The guy who pulled my ass out from that Incubi grease fire showed up yesterday. Just popped into the back of my head and said hi.
Fuck me, but that’s humiliating. And here I was thinking I was some kinda nova-hot Necro. Always fish dwelling deeper in the waters, I guess.
First thing he started talking about was my wards. Apparently, my modified Ashthrone Shedskin was leaving a bit more of my emotional resonance behind than I expected. Would’ve been nice to know before I did all those dives, but hey, eventually you learn or you die.
So yeah: Weirdest way I got a mentor so far. Guy seems nice. Too godsdamn nice to be from the Warrens. Strikes me as some kinda Guilder, maybe–but a working one. Maybe someone from Ori-Thaum has their eyes on me.
Jaus, that’ll be something–you rust up their dive and now they want to hire you.
Weirdest thing about it all is… the smell. The guy reeks of citrus. The taste leaks through the mem-data, and it stings. I don’t think even the actual fruits taste that fresh.
Well. He left me some vicarities to review. Stuff he “got” from other Necros on a dive. Ugly ends for all of them. I still can’t tell if he’s trying to scare the piss out of me or get me to learn.
Either way, I gotta see if I can get something on him. Figure out who he is.
Ignorance is fatal in this line of work, and right now, this guy’s got his gun pressed against my temple, but he’s more interested in making me a better shot.
Never a dull day in New Vultun.
-Mem-log of White Rab
13-13
The Silent War (II)
The rule among Necros was that if you encountered a sequence or phantasmic you couldn’t understand, it was probably going to end with you nulled.
With how long it was taking Avo to figure out the Low Masters’ trap, his growing apprehension told him that the direct approach here was likely unwise.
The broken minds of the Incubi were on display neatly, with their shells enchained along strings of flowing thought and fastened by a delicate few ghostly wisps. There was a special kind of callousness leaving the nulled mounted as such. It seemed his father’s alternates didn’t care if they caught the attention of a passing Exorcist, that the ego-deaths exposed like a set of trophies, offering the statement that the last Priests of Noloth were on safari, and they had a lust for big game.
Using his Whisper to secure the vicinity, Avo ground at the whetstone of time as he made his way closer to the cluster. Flashes of his encounter with the Low Masters trespassed into his mind, reminding him of their abilities. They had crippled the entirety of Ox-Three without strain and conjoined the minds to expand their capacity. The time that such an undertaking demanded should have stretched the length of entire weeks, but they achieved a perfect deception with far less.
And they didn’t even need a canon to help them.
Once again, the atmosphere shifted as the weight of uncertainty began to gnaw. Avo had taken to thinking himself a predator of these depths, a beast that preys upon the others. But there were fathoms beneath fathoms, monsters that preyed upon monsters.
His anxiety only grew as he found recollective fragments of Incubi sheared-free, buried within the sequences he crept through. Now, unending screams layered the ambiance of simulated memories, broken phantasmics sailing through simulated scenes of placidity.
The Exorcists were certain to find this–certain to learn the presence of Ori-Thaum within their system.
Did the Low Masters no longer care for secrecy? Or were they trying to provoke a response? Trigger a war between the two forces?
How would that serve their desire to reclaim the Helix from him and retake the George Washington?
More cognitive debris littered his path, and a new suspicion occupied Avo’s mind as the broken artifacts grew more orderly, almost like cobblestones made from nulled minds.
Or an invitational pathway.
He found his paranoia rewarded when he found himself five sequences across from the cluster. As he spoofed his way across a parallel branch, his cog-feed warned him of a dozen passing Exorcist accretions. The sheer amount of devastation present should have made the infiltration obvious. Yet, the patrol just kept going, even circling away from the compromised sequences deliberately.
Like someone was urging them to ignore, to not see the obvious damage.
A cold pang spread through Avo. The worry should have occurred to him before; if he could compromise so many Exorcists, why couldn’t the Low Masters?
The chill in him only grew as his Whisper cast its perception on a familiar Auto-Seance. One created from the mind of Yosanna Kivranpuvak–the turncoat Guilder he dove into at Ox-Three.
It was in her mind that Walton ebbed the Helix, and it was from her that Avo procured the key of his inheritance. Though Auto-Seance was cycling a sequence of memories through structure, Avo could still recall the neuter-mask covered faces of her twin boys in the elevator.
The phantasmic was loud and active. Its opening connected to the dull thoughtstuff flowing from the nulled Incubi, the dichotomy something like an intravenous needle feeding paltry drips of life into a still cavern.
Mem-data loaded from the other side unguarded by any encryptions. There were three minds that lurched across the veil. Three minds settled in a simulated environment molded from the phantasmal matter of fifty ghosts.
Avo urged his Whisper on to peek while his instincts screamed with contradictory responses. He should jack out; he should pour his Secondhand Fatality and nullify the phantasmic itself; he should try and free the Exorcists so they noticed the tumor that was growing under their eyes.
Or he could just go in and speak with them.
The last thought was illogical, and a conflicted desire unto itself.
