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[>>Now replaying: Log 3.6 - beta - Rage against the Machines]

Date: Error

Location: The Bunker at Progress’ Head // Zephyro’s Domain

//Saviour is such a good song.//

//Anger is a drug, Samantha. Look at your colleagues. What do you notice? How are they looking at you? Do you think they are open to innovate?//

[>>DATA CORRUPTED]

E1 %As she started helping the people of Wexler with the help of her friend Chrissiin, she made a name for herself as a powerful warrior, but that wasn’t all that was to her.%

E2 %She terrorized the countryside of this kingdom for months, destroying houses and leaving behind mutated corpses wherever she went. She lied to the people with the help of her demonic familiar, which could take the shape of a man, a woman, or a child.%

The anger pulsed above my solarplexus, up through my lungs and shoulders, and into my neck and ears. I started to hear a faint, high-pitched noise and I knew I was reaching the limit of what I could take. I had to do something with it, or I wouldn’t be able to keep it under control. For a brief moment, a quiet voice in my head asked who I wanted to be, but that voice was long dead and gone, wasn’t in danger, and didn’t have to watch people getting slaughtered by invisible assassins.

So I poured my rage into my mind like fuel, just a little, and like a grassfire, it took.

I knew it was stupid. I knew it was a huge mistake and it would make me throw all caution to the wind and forget facts that I needed to keep in mind to be safe. I knew it would endanger myself and others.

But I just didn’t want to feel afraid anymore. I wanted that feeling I always got when I went to battle, clad in power armor and with the Torch blazing in my hand.

Because you are weak, Olre said in my mind. You’re weak and you can’t control yourself.

No, I just didn’t want to think about what could go wrong anymore. I just wanted that sublime feeling of safety and control I only got in battle.

When it came, it was like being dipped in ice water on a hot summer day. My doubts and fears all went away, seared into oblivion by my rage.

I smirked.

As that razor-tipped clarity of battle cut into my mind, I remembered one important factor.

Me.

Everyone acted as though I was important, which made me a target. But it also meant that they believed I had something valuable. That probably meant power, but also liability.

I had fought enough battles as a General to know that people would do stupid shit to keep a VIP alive, even if they don’t need the help. Even if the VIP is immortal and everyone knows it, people still want to protect you. Inevitably, they will die in the process. Their lives will be wasted. Then formations collapse, entire battalions are left leaderless, and the battle is lost and I lose a friend and afterward everyone blames me for their own stupidity and right now I just really want to hit things until I am safe and never lose anyone again and—

I took a step towards the burning hole where the gate used to be. Towards the mayhem. Then another. Towards the slaughter. I weighed the scepter in my hand. I needed to do something. To hit something. Now. NOW. Now.

> Is that your anger again, Sam? Does it help you right now?

>

> Is that who you want to be?

Yes, and fuck you. Fuck you, you’re dead.

Still, the knowledge that I was no longer in control of my own actions gnawed at my mind as I sprinted toward Zephyro and the soldiers. It fueled that part of me that was terrified. It knew I didn’t have a plan, didn’t know enough to be effective. It wanted me to stay back at the very least, to flee, ideally, just run with the masses. It told me I’d never be safe. That I was weak.

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I doused it in fury and set it ablaze. My fist clenched around the scepter so tight, it hurt. Above the gate, what few stars in the sky I could see through the flames and smoke started to dim as the edge of the firmament dissolved into darkness. I was on borrowed time, and I knew it.

Zephyro’s movements were stuttering again and he was talking to someone who wasn’t there. Judging by his gestures, he was giving orders. Judging by his face, he was sending people to their deaths. Another soldier went down behind him, and he flinched as I arrived at his side.

“Let me help.”

“Sultana,” he said, completely aghast. “What are you doing here?”

> Sam? What are you doing here? Who is in command while you are gone?

The memory of Stax, his eyes dancing over the chaos of battle as his power armor hummed with power, cut through the haze of anger. Immediately, my shame surged, threatening to fester into panic and depression. I couldn’t afford either right now, and despite knowing the danger, I reached for my anger again, asked it to keep me cool and focused.

> Anger is a good tool to have in one of your scabbards. But you can’t rely on it.

>

> Of course feeling angry is okay, but if it becomes your default emotion, you’re just gonna keep trying to hit your problems until they go away.

>

> Feeling angry is okay, being angry will screw you over.

>

> So let me ask you this: Who is the wielder and who is the tool, Sam?

Ignoring the memory of Stax’s lecture, I forced my anger to grow cold again, to let my experience come through.

“Helping,” I said in a tone that brooked no argument.

