Winged One
Not the Simurgh
- Location
- definitely the ground
- Pronouns
- They/Them/It
Well, Making Shit Up is probably best used to avoid Reality Deviance, and being a badass general who leads from the front is in-genre for an action hero.
Panopticon: A Game of Posthumans, Perniciousness, Paranoia, Politics, and Plasmaguns
- Location
- Singapore
Ask and thou shalt receive, delivered by angels who swoop from on high.Minus (difficulty - avatar rating) assuming full prime expenditure. So minimum 12 (no prime, diff 7), maximum 17 (5 prime, difficulty 2) net successes.
Edit: Genius 5, apparently, so 17 net successes
But I have no clue what Kessler's Avatar/Genius rating is. Still, quite the first working at 6.
Also, we've lost Huuubbrriiisss.Can we have a Hubris tag?
Also holy fuck 13 successes on 13 dice. That never happens.
Deadly Snark
Tryhard As Fuck
Since when have 90s Actions Heroes ever gave a shit about the concept of probability?
- Location
- Singapore
Since they rolled dice in Panopticon.
Update CXXI: Wrath
JB CXXI: Wrath
John Kessler is still lying there, dying, when the dragon's chest starts to rise. From inside the hole he speared into the great newt's chest, John can see its fiery breath build up. Flames lick out of the wound, past its own fang, and the dragon sputter-coughs in agony. Not mortal agony, but true agony, more than any one man should have been able to inflict on it.
It totters sideways for a second before steadying itself, eyes blazing with fury, for another attempt to incinerate him.
[TIME TO TERMINATION: FOUR SECONDS] the Noble November suit unhelpfully adds.
But here, now, lying shattered, broken and dying before the thing he was always meant to fight, John Kessler finally finds the strength to question himself.
"Hey. Sarge." Fitzsimmons looks from where he's perched on the dragon's broken wing, picking at the membrane. "Before I answer your second question, tell me something, and be honest with me. Don't I deserve this?" Here, now, no matter how badly wounded he is, speech is not - and could never be - a problem.
His old uniform crinkling, Sergeant Fitzsimmons straightens up. "Well, John, that depends. There's some things you deserve for what you did, and some things for what you didn't do, and, right now, some things you deserve that some people never get." Fitzsimmons' eyes are without mercy. "Like the choice before you."
Kessler groans through damaged cyberlungs. "Damn it, you know what I mean. You out of everyone know what I mean. Don't I deserve this? There's not going to be a better death for me out there. No matter where I go, or what I do. This is it. They will remember John Kessler." He nods at the gaping wounds in the dragon's invincibly armored hide. "They'll remember that one man stood against a beast like that, and made it bleed. They'll remember me as a hero. Goddamn it, Sarge, after all I've done, don't I deserve this?"
Sergeant Fitzsimmons ducks beneath the singular remaining wing, flapping as the ur-dragon tries to stabilize itself - difficult, with a third of its tail and one of its wings torn off. He waves his hands at John Kessler of the Iteration X Shock Corps, swaggering in superheavy PALADIN assault armor with a heavy particle lance in one hand as he treads the remains of the Reality Deviants he particle-lanced in half under his boots. "Bellator In Machina! Death to Reality Deviance!" the John-that-was shouts before freezing in mid-stride, the hellish light of his lance frozen a hands-breadth away from the huddled, weeping hermetic. "You were the best they could have asked for, John. Free of doubt, of emotion. You call out the boss on her legacy of bloodshed while standing knee-high in the blood of the dead."
Fitzsimmons circles around him. Behind the dragon, John sees the catastrophic crash onto Xanadu in the thousand-thousand segmented glass windows of the highrise tower. Each window stills at a different frame of the past. There, he scavenges from the dead, replacing parts of himself with machines that should not have worked nearly as well as they do. On the third, he kneels before the first cyber-dragon he had slain, sawing the beast's chest open with its own claws, before devouring the beast's biomechanical heart, half-mad with thirst and hunger. On the sixth window, John sees himself bury a lost traveler, innocent and unknowing in their trespass to a realm of ecstasy and danger. He knows the story that follows. He hunted. He learned. He slew them. Never lying down, never giving up, even when he had to salvage a crashed Void Engineer ship and sweet-talk their food processor to play nice with the rest of his gastral bionics. "But then, you start ignoring all that. The moment you're on your own, the moment you stand there on the precipice of death, you fight and you struggle and you survive. No matter the cost."
John grins. Oh, those were the times. A fight to the death just to survive, all day, every day. "Yeah. But what should I've done? Just lie down, waiting to die? I couldn't do that. I had to survive, I had to go back. There were battles to be fought." A twitch of the head at the dragon overhead, frozen in this timeless perception of the moment.
Sternly, the Sergeant points to the burning, glowing primium god-form of young Henriette, both hands skywards as she roars her final victory. "And yet, when that god-machine rose," and here, now, John can truly understand the dual truth of it being both god-like spirit and transcendent machine, "you knelt, and you worshiped, with your skin flaking away and your muscles seizing up. And before you did that, you could have had the fight you so desperately sought. You could have brought the fight to any one of the god-machines that were there."
John groans as the pain of understanding - so much worse than the mere physical agony of a savaged body - starts to seep into him. "But I didn't, Sarge, aye." He raises his eyes to Hollywood's menacing representation of the white-plated machine-god howling above the wormhole in the Umbra, and the half-dozen gun-bristling kill-sats. "After all, dying suicidally for no reason wouldn't have been an inspiring final chapter to the tale of John Kessler." He grimaces again as life's little lies ablate away under the fire of truth. "And yeah, part of me wants that peace. I'm tired. Tired of the lies, and the paranoia, and the uncertainty, and maybe even the fighting. That part definitely misses the old days, the certainty, the primium boot on the throat of 'Reality Deviants'. That part of me wants nothing to do with accepting that all these views of reality are true. Even the Nu-Woo." He flexes a hand with what little energy he has in his tertiary reserve batteries.
Above, the dragon continues to gather hellfire in its maw for a heartbeat. Sergeant Fitzsimmons stands there, eyes narrowed, arms folded over his chest, silently staring and judging.
"But the rest of me..." John sighs. "The rest of me remembers. All my life I've chosen strength and sacrifice. First for the Union. Then for the Computer." He's talking to himself now, faster, more intent, racing along the paths of his thoughts as fast as he can. "And then," he adds grimly, "for myself. An old hero, battered and worn, fighting an impossible fight, dying an awesome death to enter the legend of the heroes of yore." He shakes his head, power surging through his battered body, and with a groan pushes himself into a sitting position. "But that ain't enough in this world."