Something in him still just wanted to look upon Walton’s face again. To feel reassured. But such was the siren song of nostalgia, a brittleness cultivated by yonder memories. That Avo had been killed several times over, and resurrected in a form he recognized as himself didn't negate what he learned of his nature. His sense of self might never have been true to begin with.
Ultimately, he was more creation than adoption at the hands of Walton, and so he must shed himself of the dying embers of ideation.
Killing the idealization of his father the first time was ego-warping. Doing it again to the pretenders wearing his facade might just feel cathartic.
Again, he regarded the fallen Incubi nearby and felt their deaths kindle a sense of inspiration in him. If he chose to enter this cage–to face his former owners–that didn’t mean he had to do so recklessly.
Or be the one to spring the trap personally.
There might yet be a way for him to enclose one trap upon another, and the core to his solution rested within the broken shell that was Shard-1.
The other Incubi that the Low Masters had killed died as wargs in a lion’s den. They weren’t prepared for the depths they dove, and there wasn’t enough of them to begin with.
Such deficiencies could be remedied.
He compiled his current memories into a ghost before detaching it from himself and cracking it with his traumas, warping it with deliberate damage. When it was damaged enough, he cast it across his Auto-Seance into the mind of Shard-1 and left it to tumble in her broken palace.
It would seem as if she took a piece of memory from the one that killed her, and they would piece together the details he left them and come seeking retribution.
Yes. Yes, there was beauty in such a plan. He doubted the Low Masters would see such a thing coming. They would have to react and adapt even if they were many times his skill. A cocktail of chaos and quantity held an edge all its own and preparation was a delicious thing.
He would enter the cage willingly, but not before pre-firing a bullet of his own.
And so, Avo set about ensuring formal introductions between the Priest of old Noloth and the current cream of Ori-Thaum’s crop.
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***
+Are we certain he is to come…+ Joy, Priest of Noloth asked. +His nature… it is not one that can support caring. He is a monster. All our children are monsters…+ The thought of the creature possessing Defiance’s Helix sickened him.
He should have known. He should have sensed the strain consuming the mind of his others.
Poor, poor Defiance.
Once, Joy had been saddened by his necessary role in their compact, jealous of Defiance’s freedom to dive while he had to imbibe unending melancholy. Hopelessness. The task of their revival was too grand, too great.
Oh, why did they remain.
It wasn’t right. For one to bear all that suffering. But it was purposeful. Such was his build to ensure that which once hurt no longer stung. His mold and make so that he could best serve as a shield for the others.
What torment could drown despair, after all?
He saw now that he was a fool. He, and all his nodes. He, and the other branches. Vicious Peace could never fathom the philosophic malaise infecting Defiance. Ideas were poisonous–toxic! Like a dialect plague. For what thoughts you offered often were shaped in turn by the feedback of the world.
Of the mortal world, beyond the cradle of ignorance was but clay in eventuality. Such was being. Such was the rot at the root of–
+Shut-shut-shut-shut the fuck up!+ Peace roared. Across the manifested memory, in the throneroom of sanctuary now lost to them, the other rose to scream at him. Oh, but Peace was always like this, his make the inverse of Joy. They flowed into each other, despair and hatred, one internalized trauma, the other a stormcloud of externalized loathing, the only purpose of his existence to be a dam holding in writhing ghosts that could–
Peace spat. The globule wasn’t real, but Joy felt it strike his cheek all the same, gliding down the side of his as a trail of phlegm. +Joy, look at me,+ Peace said, voice low and angry. He thrust a finger at Joy and a dollop of blood fell.
It was always low and angry. Always. Joy didn’t look upon him. There was little point. They had this argument constantly, and it just cycled. One cast their pain outward, and one swallowed it within. There’s was a union of bitter harmony.
+Emotion,+ Joy said, turning his bloody face to the only other that remained. Reminded by Defiance’s absence, Joy choked out a sobbing breath as he sagged upon his throne. +Emotion! Silence his mind. I fucking beg! I beg, you cunt!+
But the eldest among them was beyond coldness. He was absence itself, pure and simple. The dialect transformed him differently, for his foundations were uprooted from the apehood slumbering at the heart of humanity.
+He may not come,+ Emotion said, sounding indifferent to retrieving the Helix at all and settling the Hungers’ pain. +He may not. But our others will find him. Defiance has infused him with ample potential, but insufficient knowledge. Be this due to his desire to watch our dead son grow again–+
+Avohakten,+ Joy wept openly.
+Fuck! Emotion, I told you not to mention the little shit! Now I’m going to have to listen this fucker cry!+
+--or if he simply ran out of time before the end. It matters little. The vessel was here before. It stands to reason he will return.+
Peace snorted. +Reason. You expect something reasonab–+
Mem-data shifted across their cog-feeds. Variables changed rapidly and warnings filled the space behind their eyes. An accretion approached, the thoughtstuff it shed oscillating so fast it reminded Joy of a frequency blade. And though it was shelled with one of those dreadful Incubi wards, the way the unknown approached held such semblance to Defiance that Joy squeaked out a note of anguish.
