“My Shadow,” Molesque said, “We have a situation.”
The Shadow of the Giant and Nomatrius Dorucanthos were in the council chambers. Nomatrius sat at his usual seat at the table, the Shadow near the entrance, leaning against a wall. Molesque looked nervous as he walked through the hall, his clawed hands shaking a bit.
“Approach,” the Shadow said, “Come, I will join you.”
The thin, pale metahuman guided Molesque to the table. Nomatrius's brow furrowed at the sight of him. Barring the usual Warrior leadership, Luminary had put Molesque in charge of organizing the defenses here at Mt. Redress, in case an attack came from the Oshya:de. There was little to fear, the council supposed, for the Oshya:de were scattered and disorganized, a broken people upon the land. Those Workers who had joined with them were on the outskirts of society.
But the New Ludayans had not taken a census, to record who had left them and who had stayed behind.
They had not realized the depths that would scour them.
“Thousands of Workers are approaching the mountain,” Molesque said, “Thousands.”
Nomatrius stood up at this.
“I'll talk to them,” he said.
“Don't bother,” the Shadow of the Giant said, “You stay in here. They won't talk to you. They won't talk to anyone on the council.”
He looked to Molesque.
“Gather what Warriors you can. Those with abilities that cover a wide area-”
“The hell does that mean?” Nomatrius growled, “What do you have planned?”
“A deterrent, nothing more,” the Shadow of the Giant said, “We are outnumbered, so we must outpower those below.”
Nomatrius glared at the Shadow. Considered his words.
The Dorucanthos had dealt with a strike but once. Long ago, before New Ludaya, when he had been entering into the field of shoka fruit farms. A union had sprung up, and the workers had all agreed to stop working until their demands were met.
They were reasonable, Nomatrius had noted, as a young man. Better wages. Food and water, the latter especially so, for the summers of Sieren Salhar, when shoka fruits grow best, were searing and blistering.
There had been negotiations. But it had ended with the mechanical Strikebreakers, on loan from Neos, being brought in to clear the union out. Heads were cracked. And that was that.
Nomatrius still regretted it.
This, and more, turned in his head.
“...Alright,” he said, “But I'll be watching.”
One of his alphadogs erupted from his chest, landing lightly on the table before padding down beside the Shadow. Its head was the letter Theta, a circle with a line through its center, and despite the severity of the situation, its tail was wagging.
“Agreeable,” the Shadow said, “You stay here, with your family. I'll go and disperse them.”
***
Pauldros the Stonemaker had crafted a small window for himself, far above near the upper rooms of Mt. Redress.
(The natives had called it Father Mountain.)
He was looking out the window at the procession below. An ocean of light and movement. Thousands of metahumans, and he knew them to be metahumans, for they were burning or glowing or chanting or sending off sparks of electricity into the air. Aye, metahumans were below, swarming around the mountain's base.
Workers, he knew them to be. For he heard the distant sounds of battle, as the Warriors fought against the High Federation, that endless story of oppression and reaction.
He had been trying to shake himself from his stupor of guilt. Try and find some sort of meaning in all that he had done. The memories that Memoire had stolen away from him had returned in full force, and even now they crashed against him like waves on the shore, reminding him of the violence that he had enacted upon the people here.
Gods, the naivety one possessed, even two years before. All of life was just looking back at the past with regret and ill-learned lessons.
A group of metahumans were approaching the Workers. Spreading out. The Shadow of the Giant, that damnable eel, was heading the procession. Pauldros stood up from where he was slumped over.
If the Shadow of the Giant was outside, with a group of the more powerful Warriors, then it meant that he had a chance.
A chance to find the Pit, and make things right.
***
Joe recognized Prehistoric beside the Shadow of the Giant. Two of Luminary's cronies, her most loyal of servants staying behind to defend Father Mountain. But he could tell by the look on Prehistoric's face that he was not prepared for the full ocean of Workers who had come out for this. Explosions rang behind them, in the far distance, as one of many fates of Ganá:yeht played out.
The Workers were strategically placed by Lunus Oculus to surround the Oshya:de, who were scattered among them. One could not target one of the natives of the plan without targeting one of the Workers.
And despite the blood that had already been spilled, there was still hesitation in the Warriors. Their own country stood out before them, their siblings by the metagene. If there was violence, it would be against human and metahuman both.
