A week before current events, the same day on which The Tyrant of Saana had been stabbed in the back at a dinner with friends, a few hours prior to that betrayal. In-game, Chayoka Island, The World Palace, the office of Mayonnaise, leader of Flaming Sun.
The office had a feel of colonial luxury. Its walls had been built excessively tall in order to accommodate a museum's worth of artefacts plundered from throughout The Company's broad-reaching domains. There were Nilkan mummies from the west ready to be re-animated for war, Volefan scrolls donated by the three great libraries of the east, and much more. Airing out this stuffy opulence was a breeze entering through an open patio door, wafting in the balmy tropical weather and the laughter of staff members' children frolicking in the palace courtyard outside.
Three chairs had been placed out for a televised interview, presently watched by millions of tuned-in fans and haters.
The first seated the show's host, Oliver Spears, 2049's Gaming Journalist of The Year and representative of Channel 5 News.
On the second was the owner of this place, Saana's shiniest star, Mayonnaise a.k.a. Alex Wong. Flaming Sun's eccentric guild leader had dressed up for the occasion in full battle armour. Only his helmet had been laid aside to reveal an arrogant face and an even more arrogant mullet hairdo, vaguely reminiscent of a semiaquatic rodent native to North America.
And the third displayed the beaver-head's most cherished friend: the Ortheerian zweihander, Worlddevourer. In an act of supreme vanity, this Legendary weapon had been allocated its own key light to enhance the shimmer of its golden blade.
"Not a single day?" remarked Oliver in astonishment.
The beaver-head flashed his arrogantly white teeth. "Not a single hour, Ollie. I swear on my mother's life. For those two months, I didn't log on once."
"Interesting. Let's pause on that note." Oliver, breaking from the conversation, turned to an assistant through whose point-of-view the interview was being broadcast. "We'll return after these messages from our sponsors."
The pair relaxed as the broadcast played a montage of Alex Wong hacking apart hundreds of guys in a Rocky-style training sequence - the clip, and the interview, were promotional material for the winter season's grandest international tournament, to be held a fortnight hence in Heimland. Alex saluted with a cup of coffee to a teenage subordinate sighing as they hurried off in the background, the teen having accidentally interrupted near the segment's end after being called by their cocky guild leader to bring the drink from the book-café across the courtyard. Oliver Spears, meanwhile, paying that interaction far less attention than it deserved, broke into a self-satisfied grin as he brought out a clutch of Memory Spheres and arranged them on the table between him and his interviewee.
For the journalist, this had been the highlight of the new decade so far. After months of petitioning for a one-on-one with Flaming Sun's charismatic commander, Alex Wong had finally agreed. His organisation's acceptance may have been due to tacky hype-building reasons, but that hadn't stopped Oliver from coercing their conversation into an outstanding piece of reportage.
In 40 minutes of parrying jokes, he'd extracted many novel insights from Saana's leading man. Starting with Alex Wong's membership in the game's previous instalment in China and the world's then top entity, Heaven's Mountain, they covered his period as a trainee in the guild's arena team, his unexpected ejection, and his multi-year, multi-pronged vengeance plot with Flattening Mountains that'd culminated in Operation Phantom Limbs and The War of Heavenly Mountains, in which his ally-turned-enemy had been annihilated. They'd also discussed his return in Saana III with the crafting guild Flaming Sun and this organisation's recent expansion into real-world investments.
Through Oliver's persistence, everyone tuning in had been allowed to meet the person behind 'Mayonnaise', this larger-than-life character.
It'd been a fabulous set-up on the journalist's part. Now came the pay-off.
-Rich R Ronson: SPEARS! What's with the Spheres? I hired you to report the news, not polish bowling balls! Get them out of there!
-Oliver Spears: I recommend keeping the feed live unless you want an unexplainable broadcast incident.
Oliver had been granted the interview by his boss on the one condition he skirted around a certain subject. As a journalist, however, he was beholden by the greater interests of the public to not squander this opportunity, to not deprive the people of the honest truth.
-Rich R Ronson: SPEARS! I SWEAR ON GOD'S UNHOLY ARS—"
Muting his boss, the journalist signalled to his assistant filming to do likewise. If the televised broadcast was shut-down, they would continue transmitting to the audience connected in-game.
The beaver-head read a curious warning message from the producer. "Staging a coup, are we, Ollie?"
"No, lad. Coups aren't my forte." Oliver adorned a business smile for the viewers returning from the montage. "Wow, Mayonnaise, those goons sure looked fierce."
Alex decided to see where this would go. "I'd hope so; I paid an arm and two gilded legs for them."
Oliver jumped right into the accusations. "Continuing with the topic of your out-of-game charity investments through Flaming Sun, you said that, due to the demands of subsidiaries on your time, the onslaught of meetings with executives and sponsors and managers, that you hadn't had a single hour to log into the game through March and April."
"Not a single minute, Ollie. Yes, the charity work's been a real energy vampire, but, hey, I do it for the people." Alex winked at the cameraman. "The fame and money, those are side perks."
