“Team New Blood made two mistakes.” Zimley Boe held up two fingers. She considered that necessary with three Rares as part of the audience there in Count Poitnem's clubhouse. His team had appointed the bungalow with triple-stuffed sofas and installed a sound system far inferior in sound quality though equal in hypnotic capability to Team New Blood's to provide some symphonic jazz, a suitable mood for the contemplation of complex issues. “The first was not to charge a fee to sniff the skumans, but that's Wruden Calx's problem and nobody else's. The second one matters. That public exhibit really came off. Do you guys agree with that?”

“I've heard nothing but praise.”

“AGN is on board, for whatever that's worth.”

“Intra-CoH polling says yes.”

“That's it exactly, Skaya. Intra-CoH. We aren't important. We're all brave enough to admit that, right? Yeah, I thought so. The key point is what the players think. How do we get across Count Poitnem's appeal, that is, your appeal, to the real audience? That's the concern I have.”

Eten crossed his beefy arms. “There is one thing that new players might take the wrong way. I was watching the trailer again, and, well, you sound a little villainous.”

Count Poitnem's eyebrows lifted. “Do I?”

“Aren't you?” Kindo's eyebrows remained in their standard position, but he persisted for all that. “I thought, I mean, I was under the impression that you're a bad guy in the story. A villain.” He wiped his forehead that became damp with the effort of matching his surroundings in sophistication.

“The Kamdl-Tasgan conflict isn't meant to be quite so straightforward as that,” Leslie Harthorpe said. “Certainly Count Poitnem is an intimidating figure on the Kamdlian side, just as Hilliarde Feablas is from the reversed perspective. That's a long walk from being some kind of scoundrel. It would be quite a shame if anyone received such a misleading impression.”

“Right, that's what I mean. When you keep saying lines like, “Die weeping, ashamed of your weakness and inability to accomplish anything in this world,” it sounds a little . . .”

“Like you're a bad guy and not a bad boy. Is that what you mean, Master Eten?”

“Something like that, Skaya.”

“You propose then that the proper thing is for us to forget about frames for now in favor of freshening up my battle quotations? Quite an unusual approach which players may well appreciate. I approve. How do we proceed?” Count Poitnem crossed his legs, and that act sent Kindo and Reginald hurrying to do the same in a panic.

Zimley Boe pretended to ignore that, though internally she giggled. “I like to think of myself as a Strategist, because I am. I'd like to think of myself as a speechwriter, but I'm not. So my ideas kinda end here. The one thing I can add is that I have to insist we take care not to soften up our man too much and turn him into a black-haired Cadmos.”

All the officers murmured in agreement, even Hilliarde Feablas, who meant no insult against Cadmos but simply appreciated the importance of diversity in the pool of officers as might be expected of such a distinguished-looking gentleman.

“It seems to me that the best things for training are examples and experts,” said ribbon-winning dog trainer Adigail Zem. She reached down to pet her terrier, which had at no point so much as looked at the sofas, let alone tried to jump on them. “Let's walk our ideas back and forth and see if we can't think of characters who embody the same sort of feel we want.”

“All right. What about Skay Pact Elizonas? He seems popular.”

“Yeah, but he has a sense of mystery, not danger.”

“Is that what I have?” Zimley Boe, Skaya, Leslie Harthorpe, and Adigail Zem all nodded so hard in answer to Count Poitnem's question that the vinyl record skipped.

“Was that what syncopation is? Well, let's move past Slay Every Dragon.” Eten set himself to thinking it over in a classic pose.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“There's that uh, Stellar Continuum guy in Furious Galaxy. diAlto! That's it,” Kindo offered.

Adigail Zem took it up. “Oh, I know him! He certainly has a dangerous air about him, but it's more of a shadowy threat, as if his ancient family hides secrets outsiders must never discover. You instinctively feel there was nothing honest about his rise through the ranks. Whereas Count Poitnem is more of a hunter, but not of deer and foxes, you see?”

“I think I getcha, Adigail. Um. I comprehend.”

Hyune Giling snapped shut the book he had been pretending to read which may plausibly have contained a dissertation on various types of characters and what draws fans to them. “We may be able to find what we want a bit closer to home.”

“Obviously not you though.”

“Obviously not, Reginald.” Hyune pushed up his glasses. “I'm the intellectual type. But what of . . . Cloton Zvolo?”

