you need to know about the Union is they like to cut people loose when they don't toe the line. Solificati, Craftmasons... then they came for the Electrodyne Engineers. It was an ultimatum sort of thing. See they had this concept called Luminiferous Ether."
"That was how they tried to explain wave-based light propagating through empty space, right?" you ask.
"... yeah, actually." Cipher blinks.
You scratch the back of your neck. "Dad wanted me to get educated."
"Syndicate always pays for the best. Anyway." He gestures at the screen. Vintage blueprints flash across, notes scribbled excitedly in the margins. Artist's renditions of the finished products. The retro future. The World Of Tomorrow as imagined in the pipe-dreams of the 1900s. It eventually settles on a picture of Nikola Tesla. " 'kay so he's not... strictly speaking critical to what happened but he's a good sort of overall..." Cipher gesticulates in the general direction of the screen "Situation."
"Yeah, I think I get it," you say. "He had the idea for wi-fi before anyone else did, right? Or at least something like that. I know I remember something about wirelessly transmitting free electricity to everyone on the planet through some kind of atmospheric medium. Marconi only barely beat him to the first wireless transmission because his patron fucked him on the funding. Then he went crazy and started talking about death rays and shit before he died."
"Classic Etherite."
"But why? If the Union's about technological advancement and killing magic or whatever why not help people like him?" you ask.
"Because the Union needs just that. Union." Cipher gestures, and the screen starts scrolling through more scientific documents. You see a mention of the Michelson-Morley experiment. "The Conventions were all meant to be branches of the same core. Just departments, answering to Control. Futurists like Tesla, the concept of Ether..." he shrugs "Kinda half-half between people thinking the ideas were dangerous or just stupid wastes of time. It didn't fit with the majority so Control told the Electrodynes to burn everything and start from scratch. Things is, their type hate letting go of their ideas. And they especially hate being told what to do by the guys with the purse strings. So they split. Dr. St. Augustine could tell you more if you want a personal view."
"... wait so this was-?"
"1904 or so, anyway," Cipher forges on as if the idea isn't absurd in the slightest. "See now we get into the really bad shit. The Czar Vargo shit. See he was an Etherite's Etherite and way back at the turn of the century he made it clear that he wasn't a big fan of people like him having to invent weapons for the Syndicate to sell to the Sleepers. So he left, and nobody saw him for a while. Then in 1914 he came back with a fuckload of Ether Cruisers, manpower and other materiel, parked himself above Paris, and said he was taking over the world."
You blink. Cipher waits patiently for you to ask the question that's obviously on your mind.
"... so World War 1 was actually-" you start.
"It wasn't 'actually' anything," he corrects you quickly.
"But then how does that make sense? If the Union's this all-encompassing shadow government-"
"It's departments," he reminds you. Every country's a different department. Sometimes the right hand doesn't know what the left is doing 'til it's too late. Sometimes the Sleepers just randomly do shit nobody was expecting and everyone has to scramble to clean up the mess. But anyway, Czar Vargo."
"Took over the world?" you prompt him dubiously.
"Tried to, anyway. The Union fought him in Paris, badly depleted a lot of their forces. They say they eventually beat him so badly he had to run away into the Umbra with his tail between his legs. Trads say he was too disgusted by the loss of life to keep fighting and gave up all on his own. Either way, they stretched their shadow government muscles and started massaging history back into line so nobody would ever remember that time a guy's personal space-fleet dropped out of etherspace to take over the world." Cipher flexes two fingers. You see a heavily redacted report involving the destruction of 'materials in need of censorship' dated around late July of 1914.
"Then what? More of the same?"
"Kinda. Like I said, it's not always secret puppetmasters pulling the strings." A black-and-white photo of Hitler proudly standing before a teeming crowd at a 1939 rally. "Sometimes the people who deserve it least are in just the right place at just the right time with just the right resources and will to make their vision a reality. Everybody split down national lines, again. But in the end everyone realises that the... things drawn to Hitler like flies to a mass grave aren't worth ideological purity."
Another black-and-white photo. A shape with its back to you, you can't tell the gender. You can tell they're wearing some kind of druidic garb, a gnarled wooden staff leaning over one shoulder. Fallen to its knees, hunched over. Despair as plain as if you could see their face. A man in a suit stands beside them, one hand on their shoulder. Beneath them, below the hill they stand on, is a camp surrounded in barbed wire. Cipher laughs ruefully.
