Omet leaned against the wall and watched Horan drift through the air towards them. Once he had settled into a cross-legged position in the air in front of them, they waved. “Hey, uh, you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Horan took a deep breath and lowered his feet to the ground. “You still need to be the one who does the bulk of the talking, by the way. You got a script?”
“…I was supposed to have a script?”
Horan shrugged. “Not, like, a written-out plan for the speech you decided on doing twenty minutes ago, but… an outline. An order of operations.”
“Yeah, I… I have a general idea of how things go. Back me up if I need you to.”
“Anytime,” said Horan, patting Omet on the back.
Halfway towards the stage, Omet stopped in their tracks. “Okay, I’m starting to freak out a little, wha–what’s the, like, acceptable parameters for how much I’m allowed to freak out up there?”
“Freak out as much as you want,” said Horan, “The trick is to ignore it as much as possible and replace it with whatever self-confidence you can muster. And before you ask me how to get self-confidence, the answer is that you either already have it, or you scare yourself into pretending that the first option is true.”
“That set of options is… terrifying.”
“Correct. That’s how I can tell that you’re getting it. If you aren’t scared, it means you don’t know what you’re doing. And evidently, you know plenty. That’s a good sign. “
“Don’t most people encourage each other to believe in themselves?”
Horan snorted. “Nobody believes in themselves, they just learn to convince themselves that they have no chance of failure. Success happens when they do that and end up being right. Or at least right enough. Now, I would recommend that you stop asking me questions, because I’m not going to stop giving disappointing and/or worrying answers.”
Omet clenched their jaw and nodded.
“Just try to keep things on cognitive autopilot for the most part,” said Horan. “Breezy Slide. I’ll come up to support you at the halfway-ish mark, or if you need help before that. You got this, and don’t you dare question that statement.” He gave Omet one last pat on the back, then slunk away while keeping his eye on them. With a parting thumbs-up, he turned and left.
Omet took a deep breath and continued on their way to the stage. “Self-confidence…” That gave them an idea.
They split in two as they walked, their two copies walking side-by-side. Yellow Omet nudged their counterpart. “Hey. You’re too confident and likeable and… uh… Yeah, I got nothing, I’m done. Psyching myself up is a lot harder when I can only say true things.”
Yellow Omet rolled their eyes. “Point is, you’ve got a lot riding on this. Plenty of people counting on you. You’re not allowed to mess this up.”
“Much better. Nothing motivates excellence quite like fear of failure.” Purple Omet gave their copy a fist bump, and the two merged back into one.
“That got weird fast.”
Omet approached the stage and waved at them once they had wrapped up their current song. “Hey, real quick, can I borrow the stage? I wanna do a quick address, won’t be five minutes.”
“Sure, c’mon up.” The trumpet player pulled Omet up on stage. “I assume this isn’t something that takes backup?”
“N– Uh, no. You’re all good, you can head down and watch.”
“If you say so.” The drummer pulled his microphone from its stand and handed it to Omet. “You’ll need it. Makes you feel important.”
“…And also easier to hear?”
“That too.” The drummer hopped off the stage with a quick salute, followed by the rest of the band.
The rest of the Primoi in the foyer, noticing Omet standing alone on stage, began to congregate around them, watching expectantly. Omet looked past them and made eye contact with Horan, who stood at the back of the growing crowd next to Mark and Quet.
Horan smiled and waved at them, Quet nodded and slammed a fist into her palm, and Mark gave a curt thumbs-up.
“Okay…” Omet took a deep breath, holding the microphone away from their mouth so that the sound wouldn’t be picked up. After a pause just long enough to become awkward, they brought it close to their mouth again. “So–”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” Kuravaan strode onto stage from the stairs to the side and stood imposingly in front of Omet, one arm behind his back. “We have a few words we would like to exchange to the Primoi gathered here, if that’s alright with you.”