Haemolubricant oozing from more wounds than anyone has a right to survive, Sergeant Kessler meets the judging stare of Sergeant Fitzsimmons."But you asked me a question. So have my answer. I choose to live."
Fiber-muscle replacement coils under shredded skin. "I choose to accept the blood on my boots, spilled in the past, and the blood on my hands, yet to be spilled."
Primium-replacement fingertip bones dig into the asphalt beneath torn synthflesh. "I accept that I might make things worse."
One leg twitches, and with a grunt he pops the dislocated joint back into its socket. "And that those around me will never live up to the perfect ideal."
His primary lungs hiss through the claw-rend in his chest as he levers himself to his knees. "I choose the war for Ascension, for humanity's beliefs, and the possibility that I might lose."
His right arm tenses, barely capable of human strength. His left arm is gone. "And I *know* myself for who I am, for what I am."
John Kessler plants both feet on the ground. "And in *knowing* that, I accept that I will be back here, one day, bleeding and dying, without getting to make this choice."
His eyes glow ruby-red, reflecting off the dragon's heartscales. "Death is lighter than a feather. Duty is heavier than a mountain. And I will carry my part of that load until my dying day. I am John Kessler, son of humanity, and I refuse the bliss of ignorance."
The dragon exhales, and John Kessler is somewhere else. He is surrounded by men and women who remind him of his own role, soldiers and knights and cowboys and guardians. He lays in their midst, broken and battered. They kneel. They start to step forward. He understands these people. They are much like him, people who fought against the unknown and managed to force it back, one step at a time. All of them look at him with respect.
A Roman legionary puts his gladius and his helmet down on Kessler's shattered leg, and it rebuilds itself. "You have my strength."
A dark-skinned African warrior with an obsidian spear places her weapon down next to Kessler's abdomen, and the muscle and armored skin knits together. "You have my bravery."
"You have my vengeance." A white-haired king stabs his sword into the ground next to Kessler, and the hole through Kessler's chest vanishes as if it had never existed. A knight comes up to him, and his plate armor and sword fuse with Kessler's higher-tech armor, render it whole and strong again. His broken back is made whole by the katana of a samurai. Each of these warriors comes up, each bearing their arms and armor, and each strengthens him. Each repairs him, whether spear or sword or gun or shield. The meaning is clear. These soldiers-they all are giving him what he needs to win this fight. And in a way, he is much like those weapons. He's humanity's sword, humanity's shield. He will carry that on to his death.
"Get back in the fight, soldier." A square-jawed GI in WWII-vintage uniform says, laying his grenade bandolier and helmet down. Kessler's eyes rebuild themselves, whole and new again. Kessler's face stitches itself back together. His HUD readings show 100 percent. "You've got a fucking dragon to kill. This is no time for being dead."
"Yeah, it's no time to die on the job." John Kessler says. John Kessler, soldier, cyborg, warrior, survivor, stands, and time comes roaring back.
***
The dragon sees him standing amidst the ruins, intact and whole, a steel blade next to him, and immediately recognizes the blade. "You!" The dragon snarls. "Where did you get that?" It hisses, preparing to burn the slums again. It rears back-and shudders, as a howitzer shell hits it and streams of tracerfire slam into its impregnable coat.
A helicopter drops two men in black vests and desert tan uniforms, wearing hockey helmets and American flag patches, next to Kessler. "We're here to help get you out of here." They say. Kessler believes it. He knows they're friendly, somehow. That he, in his time, has done something massive, shifted the balance of this Realm. "Come on, can you walk?"
Kessler nods, gets up. "Why are you here?"
"We don't leave a man behind!" One of them shouts, firing a M-14 at the dragon.
"Guess I needed a rescue." Kessler says, looking up at the sky, darkening with the shadows of Vietnam-era helicopters emptying gunpods and rockets into the dragon. Around him is the glorious sight of soldiers at war. Union soldiers, dressed in blue, line up in ranks and their rifled muskets belch flame in defiance against the great wyrm. Tanks roll up, M4 Shermans and M1 Abrams and M60s, their guns unleashing high-explosive fury against the wyrm. Artillery pieces fire in the background, the scream of incoming shells punctuating the chaos. Fighters scream down guns blazing and missiles firing.
Soldiers in WWII-era fatigues or in gear that he only recognizes from TV move side by side, bringing machine-guns and rockets to bear on the ancient dragon. The wyrm's breath burns scores and scores of them from the sky and from the Earth, leaves nothing but black glass, but they do not waver. They look at him for leadership.
"General." They say, they all say. "What do we do? What is our mission?"
"Hell, it's about time I was promoted." Kessler says, chuckling to himself. He raises his voice, letting everyone hear it. "What we do is we send a message. We send a message to those people here who think that they can destroy mankind and what it means to be human. We send a message to the monsters who think that humans are easy prey. We send a message to everyone and everything which thinks it's hot shit because it's bigger and meaner. We're going to show everyone what the fire and fury of mankind at war is, and we're going to stand up tall and dare these people to fuck with us. Are you with me?"
A million voices unite in agreement.
"Yes... uh, I mean no." The woman sitting next to her is suddenly wearing the black suit and white shirt of an Operative.
Elsa sighs in relief. Jamelia Belltower might be a stone cold NWO spook, but at the moment, that's exactly who they need. "Director Belltower," she says, "thank goodn-"
"Who?" Director Belltower asks. Her accent is thicker than usual, and isn't as well-honed for ice-cold sexy domme-ness, Elsa realizes with dawning horror. "There's a Director around?" She winces. "I apologize for answering to my name... uh, my birth name and..."
"Year, rank and name, citizen." Elsa asks, in her asshole-Technocrat voice. It can't be too much after... after the Illiyeen-ness. If she can just keep her listening to her, at least she might be easier to handle like this. At least she can talk to this past self.
"Junior Operative Jazmin Black, ma'am, and..." Jazmin frowns. "Uh, it's 1972. Permission to ask what's going on?"
"Classified information," Elsa says. Damn. This must be why the Noo-Woo find it so fun. Well, at least this version of Belltower can speak English. This'll make things easier because-
-and as soon as she thinks that, Jazmin flickers and Illiyeen is sitting there in her civilian clothes, eyes wide.
"Dammit!" Elsa swears, thumping the wheel.
Illiyeen asks her something. Well, she thinks she asks her something. She doesn't know what she's saying.
"Next time you do that, hold it for longer!" Elsa orders. She's already looking around for a new vehicle. The T1000 tore up the roof of this car and she doesn't like the sound the engine's making. "Or, you know, feel free to return to your present self any time! I don't mind! Really!" She looks in the rear-view mirror again, and she sees that the police have stopped chasing her. That's good.
