Nightflower
Although neither of his friends was particularly eager to take on possibly one of the largest and most dangerous criminal organizations in the entire tri-state area, they had to try, and Zane's revelation of the Godcards' secret workings proved sufficient to stave off his friends' worries.
And so, a few nights later, after cludging together some jury-rigged vigilante costumes and equipping themselves with basic items, all three of them borrowed an old rusty van that Spike's dad used to drive, and then went down to the Brooklyn docks.
As described, the warehouse north of the Navy Yard was a stark red-bricked construction, at least three stories in height. It was profoundly robust, its roof flat, with a few canopies of corrugated, rusted metal; atop, ventilators, AC, and HVAC systems were arrayed in ugly rows, trailing uneven cloudbursts of steam into the cold night's air. All of the warehouse's bright interior lights were turned on, shining down on the dark streets with halcyon rays comparable to sunlight, carrying the implication that even so late at night, it was active, its workers in motion.
At times, one could observe the distortion of shadows flickering across them as someone inside stepped past the window, briefly obscuring the light's source. As Zane observed, he saw a few other people.
There was a lone man on the edge of the rooftop, smoking a cigarette languidly and releasing puffs of smoke into the air. He didn't appear to be armed, but it was possible he'd left his weapon inside.
Behind the chainlink gate for trucks and cars, in one of the numerous loading bays for trucks, one could see a green staff door with no screen, but rather, sliding door viewer. A pair of men stood to its sides, exchanging quiet conversation and looking at their phones every now and then. Both of them were dressed in sloppy uniforms meant to disguise them as ordinary security guards, but even the most basic non-cursory examination would reveal the signs of gang allegiance; the tattoos, scars, the unprofessional odor of cheap booze, and the slight slur in their speech.
All of it made together for an almost surreal sight - Zane had never raided a building of any kind before, let alone something like this.
The would-be vigilante trio was crouched behind the van they'd arrived in, slouching and scoping the place out silently, sometimes exchanging a few words, with Brick slurping an energy drink he'd bought on the way there. Their costumes were amateur work; thick and concealing jackets of dark leather, chrome-colored motorcycle helmets with black-tinted visors and mouth grills that somewhat muffled speech, loose pants, and thick work boots.
After a couple of minutes, Brick asked the question on everyone's mind, "How do we make our approach?"
"I'll distract the people at the doors with an illusion," Zane proposed, "And then I'll hand over Phobos to Spike, and Boreads to you, and you two will move to take them down. Make it silent. We don't want to wake the whole place up."
"It'll reset your charge," Spike mentioned.
"It's not that useful compared to your power," Zane replied off-handedly. "Sure, we haven't done extensive testing-"
"Which is why I'm concerned."
"-But I'm pretty sure your armor is tougher than my forcefield. And we know the Sword of Shitted-Pants cuts metal sheets up into neat ribbons like my uncle's cooks chopping vegetables. So you'll be our powerhouse, and keep Phobos for most of the time, while Brick and I swap Boreads around. It makes the most sense."
Although he appeared hesitant at first, Spike conceded with a few more encouraging words and some urging. And so, their plan was set into motion.
An insubstantial illusion of a teenager in dark clothes was made, wearing a hood, dark sunglasses, and a bandana over their lower face, with a backpack slung around one shoulder. And the illusion was then sent forth in the direction of the loading bays, jumping right over the chainlink fence with a rattling of metal that alerted the guards.
"Hey!" Both of them ran after the illusion as expected, drawing their firearms clumsily, fingers off the triggers for now. Their discipline would be their undoing.
Zane nodded to the others and handed them both of the Godcards. The team blurred into action.
A series of dark violet streamers coalesced into a rigid solidity around Spike's arms, torso, legs, and head, to form into a tenebrous suit of articulated plate reminiscent of a Greek hoplite were it not for the thin covering of chain underneath, and then a few other streamers came together in wisps and motes to form a blade darker than night, a mere look at which caused Zane's heartbeat to quicken immediately, prompting him to evade its abyssal counter-stare that promised death and ending to any who touched it, save its unhallowed wielder.