Omet’s gaze flitted between Kuravaan and the microphone gripped in their hands. “Y– Actually, I–I was hoping that– You can, but can I just fin–”
“Thanks.” Kuravaan pulled the microphone from Omet and turned to face the crowd. “This is really for you Aztecs out there, but we think it would be remiss of us to not at least provide a quick catch-up for those Greeks out there who haven’t noticed.”
Omet tried to stand next to Kuravaan. “Wh–what are you–?”
Kuravaan pushed Omet away from him. “Don’t touch me. See, everyone, this whole… thing has actually been quite the positive experience for our Domain. Not fun, no, the Aztecs wouldn’t know how to properly host guests if we offered lessons on weekends.”
Several Indians in the crowd responded with a slightly forced-sounding laugh. Kuravaan grinned and continued. “Guests of our caliber, that is. We’re sure your little hovel has served as a stellar vagrant colony in the past, we assure you.”
After waiting for the second round of laughter to subside, Kuravaan turned his head to look at a stunned-silent Omet, microphone still the optimal distance and angle from his mouth. “Seriously, we know you set this up on a bit of short notice, you really won’t shut up about it, but we can only assume that you spent that limited amount of time making things worse. It’s the only halfway reasonable explanation.”
“But,” he continued, looking back to the crowd, “we wouldn’t exactly put it past any of you. Your entire Domain seems to be putting its best effort into being the most unapproachable, socially inept, repugnant batch of Primoi on this side of the Atlantic. And this is the bad side!”
Omet looked over at Horan, who seemed to be as transfixed with horror as they were.
“We’ve actually been quietly been assembling a list of our grievances with all of you – individually, of course – while you weren’t paying attention to us like a halfway decent host is supposed to. We suppose your incompetence worked in our favor, that time. Well, it works in our favor most of the time. It certainly doesn’t work in yours.”
“Is this…?” Omet noticed that a line of Indians had formed by the stairs leading up to the stage. “That’s… That’s a lot…”
“Ooh, oh m–m–my,” mocked Kuravaan, “i–is th–this thing b–bad?” He clapped both hands over his cheeks and let his mouth hang agape. “Learn how to properly turn letters into words, kid, it’s a pretty important skill. But we’ll get to the big-ticket items soon, don’t you go anywhere. Prevesh, you go first.”
Kuravaan handed the microphone to the first Indian in line, who took center stage. “Evening, everyone. Or, well it’s not really evening, the clocks say that it’s five in the afternoon in this part of the world. Because you can’t even trust the Aztecs to bring us over at a reasonable time of day. It is quite impressive how much they thought of to screw up, it’s actually inspirational, is what it is.” He lowered his voice and brought the microphone close to his mouth. “That’s the only compliment I have to give.”
The Indians watched Prevesh with rapt attention as he continued. “For those of you in the crowd unfamiliar with me (which is most of you, because the Aztecs apparently won’t approach a stranger unless threatened with death), I’m the Indian Domain’s resident musician and public performer. I actually know a fellow performer when I see one. And I do only see one, collectively, because sub-millennial or no, the idea of spending all this time you have to only master one instrument is laughable. I’m my Domain’s only performer for a reason, you know! I don’t need three other people backing me up just to sound acceptable!”
The Indians erupted back into fake-sounding laughter. One of the band members, who all stood closest to the stage, was elbowed by an Indian standing next to them.
“And the thing is,” said Prevesh, “you four would almost definitely sound a lot better if you had halfway decent equipment. Like everyone knows, ‘a player is only as good as his instruments’. And, like…” He gestured at the unattended instruments behind him. “…Look at those! Where’d you even find these, Mexico? Oh wait!” This time he laughed with his audience.
“Oh yeah?” One of the band members stepped forward and placed his hands on the edge of the stage. “If you’re so fancy, where’d you get your stuff if it matters so much, huh?”
Prevesh grinned patronizingly. “Switzerland. All of my band equipment is commissioned from artisanal manufacturers in Switzerland. Because I don’t want to sound like a street busker when I play.”
