(I've received a work from Highemperor based off of events first written about in NeSquared, and I'll be posting it all in increments so as to hopefully draw out people's interest. I'll let Highemperor speak from this point on, as it were.)

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NeS 1888
or "This Also Needs a Better Name" (TANBN)
by Highemperor the Writer

The only sounds are the puffing of a pipe and the crackling of a fireplace. The pipe lets loose a miniature cloud of blue smoke, momentarily obscuring the vision of the smoking man. Unperturbed, he adjusts his spectacles and continues shuffling the ornate cards in his hands.

The man himself – obviously a scholar of some sort – wears blue robes and has kind grey eyes behind his spectacles. His wispy hair suggests a certain maturity, but there are few wrinkles on his face. In truth, he is ageless, for in this place time and space have little meaning.

He sits in a plush, high-backed chair behind an ornate desk. The walls of this cozy study are lined with book-filled shelves. In front of the desk is the study’s wood-paneled egress. On one side of the desk is a stone-arched window, looking out on the tree-twisted tower on top of which this study is. On the other side, sandwiched between two bookcases, is a tiny balcony, barely wide enough to hold one observer. This balcony looks upon pure chaos, swirls of possibility. Sometimes a scene or a landscape stabilizes for a fraction of a second, offering tantalizing glimpses of wondrous realms and fascinating treasures.

The scholar continues to shuffle his cards, then finally lays the stack face-down on the desk. He quickly draws the top 12 cards, and arranges them side-by-side in a semicircle before him, still face-down.

The NeS Tarot.

SCHOLAR: I wonder… So much time has passed, and still the story incubates, someday to be neverending… But first it must begin. Is now the time?

He refers to an ancient, gold-leafed text which lies open at his left elbow. It reads:

“The WRITERGOD possessed me at the beginning of His stories, before His works of old.
I have been established from everlasting, from the beginning, before ever the paper was.
When there were no plots I was brought forth, when there were no pens abounding with ink.
Before the mountains were settled, before the hills, I was brought forth;
While as yet He had not made the book, or the paper, or the primal ink of the world.
When He prepared the happy endings of the heavens, I was there, when He drew a table of contents on the face of the deep,
When He established the writers’ realm above,
When He strengthened the ink fountains of the deep,
When He assigned the book its story conventions, so that the story would not transgress His command, when He marked out the foundations of the plot,
Then I was beside Him as a master writer; and I was daily His delight, rejoicing always before Him,
Rejoicing in His inhabited story, and my delight was with the Characters of men.”

SCHOLAR: *murmuring* But when will the NeS become flesh?

He turns over the first card. The image is revealed of a young man striking a heroic pose. His hair rivals that of Mark Hami-- er, well perhaps this hair cut doesn’t exist in the 1800s. There are 12 empty thrones behind him, to which the heroic man is chained. The scholar turns the card slightly, and from that new angle, a new image appears: a tall, hooded spectre in a blue robe so dark it’s almost black. No face can be seen beneath the hood, only inky blackness.

SCHOLAR: The Moderator. He is the leader, the one who inspires those around him, and keeps the peace among his allies. The laziness is strong within this one…

He pauses thoughtfully, then turns over the second card. A man who seems neither young nor old is shown, wrapped in a hooded brown cloak. There are glowing blue runes tattooed on his face and his hands. A flame is cupped between his hands.

SCHOLAR: The Guide. He is the proverbial old hermit who shows the hero his destiny. Yet he is powerless to prevent tragedy. Despite all his power, it is not of itself sufficient to protect the story. What alliances, what compromises, shall he make to advance the plot?

The scholar sighs and takes a puff of his pipe. It is almost as if he can relate to the Guide. He quickly turns over the third card. This one is like that of the Moderator, in that two images can be seen, at different angles. The first image is that of a kingly figure. A simple silver circlet is placed atop his shoulder-length dark curls. His eyes are a piercing blue, filled with a surety that says he never misses with the longbow clutched in his left hand. He is dressed in a night-blue tunic and trousers, simple but well-made. He holds the reins of a great white stallion in his right hand.

The second image appears to be the same man. His dark hair is now short and straight, parted on the right; no circlet adorns it. He is dressed in a black tunic and trousers now, with a scarlet sash, and a flowing black cloak with bloodred shoulder pauldrons. His right hand crackles with silver electricity, and a glowing sword of pure white energy in his left hand, replacing the bow, completes the new ensemble. His eyes, however, are the same.

SCHOLAR: The Powerplayer. But this one starts out as friend. And it is for the sake of that friendship he turns to munchkinism…

Another puff of blue smoke. And the fourth card is turned over. This time it is a ninja, in the classic matte black attire of the ancient assassins. His proud face, however, is unmasked, and reveals a Nordic dream of blue eyes and blond hair. He stands at 6’1, his shoulders broad, and his muscles corded. A katana is sheathed upon his back, and various 19th-century pistols are holstered on his belt. He looks every inch a kick-*** hero.

SCHOLAR: The Tovarish. A weaponsmaster dedicated more to his mother country than the ancient order that trained him, he is enshrouded in mystery and fog. But for all that, he is a steadfast friend and loyal ally.

The fifth card reveals a haughty young man in a white mage’s robe. In one hand he grips a firemaster’s staff. In the other, an ancient blade of terrible power.

SCHOLAR: The Mageling. His power surpassed only by his arrogance. He shall chafe as an apprentice, rebel against his teacher, and seek a new, hellish master. Yet, before the end comes, a maiden shall thaw his icy heart, and he shall bequeath an ancestry of heroism to his offspring.

The next card is another two-imaged one. The first shows an infant boy, squalling in terror as he is cradled by clawed hands. The second shows a man with horns jutting from his temples, and flaming eyes. The fancy suit he wears contrasts with his semi-hellish appearance.

SCHOLAR: The Innocent. A pawn in a bargain to protect the future, he is a noble creature, streaked with a villainy not of his own making. But once he fulfills his destiny, he will finally captain his own soul.

The seventh card is of a man in a modern business suit: black coat, trousers, and tie. His eyes are hidden by sunglasses as he leans against a DeLorean like the one in ‘Back to the Future’. *cough*ANACHRONISM*cough*

SCHOLAR: The Lost. In a mission to fulfill history, he ends up adrift in a strange time, yet one in which he has an integral role to play.

The eighth card is of a flamboyant man in flashy, colorful clothing. He wears a bright smile, and twirls a pushbroom in his hands.

SCHOLAR: The Custodian. Foremost of an elite order, he shall yet know great loneliness as he finds himself the last of his kind.