With a nod to the others, as if to confirm they were still doing this, Spike jogged across the street and used his sword to effortlessly shear through the fence in three rapid swipes, all of them done with no more effort than as if he'd swung a bar made of pure nothing. As the chainlink collapsed down and then caved in with Spike's kick, the new opening allowed Brick to sprint right through at stupendous velocity; he'd gone from a standstill to thirty kilometers per hour in a second flat, and then easily doubled that in the next second, reaching both of the guards - who'd been distracted, their backs turned, accosting the rapidly-decomposing illusion.
A kick to the back of the knee, then a fast punch to the side of the cranium sent one of them falling down to the earth with a gurgling squeak. Before the other could turn, a bolt of lightning smeared over his back, almost-liquid trails of dark blue electricity flowing into the air around him upon impact and shocking him enough that he dropped his weapon, and then fell down himself. And like that, both of the guards were taken down, with no more effort put into the entire task than punting a raccoon into a trash can.
"Alright, that's about five percent of the work done," Zane said, stepping in after the others. He noted how utterly smooth the individual wires of chainlink were, in the spots where the Sword had made its cut. Flawless.
"Here," Brick said, flicking Boreads to Zane. The boy caught the Godcard between his fingers, feeling the Defense of the Northwind activate in a flutter of air. "You'll need it. I'll stay behind, act as the hit-and-run if need be."
And so, they proceeded indoors, with Spike casually stabbing the lock on the staff door to render it open.
Inside, as expected, there was an empty staff room. All of the boys took a defensive, hidden position at the sides of the room. Brick concealed himself behind the vending machine, which was the largest object in the room, while Zane and Spike both stood closer to the entrance. As they waited for several minutes, a few men stumbled down the corridor, once more, surprisingly poorly-armed, with pistols at the hips but otherwise no weapon. And they were swiftly taken out, with fast blows to the head and neck by Spike and Zane. There wasn't any reason to resort to lethal means yet, surprisingly.
The boys proceeded further inwards. Outside of the staff area, the warehouse was an immense space, with a clear second floor up above, apparently for holding the more illegal wares. There was a mechanical lift operated with a button, large enough to fit several forklifts, likely used to move crates from one floor to the other.
Maybe it was too hopeful, but they were detected rather soon.
"Hey, who the fuck are you!?" a man barked out, wielding an assault rifle.
Spike moved for him with surefooted steps, manifesting the Shield of Terror in favor of the Sword. A moment later, there was a bark of hopeless gunfire, and then a loud, pained grunt as the man was bashed in the face by the round piece of steel. A few more bashes to deliver him to sweet unconsciousness, and Spike came back.
Alas, the gunfire alerted the rest of the warehouse. They could hear the murmuring of surprise around the building, as trained men gathered together and made head-counts, some of them moving downstairs in a flurry of footsteps, to find out what happened.
"Here," Zane handed off the Boreads to Brick. "Scout, avoid gunmen, don't take risks."
After an uncomfortable minute of waiting, Brick came running back from between a few stacks of crates. "Let's go back to the staff room, there's like twenty of them coming our way."
"I think we can take them," Spike uttered confidently.
"Whoa, what?" Zane smiled under his helmet. "Brave Sir Robin actually started becoming brave all of a sudden?"
"If we retreat to the staff room, there's better odds for them closing off our exits. They can use those," he motioned for the loading bay doors, "Or simply go around, if needed. We'd be entrenching ourselves."
"Let's move, then." Zane reclaimed the Boreads, instructed Brick to stick close, stay in cover, and keep his head down, and then moved after Spike who gallantly ventured in between the stacks of loaded wooden crates.
Their fight was surprisingly uneventful and oddly - satisfyingly, too - effortless. Because of the fear aura that the Arms of Terror radiated, Spike acted as a walking, talking bullet-sponge, drawing attention and casually ignoring the concentrated gunfire of several dozen men armed with assault rifles, batting away rifles with the sword's flat side, and taking down men with javelins of crackling dark violet electricity. It was a sight that would've caused even Zane to shit himself in fear, before.