"Bet everyone felt pretty good about themselves after that. Everyone loves fighting Nazis, right? They're monsters. They're unambiguous. Problem is, once they were beaten, nothing was left to hold everyone together."
He's silent for a time. You tear your eyes away from the screen. His face is showing the most emotion you've seen since you came in. Lip curled in disgust.
"Anyone who thought the Union was gonna learn anything from World War 2 couldn't have been more wrong."
Another slide in the impromptu show. A world map, the countries' respective flags spread across the USA and USSR.
"The Cold War. A war fought with ideology while everyone sat in the basements terrified of the world ending. It was a testbed. Capitalism vs Communism. When Capitalism won, the greater Union left the Communists to come crawling back. And then there was the Pogrom."
It takes you a second. One second until what 'pogrom' means clicks in your head. "... right after World War 2-?"
"It wasn't the same. Not to them." There's bile and anger in Cipher's voice but it's understated, muted somehow. It isn't reaching his face. He just keeps staring through you, barely blinking. "They thought they were doing a public service. Ridding the world of hidden threats by butchering everything magical."
"What? Why!?" You blink rapidly. That werewolf. You saw a werewolf with the Union. For that matter, you saw werewolves period. "How do you make the leap from industrial revolution to genocide?"
"And I thought you paid attention in class."
You scowl hard at Cipher. He doesn't seem to notice.
"Dunno what the theory's called these days but at the time it was the Theory of the Conjunction of the Spheres. Thinking was - is - that everything you'd call a 'magical creature' is actually an alien. ExtraDimensional Entity, whatever. Point is that at some point or another back in the murk of history, thin patches in the veil between our reality and the Umbra intersected. They slipped through and set up shop. So to them, hunting down a bunyip and putting a .30-06 between its eyes is about as immoral as killing a wild rabbit. Tradition conservation tactics are quaint at best, dangerous at worst."
You think about the monster that killed Ms. Jenkins and Rob. "... fine, I can buy that. Dragons always get knights coming after them whatever. What about people? Did they really round up and kill all the mages they could find? How could they justify that?"
"Y'know sorcerers in the Lovecraft stories?" Cipher doesn't so much as blink but the screen still shifts. It displays a disturbingly realistic render of a magic circle in the middle of a dark forest, hooded figures clustered around beneath a yawning rip in the sky through which something peers through.
'The air opened up and something reached through and just... handed you over. Set you down beside Lakshmi and left. We never saw it again.'
"That's not... real is it?" you ask, worry creeping into your voice.
"Wha-?" Cipher glances over his shoulder. "No, no, just books... well-"
"Come on!"
"In principle! That's what I was getting to!" Cipher kneads his forehead. "The point is. The Union believes that every time a mage 'casts a spell', they're using atavistic brain functions to channel cosmic energy through the Umbra. They're not making something out of nothing, they're pulling it through. And every time they do, they make the holes they do it through a bit wider. Wider means more... things coming through. Bad things. Things the Void Engineers spend a lot of tax dollars shooting while it's still in space where it can't hurt anybody."
"They really believe that?" you ask, somewhat incredulously. " 'Cosmic energy' is more believable than magic?"
"I dunno, man. Makes the most sense with their frame of reference. Mean, look at you. If you're not an alien then what are you?"
You don't say anything. Cipher's lips part slightly as, slowly, as he realises what he actually said.
"... sorry," he mumbles.
"It's fine," you say insincerely.
" 'kay. So uh," Cipher turns this way and that, as if physically searching for a lifeline out of the pit of awkward. "Where was I going with...? Oh, yeah, Australia. Thing you gotta realise is, like... fight's over, heh. Union won the Ascension War in all the way it matters. Pogrom isn't official policy anymore but if you're a Trad you still have to run and hide like a rat. 'specially if you know just how much you're being watched every second of every day. Like me."
"Which is...?" you press.
"Virtual Adept. Our crew did IT for the Union until the Cold War. By the time the Berlin Wall fell we were sick of the political backstabbing and shitflinging. Saw the writing on the wall. Stayed any longer, the Union were gonna come for our core belief too." He pauses, quickly continuing as you open your mouth to ask for clarification. "Simulation Theory. Everything's just virtual reality we can learn to manipulate if we just learn the code."
"Like the Matrix?"
He gives you the hollowest stare yet.
"... okay nevermind."