The ninth card shows a noble knight in full plate armor, with a white tunic depicting a golden cross over it. He has bright red hair in a mass going to his waist. A broadsword is sheathed at his side, a shield propped up at his feet. In his hands he holds a rainbow-colored standard.

SCHOLAR: The Knight. Relic of an older chivalry, he doesn’t even realize how outdated his idealism is. Yet he is a hero through and through, and his fealty to his chosen master shall be the stuff of legends.

The tenth card. The only way to describe the figure depicted is as a monster. It is vaguely humanoid, with body parts and scrap metal stitched together by some mad scientist. Yet there is intelligence in its eyes.

SCHOLAR: The Monster. Feared and hated by those with whom he only wishes to live in peace, he shall find acceptance in a league of champions.

The eleventh card is a fourth double-imaged card. What, another one? Can’t the writer think of anything better than this crap? I mean-

SCHOLAR: Ahem.

Right, right. The first image on this card is of a man dressed all in black. He clutches a vodka bottle in one hand, and a mighty sword in the other. The second image is of a ferocious badger, howling at the moon.

SCHOLAR: The Beast. Cursed to be man by day and beast by night. A savage fighter, and a drunken lecher. No more needs to be said.

The scholar – come on, do I have to keep calling him that? Don’t we all know who he is? – whatever, the scholar hesitates before turning over the last card… but then he decisively flips it to reveal what can only be the god of war, sitting on a throne overlooking an arena.

SCHOLAR: The Immortal. I sense that he is, in fact, a Character™, born to herald the NeS’ coming and to protect its neverendingness. But what about the others? After 3000 years, shall the NeS finally be birthed?

The scholar laces his fingers together, pondering. At length, he stands up and whistles. Well, more of a chirp. But how weird would that be to say? ‘He stands up and chirps.’ Come on—

SCHOLAR: Ahem.

Got a cold, Gramps? Well, anyway, in response to his, er, chirp, a pigeon swoops into the study from the window. Its name is Bernard, the first in what is to be a long line. Bernard The First alights on the scholar’s fingers expectantly.

SCHOLAR: My friend, go and seek out this ‘Moderator’. Watch him. *looks down his nose sternly at the bird* And NO pooing on top of him.

Bernard The First looks crestfallen.

SCHOLAR: Well, not more than every now and again.

The pigeon perks up and spreads its wings. It flies to the balcony and dives into the chaos below. The scholar remains standing for a moment, then resumes his seat and puffs his pipe thoughtfully.

(Next up, Nov. 27th, 1863 and how a very young Erro is guided to his destiny!)

NSP: This could be a cool idea, like NeS but with monocles and top hats instead of sci-fi. The heroes are running around trying to stop anarchists from blowing up the king with old-timey bombs.

(From Geb: If you'd like, sure, though if I had to call NeS anything, I wouldn't classify normal NeS as sci-fi, but, to over-simplify, fantasy without the medieval overtones.)

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1863 (November 27th)

Far away, in the land of - *THUNK*

Ow! Where did that anvil come from? Hmph. Well, anywhos, next to the city of-

*THUNK*

Yeeeeoooowwwtch! Another one? What the hey? Can I even say what continent this place is? In the conti – er… *looks up and steps aside quickly*
The continent of---

*THUNKTHUNKTHUNKTHUNKTHUNKTHUNK*

Owie… How the heck does a storm of anvils hit a disembodied voice anyway? Bleh. Anywhos, in their home, which is - *looks up fearfully* Can I at least say this? Okay, in the palatial stone fortress known as Castle Simon -- *cringes* Whew, no anvils that time.

In Castle Simon, home of the Baron Erro Simon, his lady wife, and their 8-year-old son Erro II, the family is preparing to attend a new opera.

Baron Simon: My dear, this opera is what I’ve been looking forward to all year. Scary Opera 4 – what could be better than another sequel to a spoof of all the famous horror operas?

Lady Simon: Especially when it’s starring Leslie Nielsen’s ancestor! Hubba, hubba!

Well, at least the young couple is preparing. Little Erro, on the other hand, is complaining.

Erro: I am NOT wearing a HAT on my pants!

RawHaggis: It’s not a hat, young master, it’s a bloint. It’s the latest in fashion, and you want to make your mother proud of her handsome little man, don’t you?

Erro: Not by wearing bloody that, I don’t.

RawHaggis: Master Erro! Watch your tongue. Now, will you wear this, or do you want me to tell your mother about your uncouth language?

Erro: *grumbling* Fine, fine. *takes the bloint* I’ll wear it – as a hat!

He thrusts the bloint upon his head and stares defiantly up at RawHaggis. The family butler sighs.

RawHaggis: *mumbling* It’s moments like this that I think my son was wise to abandon this hereditary butlership for snooty waitership. *to Erro* Now, Master Erro, you really need to wear it properly-

*SPLAT*

A pile of poo drops onto Erro’s bloint. In the rafters high above, Bernard The First cackles as only a pigeon can.

RawHaggis: Oh dear, Master Erro, you’ve ruined it!

Erro: *sullenly* Would you rather he pooed ON MY HEAD?!

RawHaggis: Now be sensible, young master. Your hair can be washed – and is a perpetual ruin anyway – but this bloint cannot be salvaged!

Lady Simon: *calling from the next room* Erro, dear, are you ready to go?

Erro: Coming, Mother! *shoots RawHaggis a victorious smirk*

Erro skips out of the room as only an 8-year-old boy-saved-from-the-horrible-fate-of-wearing-a-hat-on-his-pants can, and his parents herd him into the horse-drawn carriage waiting outside.

Philip the UGO Carriage Driver: Hallo there, Erro!

Erro: Hiya, Philip! We’re going to see Scary Opera 4! You wanna come inside the opera house with us?

Philip the UGO Carriage Driver: Naw, I don’t unnerstand none o’ that high-falutin’ language. But donchew worry, I’ll get you there in a jiffy!

With that, Philip the UGO Carriage Driver giddyaps, the carriage bounces off down the road from Castle Simon to the city of--

*THUNK*

Ouch, I forgot.

Lady Simon: *fanning herself* I’ve heard the other posh ladies gossiping about some big battle down in the Congo last year, dear. Something about a, eh, demon?

Erro: Demon?

Baron Simon: Yes, dear, it was Vashuko. He and the other elemental lords had escaped and had to be put down.

Erro: Vashu- Vaku- Who?

Lady Simon: So your, ah *looks sideways at little Erro* organization handled it?

Erro: What organization?