She then realizes, looking at the massive green vehicle coming towards her, that they've pulled back because there's an incoming tank, crushing the cars on the freeway with abandon. A tank. This is going to be interesting, she thinks, as she drops a magazine out of the Technocracy-build SMG and uses her kinesis module to load it with QT rounds. Some joker has stuck a "Cuties" label on this magazine. She'd probably find it funny if it wasn't so serious. She guesstimates the proper displacement to blindfire, and-
the tank starts to peel off, heading away from her. Elsa lets her aim waver, sighing in relief. She takes a look at where it's heading-it looks like a warzone to her cyborg vision. Maybe that Autopolitan has made another breach and they need to peel more forces away, Elsa thinks. That'd be fortunate. Or maybe Kessler's survived. But-that's impossible, Elsa thinks. She's seen how powerful that EDE was, the one wearing Smaug's skin. It was the kind of thing you'd need a warship to kill. And Kessler might be full of bravado and badassery, but that's a far cry from a warship. She knows he's dead. He has to be.
The car's engine finally cuts out after a while, and Elsa just scoops Illiyeen in her arms, ignoring any protests, and jumps out of the coasting vehicle. Elsa's sure that the waitress is complaining about her treatment, but they need to get out and hide. She leaves a couple of holographic mobile decoys on her trail, making sure that anyone chasing them will have difficulty finding the real one, as she heads into another shopping mall and its attached garage. It's empty now, owing to everything that's happened, and that's just the way she likes it. She sizes up Illiyeen as they head through a department store, and finds a different color sweater and jeans to wear over the Alanson. She throws Illiyeen some clothing and points towards the dressing rooms. Illiyeen gets the hint and disappears into them as Elsa grabs a bottle of hairdye and turns her hair an implausible cherry-red, putting makeup over her face to confuse sensors. Anything to not look like herself.
When Illiyeen comes back, Elsa grabs her hand and they take off to the garage. It's mostly been emptied out, but there are still a few cars that look like they've been abandoned by their owners in the mad rush to shelter. She forces the door of a sports car open with her inbuilt hacking tools, overrides the car's computers, and they zoom out.
A few minutes of relative peace later, Illiyeen flickers and is wearing a black suit and white shirt again. "Ma'am. Could you explain what is going on? I don't seem to have any recall of our mission objective and what's going on."
The other is similarly tall, but where the Trinity is wide and broad-shouldered, its body is sleek and alien. The Core-MkV variant of the Theological Dominance Platform is alien in its geometric beauty, all obsidian macromolecular armor and structural integrity field reinforced components. Underneath it is living tissue cultured from an alien god, hidden so well that someone not in the know would think the six-winged artificial seraph was completely inorganic. Much like its controller, it is surrounded by a halo of remote weapons and defenses, disintegrator guns and hypometric projectors and antimatter micromissiles. In one of its clawed arms is a distorted column of space-a phase blade, which it had just used to deflect the Trinity Titan's attack.
They are clashing again and again, the Trinity Titan flying on wings of atomic fire from its nuclear torches, the Mk. V borne aloft on currents of distorted space-time. Fission axe meets phase blade, shield drones lock against the Meltdown Punch of the Trinity Titan. Henriette knows that this is, one way or another, the last time she'll ever be able to talk to her sister. Henriette knows very well that her sister is gone, and that even if there was something left pretending to be her, it was just a dumb submodule, a limited facet designed for human interactions. No more human than the limited AIs which manned help desks and telephone support hotlines. A Chinese room built by an exhuman monster.
She'll cry for her later. She'll feel guilty later. She'll add another name to the tombstone above the empty graves of her parents. Right now, there's no time for that.
"You idiot," her recorded message plays. It's a confused jumble of anger and sorrow and guilt, which she composed in the long drift towards her target. "I didn't want this. That's the saddest thing. You really were just a little kid. A little kid made into a weapon who didn't realise how inhuman things were using her, because she didn't have any real world experience. You were so stupid! You turned your back on Mum and Dad in Moscow! We tried to help you! And of course you couldn't accept it because you didn't even know what help was and I hated you and I pitied you and..." her voice fades away. "I wanted things to be different! You should have been my little sister!"
A cut. She'd patched these speeches together from different takes. Her voice comes back in mid-sentence, a little more collected.
"... but that's too late now. Now you're just another inhuman thing. You're not you. You're just... j-just an it. I'm sorry for what you were. I'm sorry for your life. I wish things had been different - and maybe they could have been. But when you did this to yourself, you gave up everything you could have been. I outsmarted you and I outsmarted the Computer and in the end it now comes down to me because..." Henriette's voice cracks. "You... you stupid... you... you were such a fool!"
The enemy machine shudders. "You bitch." Henrietta snarls. "I was going to beat you once and for all, one on one, to show you who the master is, but you don't deserve that. You're in my world now, sister, and I haven't rolled out the welcome mat for you, have I?"
The metal and plastic of the walls bulges and cracks as the flesh underneath them heaves and grows boils and bursts. Monsters tear their way out, creatures with too many eyes and primium-edged claws, exposed metal endoskeletons protruding through decaying green flesh, ribs and tails and spine covered in armored plates. BioVARGs, Henriette thinks. But not the ones she's seen, the ones with armor over them. Naked monsters, feral creatures born of hate.
John Kessler is still lying there, dying, when the dragon's chest starts to rise. From inside the hole he speared into the great newt's chest, John can see its fiery breath build up. Flames lick out of the wound, past its own fang, and the dragon sputter-coughs in agony. Not mortal agony, but true agony, more than any one man should have been able to inflict on it.
It totters sideways for a second before steadying itself, eyes blazing with fury, for another attempt to incinerate him.
[TIME TO TERMINATION: FOUR SECONDS] the Noble November suit unhelpfully adds.
But here, now, lying shattered, broken and dying before the thing he was always meant to fight, John Kessler finally finds the strength to question himself.
"Hey. Sarge." Fitzsimmons looks from where he's perched on the dragon's broken wing, picking at the membrane. "Before I answer your second question, tell me something, and be honest with me. Don't I deserve this?" Here, now, no matter how badly wounded he is, speech is not - and could never be - a problem.
His old uniform crinkling, Sergeant Fitzsimmons straightens up. "Well, John, that depends. There's some things you deserve for what you did, and some things for what you didn't do, and, right now, some things you deserve that some people never get." Fitzsimmons' eyes are without mercy. "Like the choice before you."