The Aztec slowly retreated from the stage.
“It really is just sad that you people thought that having a few of you toot some horns will dazzle us. Kuravaan has a couple extra things to say, but other than that, I’m done.”
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Kuravaan took the microphone from Prevesh. “Also, you really did go for a jazz band. Of all things. No classical music from literally any period before then, no… traditional instrumentation, jazz. Do you know where jazz music is appropriate? Speakeasies. And venues that upper-class humans visit to feel like they’re in a speakeasy. We’ll believe that your place has acted as the former at some point, given the state of the building, but that really is a low point for you all to stoop to. Alright, that’s enough of that. Kandava, you next.”
Another Indian scurried on stage and took the microphone. “‘Evening’, everyone. I’m actually the one who inspired Kuravaan to make that vagrant colony observation earlier, because I’ve actually noticed a few interesting faces under this roof. Now, the obvious first thing to address is the Greeks…”
At the back of the crowd, Mark nudged Horan and stood on his toes to hiss into his ear. “What are we supposed to be doing right now? They’re just gonna be insulting the Aztecs for the next hour if we don’t do something.”
“Yeah, I know, we just…” Horan took a deep breath and put a hand over his chest. “Constructive critique is pretty commonplace when newer Domains like the Aztecs are still finding their feet. They’re not delivering a verdict or anything, they’re just voicing their concerns is all. They just want to know that we can take bad things in stride. It’s all part of the process, everyone knows that.”
“Voic–?!” Quet swatted Horan on the arm. “What kind of a critique is this? They’re not telling us anything, they’re just–”
“But it gets worse,” declared the Indian on stage. “A few of my Domain peers may have noticed a certain someone taking a nap on the couch a while back. Earlier today, she came up to me and announced herself as Hawaiian!” He looked down at the Aztecs on stage. “You people really will just take in whoever, huh? It’s– Rachna broke out and followed us here somehow, he’s since been dealt with, don’t worry, but I found him chatting up– Where is the Hawaiian, anyway?”
The Indian scanned the crowd, before his gaze drifted up to meet something on the balcony on the opposite wall. The crowd followed his gaze to see Waia, leaning over the railing and grimacing at the Indian on stage.
“Yeah, there you are.” The Indian pointed at Waia and brought the microphone closer to his mouth. “Before he was taken away, I saw you hanging out with Rachna like everything is fine. Rachna. In case you weren’t able to notice it yourself, Rachna is insane. Clinically. Cuckoo. Out of his mind. Delusional. Barely functional. Did you even notice? Or is there something there about not recognizing your own kind? Is that what’s going on there? You certainly act the part.”
Waia spat at the Indian, the glob of saliva sailing an impressive distance over the railing and splattering on the floor.
“I thought so.” The Indian looked away from Waia and smirked. “It’s no wonder the Aztec place is such a mess, they keep bringing rabble in from the streets and wilderness! It all makes sense! I don’t even need to take my time with pointing all this out, it’s all right there! I’m off!”
Kuravaan took the microphone back. “There you have it, everyone: The optimistic view is, at least, that the Aztecs are quite the inclusive bunch. We certainly don’t have to worry about looking bad among these people, it’s not like we can top anything that they already have.”
The Indians in the crowd burst into another riot of laughter, and Kuravaan handed the microphone over to the third Indian in line while the laughter was still dying down.
“So,” said the latest Indian. “Some of you already know where I’m going to go with this. I managed to find the strangest thing at the buffet today. The statue of a librarian behind me even gave me a handy explanation as to the story behind it.”
“Can… Can we please just…” Omet stepped forward and tried to reach for the microphone. “Can I just explain, before–”
“Well!” Kuravaan interposed himself in front of Omet, taking the microphone from the reluctant Indian behind him. “It seems that our host has finally run out of patience. Don’t worry, we’re plenty happy to skip straight to you.”