Baron Simon: No, that’s the funny thing. There were some powerful magicks worked down there, to be sure, but by the time we got there, it was little more than mopping up to do. Never did figure out who saved our skins.

Erro: My head hurts.

Baron Simon: *kindly* Don’t worry, son. Things will make a lot more sense after you become an adult on your 16th birthday.

Erro: When I’m 16 and an adult, I can fire a manservant for insubordination, can’t I?

Lady Simon: Well, yes, dear, but we only have the one. You wouldn’t fire RawHaggis, would you?

Erro: *mumbling* … like to see him wear a hat on his pants… bloody bloints…

The carriage rolls to a stop, and they get out. They are all alone in the dark streets outside the opera house.

Baron Simon: Ah, it seems we’re late. Do you know what this means, Philip?

Philip the UGO Carriage Driver: *glumly* No tip for me?

Baron Simon: We don’t have to sit through those awful previews! Tally ho, my good man! *presses a wad of money into the stunned carriage driver’s palm*

Philip the UGO Carriage Driver: W00t! I’ll be back to pick you up, sir! *drives off, already planning to get smashed at the tavern with his newfound wealth*

And so the three are left alone. In the dark cobblestone streets. All alllloonnnee…

Erro: Yeah, yeah, I get it. Creepy. Understood.

Kids these days. So desensitized.

Lady Simon: Let’s take a shortcut through that obviously dangerous alleyway which would be perfect for a mugging over there, shall we?

Baron Simon: Excellent plan, my dear!

The three step into the alleyway and walk down the narrow confines between buildings. Suddenly, they are surrounded by a dozen men, who seemed to have simply appeared out of the night air.

Lady Simon: What the--?

Ominous Attacker #1: Erro Simon. You – and your wife and your whelp – die tonight.

He parts his lips in an almost feral grin, revealing razor-sharp incisors – fangs, perhaps? He and the other eleven ominous attackers raise jagged-edged swords into the air, the moonlight glinting off the silver blades. Baron Simon reacts quickly, however, and draws a quill from his cloak. It is made from a feather of the purest white, and glossy black ink glistens on the tip.

As Lady Simon and little Erro huddle behind him, Baron Simon slashes the quill through the air, writing words upon the night that disappear as soon as they’re written, rearranging the space-time continuum-

Random Audience Member: Wait! This is before EinsteinKirby. They don’t know about space/time, they just call it ether.

Right then. Moving on… The mighty quill rips one ominous attacker after another out of existence, dissolving their physical forms. Only one ominous attacker remains, raising his sword uncertainly.

Baron Simon: The pen, my friend, is mightier than the sword.

And then Baron Simon’s quill runs dry.

Ominous Attacker #6: *smirking* …until it runs out of ink.

Baron Simon: Fuq.

Lady Simon: *gasps and covers Erro’s ears*

Erro: Cool word, Dad!

Ominous Attacker #6 whirls his blade through the air, stabbing Baron Simon fatally through the heart, and decapitating Lady Simon. Only little 8-year-old Erro is left, quivering with shock and terror.

Ominous Attacker #6: Sorry, kid, nothing personal, but I have to kill you, too.

He raises his sword-

New Voice: NOOO!

Ominous Attacker #6 turns as a fireball comes roaring out of the shadows, then screams as he is enveloped in annihilating flames. His charred corpse falls to the cobblestones.

Trembling, Erro turns to meet his saviour. A haggard-looking man wrapped in a brown cloak steps out of the shadows. Glowing blue lines and whorls are tattooed on his face and hands. A fireball is cupped in his right palm.

New Man: Too late, I see. *sees Erro* Or, perhaps not.

As the man strides closer, Erro sees that the flame is being projected from a silver lighter held between his fingers. After a moment, the man lets the flame disappear, and the lighter disappears back into the darkness.

New Man: I’m sorry, son. I couldn’t save your parents. Couldn’t save any of them. But at least I saved you. You’re the last one, now. It’s up to you. I tried. I tried so hard…

His hand pats Erro’s head awkwardly. Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the blackness.

Suddenly freed from the terror-induced paralysis that had gripped him, Erro runs to his father’s side. Baron Simon is still alive, but only just. His life is slipping away too quickly to be stopped.

Baron Simon: Erro… son… Something I have… to tell you…

Erro: Yes, Father, what?

Baron Simon: The… the Storywriter…

Erro: The Storywriter is my ally, and a powerful ally it is?

Baron Simon: *shakes head, coughs*

Erro: The Storywriter will be with me, always?

Baron Simon: No, Erro… what I mean to say is… *cough* The Storywriters… bastards are…

And then he is still, his life spent. Erro kneels forlornly before his father’s lifeless body, as still as his parents, but his heart quivering with emotion. And there, in an alley outside the opera house, where his parents were murdered by forces beyond his control, in the abyss of a broken heart, a vow is made.

Erro: I will avenge you, Father… I will make sure the streets are safe for everyone. I will bring justice to all muggers, evildoers, and ominous attackers everywhere!

And so, a legend is born…

(Next installment, Feb. 31st 1870, when a mad scientist and his creation meet with a time traveler from the future!)

1870 (February 31st)

A spooky manor dominates the treeline in a remote European forest, miles from the nearest village. Stormclouds billow behind the manor, obscuring what would otherwise be a brilliant sunrise.

Thunder rumbles, and a few tentative flashes of lightning are seen. Without warning, one bolt crackles earthward, zipping directly toward the manor – only to strike a metal rod mounted at the top of the Gothic structure. The electricity is channeled along metal rods and wires, deeper into the manor, until it reaches a strange device at the very foundations, in the dank cellar.

The device – covered with dials and levers, is at the foot of a long metal table on which a tall, vaguely humanoid creature rests. As the lightning charges the device, the entire cellar flashes with bright light. The vaguely humanoid creature’s eyes flutter open—

Short Figure in a Mad Scientist’s Lab Coat™: It’s alive! Alive! ALLLLIIIIIVVVEEE!!!

Vaguely Humanoid Creature: *annoyed* Sheesh, Doctor Fleidermouse, you don’t have to do that every single morning when I wake up!

Doctor Fleidermouse: You have no sense of drama, my dear Galvenstein. Why, without the drama, life is meaningless! Without a soul, a body is lifeless! Without words, poetry is empty! Without crème filling, donuts are tasteless!

Galvenstein: *muttering* Remind me again why I live with such a nutcase…

Dr. Fleidermouse: Oh, that’s quite simple. Everyone else considers you a freak of nature and usually forms mobs with torches and pitchforks every time you come around.