"Point is that things are different here, y'know?" Cipher makes a vague gesture to illustrate his point. The screens respond, showing maps of Australia, the latest headlines, polling data. "Civilisation's just clinging to the coast, restricted to a few isolated pockets in the interior. So much weird shit lives here. So much that can't be explained. And no matter how hard we try and catch up with the first world we're nowhere near as close as we'd like. The Union's hold here is... lighter, I guess. Most people feel like if any war can be won, it's here. If anything can actually change, it's here."
"Do you?" you ask.
"No."
You wait for elaboration. He doesn't give any. The screens slowly turn off again, one by one, rebooting to show nondescript scrolling text. Computerised white noise. You start to wonder if Cipher licks his eyes instead of blinking, like a lizard.
"What about... this group, then?" you ask, gesturing in a vaguely collective manner. "Where am I? Why am I here? What's with this tattoo? Why'd that Nathan guy have one too?"
He scratches his scalp through his mop of hair. "Dame-Commander's job to explain that stuff. She told me she'd be over about now, so I'm just gonna go to the bathroom."
"... thanks for sharing?" you say as the strange man turns and shuffles away. You watch him go regardless, slightly suspicious of him pulling a vanishing act to go with the sudden appearance when you first walked in. But he goes inside just like he said, closing the door behind him. No noises, thankfully. You take a long, slow, deep breath. You're about ready to wake up in your room and find out it was all a horrible dream now. You turn to check the door you came in through. It's half-open. Nathan's leaning through, one hand on the knob, the other frantically beckoning you. He's hissing something to you, but you don't get enough time to figure out what it is. You can probably guess what, though. Because a moment later a woman barges through the doorway, physically shouldering him out of the way, and strides up to you. You fight down the instinct to shrink back with all your might, even as she looms larger and larger.
She's tall, easily your height or a bit taller. Broad to match. You suppose some of her imposing figure might be owed to her coat. It's not some black leather number from the 90s like Nathan's. It's got epaulettes, proper gold buttons down the lapel. Gold and scarlet, just like the seal over your heart. If she has a matching hat, she's not wearing it right now. Her hair is the colour of steel, pulled back into a tight bun, but her face isn't the right age. Her eyes are the same colour as her hair, steely, not lost a bit of their light. From the lines on her face she looks closer to 40 than 80. But then again, maybe the scar is throwing off your estimates. It's old, healed up as best as could be hoped, but it's still obvious. It's a massive discolouring thing that dominates the left side of her face completely, a blotchy burn that almost left her completely two-faced.
"You," she says. "Who are you?"
Whether it's one thing or another, the question takes you off-guard. You have to actually think about it. If nothing else, because you don't know how she'd take the obvious answer.
[ ] Meghanada Dane.
[ ] Indrajit.
[ ] I don't know.
[ ] Whatever you need me to be.
"I know of it."
You grimace. Cipher gives you a blank look.
"Apparently I don't know the first fucking thing about what's going on in my own home so I'd appreciate a rundown," you continue.
"S'kind of a broad question."
"Then elaborate. I've got time."
" 'kay. Back in 1210-"
"Don't you think that's a bit far back?" you interject, suddenly worried that you're going to have to listen to Cipher's barely-awake mumbles for several hours. He just looks at you. Or through you, rather.
"Ascension War backstory's important," he says with a shrug.
"Okay. Uh. Go on then."
Cipher half-turns and takes his hand out of his pocket, waving it half-heartedly. Every screen in the room responds in unison, linked somehow. You wander past him, scan them as he speaks. Text scrolls across the screens, files and documents, pdfs unearthed from some corner of the net or another all with some kind of big fat [TOP SECRET] or [REDACTED] or [FOR EYES ONLY] marker at their head. The TV is easiest to read. You come to a stop beside the couch, leaning on it with one hand.
"Used to be there were just mages. 'Just' meaning there were a hundred different variants on any given faith structure but like... y'know the whole 'your god doesn't exist' thing? That kinda thinking's more recent than you'd think. Used to be back in the old days you'd just say 'your god's shitty'. Nobody really denied their existence, just believed theirs was better. Things were competitive, even destructive, but not in the same way. You weren't retroactively erasing them from the history books."
"So it's a religious thing?" you ask.
Cipher's bloodshot eyes stare into yours. Your brow furrows as you give him a concerned look. "... nah?" he says at last. "Mean, in a metaphorical sense kinda. If you think of the Council of Mystic Traditions as a bunch of pagan sects and the Order as the Church coming in to say they were actually all worshipping Satan all along then burning them. Metaphorically."