Joe stood beside Lunus Oculus as she took point, approaching the Shadow of the Giant and Prehistoric. The Shadow was standing simply on an upraised stone, just before the ramp that led up to the Traveling Point. Even now, with all of the unrest, a group of Warriors were guarding it, to prevent any Pagan Chorus reinforcements from jumping through and joining the Sovereign Melody.
Lunus Oculus gave Joe a quick glance, and he nodded, almost imperceptibly, at her.
He was the muscle. She was one of the voices.
“What is this?” the Shadow of the Giant asked, “What is going on here?”
His thin voice sounded amused, but there was a deep current of anger running underneath it. Joseph had used that same sardonic tone plenty of times, he recognized it like an old friend. He found himself smirking at the realization.
“You know damn well what this is,” Lunus Oculus said, “We're here to take Father Mountain.”
“Father Mountain?” the Shadow said, “I see no Father Mountain here. This is Mt. Redress, Lunus Oculus, and though I can see many of the indigenous here, they must use its new name.”
“No.”
This came from Tekahentakwa. The Clan Mother stood with them, protected by Rohahes. Despite everything, she had insisted on coming here, with the throng of Workers and Oshya:de. Despite the Warriors that now surrounded the Workers, threatening to kettle them in.
“You stole this place from us,” Tekahentakwa said, “You stole our world. A thief does not get to rename what they have stolen. It rings hollow.”
The Shadow of the Giant looked down at her. At her deerhide clothes and moccasins. At Rohahes, with his stone tomahawk and his cap made of wood and feathers. He had heard these words, once. Spoke them, too.
He had much like these natives, once.
But not anymore.
“That matters little,” he said, “Not when our greatest enemy is there, and on the other side of the Traveling Point. The time has come. War is here. And instead of unifying, you come before the Council with requests and complaints and the usual incessant whining.”
“Is there even a Council, anymore?” Lunus Oculus said.
“Of course there is a Council,” the Shadow of the Giant said, “There will be replacements, selected for those who have left us.”
“And will there be voices in that Council?” Lunus Oculus said, “A member of the Workers? Of Warriors, too? Or will it all be self-appointed, as it was before?”
The Shadow sighed.
“I don't know,” he said, “The revelation of these natives here-”
(Tekahentakwa looked about to throw herself at the thin man)
“-Has shaken the nation. There are lessons to be learned.”
He looked down at her. Almost glared at her.
“But those lessons will not be learned if we are all dead. There is an active wartime operation happening right now. Those Workers who cannot fight are to go to their assigned bunkers to wait things out.”
He glanced at the sea of faces staring up at him.
God, how he hated his role as the leader of the Warriors.
“Do you hear me?” he said, and then, he shouted out, “Go home! Leave us to your safety! To your-”
“We're not leaving,” Tekahentakwa said.
The Shadow looked at her.
“You are not metahuman,” he said, “Go where you will. But you will leave here at once.”
The Clan Mother crossed her arms over her chest.
“No,” she said, “I will not.”
Here, now, did the tensions rise. The Shadow of the Giant exhaled, and something began climbing up, seemingly out of the earth, behind him. Shadow and Giant separated, one became two, and a single giant eye from the singular giant being stared down at her.
“You will leave,” he said, “We will deal with you afterwards.”
“Are are not something that you can 'deal with,'” Tekahentakwa said, “We... we are not something you can ignore. We are here. We have survived what your leaders have given us.”
Rohahes unlooped his axe.
“And we want our home back,” Tekahentakwa said.
There was a stark silence.
The air began to reek of ozone. Lunus glanced at Joe, who gave her a tightened smile.
“That is not an option,” the Shadow of the Giant said, “We are here now. It is not so easy to remove us.”
“We've lived here for barely two years, lad.”
Amoeboy moved out from the crowd. He was holding a simple jar in his hand, and a cloud of hay surrounded him.
“Two years,” the old farmer said, “Two hundred. It doesn't matter. We've been made party to a horrid thing, and now we have to make things right.”
“I will hear no more of this,” the Shadow said, “Leave. That is an order.”
“I don't listen to children,” Amoeboy said, “Now, move aside, or-”
The Giant moved quickly. He swiped at the old farmer. For a horrid moment, the crowd watched, gasped, a few screamed, as the old man's body hung, suspended in the air, for a brief moment, and then the hay coalesced, catching him before he hit the ground.
Warriors whispered to each other. Workers looked stunned. The hay cloud came down into the center of the crowd, and someone pushed through to check on Amoeboy's vitals.