Galvenstein: *depressed* Yeah…

Dr. Fleidermouse: Oh, cheer up, chap. I love you. Of course, I created you, so I might be biased…

The vaguely humanoid creature known as Galvenstein sits up on the metal table and swings his legs to the floor. Now out of the shadows, we see that he is a hodgepodge of body parts and scrap metal, stitched together with steel wires. Yes, folks, this is history’s first true cyborg.

Galvenstein: *sarcastically* Thanks, Doc. That makes me feel soooo much better.

Doctor Fleidermouse: *oblivious* Oh, don’t worry, William, I love you, too!

Doctor Fleidermouse is addressing an empty stool off to the side. What else did you expect from a MAD scientist?

William/Empty Stool: …

Doctor Fleidermouse: Oh, come now, there’s no need to be like that.

William/Empty Stool: …

Doctor Fleidermouse: Well, actually—

There is suddenly a flash of light, as a DeLorean accelerates into existence within the conveniently-big-enough underground laboratory, leaving trails of flame behind its wheels. It brakes to a stop before hitting a stone wall, and the door pops open. Out steps a debonair young man in a modern black suit, wearing sunglasses. He is a stranger to this time, to this place, and his very demeanor suggests his futurity.

Galvenstein: Whoa!

Doctor Fleidermouse: Oh my!

William/Empty Stool: …

Debonair Young Man: Greetings. I am TwistedSpasm, agent of the S.S.T.T.A. –

Doctor Fleidermouse: Superman’s Supremely, Totally Tasteless Archenemies?

TwistedSpasm: No, actually it’s the—

Doctor Fleidermouse: Submarine Sandwich Takeout, Totally Awesome?

Galvenstein: Hey, Doc, perhaps you should let him—

Doctor Fleidermouse: Dear Lord, Galvenstein! Have you no manners? Let the man speak!

Galvenstein and TwistedSpasm blink uncertainly. Then-

TwistedSpasm: Er, *ahem* I am an agent of the Super Secret Time Travel Agency. I have been sent from the future on a mission to fulfill history. Tell me, is this February 31st, 1870?

Galvenstein: *a whirring sound is heard for a moment as he calculates the date* Your supposition is correct, Agent TwistedSpasm. Wait a second, how does February have 31 days???

TwistedSpasm: Whew. The first time I wound up in 1898. Well, anyway, Doctor Fleidermouse, according to our histories, you thought up the plans for a flux capacitor™ in your sleep last night! Those plans are vital to the future formation of the S.S.T.T.A.!

Doctor Fleidermouse: Really? But there’s no fuel source sufficient to power it!

TwistedSpasm: Not now there isn’t, but in my time, uranium is discovered. Quickly! According to your diary, left to the future, you will soon hit your head on a toilet bowl and completely forget the plans!

Doctor Fleidermouse starts hopping around the room in excitement.

Doctor Fleidermouse: Ahahahahahaha! Yes! Those fools at Mad Scientist Academy will be confounded! I, the great Doctor Fleidermouse, have discovered the secrets of time travel! It will actually work! I thumb my nose at the collective scientific body, those who said it could never work! I—

Suddenly the good doctor stumbles and baps his head on a conveniently-placed toilet bowl. In flash of paradox, TwistedSpasm’s DeLorean/time-machine disappears into a plothole.

TwistedSpasm: Crap.

(Next installment, Sept. 9th 1871, where Erro completes his unique training in the depths of Siberia...)

1871 (September 9th)

In the trackless wastes of Siberia, a lonely cliff perches above a lake of ice. Near the cliff’s edge is a small camp. Two simple tents have been here for 13 years, one on either side of a campfire.

Two years ago, a third tent joined them.

As the dark sky lightens – the only sign of day in this WriterGodforsaken land – a figure exits his tent. He is dressed in the matte black of his teacher, but although he cuts a dashing figure in it, he does not seem at ease in this outfit.

As the camera pans in closer, we see that this is Erro Simon II, eight years after his parents’ murder, and almost a man.

Erro: *surveying the sky* Another dismal day… Time for more practicing.

He stumps off a ways from the tents, and draws two blades, a katana and a shorter foil. First he makes some tentative cuts through the air, alternating blades, then faster and faster, twirling both blades at once-

And then he runs.

Across the plains he tears, his swordplay never faltering, the air crackling with the speed of his arms and legs. Snowflakes here and there are perfectly bisected before they hit the ground. And still Erro runs. Until—

Voice: Hello, tovarish.

Erro: Eep!

Erro skids to a stop, driving the foil into the tundra beneath him as a brake. Before him stands a tall, muscular man, with blond hair and blue eyes. He too wears the matte black outfit that Erro has, but this one seems at ease in it, as though he was born to wear it.

Erro: Nicolai?!

Nicolai: Da. It seems I beat you here again.

Erro: How? Not only am I faster than you – I seem to have been born with a latent superhuman speed that conveniently manifested when I hit puberty – but I got up an hour earlier!

Nicolai: True. But your speed does you no good if you do not employ your mind. I simply anticipated your strategy, and hiked here during the night.

Erro: Hmph. I could still beat you in combat. Tell me you saw that swordwork I did while I was running.

Nicolai: You are fast, yes, Erro. But- *draws a flintlock pistol in a lightning fast move* Are you fast enough?

Erro stares at the barrel leveled at his chest. He sighs.

Erro: Not fast enough to dodge a bullet. No.

Nicolai grins and holsters his pistol again.

Erro: What kind of ninja uses a gun, anyway?

New Voice: The kind of ninja I[/b] train, who uses whatever means is available.

Erro and Nicolai: Eep!

A short old man, Japanese in ethnicity, with a white goatee and bald head, has suddenly appeared in front of them, without their noticing. He too is dressed in the matte black garb of the ninja.

Nicolai: Master –

Short Old Man: No. I have been your master for years – 13 for you, Nicolai, and 2 for you, Erro – but today I am not your master. Today you refer to me by my name!

Erro scratches his head, confused.

Erro: But we don’t know your name.

Nicolai: The Twelfth True Evil.

T12TE: Correct, young Nicolai.

Erro: *still confused* But that’s just your title, not your name!

T12TE: Wrong. I was trained by my master, The Eleventh True Evil. The True Evils are a line of elite ninjas, going back four hundred years, as you know. When I accepted the duty of being a True Evil, T12TE became my name. My identity. My very personhood. We True Evils are not related by blood, but by training, training passed on from master to student, as originally begun by The First True Evil, all those centuries ago.