Even though he wasn't half as tough, his forcefield was tough enough to take a few glancing shots, barely resulting in bruises and cuts on his skin as a result of the fired rounds. It was still injury of a sort, but it wasn't serious. It was like fighting children with pellet guns.
And so, in less than maybe five, or ten minutes, nearly the entire warehouse had been rendered silent, its guards collected neatly into a pile and then tied with rope to the best of the boys' ability. The warehouse had been overcome with such effortless might that Zane wondered if there was even a purpose to sneaking in.
Although, he did notice a few belts of grenades... It was fortunate they hadn't thought to use those. None of them could take an explosion to the face.
"I believe that's all of them," Spike remarked, banishing the Sword of Terror, allowing it to collapse into fading motes of darkness.
"Yep. So what now?" Brick asked.
Zane contemplated the question. "Hm. You said the cops are crooked, right?"
"Yeah."
"Let's pop open a few of these crates. We'll bring all the meth and guns and shit out into the open air, then call, like, an ambulance or the fire department," Zane said, thinking even as he spoke, "And when they arrive, they'll have to alert the cops about the obvious illegal activity in here."
"Bonus points if we actually set the place on fire," Spike added, gently tapping a foot against one of the crates.
"We aren't," Brick told him. He received a level stare in response, and looked flatly at Zane. "We aren't, right?"
Unresponsive, Zane observed as Spike summoned the Sword again, stabbed it right in the middle of a crate, and made a vertical cut, then a few more cuts, chopping apart the wooden boards. Although it would've been rather comical if guns came pouring out like an avalanche of steel and lead, the unfunny reality was that all three of them had to strain their backs and laboriously pull on the box inside the crate, then mess around with a knife to get the lid to open with a plasticine thunk, to reveal pristine, new Kalashnikov Concern models in dark gray molds.
"Definitely illegal," Zane said.
"Definitely," Spike echoed.
"Aye," Brick said.
"Indeed. Very illegal."
All of them looked to behold the source of the fourth voice, behind them.
Standing next to the half-conscious thugs, looking over at them with a polite smile, was a sharply-dressed man in a red velvet coat, an immaculately-pressed black dress shirt, red business tie, and cotton pants. Atop his head was a gentleman's top hat, likewise red-and-black. His hands were covered by white servant's gloves, a black suitcase held in one hand, an expensive watch clasped around the wrist of the other. His upper face was concealed with a brow-to-cheek mask made from white porcelain, its eyes a pair of hollow dark pits, with a mystical third eye on the forehead drawn in black ink. He almost gave the impression of a lawyer.
"I am Sirius, but you may call me Mr. Wisteria," he answered the question on everyone's mind, moving closer. He reached into his coat, pulled out a business card, then extended it. Although he hesitated at first, Zane accepted it, pinching it away from the man's hold with two fingers.
SENIOR OLYMPUS CORPORATION REPRESENTATIVE
SIRIUS WISTERIA
There were a few more details under that. An address for some kind of office building downtown, as well as a phone number.
"Apologies for being so late," Mr. Wisteria said indifferently. "There were a few misfiling accidents, leading to my tardiness."
Brick cocked his head, looking vaguely on edge. "Who are you?"
"Answer or I'll fuck you up," Zane said casually.
"I wouldn't recommend that," Mr. Wisteria told him with the voice of someone about to stick their hand into a nest of hornets. "As I was saying, I apologize for my tardiness. I am Sirius Wisteria, senior representative. It's my job to ensure that you are up-to-date on recent events relating to our product, as well as to answer any questions which I have been cleared to answer or know the answers to. Before I do, I would like to inform you that any user of a Godcard is privy to exactly four phone calls using the number on the business card, and no more, for the duration of their lifetime. Use them wisely. Now then, any questions?"
"Again, I'll ask," Brick said - slowly, menacingly, stretching the words. "Who are you?"
As if unsure how to answer such a simple question, Mr. Wisteria looked at them with palpable confusion. A second later, that confusion seemed to abate or clear, replaced with a shot of abrupt clarity.