"Metaphorically," you say somewhat dubiously. "You mentioned the Order. Order of Reason? Dad mentioned them I think."
Cipher nods. "Y'know Hermetics, named after Hermes Trismegistus? Nevermind, not important. All you really need to know is the Order of Hermes are probably closest to whatever you think of first when you think 'Mage'. And back in 1210 their brand new subsidiary the Craftmasons went rogue and took out one of their favourite chantries at Mistridge. First time anyone had the idea to fight magic with a gun. Cannons, I mean."
"Then what?" you ask. "I mean... what I saw under Sydney was one thing, but this was eight hundred years ago. How did some guys with first-gen gunpowder artillery wipe out magic?"
"You're asking two different questions, man." Cipher shrugs slightly. "How'd the Craftmasons take down Mistridge? With everything they had. Primium-barrelled cannons. Knights in magic-cancelling armour. Every mercenary group within riding distance that was insane enough or greedy enough to take the contract. And a shitload of peasants with hoes and clubs and tin pots for helmets who were just sick of being treated like worms. Most of the Sleepers died. Accurate casualty rates were never taken but it was a lot. But even back then mages weren't gods. They got tired and worn out and they made mistakes. They dulled themselves grinding through all the meat, and the knights decapitated the lot of them and demolished the place with cannonfire. If it's any consolation, these days they'd just use homunculi for the human wave tactics," he adds with a tone that you think is supposed to be ironic. You don't find it funny. You just think of Ms. Jenkins.
"And then second question?" you ask, eager to dispel the image in your mind.
Cipher shrugs again. "Nobody gave a shit. Why would they? Was just a Hermetic civil war to them. They didn't know the Craftmasons weren't gonna stop at just one chantry. And for ages it seemed like it had ended there. Then they captured the White Tower."
An old medieval illustration flashes on the TV. It's not the most realistic depiction of things but you get the gist well enough. A woman in black robes has her hands raised, various arcane designs hovering in the air before her. Desperately repelling a volley of gunfire from some distinctly anachronistic arquebusiers while a small cannon is primed and aimed at her. Death of Yoassmy of Brittany, c. 1325 (reconstruction from archive) it reads.
"That's when they organised properly. Put all their ducks in a row and rebranded themselves the Order of Reason." The TV rapidly flicks through old pictures, official documents and census data from the fourteenth century. Synced with his speech, far too quick for you to read. "Artificers, Gabrielites, Celestial Masters, High Guild, Solificati, Cosian Circle and Void Seekers. And Craftmasons at the top. Various mage groups play catch-up about a century and a half later to be the 'Council of Mystic Traditions' and rip the White Tower back down again in 1745. 'Last alliance of men and elves' sort of deal."
A painting appears on the screen to match his words. He wasn't kidding. It looks like something out of the latest summer blockbuster, hundreds of millions in CGI on the screen. Bolts of lightning flying in every direction, fireballs and cannonballs, a boiling mass of fighting men and women in the shadow of the tower as dragons circle the highest levels, bright gouts of flame splashing across the white stones. The Battle of White Tower, c. 1745 (reconstruction from archive).
"You should hear some people talk about it. It was apocalyptic shit. They had armies from five continents, Akashics punching clockwork mechs in half, Chakravanti teleporting in to assassinate officers, Cronos Seers accelerating time around the Hermetics so they could throw fireballs faster, Dreamspeakers pulling things out of the Umbra and dropping them on the Order's lines - and the monsters, man, don't forget about the monsters. Dragons and trolls and fairies, fuck, even vampires and werewolves and some of the Fae joined up because they might not have given a shit about humanity but they sure as hell gave a shit about themselves and that's exactly what the Order was threatening."
More pictures, flashing past too quickly to check the sources, in every medium you can think of and besides. A woman with a shaved head in simple robes standing firm before the barrel of a cannon, redirecting the burning ball it just fired right back into the gunners. An Indian man wielding two short blades driving them home beneath the arm of a clockwork behemoth as the Caucasian man in robes on its other side freezes the other arm with a chilling spray from his hands. A shape shrouded in black mist - it's only due to the masterful dynamism of the composition, and its blood-dripping claws, that you can tell the sixteen mutilated men falling behind it are its handiwork.
"So... how come they're in power then?" you ask.
"It didn't matter," he replies, one corner of his mouth upturned ruefully. "It never does."
"Why? Did they have another headquarters, a secret one?"