Erro: *disturbed by subsuming one’s identity like that* I see…

T12TE: I came to Siberia 13 years ago, to find a student from great Russia. I found young Nicolai, only 9 at the time, living on the streets. Yet he was leader of the largest gang in Moscow, leading teenagers twice his age. For he was a warrior, in mind and in spirit. I chose to bring him out here, to make him a warrior in body.

He turns to Erro, who wonders why T12TE is telling him what they already know – Oh, if that’s all you wanted to know, Erro, it’s because it’s a story convention. Lets the audience know what’s going on.

Erro: Ah…

T12TE: But you, Erro, you are a special case. Perhaps unique in the entire history of the True Evils. You sought me out for training. How you even heard of me, much less found me, is still a mystery to me. No mean feats. Even allowing for your special speed abilities, your progress is amazing. Still, I wonder what your motives are. You have not chosen to reveal them to me, and it is not my place to draw them out.

He pauses.

T12TE: But there can only be one Thirteenth True Evil.

Erro and Nicolai: *gasp*

Nicolai: You mean-

Erro: Today we-

T12TE: Yes. It is time we discover who best to succeed me. You shall fight. Not to the death, but to victory. Begin.

Nicolai pulls out his pistol – only to have its barrel stopped up with a shuriken. Erro eyes him sardonically.

Erro: You’re not going to win that easily. *draws his katana and foil*

Nicolai: *drops his pistol and draws his oversized katana*

They stand still for a fraction of a second, sizing each other up and trying to anticipate each other’s moves and planning their technique. And then-

Nicolai thrusts with his katana. Erro blocks easily, only to dodge a flurry of shurikens in geb-time. As he comes back up, Nicolai elbows him in the neck. Erro stumbles back, gasping for breath.

Nicolai presses the attack, grabbing Erro’s nipples through the suit, making him squeal like a girl.

Nicolai: Ha ha, nyah-nyah-nyah!

Erro: ARGH! *swipes at Nicolai with his katana*

Nicolai ducks to the side, Erro’s blade whooshing past him. Before Erro can draw his weapon back, Nicolai grabs his elbow and flips Erro onto his back. No sooner does Erro land than he snaps out his leg in a sweep kick at Nicolai. Nicolai jumps nimbly, but Erro is too quick, and Nicolai stumbles, catching himself with one hand while the other brings up his katana to block Erro’s thrust.

Erro works up some more swordplay like he did earlier, whipping the katana and foil into intricate patterns, moving at superhuman speeds. Nicolai flings shurikens at him, but Erro picks them out of the air with an almost frightening ease.

Nicolai then thrusts forward with his katana. Erro’s spinning swordplay flicks it out of his grip. Unperturbed, Nicolai simply punches towards Erro’s gut.

Aghast, Erro stops his bladework, not wanting to cut his friend’s arm off – and Nicolai’s fist crashes into his gut, followed by an uppercut to the chin, a knee to the groin, and a strategically placed finger to the temple.

Erro slumps to the ground, defeated.

Nicolai steadies his breathing, then strokes a nerve cluster on the back of Erro’s neck, restoring him to consciousness.

Erro: Shwa-- I’m awake! 42!

Nicolai: I just beat you.

Erro: …oh. But how?

Nicolai: As I’ve told you. You rely too much on your speed, and not your mind. I knew you wouldn’t want to maim me, so I relied on that to get past your guard.

Erro: …well. Congratulations. *extends his hand*

Nicolai: Tovarish?

Erro: Tovarish.

They shake hands. Off to the side, clapping is heard. The camera swivels to show T12TE approaching them, a tight smile on his face.

T12TE: Well done, well done. Both of you. Erro, you will indeed go far. But mind you what Nicolai has told you. No ability makes up for a lack of spirit or mind. I foresee you will become a great Jedi – er *cough* warrior and hero.

He turns to Nicolai.

Nicolai: And now I’m the Thirteenth True Evil?

T12TE shakes his head.

T12TE: No. The only way one may become the next True Evil… is by killing the one who trained him.

It takes a moment for this to sink in. Then-

Nicolai & Erro: WHAT?!

T12TE: Yes. Nicolai must defeat me in order to claim his mantle. In a battle to the death.

Erro: But, there’s no way Nicolai will-

Nicolai interrupts him. His voice is hard.

Nicolai: Erro, it’s time for you to leave. Head back to your country, your people. You have learned from T12TE what you wanted to. You don’t have to watch this.

Erro: You mean – You’re going to – to kill-

Nicolai: Go, tovarish.

Erro stares at his friend, then at his master, then back at Nicolai. His breath is expelled in a tiny explosion of fog. He picks up his katana and foil, looks at them both again…

And then he turns and runs away.

Behind him, he can hear the crack of flesh striking flesh and the clang of blade against blade as master and student duel to the death. Any tears that might have stung his flesh are whipped away by the wind as he goes back to the campsite to pack his few belongings.

But the campsite is no longer empty.

Erro: *aghast* Who are YOU?

There is a man warming his hands at the fire. His back is to the young hero. A brown cloak flutters in the chill Siberian wind. At Erro’s inquiry, he turns around, revealing long shaggy brown hair – much like Aragorn in Fellowship of the Ring *cough*ANACHRONISM*cough* - and skin covered with glowing blue tattoos.

Erro: YOU!

The man who saved his life all those years ago stands up, entering Erro’s life once more, as quickly as he had entered and left it in 1863.

Man: Yes, it is I. You have grown, Erro. And the bloodink within you has begun to manifest.

Erro: *head spinning* Wait, wait – who are you?

Man: Well, perhaps introductions are in order. My name is Mustang Aurelius Ford. I dabble in the wizardly and druidic arts. And I am the current Hand of the Plot. Not that that means a whole heck of a lot when there is no plot.

Erro: Er, plot? *a flushing sound is heard*

Mustang: It’s like this. This universe is the womb for this planet upon which we reside. This planet is itself the womb for a great story, the Neverending Story. As Hand of the Plot, I work the will of the NeS. Of course, since the NeS has not yet manifested, I have no actual plot-powers. Just my ordinary magic.

Erro: Wait, are you saying we’re in a story?

And thus, the first fourth-wall-breaking in the history of the NeS.

Mustang: Yes.

Erro: And you’re the main character?

Mustang: No.

Erro: Then who is?

Mustang: You are.

Erro: WHAT?!

Mustang: Well, possibly. I can’t be sure. You see, all the writers of the past and future have combined their writing powers into creations called the Characters™ - avatars of ultimate story convention, designed to birth, wield, and protect the NeS. However, we have been waiting for the Characters™ to appear for 3000 years. The WriterGod is the only one who knows for sure when they’ll pop up. But, whenever they come, they are vital.