"Ah." He paused, uncomfortably. "I see how it is."
No one had anything to say to that.
"Simply put," the man said, "I am a representative of Olympus, a corporation. One of its main products is the Godcards you are using. It's standard procedure for users who haven't received the usual documentation along with their Cards to be met with a representative such as myself. As you've made a rather impressive move tonight against one of the other Cardbearers, using a Godcard - or, shall I say, God
cards - of your own, Olympus has officially recognized you as players. Hence why I am here. I have come here to answer your questions and to let you know about the upcoming meeting."
As it turned out, all of the Cardbearers in New York converged once a month, right after the night of the full moon, on a neutral ground of sorts, usually somewhere in or around Manhattan. Occasionally, the location was changed in order to maintain secrecy or prevent anyone with the right ability from building up an advantage over anyone else. It was an activity endorsed by the Olympus Corporation directly, struck in agreement with one of the Cardbearer groups, and so Olympus sent representatives or informational dockets to new users in order to induct them into the proper order of things.
Although meeting attendance wasn't mandatory, it was strongly recommended, especially for newbies such as themselves - it was an opportunity for discussion, diplomacy, trade of services; the making of alliances, or declaration of conflicts. A debut of several new Cardbearers who'd made such overtures in their first couple of nights would surely raise eyebrows and excite a few players; Mr. Wisteria assured them this was a good thing; an opportunity to make good money or, at least, gain access to new abilities via the proxy of a favor-based exchange system that some of the Cardbearers liked to use.
Maybe Zane wasn't the most verbose person in the world, but he could read between the lines.
Ever so subtly, the man was implying Mephistopheles would murder them for this slight, and the meeting was a chance to either clear the air or acquire allies to help them survive whatever counter-attack he'd launch in response.
"Now... it's, ah... nearing midnight," he said, glancing down at his watch. As he looked back up at them, he offered a firm nod. "Which means that I have to go. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Sirs Boreads, Phobos, and... er, Br-Brick."
Brick sniggered.
Mr. Wisteria left without another word, shaking his head.
---
Amazingly, you've accumulated
18.5 Ambrosia. Most of this amount can be attributed to Sara, who made a few daring guesses and then wagers on Discord, as well as Joe, whose animations channeled the awesome power of the gods into the quest. Hats off to you!
Now, after calling down the authorities on the warehouse (as well as stealing some of the cash kept in there as a top-up,) there were a few choices to make...
[ ] Attend the Meeting - As Mr. Wisteria had said, it's a very good opportunity to make friends and bury the hatchet with your enemies. Alternatively, you can simply pay someone off to help protect you and your loved ones from Mephistopheles and the Zuchezzis.
[ ] It's A Trap! - And it's pretty damn obvious, too - Wisteria isn't trustworthy. There is no way to confirm any of his claims or check if he doesn't work for Mephistopheles. It could all be bullshit meant to lure you into a vulnerable position.
A Godcard can only belong to a single person at a time, and while a given owner can have multiple Godcards, he can only use one at a time. The last person to touch a Godcard is its owner. The last card a person touched is the one they are using. Although giving a Godcard to someone else temporarily removes your ownership of the card itself, if you ever take it back, it'll remember all of the powers it had granted you before and restore them. On the night of the full moon, the Godcards in someone's belonging are improved for that person.
However, this means you'll have to find a profitable/efficient way of distributing them...
[ ] The Glaringly Obvious Solution - Allow Spike to retain ownership of Phobos, while you retain ownership of Boreads. Although this is a sour deal for Brick, his compatibility is relatively low and his power isn't bad enough to warrant any particular improvements.
[ ] Pure Greed - Instead, you retain ownership of both Cards. Let's see what happens...
[ ] Selfless - Hand over Boreads to Brick instead. Who knows? Maybe his compatibility has expanded to the point where he'll surpass you in power?
[ ] Switcheroo - Instead, Spike receives Boreads, and Zane gets Phobos. A rather strange option, but it could work to your advantage.
The next update is a build vote. I suggest mining Ambrosia while you can!