The squeak rose to a wail when the mem-data loaded fully.
The stranger reeked of citrus. Not the type Defiance bathed his thoughts in–the type Avohakten reeked of after eating those tangerines.
But it was close.
So close.
Near to him, Peace rose from his throne, his lips peeling back in a snarl as he glared at the ghosts fusing into shape upon Defiance’s once-empty throne. +This fucking–+
+Peace. Do not talk with him,+ Emotion said.
+What? I–+
+Depending on the situation that follows, you may break him, but you may not speak to him. We share a root of thoughts, and yours offer little more than invectives and spite. It is inefficient.+
Peace glared at the noblest of their priesthood and directed his perception at Joy. +What about him? Is he going to get the privilege to speak, oh, mighty Emotion?+
+There is no need to restrict him,+ Emotion said. +He will collapse into inconsolable tears when the smell grows stronger.+
Ghosts planted fat tears to join those running down Joy’s cheek. +It’s true.+ The figure on Defiance’s throne grew evermore solid, his size immense and with snake-like appendages lashing out from his back like a cluster of transplanted hydrapedes.
+Oh,+ Joy moaned as he felt his breakdown begin, +and mocks us more by twisting his divine form. Why…+
***
Part of Avo expected to get nulled approaching the Auto-Seance. The fact that he didn’t leave him more worried than ever.
Temporarily releasing his Haemokinesis, he was once again projecting his phantoms back into the dormitory for all the others to witness. The exchange would give his companions a better understanding of their enemy if nothing else.
The first solid matter he felt was resting beneath his arms and grinding against the Echoheads on his back. It was hard to be seated with his additional limbs, but he made due by modifying the dimensions of his simulation as the mindscape around him loaded.
A domed chamber comprised of tessellating materials yawned wide around him, and he noticed the tassels of bone-carved scripture sway from the ceiling in the fashion of nooses calling for necks. It took little time for him to realize he was seated upon one of the four thrones back in the George Washington, and that this was how the Low Masters remembered their sanctuary looking.
With how stiff their seating felt, he wasn’t surprised why Walton decided to leave this little fan club.
Across from him, the weeper, the heartless, and the one that used “fuck” as a noun had him intersected between crossing lanes of perception. And though he hated to admit it, their sequencing was the best he had ever seen. No glitches. Nothing is out of place. Even the mem-data was a work of art, each variable and artifact listed linked to all the others in the chain of dominos.
He wondered if he could spoof his way into the scenery somehow by accelerating his reflexes again. The urge was tempting.
But violence was the main course, scheduled to arrive shortly.
For now, curiosity would serve as an appetizer.
Beats of silence passed to the accompaniment of the weepers choking sobs.
+It’s almost perfect,+ he said, shaking as he held himself. +Oh, Avohakten. If you could see the mon-mon-monster he gave your name to.+
Ah, yes. The long-dead son his father was haunted by. Or the man he used to be before he decided to split himself into four ego-lines was haunted.
Avo sighed.
Family: it was a mess. He looked forward to killing and eating them.
+So,+ Avo said, breaking his end of the silence as he stared, +heard you lost your Ark from some meat I was torturing. How did you all let that happen?+
Peace shot out from his seat, his always-bloody hands whipping red droplets everywhere. +You cunt-fuck! You corpse-licking fuck-shit! You–+
+Peace,+ the one with the dead owl lodged in place of an actual heart said.
The Famine of Peace twitched, and it took a masterful exertion of will for him to wrestle himself down. Some of his rage spilled over and Avo tasted the emotion. Disquiet followed. He empathized with the node, with Peace’s struggle against anger. So similar to how Avo had to struggle with the beast at times that he thought–
Well. Him having pieces from all of them wasn’t much of a surprise, now was it?
+We want the Helix back,+ Emotion said, without preamble. He cocked his head at Avo as if he was examining a piece of meat. A rope of threaded coins dangled from his cavernous eyes, jingling with each movement of his head. +We are willing to strike a bargain to see it done.+
The directness of his words was unexpected for Avo, grating for Peace, and soul-crushing for Joy.
+Bargain?+ Avo asked, voice trailing off with a chuffing laugh. +Second time someone wanted to make a deal with me.+ He leaned in closer. +Have questions. But make your offer first.+ It took an effort of will on his part to continue facing Emotion. To see Walton’s face so mutilated felt wrong.
Perhaps such was the way the last of the faithful felt during the Godsfall as they watched the Guilds rise and fashion grafts from the corpses of the gods they worshipped.
Emotion continued. +Inheritance. We offer you the title and throne of Defiance, along with all his memories, war-minds, and privileges.+
Out of all that was just said, Avo found himself most drawn to Walton’s old memories and what a “war-mind” was. But he would brook no betrayal of his own desires before he grasp the cost of capitulation.
+And what do you want?+
+You. To be joined with us. To serve the Hungers as your predecessor once did. You will granted the deeper arts and learn the true lore behind the Dreaming Unsea. You will return us the Helix, and access to the sanctuary. And you will create for us a new caste of sacrifice. Inspired by your own image.+