Kessler groans through damaged cyberlungs. "Damn it, you know what I mean. You out of everyone know what I mean. Don't I deserve this? There's not going to be a better death for me out there. No matter where I go, or what I do. This is it. They will remember John Kessler." He nods at the gaping wounds in the dragon's invincibly armored hide. "They'll remember that one man stood against a beast like that, and made it bleed. They'll remember me as a hero. Goddamn it, Sarge, after all I've done, don't I deserve this?"
Sergeant Fitzsimmons ducks beneath the singular remaining wing, flapping as the ur-dragon tries to stabilize itself - difficult, with a third of its tail and one of its wings torn off. He waves his hands at John Kessler of the Iteration X Shock Corps, swaggering in superheavy PALADIN assault armor with a heavy particle lance in one hand as he treads the remains of the Reality Deviants he particle-lanced in half under his boots. "Bellator In Machina! Death to Reality Deviance!" the John-that-was shouts before freezing in mid-stride, the hellish light of his lance frozen a hands-breadth away from the huddled, weeping hermetic. "You were the best they could have asked for, John. Free of doubt, of emotion. You call out the boss on her legacy of bloodshed while standing knee-high in the blood of the dead."
Fitzsimmons circles around him. Behind the dragon, John sees the catastrophic crash onto Xanadu in the thousand-thousand segmented glass windows of the highrise tower. Each window stills at a different frame of the past. There, he scavenges from the dead, replacing parts of himself with machines that should not have worked nearly as well as they do. On the third, he kneels before the first cyber-dragon he had slain, sawing the beast's chest open with its own claws, before devouring the beast's biomechanical heart, half-mad with thirst and hunger. On the sixth window, John sees himself bury a lost traveler, innocent and unknowing in their trespass to a realm of ecstasy and danger. He knows the story that follows. He hunted. He learned. He slew them. Never lying down, never giving up, even when he had to salvage a crashed Void Engineer ship and sweet-talk their food processor to play nice with the rest of his gastral bionics. "But then, you start ignoring all that. The moment you're on your own, the moment you stand there on the precipice of death, you fight and you struggle and you survive. No matter the cost."
John grins. Oh, those were the times. A fight to the death just to survive, all day, every day. "Yeah. But what should I've done? Just lie down, waiting to die? I couldn't do that. I had to survive, I had to go back. There were battles to be fought." A twitch of the head at the dragon overhead, frozen in this timeless perception of the moment.
Sternly, the Sergeant points to the burning, glowing primium god-form of young Henriette, both hands skywards as she roars her final victory. "And yet, when that god-machine rose," and here, now, John can truly understand the dual truth of it being both god-like spirit and transcendent machine, "you knelt, and you worshiped, with your skin flaking away and your muscles seizing up. And before you did that, you could have had the fight you so desperately sought. You could have brought the fight to any one of the god-machines that were there."
John groans as the pain of understanding - so much worse than the mere physical agony of a savaged body - starts to seep into him. "But I didn't, Sarge, aye." He raises his eyes to Hollywood's menacing representation of the white-plated machine-god howling above the wormhole in the Umbra, and the half-dozen gun-bristling kill-sats. "After all, dying suicidally for no reason wouldn't have been an inspiring final chapter to the tale of John Kessler." He grimaces again as life's little lies ablate away under the fire of truth. "And yeah, part of me wants that peace. I'm tired. Tired of the lies, and the paranoia, and the uncertainty, and maybe even the fighting. That part definitely misses the old days, the certainty, the primium boot on the throat of 'Reality Deviants'. That part of me wants nothing to do with accepting that all these views of reality are true. Even the Nu-Woo." He flexes a hand with what little energy he has in his tertiary reserve batteries.
Above, the dragon continues to gather hellfire in its maw for a heartbeat. Sergeant Fitzsimmons stands there, eyes narrowed, arms folded over his chest, silently staring and judging.
"But the rest of me..." John sighs. "The rest of me remembers. All my life I've chosen strength and sacrifice. First for the Union. Then for the Computer." He's talking to himself now, faster, more intent, racing along the paths of his thoughts as fast as he can. "And then," he adds grimly, "for myself. An old hero, battered and worn, fighting an impossible fight, dying an awesome death to enter the legend of the heroes of yore." He shakes his head, power surging through his battered body, and with a groan pushes himself into a sitting position. "But that ain't enough in this world."
Haemolubricant oozing from more wounds than anyone has a right to survive, Sergeant Kessler meets the judging stare of Sergeant Fitzsimmons."But you asked me a question. So have my answer. I choose to live."
Fiber-muscle replacement coils under shredded skin. "I choose to accept the blood on my boots, spilled in the past, and the blood on my hands, yet to be spilled."
Primium-replacement fingertip bones dig into the asphalt beneath torn synthflesh. "I accept that I might make things worse."
One leg twitches, and with a grunt he pops the dislocated joint back into its socket. "And that those around me will never live up to the perfect ideal."
His primary lungs hiss through the claw-rend in his chest as he levers himself to his knees. "I choose the war for Ascension, for humanity's beliefs, and the possibility that I might lose."
His right arm tenses, barely capable of human strength. His left arm is gone. "And I *know* myself for who I am, for what I am."
John Kessler plants both feet on the ground. "And in *knowing* that, I accept that I will be back here, one day, bleeding and dying, without getting to make this choice."
His eyes glow ruby-red, reflecting off the dragon's heartscales. "Death is lighter than a feather. Duty is heavier than a mountain. And I will carry my part of that load until my dying day. I am John Kessler, son of humanity, and I refuse the bliss of ignorance."
The dragon exhales, and John Kessler is somewhere else. He is surrounded by men and women who remind him of his own role, soldiers and knights and cowboys and guardians. He lays in their midst, broken and battered. They kneel. They start to step forward. He understands these people. They are much like him, people who fought against the unknown and managed to force it back, one step at a time. All of them look at him with respect.
A Roman legionary puts his gladius and his helmet down on Kessler's shattered leg, and it rebuilds itself. "You have my strength."
A dark-skinned African warrior with an obsidian spear places her weapon down next to Kessler's abdomen, and the muscle and armored skin knits together. "You have my bravery."
"You have my vengeance." A white-haired king stabs his sword into the ground next to Kessler, and the hole through Kessler's chest vanishes as if it had never existed. A knight comes up to him, and his plate armor and sword fuse with Kessler's higher-tech armor, render it whole and strong again. His broken back is made whole by the katana of a samurai. Each of these warriors comes up, each bearing their arms and armor, and each strengthens him. Each repairs him, whether spear or sword or gun or shield. The meaning is clear. These soldiers-they all are giving him what he needs to win this fight. And in a way, he is much like those weapons. He's humanity's sword, humanity's shield. He will carry that on to his death.