Oliver activated one of the Memory Spheres he'd laid out, expanding its projection for Alex and the audience. Shown in it was a cloaked figure with an identical stature to the interviewee on a horse galloping through a tropical woodland.
"March 28th," narrated the journalist, "The Forest of Menalakees Heejau in Nilke, situated between The Battle of Susunanbatu Fields and The Battle of Hogol Castle. The date and locations, for the viewers, correspond to The Schism of The Tyrants campaign, in which The Tyrant of Saana destroyed the coalition of The Company's defectors under The Eastern Tyrant and their enemies."
Alex shrugged. "My impersonators have spread out west...impressive."
"This 'impersonator' seems to have gotten your voice down pat. March 28th, after The Battle of Hogol Castle."
Oliver expanded another Memory Sphere scene, this one in a castle being occupied by an army. The beaver-head was standing below the entrance to the keep, staring upwards at a couple dozen NPCs that'd been stripped naked and arranged to spell the message, 'Too slow.' Still alive, the victims forming the letters were moaning as the weight of their bodies dragged on the nails fixing them to the wall. 'Crazy fuck,' Alex could be heard muttering, before shouting at his subordinates. 'What the fuck are you waiting for?! Climb! If they're not healed in two fucking minutes, I'll assume you've all defected to the side of that piece of shit!'
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The beaver-head being interviewed looked up from the clip and gave the viewers the shameless smile of one who'd been caught in a lie but didn't care because they'd already gotten away with it. "So my impersonators have spread into the field of professional voice actors...wow. I'm flattered."
"Please," begged Oliver, "let's drop the facile pretence. Right now, you and I are having a conversation in Chayoka, the nation ruled by The Company, in the 'The World Palace', the headquarters of The Company, surrounded by artefacts belonging to The Company and royal guards in The Company's uniform."
The assistant did a sweep of the room, revealing to the audience a number of burly soldiers who'd been off-screen with their weapons out, waiting for an order to dispatch the insolent reporter.
"This space? The items?" Alex took an amused sip of coffee. "I've got them all on lease."
Oliver pressed past that blatant falsehood. "The Attention East Saana Trading Company and Flaming Sun are one organisation, a fact you and your cronies have made no serious attempt to hide. 'Attention' and 'Flaming Sun' form an anagram for 'Flattening Mountains', your original and CURRENT alliance. Did you think the people wouldn't notice this?"
"Attention East…first I'm hearing of it, mate. I've only known those guys as The Company."
"Alex Wong, tell me, tell the people, why do insist on this childish joke, on prevaricating away from the reality that is obvious to everyone watching? You are the user crusadingintheshadows."
The beaver-head feigned half-arsed confusion. "Crusading in the what? Don't know who that dude is, but he's chosen a mega-weeb name. Me, I keep it simple," he pointed at the word 'Mayonnaise' flashing above him, "as mayonnaise. I promise you, Ollie-kun, I've never watched an anime in my life."
"Name-changing magic. September 7th, '49, Pravera in Heimland." Oliver presented a clip of a cloaked beaver-head sneaking out of a fort, 'crusadingintheshadows' flashing crimson above him. "You are crusadingintheshadows. You are The Tyrant." Before this accusation could be deflected, he tapped another Memory Sphere, showing the viewers Alex balancing on the prow of a ship in a small fleet zipping out of a harbour. "December 25th, 2049, Chayoka, The Tyrant sails northwards to meet the Red Cloak Reclamation." He followed with yet another incriminating Sphere of Alex parlaying between an enemy fort and his ash-grey-uniformed army; the beaver-head, in discussion with four NPCs in crimson mantles, poured each of them a cup of some liquid; the four clinked their drinks, cried a sarcastic, 'Hail to The Tyrant!', swallowed, and disintegrated to evaporate into the clouds. "January 7th, Qannonzeni, The Tyrant graciously accepts the Red Cloaks' surrender."
Oliver Spears continued in this way, hijacking the interview to present one nail of evidence after another and hammer each in, constructing an irrefutable case that the person across from him was The Tyrant.
The accused, meanwhile, reclined back in his chair as comfortably as was possible in plate-armour and drank his coffee, snickering at a private joke. Finally, growing bored with messing with this guy, resuming the actual charade, he reached over to the chair beside him. He seized his zweihander, Worlddevourer, and swung.
The Legendary blade cleaved through the jabbering reporter like a machete through a brick of spam. Quieted in an instant, the man was split straight through from the side, from skull to his seated bottom. His front half separated and fell forward, and all the blood in his inner cavity was slurped up by the weapon.
The corpse, two jerky-dry slabs of meat-and-bone, burst into lights.
Alex Wong, having rid himself of the pest without getting out of his seat, reclined back and turned a glance of expectation upon the filming assistant, staring hard into their eyes and those of the audience.
"Are you asking me to rise?"
His voice carried across the silent room, bringing with it a note of supreme authority, an unverbalised insinuation: to rise from my throne in this, my kingdom.
The assistant, wanting no further trouble with The Company, activated his suicide function and evaporated.
How tyrannical.
The present, Suchi, The Slums, outside a multi-story shack.