“But Sultana, you don’t have a weapon, and no armor—“

“Then give me one, Zephyro,” I said, voice biting cold. “Or do you think I can’t hold a crossbow?”

The Vizier grimaced as though I had said something he didn’t have time to explain. I’d seen the same expression on the faces of countless developers, whenever there was an outage and the issue was too complex to sum up in two sentences.

“It is not that easy, Sultana,” he said, confirming my suspicions.

Suddenly, another member of the city watch went down right next to me, holding his hands over a gushing wound on his chest. His crossbow sailed through the air, and with a confident smirk, I reached for where it would land, getting ready to catch it from the air.

The moment it touched my hand, it dissolved into whisps of blue energy. Just like its owner.

I stared at the fading motes, then at my hand. My anger told me I needed to try again, to take one of the weapons from the living, to take control. When Zephyro touched my shoulder, I shrugged him off with a snarl.

> I wished I had seen you for who you really are much earlier; Just a woman who gets angry at everything so that no one realizes she is scared.

“Why?” I asked, not trusting myself to say more without yelling at him.

“These weapons are part of us, Sultana,” a woman at the front of the formation said. Her eyes were cold, trained on the gate even as her friends were dying around her. And yet, there was sympathy in her voice.

“Everyone can interact with objects, or I should say data packages, that have no clear designated owner, so you can move boxes and open doors and stuff, but not all objects are made equal. Weapons, for example, are actually programs that can harm other AI, and need access privileges at the very least. Otherwise, you could literally shoot me with my own crossbow.”

“Alkashafa-14, you know I don’t like it when you talk about our world like—“

“Oh buzz off, honored Vizier,” Alkashafa-14 said, but there was no vitriol in her voice. Just hangman’s humor.

“It’s obvious she needs to know more, and metaphors about metaphors won’t help her.”

Without so much glancing at me, she went on with her explanation. “You also can’t just pick up weapons from dead people, like you can in the Real. Most of us can’t even transfer them to others. As I said, they’re just programs that are part of our system. I’m a scout, so I have some basic aggressive and defensive routines, as does everyone behind me. But all the others? The civilians? They weren’t built for this, and they wouldn’t last more than a few seconds.”

Zephyro was gritting his teeth, but he joined in. “Yes, yes, and there is also the matter of system compatibility and operating system. But that is neither here nor there. You need to leave, Sultana. I can not defend you against these hashashin.”

“Yeah, because they killed all your cameras and you aren’t close enough to detect their signature, old man.” Alkashafa-14 said, sticking out her tongue.

“Can you?” I asked, teetering on the brink of my rage. “Detect any signatures, I mean?”

“No,” she said but kept her eyes locked on the gate. “But I will take any of these fuckers down with me if they get close to a working network scanner.

“How many of those are there? Can we spread them out? Create a grid?” My mind was racing, trying to compartmentalize what I had just learned and plan at the same time. I noticed my rage was puttering out, but I didn’t dare stoke it again. Because I had nowhere to direct it to, the risk of me lashing out against these people was too high. They didn’t deserve that.

“Don’t think there are any left outside the bunker,” Alkashafa-14 said, and the others behind her nodded in silent, grim agreement. “If one of them has a big enough Essence—I mean signature, the systems will pick them up. We’ll make that count, and it will be enough, inshallah.”

My face grew cold.

“I doubt it,” said a burly man behind her. He was as focused as Alkashafa-14, but it was clear he wasn’t a scout. A builder, perhaps?

“Anything with enough Essence to show up on those systems will sweep the floor with us, and otherwise it doesn’t take much to kill our bodies from afar in the Real, as you will have noticed.”

He grinned, a little ghastly. “But if noting else, we will buy you time, Sultana, and we know our reward will be eternal.”

…but that meant…

“Zephyro…” I started to say, but stopped because he already knew. I couldn’t tell from his posture. The mathematics of the situation were devastatingly simple.

> There’s nothing we can do here, Sam. The city is lost.

He looked at his militia, and they looked at him. Alkashafa-14 checked her crossbow while she addressed him.

“Go, Vizier. Save the Sultana. It honors you to stand with us, but there is nothing you can do.”

She looked at me, just a stolen glance, as if merely looking at me might set someone aflame. A tremor of emotion ran through the woman, and tears formed in her eyes. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but instead, she merely smiled, awe-struck. The smile did not leave her expression when she reluctantly turned back to Zephyro.

“Do not waste our lives, Vizier, no matter how gladly we give it for Her.”

Behind her, the man who had spoken earlier exploded in a shower of gore and blue sparks. Instead of frizzling out, the lights were sucked into the whirling smoke around the gate.

Something in the smoke flashed red.