Erro: Why?

Mustang: Because, without them, there can be no NeS.

Erro: And why does that matter?

Mustang: Because the NeS is only THE MOST IMPORTANT STORY IN THE COSMOS!

Erro: Whoa. Heavy stuff. Um, not to nitpick or anything, but just what makes the NeS so important?

Mustang: *considers* Hmm, do you want the metaphysical explanation, or the meta-story explanation?

Erro: The actual explanation.

Mustang: Well, both of them are true, but one of them is the cause of NeS’ importance, and the other is the justification for it.

Erro: *looking up into pale Siberian sky* Great. Why does MY Obi-wan have to be a semantic philosopher?

Mustang: Obi-wan?

*cough*ANACHRONISM*cough*

Erro: What the hey, give me both explanations.

Mustang: The metaphysical explanation is thus: The only rule of the NeS is also its most fundamental foundation. THE STORY MUST NOT END!!! Now, if NeS were in fact to end – or, for that matter, never come into existence in the first place – thus breaking that cardinal rule, it would cause a paradoxical time loop which would annihilate the entire cosmos in a gigantic whirling plothole.

Erro: *yawn* And the second?

Mustang: The meta-story explanation is thus: All writers believe their work to be the most important writing ever, to be God’s own gift to mankind. Since the writers of the NeS are also in fact writing the NeS (a reflexive redundancy, of course), that means that, within NeS, NeS is in fact the most important story in the cosmos. Hence the importance of the Characters™.

Erro: So… I might be a, erm, a Character™?

Mustang: Perhaps. There is certainly potential in you. Either you… or one of your descendants.

Erro: I really don’t understand.

Mustang: I’ll try to explain. There was once an organization known as the Illuminohqi –

Erro: The Illuminati?!

Mustang: The IlluminOHQi. The IlluminATi is just a myth… everyone knows that… Anywhos, the IlluminOHQi was a shadowy, worldwide organization that had its fingers in every major event in the world, not to mention much of the universe. It was controlled by twelve leaders, powerful men and women whose identities were protected, sometimes even from one another. The position of being an Illuminohq was hereditary – because bloodink is passed down from generation to generation.

Erro: Bloodink?

Mustang: Blood is the life of the characters. Ink is the life of the story. A rare few have blood-ink running through their veins. The Illuminohqi, you see, were founded in ancient Atlantis by AncientWriterTheWriter and his eleven cohorts, to preserve the bloodink within them. And so the bloodink was passed down through 12 lineages.

Erro: And what does this have to do with me?

Oh, come ON, Erro! Surely you can see it now! Your father was an Illuminohq!

Erro: He was?

Of course! It’s the most unoriginal story convention ever! Even a diseased, constipated, epileptic, and schizophrenic ape would’ve caught on quicker!

Sam (the diseased, constipated, epileptic, and schizophrenic ape): Hey!

Erro: Is this true, Mustang?

Mustang: Yes. That’s why he was killed. In fact, on that fateful night, assassins were sent out to destroy every single Illuminohq and their families. I was young then. I couldn’t stop them. But I did manage to save you.

Erro: Me?

Mustang: Yes, you. Look, why do you keep asking stupid questions like that?

Erro: It breaks up your long, hard-to-read paragraphs.

Mustang: Ah. Well, carry on then. Anywhos, you are the last Ohq. Ohqs are meant to be the Storywielders, leaders, heroes, and Characters™ to boot. But whether that is to be you… or one of your offspring, I don’t know.

Erro: Wait – do you know who killed my parents?

Mustang: Yes.

There is a long silence.

Erro: WHO?

Mustang: The same man who had the other Illuminohqi killed.

Another long silence.

Erro: *frustrated* And who is THAT?

Mustang: Now, now, no need to be testy. His name is Count Desmond. He is a NeSferatu.

Erro: A vampire?

Mustang: No, that would be a nosferatu. He is a NeSferatu, and the leader of all NeSferatu. They feed not on blood, but on bloodink. On story itself. But they are dying out. They need a neverending story to sustain them for ever, not a finite story that comes to an untimely end. Hence, they fed on the bloodink of the Illuminohqi.

Erro: But, if they kill all the bloodink-characters, then how will any more neverending stories come to be?

Mustang: They were hoping to jump-start the awakening of the NeS, so that they would have it to feed on NOW, instead of a few more millennia down the road. And they very well may have jump-started it. After all, you are on the road to heroism and Charactership.

Erro: Just tell me where Desmond is, and I’ll take care of the rest.

Mustang: Fool. He killed all the Illuminohqi in one night, and you expect to take him on? No, you will do it someday, but first… you need allies.

Erro: What? What allies? My butler, RawHaggis? What’s he gonna do, force Desmond to wear a bloint? Heh, not a bad idea…

Mustang: No, Erro. You must go the Arena™. That is where all great heroes are born and chewed up and spit out. There, amongst the other fighters, you will find your allies. A league of champions you will need, and there, champions are to be had.

Erro: Alrighty then.

Mustang: What? No protests?

Erro: Um, do I need to protest? Do you want me to struggle against my destiny?

Mustang: Well, it is a story convention.

Erro: Screw that. Let’s go to the Arena.

Mustang: Alright. I’ll meet you there.

Erro: Wha-

In a flash of blue light, Mustang is gone.

Erro: Fuq.

Half an hour later, Erro is clothed in the original fur-wrapped hiking outfit he first came to Siberia in two years ago. Pack slung upon his shoulder, he treks across the waste to the nearest train station, fifty miles away.

As the paleness of the day fades, Erro turns again, looking back in the direction of the campsite, which is no longer visible, so much distance has he covered. He looks up at the sky and realizes something.

Today is his 16th birthday.

(Next installment: Erro enters THE ARENA!)

Still 1871 (November 27th)

Erro is now at an undisclosed island in the Caribbean, where the sky is dominated by a magnificent coliseum. Pillars soar to the blah-blah-blah. Do we really need a description here? This place has been described to death in NeS. Er, it will be described to death – GAH! … prequels and time travel give me a headache.

Erro: So this is it. The place where my destiny is made.

Would you make up your mind? I tried to say your destiny began in 1863, but no, you wouldn’t embrace it until a few months ago in Siberia, and now you’re saying that didn’t count, either?

Erro: Hush, you.