Cipher sort-of laughs. "Yeah, kinda. Society. The Industrial Revoluton started like fifteen years later."
"... oh."
"Yeah. Ripping down the White Tower didn't mean jack shit. Order were fighting a completely different war, hearts and minds stuff. Industry got stronger and stronger, Order's influence expanded. They were in deep with all the big players in town, got to influence policy. Prince Albert came along and gave them brand name recognition and a tagline. One World, One Truth, One Order. Forward the Union."
"Sounds like our slogan," you say, uncertain of how else to contribute.
"Exactly," Cipher replies. You nearly groan. He keeps going. "Thing you need to know about the Union is they like to cut people loose when they don't toe the line. Solificati, Craftmasons... then they came for the Electrodyne Engineers. It was an ultimatum sort of thing. See they had this concept called Luminiferous Ether."
"That was how they tried to explain wave-based light propagating through empty space, right?" you ask.
"... yeah, actually." Cipher blinks.
You scratch the back of your neck. "Dad wanted me to get educated."
"Syndicate always pays for the best. Anyway." He gestures at the screen. Vintage blueprints flash across, notes scribbled excitedly in the margins. Artist's renditions of the finished products. The retro future. The World Of Tomorrow as imagined in the pipe-dreams of the 1900s. It eventually settles on a picture of Nikola Tesla. " 'kay so he's not... strictly speaking critical to what happened but he's a good sort of overall..." Cipher gesticulates in the general direction of the screen "Situation."
"Yeah, I think I get it," you say. "He had the idea for wi-fi before anyone else did, right? Or at least something like that. I know I remember something about wirelessly transmitting free electricity to everyone on the planet through some kind of atmospheric medium. Marconi only barely beat him to the first wireless transmission because his patron fucked him on the funding. Then he went crazy and started talking about death rays and shit before he died."
"Classic Etherite."
"But why? If the Union's about technological advancement and killing magic or whatever why not help people like him?" you ask.
"Because the Union needs just that. Union." Cipher gestures, and the screen starts scrolling through more scientific documents. You see a mention of the Michelson-Morley experiment. "The Conventions were all meant to be branches of the same core. Just departments, answering to Control. Futurists like Tesla, the concept of Ether..." he shrugs "Kinda half-half between people thinking the ideas were dangerous or just stupid wastes of time. It didn't fit with the majority so Control told the Electrodynes to burn everything and start from scratch. Things is, their type hate letting go of their ideas. And they especially hate being told what to do by the guys with the purse strings. So they split. Dr. St. Augustine could tell you more if you want a personal view."
"... wait so this was-?"
"1904 or so, anyway," Cipher forges on as if the idea isn't absurd in the slightest. "See now we get into the really bad shit. The Czar Vargo shit. See he was an Etherite's Etherite and way back at the turn of the century he made it clear that he wasn't a big fan of people like him having to invent weapons for the Syndicate to sell to the Sleepers. So he left, and nobody saw him for a while. Then in 1914 he came back with a fuckload of Ether Cruisers, manpower and other materiel, parked himself above Paris, and said he was taking over the world."
You blink. Cipher waits patiently for you to ask the question that's obviously on your mind.
"... so World War 1 was actually-" you start.
"It wasn't 'actually' anything," he corrects you quickly.
"But then how does that make sense? If the Union's this all-encompassing shadow government-"
"It's departments," he reminds you. Every country's a different department. Sometimes the right hand doesn't know what the left is doing 'til it's too late. Sometimes the Sleepers just randomly do shit nobody was expecting and everyone has to scramble to clean up the mess. But anyway, Czar Vargo."
"Took over the world?" you prompt him dubiously.
"Tried to, anyway. The Union fought him in Paris, badly depleted a lot of their forces. They say they eventually beat him so badly he had to run away into the Umbra with his tail between his legs. Trads say he was too disgusted by the loss of life to keep fighting and gave up all on his own. Either way, they stretched their shadow government muscles and started massaging history back into line so nobody would ever remember that time a guy's personal space-fleet dropped out of etherspace to take over the world." Cipher flexes two fingers. You see a heavily redacted report involving the destruction of 'materials in need of censorship' dated around late July of 1914.
"Then what? More of the same?"
"Kinda. Like I said, it's not always secret puppetmasters pulling the strings." A black-and-white photo of Hitler proudly standing before a teeming crowd at a 1939 rally. "Sometimes the people who deserve it least are in just the right place at just the right time with just the right resources and will to make their vision a reality. Everybody split down national lines, again. But in the end everyone realises that the... things drawn to Hitler like flies to a mass grave aren't worth ideological purity."