“That is what will happen to you!” the Shadow screamed, “What I did to him, I will do to you, if you do not disperse, and-”
Someone in the crowd threw a sharpened stone. It cracked against the side of the Shadow's head, sending him reeling back. The Shadow placed a shaking hand against his temple, and he looked down at it to see it stained with midnight blood.
And then he looked at Prehistoric.
“Get rid of them,” he said, “Make them leave.”
Joe heard this. He rolled his shoulders.
“Well, let's get on with it,” he said.
He pointed, and unleashed a lightning bolt at the Giant's face. It struck the Giant directly in the eye. Both Shadow and Giant reeled from this. Workers were pushing forward with a roar. Oshya:de drew weapons. Metahuman powers activated.
At first, the Warriors surrounding them were unsure of what to do. The crowd surged over them, even trampled a few, pulling them down and stomping them in a desperate push towards the ramp. A few Workers with earth-moving abilities started climbing the walls of Father Mountain directly, scrabbling up to get to the various entrance points that Pauldros had carved at the nation's inception.
And then the Warriors started fighting back.
It was Firespeaker who went first. Who realized that, if he did not do something, then the Workers would tear him to pieces. His metahuman power was that he spoke flame. He did not speak at all, most days, and when he needed to communicate with others, it was in the form of hand signals and burning whispers.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Not this roar that he unleashed, and with it a firestorm that washed over the Workers. People screamed as they caught aflame. Aldreia rushed over, praying to Pelliad under her breath, the solar god that she cursed as much as she still claimed to worship, and the flames began peeling from Firespeaker's victims and towards her open palm.
Elsewhere, Rohahes moved to get Tekahentakwa away from the bulk of the fighting. They dodged back as Cobalt Joe rushed the stone that the Shadow of the Giant was on. For a moment, the metahuman almost seemed to fly as his soul erupted all around him, and it slammed into the Giant with a triumphant shriek.
“Duck,” Rohahes said, simply, and he threw his tomahawk as Prehistoric surged towards them as a great beaked thing. The axe cut deep into the pterosaur's shoulder, and for a moment Prehistoric floundered, before he folded in on himself and transformed once more, hitting the ground as a three-horned beast that charged instead of flew, knocking metahumans and Oshya:de aside to get to Tekahentakwa.
“NO!”
A mass of flesh and metal put himself between Tekahentakwa and the triceratops. Iandi brought up two massive hands, catching Prehistoric's charge, the ground beneath his feet giving way as he absorbed the full blow, positioning himself so he would not be gored by the metahuman's horns.
“YOU DON'T!” the Mark Eta roared.
And he lifted Prehistoric into the air. Spun him for a few moments, and then threw him away. Prehistoric ragdolled through the air, before crashing into the mountain's side and falling down to one of the ledges, which broke beneath him, and he rolled down to one of the staircases, finally stopping in a heap.
He did not get up. He merely stared, in shock, at what had just happened, transforming back into his metahuman form.
Joe, meanwhile clawed at the Giant with a fervent ferocity, claws scraping and slashing and digging away at the Giant's chest, tearing away hunks of darkness as the Giant stumbled back.
Then massive hands, cold as ice, grabbed the soul's back, and the Shadow of the Giant ripped his assailant off of him. The Giant held Joe at arm's length.
“You,” the Shadow said, “Cobalt Joe.”
“'Sup,” Joe said.
“You are certainly proving yourself to be something of a nuisance,” the Shadow said, “Tell me, have you thought any more of my questions?”
“Haven't had the time,” Joe replied, “To be honest, I've been a bit busy.”
“These are interesting times,” the Shadow said.
“Yeah,” Joe said, “They are.”
He dropped the soul, and with it, the Shadow's grip. The Giant was fast, however, regrabbing Joe, but by now Joe's lightning had built back up, and he threw another spear of lightning full in the Giant's chest, where he had been digging. The wound exploded in a shower of light and shadow, and Joe fell-
Just as a cloud of hay took hold of him, and carried him to the ground.
“Thanks, Needle,” he said, “Amoeboy alright?”
The straw quivered in response. The Shadow was stumbling back, screaming as the Giant lost its form for a few moments, smearing like watercolor, before it reformed. A single eye glared at Joe.
By now, many of the Workers were breaking through. Pushing up the ramp, or up the sides of the mountain.