“No, that’s…” Omet took a shaky step away from Kuravaan. “I’m not here to start anything, I just don’t want you to kee–”
“Oh, no, of course you don’t want to start anything,” declared Kuravaan. “You of all people wouldn’t be able to start anything if your life depended on it… Actually, considering what’s out there, it kind of is! Isn’t that funny?”
Kuravaan turned to look at the Aztecs in the crowd. “We don’t know what kind of grift this guy pulled to end up being ‘the best candidate for leadership’ in all your eyes, even just subconsciously, but it clearly isn’t paying off in the long run. Thanks to your glorious leader, we give you a month, optimistically, before you either get killed like the rest of the New Worlders who couldn’t cut it, or end up lucky enough to turn mortal and find a nice hole to hide away and die in. Give ‘em a big hand!”
“I–I don’t–”
Kuravaan glanced back at Omet. “And to think, there are half a dozen different better candidates in this very room to try and deal with us. But instead, you ended up doing it because of a nonexistent title that you didn’t earn. How could you have? You wore a cardigan to a party!”
“Okay, no, no, that–” With a rush of wind, Horan appeared on stage in an instant and snatched the microphone out of Kuravaan’s hand. “That’s enough.”
The amplified squeal of the jostled microphone reverberated through the foyer, the only sound in the room for a good five seconds. Horan stood up straight and looked Kuravaan in the eye, already slick with sweat. “…That’s enough.”
Kuravaan slowly shook his head. “We were wondering when you’d decide to finally speak up. Badmouthing your little pet project really struck a nerve, huh? Let’s hope you don’t–”
“They’re not my pet project.”
“Right, yes.” Kuravaan gently prised the microphone from Horan’s slick fingers. “It’s just the inexperienced leader of a young Domain who you took under your wing and started training in the ‘art of socialization’.” He scoffed. “Not that many other words for it.”
Horan attempted to respond, but was shut down by Kuravaan bringing the microphone back up and moving forward, forcing him back a step. “We know you’re not quite as much of a pushover as that little ball of wool and sadness a metre to your right. So please, allow us to be a bit more forward.”
On the other side of the room, Mark exchanged a glance with a Quet. The two attempted to push through the crowd and reach the stage while Kuravaan continued.
“See, our earlier comments about what’s going on in that head of yours weren’t blind guessing. You’ve been in this business longer than anyone else in the room, and by quite the margin too. Our Domain honestly has nothing but respect for you. I mean, back in the Middle Ages, you were the biggest name from Nubia to Nepal, let alone what we’ve heard about the times before we were around.” Kuravaan let out a melodramatic sigh. “And look at you now.”
Horan’s eye went wide.
“Someone with a history like you? Bringing yourself down to a place like this?” Kuravaan sniggered. “We all know you aren’t jumping through all these hoops out of the kindness of your golden heart. We can respect a trick like this, you know. Getting someone else to do the hard parts for you is the first lesson of leadership, after all. Sentiment is for victims.”
Omet brought their hand up to Horan’s shoulder, but he didn’t seem to react at all.
“We can recognize someone who actually has what it takes to get through the hardships of modern life,” said Kuravaan, turning to the crowd. “Don’t we, everyone?”
The Indians in the crowd shouted their assent, several whistling at Horan.
“So surely you understand how much it worries us to see you go soft, Horan. Can’t you see how all these months among… Aztecs, of all Primoi, has turned you into a paralyzed wreck? These Primoi aren’t good for your spirit, Horan. We look out for our own these days, and seeing such a paragon of refinement and intelligence be reduced like this? It simply won’t do! You’ve already lost an eye out here, what else could happen?”
Kuravaan narrowed his crimson eyes and leaned up close to Horan. Horan’s nose was suddenly overpowered by the battery of colognes that Kuravaan had evidently covered himself with at some point.