Another black-and-white photo. A shape with its back to you, you can't tell the gender. You can tell they're wearing some kind of druidic garb, a gnarled wooden staff leaning over one shoulder. Fallen to its knees, hunched over. Despair as plain as if you could see their face. A man in a suit stands beside them, one hand on their shoulder. Beneath them, below the hill they stand on, is a camp surrounded in barbed wire. Cipher laughs ruefully.
"Bet everyone felt pretty good about themselves after that. Everyone loves fighting Nazis, right? They're monsters. They're unambiguous. Problem is, once they were beaten, nothing was left to hold everyone together."
He's silent for a time. You tear your eyes away from the screen. His face is showing the most emotion you've seen since you came in. Lip curled in disgust.
"Anyone who thought the Union was gonna learn anything from World War 2 couldn't have been more wrong."
Another slide in the impromptu show. A world map, the countries' respective flags spread across the USA and USSR.
"The Cold War. A war fought with ideology while everyone sat in the basements terrified of the world ending. It was a testbed. Capitalism vs Communism. When Capitalism won, the greater Union left the Communists to come crawling back. And then there was the Pogrom."
It takes you a second. One second until what 'pogrom' means clicks in your head. "... right after World War 2-?"
"It wasn't the same. Not to them." There's bile and anger in Cipher's voice but it's understated, muted somehow. It isn't reaching his face. He just keeps staring through you, barely blinking. "They thought they were doing a public service. Ridding the world of hidden threats by butchering everything magical."
"What? Why!?" You blink rapidly. That werewolf. You saw a werewolf with the Union. For that matter, you saw werewolves period. "How do you make the leap from industrial revolution to genocide?"
"And I thought you paid attention in class."
You scowl hard at Cipher. He doesn't seem to notice.
"Dunno what the theory's called these days but at the time it was the Theory of the Conjunction of the Spheres. Thinking was - is - that everything you'd call a 'magical creature' is actually an alien. ExtraDimensional Entity, whatever. Point is that at some point or another back in the murk of history, thin patches in the veil between our reality and the Umbra intersected. They slipped through and set up shop. So to them, hunting down a bunyip and putting a .30-06 between its eyes is about as immoral as killing a wild rabbit. Tradition conservation tactics are quaint at best, dangerous at worst."
You think about the monster that killed Ms. Jenkins and Rob. "... fine, I can buy that. Dragons always get knights coming after them whatever. What about people? Did they really round up and kill all the mages they could find? How could they justify that?"
"Y'know sorcerers in the Lovecraft stories?" Cipher doesn't so much as blink but the screen still shifts. It displays a disturbingly realistic render of a magic circle in the middle of a dark forest, hooded figures clustered around beneath a yawning rip in the sky through which something peers through.
'The air opened up and something reached through and just... handed you over. Set you down beside Lakshmi and left. We never saw it again.'
"That's not... real is it?" you ask, worry creeping into your voice.
"Wha-?" Cipher glances over his shoulder. "No, no, just books... well-"
"Come on!"
"In principle! That's what I was getting to!" Cipher kneads his forehead. "The point is. The Union believes that every time a mage 'casts a spell', they're using atavistic brain functions to channel cosmic energy through the Umbra. They're not making something out of nothing, they're pulling it through. And every time they do, they make the holes they do it through a bit wider. Wider means more... things coming through. Bad things. Things the Void Engineers spend a lot of tax dollars shooting while it's still in space where it can't hurt anybody."
"They really believe that?" you ask, somewhat incredulously. " 'Cosmic energy' is more believable than magic?"
"I dunno, man. Makes the most sense with their frame of reference. Mean, look at you. If you're not an alien then what are you?"
You don't say anything. Cipher's lips part slightly as, slowly, as he realises what he actually said.
"... sorry," he mumbles.
"It's fine," you say insincerely.
" 'kay. So uh," Cipher turns this way and that, as if physically searching for a lifeline out of the pit of awkward. "Where was I going with...? Oh, yeah, Australia. Thing you gotta realise is, like... fight's over, heh. Union won the Ascension War in all the way it matters. Pogrom isn't official policy anymore but if you're a Trad you still have to run and hide like a rat. 'specially if you know just how much you're being watched every second of every day. Like me."
"Which is...?" you press.