"Get back in the fight, soldier." A square-jawed GI in WWII-vintage uniform says, laying his grenade bandolier and helmet down. Kessler's eyes rebuild themselves, whole and new again. Kessler's face stitches itself back together. His HUD readings show 100 percent. "You've got a fucking dragon to kill. This is no time for being dead."
"Yeah, it's no time to die on the job." John Kessler says. John Kessler, soldier, cyborg, warrior, survivor, stands, and time comes roaring back.
***
The media moguls who control the Silver Screen and the Realm of Hollywood have become things so far beyond men that nobody would mistake them for humans anymore-but they still take the shapes of men and women, with expensive cigars and wines and other accoutrements that show they are people of wealth and taste. They no longer have names-they sought to become faceless figures of fear and awe in life, and so in this unlife they no longer have anything to identify themselves with. In this way, all of the Technocracy's loyal servants are united. They have all lost their true names in some fashion.
"The wyrm has won." One says, resting his hands, festooned with expensive jewels, on the solid gold table. "It will only be a matter of time until we have her, and can bend her to our will. How goes the battle outside?"
"The Computer's folly is failing. Our losses are high but irrelevant. They're only extras, after all. Nothing that matters. There is one minor anomaly, though. One of the ships has left formation and is heading back to the other realm-shape."
"What?" The first says. "Tell me what you did!"
"I did nothing." There is a slight reptilian hiss. "There has been an unexpected complication. Soldiers have started refusing orders and converging on one point. The ship in question must have been related."
"What point is this?" The first demands, pointing to the holomap of the realm. "What point?!"
"This one." The reptilian-hissing one says, and points to where the great wyrm has laid John Kessler low.
"What has the rogue done?" The first one asks, and feels a very unfamiliar feeling. It takes several seconds for it to realize that it feels fear. Fear of the unknown.
"The wyrm has won." One says, resting his hands, festooned with expensive jewels, on the solid gold table. "It will only be a matter of time until we have her, and can bend her to our will. How goes the battle outside?"
"The Computer's folly is failing. Our losses are high but irrelevant. They're only extras, after all. Nothing that matters. There is one minor anomaly, though. One of the ships has left formation and is heading back to the other realm-shape."
"What?" The first says. "Tell me what you did!"
"I did nothing." There is a slight reptilian hiss. "There has been an unexpected complication. Soldiers have started refusing orders and converging on one point. The ship in question must have been related."
"What point is this?" The first demands, pointing to the holomap of the realm. "What point?!"
"This one." The reptilian-hissing one says, and points to where the great wyrm has laid John Kessler low.
"What has the rogue done?" The first one asks, and feels a very unfamiliar feeling. It takes several seconds for it to realize that it feels fear. Fear of the unknown.
***
The dragon sees him standing amidst the ruins, intact and whole, a steel blade next to him, and immediately recognizes the blade. "You!" The dragon snarls. "Where did you get that?" It hisses, preparing to burn the slums again. It rears back-and shudders, as a howitzer shell hits it and streams of tracerfire slam into its impregnable coat.
A helicopter drops two men in black vests and desert tan uniforms, wearing hockey helmets and American flag patches, next to Kessler. "We're here to help get you out of here." They say. Kessler believes it. He knows they're friendly, somehow. That he, in his time, has done something massive, shifted the balance of this Realm. "Come on, can you walk?"
Kessler nods, gets up. "Why are you here?"
"We don't leave a man behind!" One of them shouts, firing a M-14 at the dragon.
"Guess I needed a rescue." Kessler says, looking up at the sky, darkening with the shadows of Vietnam-era helicopters emptying gunpods and rockets into the dragon. Around him is the glorious sight of soldiers at war. Union soldiers, dressed in blue, line up in ranks and their rifled muskets belch flame in defiance against the great wyrm. Tanks roll up, M4 Shermans and M1 Abrams and M60s, their guns unleashing high-explosive fury against the wyrm. Artillery pieces fire in the background, the scream of incoming shells punctuating the chaos. Fighters scream down guns blazing and missiles firing.
Soldiers in WWII-era fatigues or in gear that he only recognizes from TV move side by side, bringing machine-guns and rockets to bear on the ancient dragon. The wyrm's breath burns scores and scores of them from the sky and from the Earth, leaves nothing but black glass, but they do not waver. They look at him for leadership.
"General." They say, they all say. "What do we do? What is our mission?"
"Hell, it's about time I was promoted." Kessler says, chuckling to himself. He raises his voice, letting everyone hear it. "What we do is we send a message. We send a message to those people here who think that they can destroy mankind and what it means to be human. We send a message to the monsters who think that humans are easy prey. We send a message to everyone and everything which thinks it's hot shit because it's bigger and meaner. We're going to show everyone what the fire and fury of mankind at war is, and we're going to stand up tall and dare these people to fuck with us. Are you with me?"
A million voices unite in agreement.
***
Elsa is driving like a madwoman, firing smart bullets wildly from a SMG at pursuing police as they give chase. They've stopped playing fair and have started shooting back, which is fair given that she's been shooting at them for quite a while now. "Illiyeen?" Elsa asks.
"Yes... uh, I mean no." The woman sitting next to her is suddenly wearing the black suit and white shirt of an Operative.
Elsa sighs in relief. Jamelia Belltower might be a stone cold NWO spook, but at the moment, that's exactly who they need. "Director Belltower," she says, "thank goodn-"
"Who?" Director Belltower asks. Her accent is thicker than usual, and isn't as well-honed for ice-cold sexy domme-ness, Elsa realizes with dawning horror. "There's a Director around?" She winces. "I apologize for answering to my name... uh, my birth name and..."
"Year, rank and name, citizen." Elsa asks, in her asshole-Technocrat voice. It can't be too much after... after the Illiyeen-ness. If she can just keep her listening to her, at least she might be easier to handle like this. At least she can talk to this past self.
"Junior Operative Jazmin Black, ma'am, and..." Jazmin frowns. "Uh, it's 1972. Permission to ask what's going on?"
"Classified information," Elsa says. Damn. This must be why the Noo-Woo find it so fun. Well, at least this version of Belltower can speak English. This'll make things easier because-
-and as soon as she thinks that, Jazmin flickers and Illiyeen is sitting there in her civilian clothes, eyes wide.
"Dammit!" Elsa swears, thumping the wheel.
Illiyeen asks her something. Well, she thinks she asks her something. She doesn't know what she's saying.
"Next time you do that, hold it for longer!" Elsa orders. She's already looking around for a new vehicle. The T1000 tore up the roof of this car and she doesn't like the sound the engine's making. "Or, you know, feel free to return to your present self any time! I don't mind! Really!" She looks in the rear-view mirror again, and she sees that the police have stopped chasing her. That's good.