Erro walks up to the great entrance of the Arena. There is a ticket-taker booth, manned by a woman named Martha. Erro gets in the line, which moves extremely slowly. However, for the sake of not boring the reader to death, we will skip the week Erro spends in line, and jump to the point at which he reaches Martha the ticket-taker.

Martha: Ticket, please.

Erro: Er, I don’t have a ticket-

Martha: What? No ticket! Then you’d better get in the Ticketmaster line, hadn’t you? NEXT!

Erro turns to see an even longer line leading up to a Ticketmaster booth. Uncertainly, he turns back to Martha.

Erro: Er, no, I don’t want a ticket, I—

Martha: Then why are you holding up my line? NEXT!

Erro: I want to fight in the Arena!

Martha: I see. Why didn’t you just say so?

Erro: Well, I did try—

Martha: No excuses, boy. Here, go over to the sign-up booth. *jerks her thumb over to the side*

Erro sees a booth a good walk away, outside a side entrance to the Arena. There is a much shorter line here.

Erro: Thank you.

Martha: NEXT!

Erro trudges over to the sign-up booth. I will now take the opportunity to describe his new outfit, seeing as he has ditched the ninja outfit of the True Evils, which he was never comfortable with anyway. He now wears well-cut brown pants, and a frilled blue shirt. Of course, he protested to his butler that frills were NOT appropriate for fighting attire, but RawHaggis had insisted, either the frills or a bloint. His hair is in his favorite style, a style that actually hasn’t been invented yet, but will become famous once Star Wars: A New Hope comes out.

Erro: *cough*ANACHRONISM*cough*

Anywho, Erro reaches the fighters’ sign-up booth. Standing in the booth is—

Erro: MARTHA?!

Martha: You don’t have to shout, dearie, my hearing’s fine.

Erro: But – but – weren’t you – weren’t you just at the ticket line?

Martha: Nonsense, dear. Now do you-

Erro: But I was just over there! You were-

Martha: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Erro: But- But- But-

Martha: Haven’t you ever heard the expression, “Wherever there is inconvenience, Martha will be there?”

Erro: No.

Martha: *ahem* At any rate, if you wish to fight, you’ll need to submit a copy of your bad writing—

Erro: Wait, bad writing? What the hey?

Martha: Yes. Ares’ challenge in the Arena™ is to all bad writers. If you’re not a bad writer, you cannot fight.

Erro: *sigh* I’ll be back.

Erro traipses to an inn on the island and sits down in the inn’s tavern. Whipping out his father’s quill, he requests and receives some parchment and sketches out the first few chapters of the first idea that comes into his head.

Little does he know that, with his father’s magic quill, whatever he writes will become reality in another world. *DUN DUN DUN*

When he finishes chapter three, he sweeps up the various parchment and goes back to Martha at the Arena™. The second Martha, the one who receives prospective fighters-

Martha: Actually, dearie, I’m Martha #87.

Wraa! Whatever. This is confusing.

Erro: Here. It’s the beginning of a novel – bad, as required. I call it “Keeping Ahead of Your Enemies”: An Unfinished Novel by Erro Simon II. It’s about this fellow, you see, a young writer named Scott Gajewski and his battle versus thread killers, writer’s block, and laziness.

Martha #87: That’s nice, dearie. Here, now fill out forms 1412, 87-V, GTA4, and 1337. If you wish to be excluded from fights to the death, you’ll also need form IA-M-APA-NSY. Also, you’ll need to sign a waiver of your right to sue Ares or any of his affiliates for any damages you may or may not receive. Not to mention form 42.

Erro: Erm, what’s form 42 for?

Martha #87: No particular reason, but we have to have a tribute to Douglas Adams. It’s a prerequisite for any major NeSian enterprise. Ignore the words on that form saying, I hereby swear myself body and soul to the eternal servitude of Ares, to serve or to die at his good pleasure – that’s just filler.

Erro: If you say so…

Erro fills out the forms and is admitted to the Arena™ via the side entrance used by duelists. A large wooden sign is hung above the archway, reading:
The ARENA™ (established 1694) - 87 minutes without a fireball shot in anger
Another, slightly smaller sign is tacked onto the side of the arch, and Erro takes a moment to read it.

ARENA™ Rules:
1. Ares is always the winner.
2. If Ares has lost, see rule one.
3. No running with sharp or blunt weapons.
4. No smoking in the combat area.
5. Shirt and shoes required.
--Try not to spill blood, organs, or bodily fluids. Have a nice day!

Erro: *gulp*

Martha #87: *calling after him* Oh, yes, honey, you’re up next, right after this fight that just started!

Now very nervous, Erro hurries up into the fighters’ gallery. He sees several unsavory-looking characters as well as a noble looking knight with a huge mass of red hair. Hearing the announcer, he turns his attention to the center of the Arena™.

Announcer: Now presenting, a new challenger against the champion of the Donut Division!

A dapper young fellow, possibly two years older than Erro – for those of you not mathematically inclined, that would be about age 18 *cough*GEB*cough* wearing bright, colorful clothing and—

GebTheWriter: Hey! I can too do math! I know 2+2=3!

LosienTheWriter: Oh, it’s all my fault! By getting all A’s in school as a child, I made my brother start comparing himself to me, so he lost his self-confidence! Oh, Geb, I’m so sorry!

TLTETheWriter: No, no, Los, it’s not your fault—

Hey! You three writers go away! You don’t exist yet!

GebTheWriter: What, are you saying we’re figments of your imagination? That you’re just talking to hallucinations?

What? Heh, no, no, no, of – of course not! I – wait! Y’all haven’t been joyriding through time in The Thingy again, have y’all?

Geb, Losien, and TLTE The Writers: … *they geb it*

Stupid egotistical writers… think they can pull the wool over the eyes of an all-knowing narrator…

Erro: Um, hello? What’s going on with us?

Oh, sorry. Anyways, the dapper young fellow, who’s about 18 years of age, twirls a pushbroom expertly through his hands. It’s obvious he’s one of the ancient and revered order of JANITORS.

Random Audience Member: Waitaminnit! Just how many ancient orders are there going to be in this story? First we have the True Evils, then the Illuminohqi, and now the Janitors? Where does the madness stop??!!

You’re new to the NeS, aren’t you?

Random Audience Member: …yes. How did you know?

You’re all green, n00b. Let me give you some advice to remember: the madness DOES NOT STOP.

Erro: HELLO!!! I’m dangling in Limbo over here!

Dapper young Janitor: As I am, dear chap. I can only twirl a pushbroom so long before my fingers get sore.

*sigh* Characters these days. Pushy. *ahem* This dapper young Janitor is none other than-

Announcer: Roberto! King of janitors, and janitor of kings!