Oshya:de joined them. Firespeaker fell to the ground, an arrow pierced through his throat, and he spoke no more.
The Giant moved to intercept them, to cut off the ramp so they could not climb up.
“Oh, no,” Joe said, “You deal with me.”
Hay surrounded him like a cloud of knives. He pointed, and they surged forward, piercing the Giant's skin.
And he threw a bolt of lightning, not at the Giant, but the Shadow. Who had to jump away to avoid the strike. Joe ran after him, and the two started moving up the mountain's side, up the ramp and towards one of the staircases that led into the interiors.
The main passage into Father Mountain closed up. One of Molesque's defenses, so that people could not use the entrance.
This pinned them against the mountain's side, and those Warriors who had chosen to take up arms aimed their powers at them.
Clouds of gas washed over the Workers and Oshya:de, choking them out.
Boulders of ice slammed into their number.
Some of the Workers fell to the ground, shaking, as an invisible force tugged at their nervous systems.
One of the Oshya:de started screaming, before swelling up and exploding in a shower of gore.
Prehistoric dragged himself up from where Iandi had thrown him. He grimaced as everything ached. He had somehow broken a rib, despite the fact that damage in his transformed state didn't transfer over to his metahuman body.
But broken he was, as he crawled over to view the destruction.
The strike was breaking. Workers took up arms, fired at the Warriors, but to be a Warrior was to have an ability that was optimal for combat, both offensive and defensive. The clouds of gas surged away from the group and hardened. The metahuman wielding ice covered themselves in it like armor.
And Prehistoric knew, deep down, that no matter what happened, no matter if they defeated the Federation or not, that New Ludaya was finished.
…
…
High above, on the overlook that held the Traveling Point, Pocket watched the battle.
As Warriors used their powers on Workers and the natives of this plane.
She had managed to get Analyza up here. Had practically snuck her onto the platform, on the excuse that she would be able to scan the Traveling Point with those beautiful eyes of hers. But really, it was to make sure that she didn't get mixed up in all of this.
They had already packed their bags.
“Horrible,” one of the Warriors, Leafy, said, “Absolutely atrocious.”
We should speak of Leafy. A woman with skin like an oak's bark, and with leaves for hair. Her head was a sauropod’s head. She had the power to control and manipulate leaves, and like Needle she could strengthen them and make them as sharp as knives, and she always carried a basket full of them. She was Stepping Stone's friend.
She watched the battle below with revulsion on her face.
“We're to guard the Traveling Point,” Pocket said, shouldering her rifle, “No matter what happens down there, our duty's to make sure the Federation doesn't come pouring out.”
“I know,” Leafy said, “I know, but...”
She watched as a few Workers, as well as one of the natives, broke off from the rest of them, trying to escape into the forest. A Warrior went after them, freezing them in place with funnels of ice.
“I can't stomach this,” Leafy said, “I can't let this go on. I...”
“Remember your duty,” Pocket said, “If you-”
But Leafy wasn't listening. She gestured, and leaves pulled from her basket, forming into a flying canoe. She jumped into it, and descended down.
Two of her leaves flicked, and they rushed forward as boomerangs, cutting down the ice-wielding Warrior.
Pocket shook her head. Turned around to look at Analyza.
And saw sympathy painted on her wife's face.
“Ana, no,” Pocket said.
“She's right,” Analyza said, “It's a slaughter down there.”
“I know it is,” Pocket said, “But we've been through this sort of thing before. We'll be alright.”
“I...” Analyza grimaced, “I don't... We can't let this happen, Pock. They’re killing them.”
Pocket shook her head.
“My priority is making sure the Federation doesn't wipe us out,” she said, “My priority, is you.”
One of the other Warriors, a winged metahuman named Sweep, watched the war below. Then, he, too, took off to join it. Feathers tore from his wings, pierced through his once-fellow Warriors.
“I don't want that,” Analyza said, “I want us to... I don't want us to regret this.”
Pocket glared at her wife. Then looked at those who remained with her.
Fifteen Warriors, now fourteen, had been arrayed against the Traveling Point. Earthshaker, Bloodcurdle, and Rowsby Woof looked about ready to jump off into the fray.
It was Stelman the Lunar who spoke up, however. Tallest of their number, with ivory skin and silverish hair, he shook his head at the sight of the slaughter below.
“We have our own battle,” he said, “What happens below is but one part of it.”