She then realizes, looking at the massive green vehicle coming towards her, that they've pulled back because there's an incoming tank, crushing the cars on the freeway with abandon. A tank. This is going to be interesting, she thinks, as she drops a magazine out of the Technocracy-build SMG and uses her kinesis module to load it with QT rounds. Some joker has stuck a "Cuties" label on this magazine. She'd probably find it funny if it wasn't so serious. She guesstimates the proper displacement to blindfire, and-
the tank starts to peel off, heading away from her. Elsa lets her aim waver, sighing in relief. She takes a look at where it's heading-it looks like a warzone to her cyborg vision. Maybe that Autopolitan has made another breach and they need to peel more forces away, Elsa thinks. That'd be fortunate. Or maybe Kessler's survived. But-that's impossible, Elsa thinks. She's seen how powerful that EDE was, the one wearing Smaug's skin. It was the kind of thing you'd need a warship to kill. And Kessler might be full of bravado and badassery, but that's a far cry from a warship. She knows he's dead. He has to be.
The car's engine finally cuts out after a while, and Elsa just scoops Illiyeen in her arms, ignoring any protests, and jumps out of the coasting vehicle. Elsa's sure that the waitress is complaining about her treatment, but they need to get out and hide. She leaves a couple of holographic mobile decoys on her trail, making sure that anyone chasing them will have difficulty finding the real one, as she heads into another shopping mall and its attached garage. It's empty now, owing to everything that's happened, and that's just the way she likes it. She sizes up Illiyeen as they head through a department store, and finds a different color sweater and jeans to wear over the Alanson. She throws Illiyeen some clothing and points towards the dressing rooms. Illiyeen gets the hint and disappears into them as Elsa grabs a bottle of hairdye and turns her hair an implausible cherry-red, putting makeup over her face to confuse sensors. Anything to not look like herself.
When Illiyeen comes back, Elsa grabs her hand and they take off to the garage. It's mostly been emptied out, but there are still a few cars that look like they've been abandoned by their owners in the mad rush to shelter. She forces the door of a sports car open with her inbuilt hacking tools, overrides the car's computers, and they zoom out.
A few minutes of relative peace later, Illiyeen flickers and is wearing a black suit and white shirt again. "Ma'am. Could you explain what is going on? I don't seem to have any recall of our mission objective and what's going on."
***
The dragon staggers, falls under the barrage of thousands of armored vehicles and even more soldiers. It staggers as the Sulaco hits it with missiles and railgun shells. It shudders from anti-tank rounds connecting with its armored belly. It screams as air-to-air missiles tear through its wings. It goes down again, crashing through a massive skyscraper, its wings shattered and holed, its scales scratched and pitted, its claws blunted and teeth cracked. Kessler dashes towards its impact site, a feral grin on his face. "Like I said, it's always up in the air whose death it's going to be." He shouts. "Now fall, dragon. Fall."
"Who are you, human?" The dragon asks, with a hiss of fear in its voice. "What are you?"
"My name is John Kessler. And as to what I am- I am a guardian of mankind, a protector of civilization, and most importantly, I am dragonslayer." He shouts, plunging the steel sword he has into the dragon's chest and he cuts deep. Blood sprays everywhere, gallons and gallons of it, as he cuts deep, and the great wyrm screams. He cuts, and doesn't stop cutting until the great dragon's heart, a massive organ, is revealed for all to see. The steel sword he wielded in it has become pitted and useless from its abuse, as if knowing that its purpose has been fulfilled. The heart of a dragon. A source of legendary power and strength.
John Kessler, dragonslayer, is reminded of Xanadu and its cyber-dragons. How he learned to survive by hunting them. How he ate their hearts. Perhaps he should do so here-and become more. Or perhaps he should take it as a trophy, hook it up to the Apocalypse Canceller or something, make sure the Union can always remember his feat.
"Who are you, human?" The dragon asks, with a hiss of fear in its voice. "What are you?"
"My name is John Kessler. And as to what I am- I am a guardian of mankind, a protector of civilization, and most importantly, I am dragonslayer." He shouts, plunging the steel sword he has into the dragon's chest and he cuts deep. Blood sprays everywhere, gallons and gallons of it, as he cuts deep, and the great wyrm screams. He cuts, and doesn't stop cutting until the great dragon's heart, a massive organ, is revealed for all to see. The steel sword he wielded in it has become pitted and useless from its abuse, as if knowing that its purpose has been fulfilled. The heart of a dragon. A source of legendary power and strength.
John Kessler, dragonslayer, is reminded of Xanadu and its cyber-dragons. How he learned to survive by hunting them. How he ate their hearts. Perhaps he should do so here-and become more. Or perhaps he should take it as a trophy, hook it up to the Apocalypse Canceller or something, make sure the Union can always remember his feat.
***
A long distance away from the dragon, two titans duel. One of them, the Trinity Titan, is a decades-old Etherite machine standing nearly 40 meters tall with all its components attached. Its body is bulky, stout, and powerful. It runs on fission power, a hot atomic core full of plutonium powering its servo-lined arms, its armor Saturnite super-alloy composited with nuclear-resistant StarLite. In one of its hands, it wields a massive fission axe, its blade glowing green with radioactivity. Its other hand is empty, but glows white-hot with the power of its Meltdown Punch. Its skin crackles with an Etheric Barrier System, its eyes glow with gamma-ray eye blasters.
The other is similarly tall, but where the Trinity is wide and broad-shouldered, its body is sleek and alien. The Core-MkV variant of the Theological Dominance Platform is alien in its geometric beauty, all obsidian macromolecular armor and structural integrity field reinforced components. Underneath it is living tissue cultured from an alien god, hidden so well that someone not in the know would think the six-winged artificial seraph was completely inorganic. Much like its controller, it is surrounded by a halo of remote weapons and defenses, disintegrator guns and hypometric projectors and antimatter micromissiles. In one of its clawed arms is a distorted column of space-a phase blade, which it had just used to deflect the Trinity Titan's attack.
They are clashing again and again, the Trinity Titan flying on wings of atomic fire from its nuclear torches, the Mk. V borne aloft on currents of distorted space-time. Fission axe meets phase blade, shield drones lock against the Meltdown Punch of the Trinity Titan. Henriette knows that this is, one way or another, the last time she'll ever be able to talk to her sister. Henriette knows very well that her sister is gone, and that even if there was something left pretending to be her, it was just a dumb submodule, a limited facet designed for human interactions. No more human than the limited AIs which manned help desks and telephone support hotlines. A Chinese room built by an exhuman monster.
