The new, tri-empire E4 expanded faster than before. Trucks and landships hauled anything that seemed useful or profitable from games all over to their destinations, to experimental teleportation pads and the world's first cloud vacuum, while laborers loaded and unloaded movables without regard for territorial boundaries. Though such multi-ludic displays inspired those who saw them to contemplate the possibility of peace and fellowship across Opuwa, some misunderstandings occurred as a result of the confluence of different cultures.
“The brain jar stays in the van, Mr. Treten.”
“Eh. Sure about that? Must be lonely in there, Mr., uh, Evans, was it?”
The Security instance nodded to indicate the accuracy of the appellation, but otherwise remained stiff. “It belongs to the van, Mr. Treten. You could in fact say the van belongs to it.”
“Ah, he's the driver, is he? Won't disturb him then. These computer cases with embedded aquariums won't move themselves.”
Even so did flowers of friendship flourish in the manure of manual labor and ceaseless failure. A ziggurat reaching to heaven did nobody any good if heaven turned out to be a stream of player complaints none could pierce. Evan tried sending his package up Eten's edifice, but even a carefully controlled elionium explosion could not harm the barrier, much less the one he set off. Brave Cumulus's drills bent, a full-speed Iowa bounced off, and saws only caused an irritating sound that pleased Convergence/Divergence natives on the lookout for unconventional distractions to use during their corporate espionage, sabotage, and assassination missions but annoyed fans of pleasant auditory experiences while outraging Serdon Miloz. “You can't do that by itself! You have to have someone scream over it! Ideally in a language the audience doesn't know.”
“The smooth mineral person raises a good point,” Gerta Huber said. Veterans of Holy Legend Army and Commandment of Hero ran to stop her, but the Furious Galaxy crew member continued, oblivious. “What language is it that we speak now? This point is unclear to me.” That blunder cost valuable man-hours for doomed projects while people who heard her reviewed their own speech patterns. Did they use the same language in all of them? Switch? Change from word to word or season sentences with words or phrases from other languages like a comic relief character with an outrageous accent? Nothing good results from thinking about what you say, was the lesson learned then.
As futile as an external audit would have shown all their attempts at reaching unexplored territory to be, the explosions tricked their brains into believing progress must be happening while the falling debris, planes, and battleships provided excuses for a brisk cardiovascular workout. That chaos, or activity to be nice, or optimistic exuberance to be nicer, or testament to the all-conquering spirit of life itself to be not so much nice as a little overwrought, invigorated the participants, as did the outdoor concert Serdon Miloz arranged featuring the hottest acts from every game.
Amid all that jubilation, nobody noticed when Surt ordered a mess of glowsticks, set dozens down, and took a cannon ride overhead. Few but those he approached noticed when he gathered a few helpers to lay down more glowsticks and check them again, or when he ordered computer parts off the list provided by his new associate DelveR from Convergence/Divergence's Underground faction, or when his task force sat down at a bunch of newly assembled old-timey computers to play an ancient game for a spell.
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Some noticed when they saw from overhead hundreds of glowsticks forming what appeared to be a chibi version of a Furious Galaxy lieutenant waving a flag, and Quircy Rau noticed when Surt tapped her shoulder. He was a giant ever aflame with destructive power, after all. “Done,” he said.
“Zims, could you find an interpreter for me? I think Surt's about to tell me something very important, very badly.”
“Yes,” Surt confirmed, and Zimley Boe embarked on her search.
“Hot Air Hank is easy to find,” she reasoned. “Nah, there's a non-zero chance Quirce'll want an interpreter for him, too. One of those elismiths. Wait. We don't want somebody smart. We want to force Surt to explain himself. Got it.” She watched for an explosion or collapse, spotted the latter, and ran toward a toppling gantry.
“Tell me who's responsible for this disaster! Or tell me who's set to take the fall. The public wants a name, and I'm not picky about which one I give them.” Society Page Lasva was already on the scene, sparing no effort to get the scoop, even making herself look bad to encourage candidness. The involved parties happened to be occupied with running and screaming, far too much so to hear what she said, but the technique would have impressed them in more placid circumstances.
Zimley Boe picked up Lasva by her armpits and turned around. “Yo. If you're not doing anything right now, wanna come interview a fire giant?”
“Let me go! It'll fall over any second now!” The ground shook and bucked Zimley for a step, and they heard behind them a sequence of crashes not unlike a batch of mobile games shutting down within a month of one another. “The press doesn't forget! You'll never 'say' or 'state' anything ever again! It's all 'claim,' 'complain,' and 'allege' from here on out! And stop trying to stuff me in your pocket.”
“'Zimley Boe could not be reached for comment.'”
“Aagh!”
Whatever her threats at the time, Lasva's professionalism manifested itself much as when a bird shoved out of a nest begins to fly, and she wrung the desired information out of Surt. He had concluded a message could be sent to the denizens of Universe Testament using glowsticks, though thousands or perhaps billions might be required. What message would grab their attention, though? In search of the answer, he decided to play the original Universe Testament using methods not to be revealed in polite company along with his helpers, who decided the icon on the button that opened the diplomacy menu had the best chance.
“Huh. I thought that was a picture from Furious Galaxy,” Heartful Azalea commented, who drifted over to see what that crowd had going on after totaling her latest balloon in an attempt to bounce off other balloons, airships, and planes to reach greater heights.
“We have nothing more in common with that series than you would expect from fellow space-themed games of grand sweep and scope!” Every Furious Galaxy crewmember in the vicinity halted, yelled that as one, and resumed his former business.
“Really? OK.” Azalea wandered off, her curiosity satisfied.
“It's so easy to understand when Lasva says it. I'm impressed. Maybe I should create a Communications department. Would you be interested, Lasva? I'll make you a minister.”
“I already am one. 'Leader suffers from amnesia, experts fear. A common condition, amnesia has affected major characters in RPGs since . . .' No, can't imply Quircy Rau is a major character. 'Has affected many in RPGs.' I get better at my job each and every day.”
“Glad to hear you believe in yourself.” Quircy turned from Lasva to Surt and said, “I'd tell you to go for it on your own, but I don't want to start pretending to be stupid. I might forget to stop. That many glowsticks, huh? I'll bring it up with the other game reps.” Surt gave her a thumbs-up, the latest fad sweeping Holy Legend Army as a result of recent cultural exchanges, and left her to her diplomatic whatevery and to escape the shadow of the Brave Cumulus, then experiencing a rapid descent.