Kuravaan saw Horan’s nose wrinkle and sighed. “…It won’t do at all. And it really wouldn’t be very pleasant for anyone involved if we decided that you needed a quick-quick period of isolation with Primoi closer to your own venerable age. Accommodating you long-term to an acceptable standard, of course, would be quite intensive. Only the absolute best for you, after all. We’d barely have time to perform community outreach in these parts of the world, even!”
A strangled croak managed to escape Horan, followed by yet more silence.
“But it’s all up to you,” said Kuravaan, bringing the microphone between himself and Horan. “So give us your own input. We know we don’t need to ask you to be honest about this. You always are. How much do you really need us to help you? Are you… one of these people? Have they really made you one of them? Have you lost who you are that badly? Do these Primoi call you their friend? Do you call them yours?”
Kuravaan’s last few words echoed through the foyer for a moment, followed by thunderous silence. Horan stared down at the microphone, hypnotized. Time no longer existed.
Mark pushed past one of the Indians at the front and came up to the stage, putting his–
“No.”
Half the crowd in front of the stage erupted into cheers and wild hoots, surging forward and drowning Mark out in a sea of jubilant Indians.
“There he is! Back on our level, like he should be! Bring him up, everyone!” Kuravaan waved at three Indians, who clambered onto the stage and lifted Horan onto their shoulders, parading him across the platform like a sports superstar.
“You made the right choice, Horan!” called out Kuravaan. “Any other words you have to say on the matter? Anything you’ve been waiting to say in the right company?!”
A stream of dark blue light followed Horan’s finger as he frantically traced a thin strip of glyphs in the air. Before anyone could stop him, he shrunk into the shape of a falcon and took off, flying up towards the balcony above.
Omet watched Horan fly off, a hand covering their mouth. With herculean effort, they looked down and made eye contact with Kuravaan, who could barely be made out in the throng of celebrating Indians. “Hey, y–you said that if he didn’t… need you… you would actually help. Are you…?”
Kuravaan stopped and sneered, bringing the microphone back up to his mouth. “You’re still holding out hope, huh?”
Hearing their leader’s amplified voice echo around them, the Indians calmed down and looked at Kuravaan and Omet with much the same energy as a flock of vultures circling an imminent kill.
“It’s true, you people really are gullible when you’re desperate!” Kuravaan chuckled. “Well, you know how it is. Horan made the right choice, so you weren’t automatically disqualified. But in case the time has escaped you, your obligation only runs out in the better part of an hour. And we could really do with a little extra time to mull things over. You might even still try a few tricks to sway the vote. We’ll have to see.”
“I…” Omet stepped forward and raised a finger at Kuravaan. “You promised that–!”
Kuravaan batted Omet’s finger aside. “We didn’t promise anything, not to you.” He turned away from Omet and clapped to get the attention of his Domain. “Hey everyone, things are awfully dull from an auditory point of view, all of a sudden. How about we bring the local entertainment back up here and see if they’ve taken our helpful and thoughtful critique to heart?”
The Indians cheered with approval at the idea. Several still on the ground pushed the Aztec band back onstage, where they were issued back to their instruments.
The piano player brushed off hands that tried to push her back into her seat. She looked Kuravaan in the eye. “You’re nuts, all of you.”
“And the four of you are burning daylight, start playing. Or would you all rather be the ones responsible for spoiling things just enough for us to change our minds?”
The player looked pleadingly at Omet, who was still trying to hide themself from nobody in particular. They averted their eyes, hurrying to get off the stage.
The player grimaced. “This won’t make you change your minds about anything, will it?”
Kuravaan smiled. “Start playing.”
Omet hurried away from the stage and towards the stairs, moving past Quet on their way.
Quet tried to follow them, reaching out a hand that grasped at nothing. “Hey, wait, what about…?” But by the time she could think of what to say afterwards, Omet had disappeared into the crowd. As the first few strangled notes started back up on stage, she made for the stairs. There weren’t many places that they could have been going to.