“Easy for you to say,” Analyza said, reproachfully, “Look at you, all high and mighty and-”
Stelman glared at her with such an intense ferocity that Pocket put herself in front of her wife. The Lunar's nostrils flared, and he took a deep, shuddering breath.
“If you will fight, then fight,” he said, “I understand. Truly, I do. But...”
He glanced at the rippling Traveling Point.
“All of this nonsense, while the Federation lies in wait, just on the other side. Someone has to guard. While we fight amongst ourselves, someone must be vigilant.”
He drew his sword, glittering and pearl-crusted. His one item that he had been able to bring from his home, on far-off Echo.
“And the rest of you?” Pocket said, looking at them.
Jodora was quiet, and turned away. A few others did, as well.
But Rowby Woof stepped forward. Earthshaker and Bloodcurdle. Tangoman, still in his Prime spandex.
“Pock,” Analyza said, “You know what the Warriors are doing is wrong.”
Her wife did not respond.
“Pocket,” Analyza said, “Please.”
“...Just the two of us,” Pocket said, “Always, right?”
She looked down at Analyza. Sighed.
“I really was thinking about kids here, Ana,” Pocket said, “And that's not going to happen now, is it?”
More screams. Far below, a metahuman with thick, spiked tentacle arms whipping at a group of natives and Workers. A snap, and the tendrils tore through a Worker's throat. Another removed the skin from a native's back.
Pocket began removing pieces from the slits on her arms. A scope. A muzzle. A folding stock. A suppressor, which she snapped to the end of the rifle.
“At least we can prevent more families from breaking apart,” Ana said, “Right?”
Pocket took aim.
The metahuman with the whip-arms. Shoharis was his name. A kind soul, Pocket knew. She had even babysat for his kid.
How awful he looked, such savage glee on his face.
The first bullet pierced through his chest, the second through his eye.
He hit the ground.
Pocket looked at the others.
“I'll take a higher ridge,” she said, “Rowsby, join Sweep and Leafy in the sky. Earthshaker, go down, take up a defense up the ramp. Bloodcurdle.”
She looked at the wolfish woman, who was already growing larger, a second pair of arms erupting from her side.
“Eliminate any Warriors you can see,” she said, “You're better as a wrench in their plans.”
Bloodcurdle snarled, and leaped off the edge. She hit the ground running, tackling one of the Warriors to the ground.
***
“There we are,” Molesque said. He and a few others were arrayed on the other side of the entrance into Mt. Redress. They could hear the sounds of Workers and natives through the stone. The sounds of death.
Molesque swallowed at the sound. He didn't like hearing it, not one bit. They reminded him far too much of his days in Krenstone, during the Rioting Days. So many dead, across all of the Towers. His brother had died, his head cracked open by one of the mechanical Strikebreakers, imported from Neos.
The screams, those horrid screams, he had to resist the urge to cover his ears.
“That should hold them,” he said, to his crew.
(To himself.)
“The Shadow will regain order,” Molesque said, “Let a few people bleed out, then he'll get everyone back on their feet. Back to work.”
He inspected his handiwork, a smooth stone that fit evenly into the entrance, to cut people off, either from going in, or going out. A strikebreaker's-
(He swallowed his sudden guilt.)
-No, an artisan's handiwork. Perfect for times of siege.
“Molesque,” one of his workers said, “Behind us.”
The foreman turned.
And saw the Stonemaker standing in the hallway. In the half-dusk of the enclosed tunnel, he looked like a drooping shadow, and they could only see the whites of his eyes as he considered them.
“L-Lord Stonemaker,” Molesque said, “You surprise us.”
He smiled his nervous smile.
Pauldros ignored this. He, instead, cast his gaze across the tunnel. It was larger than most of the others within the mountain, to better accommodate traffic coming in and going out. He had carved it himself, before anyone else had even arrived to New Ludaya save for the Founders.
His first work, aside from the killing and the death, had been here. Hewing away holy stone, scarring sacred ground.
No more.
He rested a hand against the wall.
“No,” Molesque said, “Stonemaker-”
The earth shook. Rippled.
And then the entrance opened.
***
Oshya:de warriors and Workers had managed to secure a path up to the entrance.
The entire clearing before Father Mountain was in chaos. Warriors turned upon Warriors. Metahuman power rang out in conflagrations, catching anyone who was too unlucky to be caught in gouts of fire, or living screams, or leaves that cut as knives.