She'll cry for her later. She'll feel guilty later. She'll add another name to the tombstone above the empty graves of her parents. Right now, there's no time for that.
"You idiot," her recorded message plays. It's a confused jumble of anger and sorrow and guilt, which she composed in the long drift towards her target. "I didn't want this. That's the saddest thing. You really were just a little kid. A little kid made into a weapon who didn't realise how inhuman things were using her, because she didn't have any real world experience. You were so stupid! You turned your back on Mum and Dad in Moscow! We tried to help you! And of course you couldn't accept it because you didn't even know what help was and I hated you and I pitied you and..." her voice fades away. "I wanted things to be different! You should have been my little sister!"
A cut. She'd patched these speeches together from different takes. Her voice comes back in mid-sentence, a little more collected.
"... but that's too late now. Now you're just another inhuman thing. You're not you. You're just... j-just an it. I'm sorry for what you were. I'm sorry for your life. I wish things had been different - and maybe they could have been. But when you did this to yourself, you gave up everything you could have been. I outsmarted you and I outsmarted the Computer and in the end it now comes down to me because..." Henriette's voice cracks. "You... you stupid... you... you were such a fool!"
The enemy machine shudders. "You bitch." Henrietta snarls. "I was going to beat you once and for all, one on one, to show you who the master is, but you don't deserve that. You're in my world now, sister, and I haven't rolled out the welcome mat for you, have I?"
The metal and plastic of the walls bulges and cracks as the flesh underneath them heaves and grows boils and bursts. Monsters tear their way out, creatures with too many eyes and primium-edged claws, exposed metal endoskeletons protruding through decaying green flesh, ribs and tails and spine covered in armored plates. BioVARGs, Henriette thinks. But not the ones she's seen, the ones with armor over them. Naked monsters, feral creatures born of hate.
__________________________________
Kessler's Victory:
[ ] Eat the heart. Gain the blessings of an elder wyrm.
[ ] Maybe just take a bite?
[ ] Don't eat the heart. Keep it for something.
[ ] Don't eat it and throw it away.
Elsa's Question:
How does Elsa explain things to Jazmin?
[ ] Tell her a plausible-sounding lie.
[ ] Tell her most of the truth.
[ ] (0.5x) Tell her all of the truth. She's going to end up being recruited anyways.
[ ] Write-in
Henriette's Challenge:
So now you've done it. You've made little sister madder. Concentrate on...
[ ] Defensive fighting. Keep yourself protected while you enhance the Titan more.
[ ] Offensive fighting. Try to take down the Core-MkV TDP.
[ ] Blaze of Glory. The core is in this room. The enemy's gate is down.
[ ] Write-in.
[ ] Eat the heart. Gain the blessings of an elder wyrm.
[ ] Maybe just take a bite?
[ ] Don't eat the heart. Keep it for something.
[ ] Don't eat it and throw it away.
Elsa's Question:
How does Elsa explain things to Jazmin?
[ ] Tell her a plausible-sounding lie.
[ ] Tell her most of the truth.
[ ] (0.5x) Tell her all of the truth. She's going to end up being recruited anyways.
[ ] Write-in
Henriette's Challenge:
So now you've done it. You've made little sister madder. Concentrate on...
[ ] Defensive fighting. Keep yourself protected while you enhance the Titan more.
[ ] Offensive fighting. Try to take down the Core-MkV TDP.
[ ] Blaze of Glory. The core is in this room. The enemy's gate is down.
[ ] Write-in.
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Deadly Snark
Tryhard As Fuck
[ ] Don't eat the heart. Keep it for something.
I'm pretty sure this is much more valuable. Imagine what we could have build with this thing! Or what we could gain by trading it! Such possibilities, many profits and oh all the kudos.
I'm pretty sure this is much more valuable. Imagine what we could have build with this thing! Or what we could gain by trading it! Such possibilities, many profits and oh all the kudos.
Argh.
I've no doubt there's a lot of power to be gained by that vote. Whether we'd be the ones to gain it...
Having just looked up the details of Fafnir's story, though, there's precedent that eating part of it might end well. And keeping it for something else is going to invoke the specter of greed anyway.
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Winged One
Not the Simurgh
- Location
- definitely the ground
- Pronouns
- They/Them/It
Hm... I'm guessing that eating the heart will count as a soul-pact enhancement. Just a bite is probably a lesser one (and for wimps). Keeping it would probably let us do a bunch of stuff with it, including sacrificing it to the unsuppressed deity Apocalypse Canceler, showing it to the VEs because we want to show even more evidence that we are amazing even on top of the time travel when the time comes to negotiate our entry into their conspiracy, or rendering it down for hilarious amounts of tass. Throwing it away is symbolic, but I don't know if that'll actually mean anything - and the only thing I can think of that's worth giving up such gains is making sure the dragon never respawns.
Those are my guesses, anyway.
The whole truth is, as ever, dangerous. Does this Jazmin understand yet that it's the world Control built that deserves her loyalty instead of Control themselves? And yet, it might help us get Jamelia to cut through the bullshit and tell the VEs "we know everything, and we want in." Or it might not. It'll definitely help her make decisions based on all the facts, though.
Wait. Evil Space Control is going to inform Jazmin that they're Control at the worst possible time unless we have the warding to prevent them from knowing when the worst possible time is, and even then they'll probably get a pretty bad time.
- Location
- Singapore
[X] Don't eat the heart. Keep it for something.
[X] Tell her a plausible-sounding lie.
[X] Tell her a plausible-sounding lie.
dash931
Conil
We need to stop listening to @EarthScorpion for ideas.
In all seriousness... Just to be clear, how nasty are the unarmored BioVARGs?
Wakka
Shadow Cabal Man in Black
- Location
- California
[x] Don't eat the heart, keep it for something. Guys, there's a price for direct, personal power. The Elder Wyrm, this thing's power? It'd be a lot. Are you really sure you want to pay it, especially considering that Kessler has other ways to get it?
[x] Tell a plausible sounding lie. This is a young, naive, probably-Conditioned NWO operative. That's, like, five flags in VE policy (and in everyone else's too) against a person to tell truth to.
[x] Tell a plausible sounding lie. This is a young, naive, probably-Conditioned NWO operative. That's, like, five flags in VE policy (and in everyone else's too) against a person to tell truth to.
Winged One
Not the Simurgh
- Location
- definitely the ground
- Pronouns
- They/Them/It
Well... what we actually need to do is evaluate them on their own merits. Perhaps he wants us to do so and that's why he's slipping in these poisonous ideas. Or not.We need to stop listening to @EarthScorpion for ideas.