"Virtual Adept. Our crew did IT for the Union until the Cold War. By the time the Berlin Wall fell we were sick of the political backstabbing and shitflinging. Saw the writing on the wall. Stayed any longer, the Union were gonna come for our core belief too." He pauses, quickly continuing as you open your mouth to ask for clarification. "Simulation Theory. Everything's just virtual reality we can learn to manipulate if we just learn the code."
"Like the Matrix?"
He gives you the hollowest stare yet.
"... okay nevermind."
"Point is that things are different here, y'know?" Cipher makes a vague gesture to illustrate his point. The screens respond, showing maps of Australia, the latest headlines, polling data. "Civilisation's just clinging to the coast, restricted to a few isolated pockets in the interior. So much weird shit lives here. So much that can't be explained. And no matter how hard we try and catch up with the first world we're nowhere near as close as we'd like. The Union's hold here is... lighter, I guess. Most people feel like if any war can be won, it's here. If anything can actually change, it's here."
"Do you?" you ask.
"No."
You wait for elaboration. He doesn't give any. The screens slowly turn off again, one by one, rebooting to show nondescript scrolling text. Computerised white noise. You start to wonder if Cipher licks his eyes instead of blinking, like a lizard.
"What about... this group, then?" you ask, gesturing in a vaguely collective manner. "Where am I? Why am I here? What's with this tattoo? Why'd that Nathan guy have one too?"
He scratches his scalp through his mop of hair. "Dame-Commander's job to explain that stuff. She told me she'd be over about now, so I'm just gonna go to the bathroom."
"... thanks for sharing?" you say as the strange man turns and shuffles away. You watch him go regardless, slightly suspicious of him pulling a vanishing act to go with the sudden appearance when you first walked in. But he goes inside just like he said, closing the door behind him. No noises, thankfully. You take a long, slow, deep breath. You're about ready to wake up in your room and find out it was all a horrible dream now. You turn to check the door you came in through. It's half-open. Nathan's leaning through, one hand on the knob, the other frantically beckoning you. He's hissing something to you, but you don't get enough time to figure out what it is. You can probably guess what, though. Because a moment later a woman barges through the doorway, physically shouldering him out of the way, and strides up to you. You fight down the instinct to shrink back with all your might, even as she looms larger and larger.
She's tall, easily your height or a bit taller. Broad to match. You suppose some of her imposing figure might be owed to her coat. It's not some black leather number from the 90s like Nathan's. It's got epaulettes, proper gold buttons down the lapel. Gold and scarlet, just like the seal over your heart. If she has a matching hat, she's not wearing it right now. Her hair is the colour of steel, pulled back into a tight bun, but her face isn't the right age. Her eyes are the same colour as her hair, steely, not lost a bit of their light. From the lines on her face she looks closer to 40 than 80. But then again, maybe the scar is throwing off your estimates. It's old, healed up as best as could be hoped, but it's still obvious. It's a massive discolouring thing that dominates the left side of her face completely, a blotchy burn that almost left her completely two-faced.
"You," she says. "Who are you?"
Whether it's one thing or another, the question takes you off-guard. You have to actually think about it. If nothing else, because you don't know how she'd take the obvious answer.
[ ] Meghanada Dane.
[ ] Indrajit.
[ ] I don't know.
[ ] Whatever you need me to be.
will408914
(slouching towards bethlehem)
- Location
- California
[X] Meghanada Dane.
Because that's who we are. We've had some shake-ups in recent days; but we're still Meghanada Dane.
Because that's who we are. We've had some shake-ups in recent days; but we're still Meghanada Dane.
Wade Garrett
Just trying to do the right thing
- Pronouns
- He/His/Him
[X] "I don't know."
Embracing the Indrajit persona doesn't feel right (at this time) saying Meg's old name...our whole life was a lie.
And "whatever you need me to be" sounds like either bootlicking or a cheap pick up line.
Embracing the Indrajit persona doesn't feel right (at this time) saying Meg's old name...our whole life was a lie.
And "whatever you need me to be" sounds like either bootlicking or a cheap pick up line.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] Meghanada Dane.
[X] Meghanada Dane.
Indrajit just doesn't feel right atm, and 'I don't know' strikes me as the kind of thing that'd piss off this obviously no nonsense lady. And, like...I don't buy that we'd shed our old identity so easily. You could tell me I'm actually an alien that got adopted but I wouldn't, like, stop considering myself to be myself, nawmean? He's been meghanada dane his whole life. It's gonna be a hard habit to break.