Whatever counter that the Shadow had planned for the protestors, it had dissolved into violence. The Giant was nowhere to be seen, having chased Cobalt Joe as the Amber Foundation guildmember led him into the forest.
Meanwhile, the Oshya:de and the Workers took hold of a second wind. Oshya:de skirmishers charged at the Warriors in twos and threes. As Tekahentakwa and Rohahes made a rush towards the entrance, they watched as three Oshya:de, stringy and exhausted, yet still emboldened, fell upon one of the Warriors. Light lanced at the Oshya:de, obliterating one of them, but his two comrades charged forward, one thrusting a spear into the Warrior's stomach, the other leaping into the air and planting a tomahawk in the metahuman's forehead.
Still more were scrabbling up the mountain. Members of Tekahentakwa's own clan, Mountain reclaimed mountain, as they worked to secure staircases, and smaller openings into the rock.
For what the Warriors lacked were numbers. Even with their vast powers, even if they had been selected by the Shadow to cut through the protest in large swathes, there were only so many of them. And, even then, the entire class was quickly splintering. It was not just New Ludaya loyalists who flew the skies. Now those Warriors who could not stomach... all of this, fought their brethren. Some were careful. Some did not know how to be careful, as they killed their own.
Bodies tumbled out of the sky.
One almost slammed into Rohahes on the ramp, and he jumped to the side to avoid it, was careful not to let the new pool of gore slip him up, as he finally made it to the entrance.
Which was, now, opening.
“Stay together!” he heard Lunus Oculus screaming, “Stay together! Don't let them separate us!”
“Together!” the Workers around her called out.
There were a few metahumans on the entrance's other side. A portly-looking metahuman with large, mole-like claws. A few more with feathers on their heads, one with three arms, the third sticking out of his chest.
And they were swallowed in a sea of mass as the Oshya:de and Workers poured into the opening.
All over the mountain, they found ways in. Like breaking an egg, piece by piece, they found ways in.
The Oshya:de were in the mountain.
…
…
Meloche stayed outside.
As much of the fighting drove into the mountain, the philosopher took a chance to catch his breath. Let his sap regenerate, for he had sloughed so much of it off during the battle that he had almost exposed his actual body in certain places. His left arm. Some of his torso region.
He walked unsteadily towards the mountain ramp. Workers were outside, moving about, tending to the wounded. A few of the Oshya:de, too, one of them falling to his knees and crying out at his dead brother's body.
Meloche watched this mourning with a weary sag in his entire body. Many Workers here, left behind, dead or injured.
And it was not exhaustion that stopped Meloche there, that stayed his step, and made him not even lift a finger to help.
It was shell shock.
Shock, at what had just happened. At the bloodshed.
A groan behind him. He turned.
“Prehistoric,” he said.
The metahuman was crawling towards him, his breathing ragged and choked, and he was shaking as he rose to his feet.
He glared at Meloche, but drew no further.
“Damn it all,” Prehistoric said, “Damn it all to hell.”
“You've all done well to do that,” Meloche said.
The Warrior was quiet at that. He took a few unsteady steps, before he clutched his head and half-fell, half-sat, beside Meloche.
“What's going to happen?” Prehistoric asked.
“I imagine it will be chaos, no matter what,” Meloche said, “People will be sad. People will be angry. As it is on every other plane.”
A few more of the Oshya:de were coming out of the forest, medics to help with the injured. One of them ran over, started applying salves and bandages to one of the Workers.
“Wasn't supposed to be like this,” Prehistoric muttered, “Was supposed to be...”
“Paradise,” Meloche said, “Yes, that term has been thrown around quite a bit.”
A few Warriors loyal to Luminary were holding out on one of the outcroppings of stone. One was firing scales from her arms, the other was opening his mouth, and a gout of pure darkness swallowed up a group of Workers pushing towards them.
An errant arrow from one of the Oshya:de pierced through the scale-armed metahuman's throat. One of the Workers rushed forward, bowling the darkness-spewing metahuman to the rocks below.
He broke upon them.
The Worker looked down for a moment, his companions leaving him to enter into the mountain, and he turned and retched.
Meloche turned to Prehistoric.
“Are you going to do anything?” he asked.
Prehistoric thought for a long time.
Then shook his head.
“Hit harder than I thought I'd be hit,” he said, “I'm... I'm down.”
“Good,” Meloche said, “Very good. Stay down, my friend.”
The philosopher rose to his feet.
“I will see you when we dream again.”