In all seriousness... Just to be clear, how nasty are the unarmored BioVARGs?
Deadly Snark
Tryhard As Fuck
Well, this could have been a good thing. Since you know, now she's revealed one of her trump cards now, instead of keeping them for later and ganking Henriette in a crucial situation.We need to stop listening to @EarthScorpion for ideas.
In all seriousness... Just to be clear, how nasty are the unarmored BioVARGs?
Well, good subjectively. Objectively, still kind of boned.
NonSequtur
a body
Kessler's Victory:
[X] Maybe just take a bite?
[X] Don't eat the heart. Keep it for something.
Take a bite. Savor the victory. Chew a bit. Kinda stringy. Swish the blood around a bit, contemplatively. Bitter. Gross.
Spit it out. Ugh. Make snappy one-liner about mythology. Shove it into your coat for later.
Later: Shove it in everyone's faces. You're not bragging. You just want to know if the slightly chewed heart is useful for anything.
If not, or too risky, then toss it.
Elsa's Question:
How does Elsa explain things to Jazmin?
[X] Tell her a plausible-sounding truth that you know will be taken the wrong way. (Okay, only technically not a lie)
Henriette's Challenge:
So now you've done it. You've made little sistermadder. Concentrate on...
[+] Blaze of Glory. The core is in this room. The enemy's gate is down.
[ ] Write-in.
Tentative. We're in the middle of a tumourous hypertech planetoid - time is not on our side.
[X] Maybe just take a bite?
[X] Don't eat the heart. Keep it for something.
Take a bite. Savor the victory. Chew a bit. Kinda stringy. Swish the blood around a bit, contemplatively. Bitter. Gross.
Spit it out. Ugh. Make snappy one-liner about mythology. Shove it into your coat for later.
Later: Shove it in everyone's faces. You're not bragging. You just want to know if the slightly chewed heart is useful for anything.
If not, or too risky, then toss it.
Elsa's Question:
How does Elsa explain things to Jazmin?
[X] Tell her a plausible-sounding truth that you know will be taken the wrong way. (Okay, only technically not a lie)
Henriette's Challenge:
So now you've done it. You've made little sistermadder. Concentrate on...
[+] Blaze of Glory. The core is in this room. The enemy's gate is down.
[ ] Write-in.
Tentative. We're in the middle of a tumourous hypertech planetoid - time is not on our side.
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dash931
Conil
I don't really think it's deliberately poisonous.
Merely huuuuuuubris!
I think the point is she wasn't going to use them until Henriette pissed her off even more.
To be fair, I adidn't actually expect it to be possible for her to hate Henreitte more. So really, we what need to do is treat Henrietta like Black Mage.
But really, the trick now is burning the willpower we scored in a way that means we're at net profit. We can still come out ahead, just get those thinkin' meats in our skulls working.
Or until she was losing.
One of the two.
Come to think, losing would probably piss her off.
dash931
Conil
Well, yes, but that'd be later, the amazing time of not-now!
Okay, enough ragging on one of the people coming up with the clever plans that keep us alive. Anyway.
Defensive fighting doesn't strike me as particularly useful. Can we really enhance ourselves faster than they'll tear us apart?
Offensive fighting is the basic vote. Kill the enemy to death with your giant murder-bot. Has merit.
Blaze of Glory... Now, this one depends on our objective here, and whether there's going to be nasty consequences for blowing it before actually stopping the Core-MkV, like getting stabbed in the back or having to outrun the fireball. Given that killing the Core-MkV isn't actually going to win this in and of itself, this is tempting as the obvious path to victory. Hence my suspicion.
- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
[X] Don't eat the heart. Keep it for something.
[X] Tell her most of the truth.
[X] Defensive fighting. Keep yourself protected while you enhance the Titan more.
Should have voted for my Message!
[X] Tell her most of the truth.
[X] Defensive fighting. Keep yourself protected while you enhance the Titan more.
Should have voted for my Message!
- Location
- in the trash
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Sarpedon
Knight Errant
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Destroy the heart. This beast will not endure the march of ages as the flag of it's slayer. It's fate is that of all the other monsters of the past. Defeated and forgotten.
Literally avarice incarnate get it the hell away.
[X] Tell her most of the truth.
Shes still in her horrendous Quiet/wacky paradox backlash thing so telling her the whole truth may actually be counterproductive. However she is also a human lie detector.
[X] Blaze of Glory. The core is in this room. The enemy's gate is down
Literally avarice incarnate get it the hell away.
[X] Tell her most of the truth.
Shes still in her horrendous Quiet/wacky paradox backlash thing so telling her the whole truth may actually be counterproductive. However she is also a human lie detector.
[X] Blaze of Glory. The core is in this room. The enemy's gate is down
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NonSequtur
a body
Clearly, we should use it as the core of an artificial robo-dragon with enough firepower to wipe out a city.
Hubris? Bad decisions? Pish posh.
- Location
- in the trash
Next up, we fight Mecha Godzilla!
Kessler's Victory:
[X] Don't eat the heart. Keep it for something.
He's the Dragonslayer. Dragonslayers don't feast upon their fallen foes. That sort of thing is what DRAGONS do. We loot it. I'm sure the Void Engineers will find something to do with it, and we still need to buy their attention off.
Elsa's Question:
How does Elsa explain things to Jazmin?
[X] Tell her a small part of the truth, that she is currently mentally compromised and unauthorized to know more until she recovers.
This being Jamelia, I'm dubious about how well lying directly to her would work, and telling the truth to THIS Jamelia is asking for trouble, here in this realm.
Henriette's Challenge:
So now you've done it. You've made little sister madder. Concentrate on...
[X] Blaze of Glory. The core is in this room. The enemy's gate is down.
This is what we were going for in the first place, right? Taking down anything else wouldn't change that we're in a grossly unfavorable situation.
[X] Don't eat the heart. Keep it for something.
He's the Dragonslayer. Dragonslayers don't feast upon their fallen foes. That sort of thing is what DRAGONS do. We loot it. I'm sure the Void Engineers will find something to do with it, and we still need to buy their attention off.
Elsa's Question:
How does Elsa explain things to Jazmin?
[X] Tell her a small part of the truth, that she is currently mentally compromised and unauthorized to know more until she recovers.
This being Jamelia, I'm dubious about how well lying directly to her would work, and telling the truth to THIS Jamelia is asking for trouble, here in this realm.
Henriette's Challenge:
So now you've done it. You've made little sister madder. Concentrate on...
[X] Blaze of Glory. The core is in this room. The enemy's gate is down.
This is what we were going for in the first place, right? Taking down anything else wouldn't change that we're in a grossly unfavorable situation.