Oliver Spears, 2049's Gaming Journalist of The Year, stood before the enormous shack, trying to ignore a feral cat dozing beside the entrance that'd eaten enough rats to grow to the size of a husky.
From the palace to this festering den of sin, he lamented, how far he'd fallen from grace.
No doubt, Alex Wong, The Tyrant, had been aware of the downfall ahead for Oliver. The Company, with its corrupt, shadowy claws dug into everything, had always applied pressure to dissuade anyone reporting on his identity, withdrawing sponsorships from the news orgs, blocking their access to Saana League.
Had calling him out been worth this for Oliver, being demoted and excommunicated to this shithole zone, made to rot amongst the rats and thieves and prostitutes?
Yes, the journalist would answer. Without a single doubt.
He couldn't tolerate The Tyrant's absurd masquerade. Such a greedy, cupidinous wretch could not, after his ruthless campaign to demolish and suppress all opposition, be permitted to emerge a squeaky-clean celebrity, featuring at expensive charity galas and in children's cartoons. By most strains of logic, one would have believed the charade of his duality impossible to execute - The Tyrant's cruel genius should have been seared indelibly into the memory of the people. However, Oliver had watched with despair as the months had progressed, the game's player base had exploded, and a whole generation of ignoramuses had appeared. Everywhere one went, complaints could be heard about The Tyrant's restrictions through The Company while the same people, through Flaming Sun, happily rode The Tyrant's tour-boats and gawked at The Tyrant's tournaments.
Oliver couldn't tolerate it. Faced with such a hypocritical rewriting of history, no one committed to the journalistic spirit could have held their tongue.
Sighing, he approached the shack and knocked on the entrance. While waiting for a response, he fidgeted with the jitters of a virgin, re-adjusting his mask, his gaze flitting between the massive feral cat and the door taking too long to let him in.
A peephole slid open. "We don't accept Slum Points."
"G-gold," the journalist stammer-whispered. "My m-mates told me, told me to bring gold."
The entryway flung open, an armoured Crusader inviting him into a corridor lined with the slumped-over figures of guards zonked out on depressants. Oliver tip-toed in with false paranoia of someone naive enough to believe the authorities would set up a sting operation for a random noob visiting a brothel.
The establishment's interior was several grades of luxury above the wooden-shack exterior – part of an Ibanmothe tradition against ostentatious wealth displays and also a practical measure to avoid enticing burglars. Incense smoke smothered unsavoury scents; ornate carpets padding the walls and ceilings smothered unsavoury noises.
In a lounge, two dozen patrons were being entertained by topless NPC waitresses and dancers. Three of the customers were greenhorns like Oliver's disguise, masked-up and sticking the bar where they searched through glass after glass for courage. The rest were a mixture of NPCs and Empire veterans who, having embraced Suchi for all its worthlessness, didn't care to pussyfoot around with anonymity.
A tanned NPC with the lithe build of a marathonist, the brothel keeper, approached the new patron. "That beauty with the sky in her hair, that's Seihon. Rumour says she's a grand-daughter of the tall lord in blue."
Oliver's gaze was guided towards a dancer with azure hair—not Karnon's shade, dyed—entertaining drunks clapping out a rhythm after the brothel's musician had quit. She was performing a local, Ibangua style of dance in which one moved at a crawl through a series of minimalistic poses, the emphasis on accentuating the subtleties of physical control.
"Whether that's true," continued the brothel keeper, "I don't have a clue, but this I'll promise you, my young prince: one taste and you'll swear your skeletons' been ran thoroughly through The Maelstrom."
"How much?" Oliver blurted out.
"Whoa, ease back on the driftwood," the brothel keeper gently chided him for the lack of tact. "On the reg, thirty-three hundred with a bit of wiggle. But for you, my impatient prince, I'll cut the first sip at twenty-eight straight. That's your flavour?"
Oliver inspected the dancer with serious consideration as though oblivious to being overcharged.
"Then why not test your tongue with warmer waters?" The brothel keeper swept up a woman passing by, draped her across his arm like a cut of sashimi over rice, and caressed a flower in her curls. "A Rangbitan princess, floated to us across from two oceans and two seas, trained in The Duty of The Lover from none other than The Mother." Righting the woman back up, he sent her onwards with an arse slap. "And we're home to many others, brother. That's why they call us the people of the sand. Here, where the wayward winds converge, a picky prince can sample a grain drifted in from any corner of the globe - any colour, any age, any shape."
The undercover journalist, avoiding the brothel keeper's lecherous gaze, broached the topic of his fetish. "I've seen pictures of…" he gulped, "with eyes that are…that are all white."
"A No'Are girl? Nerin no, brother. I'm not one to risk spitting into dark corners." But the brothel keeper, blanking out while checking a Merchant interface for coordinating services, soon leaned close and whispered. "Our Frayeur's in the middle of tea. Can you wait for eight, brother prince?"
Oliver's eyes lit up at the No'Are name, the journalist experiencing genuine elation at the closure of his hunt.
He'd tracked down his prey. The link to the fifth and final orphan hand was here, the last puzzle piece for his on-going exposé of The Slum's sadistic Saviour.