“Nuh uh. He's got rock and roll charisma. Totally different thing.” With her hands jammed in her leather jacket, even a wandering hero with amnesia would identify Zimley Boe as an authority on that particular subject.

“Xentas.”

“He's a reformed space pirate with a conscience. In addition, if he weren't a Freebie, he'd definitely be sitting in Chaff tier.” Since Skaya said so, they considered that estimate of Xentas's popularity, if not necessarily accurate, at least backed by credible evidence.

“Hyl DeMereanch.”

“A mildly unscrupulous at worst politician? I have heard it said there are no bad ideas when brainstorming, but . . .” Hilliarde Feablas shook his head.

Hyune Giling had kept his finger on his glasses the entire time. Now he pushed them up yet further and smiled. “So then. We are agreed there is only one possible choice: Kullervo.”

“That's not terrible,” Leslie Harthorpe said. She leaned back, which was a lot for the sofa to handle given she was a stuman, and tapped her lips with a pen. “Yes, Kullervo's engaging qualities are not entirely dissimilar from your own, Count Poitnem. Further, he may be willing to assist us since, being a collab addition, he has no chance at inclusion himself.”

“I can't see the point,” Quille Treten grumbled. “Holy Legend Army has as many spinoffs as it has seasonal alts. Which is not a single one. What can he know about it?”

Kindo stood up and snapped his suspenders, which sent his blobby buman skin to jiggling.

“I wish you wouldn't do that, Kindo. It makes me feel tingly and awful.”

“I'll try to remember that, Adigail Zem. Can't guarantee I'll stop, but I'll remember. Anyway, there isn't much Holy Legend Army has over us now that we've had a crossover and all, but they do have a thing where players can tap on crusaders and make 'em say lines. He may know a tad more about it than he looks like he would. Uh, forsooth?”

For perhaps the first time, Kindo convinced other officers. They stood, sat down again when they realized how nice their cushions felt, and rose once more after they accepted Kullervo would not walk in at just that moment to borrow a cup of sugar. Worse than that, a search more demanding than a trip to the Lorenzo's pizza station would be necessary to find an officer of that level of coolness. They might even wind up doing more research than Society Page Lasva spent to find out who Lorenzo was (“There has never been anyone named Lorenzo involved in this pizza chain, but the CEO did read a book about Lorenzo de Medici once,” an unnamed vice president confirmed).

Where was he? Atop the walls, leaning against a merlon and looking wistfully toward the horizon? The Inferno gym, benching Rares and stretching picturesquely? Magical Menagerie, petting goats? It was the first one.

Count Poitnem took the lead in the manner of a true nobleman possessed of both initiative and eloquence. “Pardon me, but might you spare us a precious few seconds of your time? Minutes may be too much to ask, but I am a man with enough temerity to do so and may yet.”

“Grunt,” Kullervo did not say. He did grunt, though.

“The spinoff mandates that I speak many short lines in combat. Concerningly, the lines I tried out first are far from what I want if I wish to stay serious without sounding sinister. Since according to the facts at hand you have fared well with your own vocals, your advice is the most valuable I can conceive.”

Kullervo turned away from the sprawling horizon to the east in order to look not quite straight at the officer addressing him. “Say less.”

“Ah, and thereby allow the players to interpret your lines as they wish. Very clever.” Hyune Giling was left to point that out because the others were occupied with writing down Kullervo's words and drawing little hearts and spaceships next to them.

“It is true that our officer battle lines do veer toward the verbose. The purpose of that, I presume, is to distinguish each from the next when design alone may not account for it, or when their personalities or occupations overlap. A simple speech might suffice to separate Hyl and Lua DeMereanch from Ostros Perandra and his sister Anstralia, or Liya from Azinsia.”

“Those are different people? I always thought Liya was a nickname!”

Count Poitnem ignored Adigail Zem's shocked embarrassment out of courtesy. He instead asked if Kullervo had any further advice, whereupon Holy Legend Army's baddest boy jerked his head toward the spaceport, said, “Ask him,” and returned to gazing out at some imagined spectacle only he was cool enough to appreciate.

“Thank you.” Count Poitnem bowed and pivoted in a cape-swirling fashion, but without the cape, which he had left in the alt closet on the shoulders of his Halloween version. His colleagues bowed, curtsied, or waved as their inclinations urged them and followed.