Indrajit just doesn't feel right atm, and 'I don't know' strikes me as the kind of thing that'd piss off this obviously no nonsense lady. And, like...I don't buy that we'd shed our old identity so easily. You could tell me I'm actually an alien that got adopted but I wouldn't, like, stop considering myself to be myself, nawmean? He's been meghanada dane his whole life. It's gonna be a hard habit to break.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[k] I am what I am.
LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
Revlid
blob of bugs
- Location
- England
[X] Meghanada Dane.
"Meghanaaada?" You find yourself drawing out the name, voice pitching higher as though asking a question. Searching her face for some reaction like you're watching a rope bridge for signs of fraying. "Meghanada." You conclude, like putting your foot down. "Meghanada Dane."
Still nothing. ...seriously, what does she even want from you? Some kind of New Age Spirit Name bullshit? Are you supposed to pick a codename like this is the X-Men? Nathan got away with "Nathan", for fuck's sake. You're not going to start calling yourself Meghanada X, thanks.
"Meghanaaada?" You find yourself drawing out the name, voice pitching higher as though asking a question. Searching her face for some reaction like you're watching a rope bridge for signs of fraying. "Meghanada." You conclude, like putting your foot down. "Meghanada Dane."
Still nothing. ...seriously, what does she even want from you? Some kind of New Age Spirit Name bullshit? Are you supposed to pick a codename like this is the X-Men? Nathan got away with "Nathan", for fuck's sake. You're not going to start calling yourself Meghanada X, thanks.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
- Location
- United States
Very nice background info.
[X] Meghanada Dane
Dad finally told us the truth, which is that we weren't mutated or altered by Pentex or the Union. We have always been an inhuman creature who can punch holes in walls and get power from eating people.
That never stopped us from being a normal broody teenager. We still care for our family, and for Rob and Ms. Jenkins, whose deaths have been dismissed by everyone else around us. We still stepped out to say goodbye to Lakshmi.
We have some revelations to adjust to, but human or not, normal or not, we're still Meghanada Dane.
[X] Meghanada Dane
Dad finally told us the truth, which is that we weren't mutated or altered by Pentex or the Union. We have always been an inhuman creature who can punch holes in walls and get power from eating people.
That never stopped us from being a normal broody teenager. We still care for our family, and for Rob and Ms. Jenkins, whose deaths have been dismissed by everyone else around us. We still stepped out to say goodbye to Lakshmi.
We have some revelations to adjust to, but human or not, normal or not, we're still Meghanada Dane.
Meghanada ZX Advent is way better anyways
Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
Is this where we adopt our superhero identity?
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
"B-"
"Look man, rule one of history okay? Hermetics killing each other is just dandy for everyone else."
"I...that's not a real thing is it?"
"When you meet a Hermetic you'll understand."
Ahhhh that's interesting.
For reference: in the White Wolf line the VA defect post-WWII after Turing (who was apparently an Adept) got publicly outed and then assassinated by the NWO. And then the internet takes off...without them. Somehow. And is in reality a major military thing (DARPAnet and shit). Zerban's moved it up a fair bit which honestly makes a fair bit more sense.
If the VA defected after the end of the Cold War it'd be after the internet was already established and all the balls were rolling. Iirc the 'net really came into its own in like...'95? As a consumer thing I mean.
But idk just commenting on it since it's sorta interesting. For one it means that the Union lost the VA really recently and are probably still salty as fuck about it. For another it makes the grievance less "they wouldn't let us shove everyone into Sword Art Online" and more "they spat on the idea of peace, went full pan-political megacunt and started carrying out xenocide as a matter of policy".
Which has some more merit.
Another interesting thing is that Cipher didn't talk about the Week of Nightmares or the Dimensional Anomaly/Avatar Storm. It's pretty important so someone's going to talk about it at some point. But then again that's mostly down to our choices I think. If we asked about Pentex and more contemporary stuff we'd have necessarily gotten more, as it is we focused on the historical some more which meant he gave us more of a historical grounding for why Australia is important.
And it is kinda interesting when you think about it. Islands are weird in terms of local Consensus (another point of interest: dude didn't mention Consensual Reality at all) and Australia is thin slices of modern, 21st century cities sandwiched between fuck nothing and the Pacific.
Australia really is fucking full of monsters.
[X] Whatever you need me to be.
Let's get mouthy.
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