The crowd goes wild, ladies throwing handkerchiefs and roses, the men stamping their feet.

Announcer: Roberto, of course, is a crowd favorite! He has been champion of the Donut Division for only six months. And now, a new challenger! He’s a freak of nature! An abomination on two legs! A monstrosity of epic proportions! Give it up for… GALVENSTEIN!

The ladies scream, and the men boo. Tomatoes and various refuse are thrown onto the pit floor as Galvenstein, history’s first cyborg, stalks coolly into the Arena.

In the spectator stands, we find Dr. Fleidermouse and Agent TwistedSpasm sitting in the bleachers.

Dr. Fleidermouse: Oh, dear, are you sure Galvenstein can win? After all, I’ve heard so much about this Roberto fellow from William.

He turns to the empty bleacher seat beside him.

William/Empty Bleacher: …

Dr. Fleidermous: Oh dear, all that at the same time?

TwistedSpasm: Now, settle down, Doc. If this ‘ere Galv’s anything like his modern-day descendant, he’ll kick some banana. The only thing Roberto’s going to be pushing with that broom are daisies, if ya know what I mean.

Dr. Fleidermouse: What? A… a fight to the death? Oh, my dear little Galvenstein!

TwistedSpasm: *disgusted* Look, twit, the only way Ares will agree to use his divine powers to reach through time and get us plans for a flux capacitor is if we win the Donut division championship. Galvenstein’s gotten this far. Unless you’d rather be down there…?

Dr. Fleidermouse: Oh, no, no, no. I would, but William here wouldn’t be able to take the stress of watching me place myself in peril.

William/Empty Bleacher: …

Dr. Fleidermouse: I say, William! That’s an excellent suggestion! *turns to TwistedSpasm* Why don’t YOU take Galvenstein’s place?

TwistedSpasm: You watch your smart mouth, William!

William/Empty Bleacher: …

TwistedSpasm: Great, now I’m talking to imaginary people. I gotta get out of this time period quick…

Down in the Arena pit, Roberto and Galvenstein are circling each other.

Roberto: You don’t stand a chance, knave! For I am *twirls his pushbroom for like the gazillionth time* king of janitors, and janitor of kings!

Galvenstein: Yeah? Well… *strikes a pose and begins belting out at the top of his lungs*
I’m a little monster, short and stout
Here is my input, and here is my out!

Roberto: Good god, my eardrums, man!

In the stands, TwistedSpasm is shaking with laughter at Galvenstein’s singing voice, while Dr. Fleidermouse shakes his head ruefully.

Dr. Fleidermouse: I’ve tried and tried to get rid of that singing glitch. But every time I’m successful, Galvenstein’s other systems won’t come online.

Galvenstein: … and not only do I sing, but I’m a superhuman violinist, cyclist, and all-around melee fighter!

Roberto: *inspecting his nails, disinterestedly* Uh huh.

Galvenstein: Are you LISTENING to me? You don’t stand a chance! I am a superior lifeform-

Roberto: You’re made of dead body parts.

Galvenstein: --a superior deathform in every respect. You simply cannot hope to measure up against me!

Dr. Fleidermouse: Maybe I can do something about that ego chip of his, though…

Roberto: *smiles slyly* Of course, of course, my dear cyborg. It’s obvious that a physical fight would be far too easy for you. Hardly even a challenge at all. But what about a duel of wits?

Galvenstein: Ha-ha! My circuits are uber-intelligent, you fool!

Roberto: Moving past the fact that circuits probably haven’t been invented yet… Ah, but who’s the greater fool? The fool… *he pauses for dramatic effect, a technique that will be adopted by the future American President George W. Bush* or the foolish fool who gets fooled by the fool who’s foolisher than the foolish fool?

Galvenstein: *gears whirring* The fool… or the…? … !!!

There is definite sparking and popping in history’s first cyborg now, as he struggles to process the inanity of the riddle. It gets louder and louder – and suddenly sparks fly as Galvenstein comes apart at the stitches, spraying electricity, oil, and serum everywhere.

The crowd, of course, goes wild.

Dr. Fleidermouse: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Dr. Fleidermouse rushes down into the pit, cradling Galvenstein’s various parts, organic and otherwise. A monocle-wearing gentleman in a top hat looks on curiously for a moment, then seems to come to a decision and walks down to Dr. Fleidermouse’s side.

Gentleman: Sir, perhaps I may be able to help. You see, I too am an inventor. Just last month I patented a new material called duct tape™ - it could make your cyborg good as new! Better, even.

William/Empty Spot in the Arena Pit: …

Dr. Fleidermouse: Yes, of course! Why, sir, I would be eternally in your debt, Mr…

Gentleman: Doctor Evil. Samuel Evil. But my friends call me Sammy. *extends his hand*

Dr. Fleidermouse: *takes hand* Of course. I am Dr. Fleidermouse. Pleasure to meet you, Semi-Evil.

Sammy Evil: *cough* Excuse me – Sammy Evil, not Semi Evil …although that would make a GREAT name for, say, a great-great grandson…

The good doctor and his new friend, the, er, evil doctor, gather up Galvenstein’s various parts and exit the Arena to conduct their duct-tape surgery in better surroundings. Up in the fighters’ gallery, Erro is pushed forward.

Erro: What the--?

Martha: I told you, you’re up next. Get on out there.

Erro shakes his head ruefully, but complies.

Announcer: And now, two completely new entries to the ranks! On one end, the baron Erro Simon II, armed with a katana and foil. Yes, folks, his is a tragic tale, for eight years ago to the day, his parents were brutally murdered before his eyes!

Crowd: Oooh.

Announcer: But don’t get too attached to him folks, because on the other end we have the royal heir to the last traditional Armenian tribe – Prince Emp!

Crowd: Aaah.

Prince Emp steps out on to the field with a measured stride. His piercing blue eyes seem to take in everything, half-hidden beneath long dark curls which flow to his shoulder. He is dressed in a night-blue tunic and trousers, and a silver circlet rests on his head. A well-made bow is gripped in his hands. His walk is simultaneously flowing but somehow gawky as well, as though he would feel more comfortable on the back of a horse.

Erro: *shudders with a chill of nervousness* Hum. I wonder where Mustang is?

Cut to the ticket line outside the Arena.

Mustang: Can’t this line move any faster? *to the pimply-faced lad in white robes behind him* Settle down, Matthias, a wizard must know patience.

Cut back to Erro.

Erro: Oh, well, I’m sure he’s waiting in the stands to give me a hand if I need it.

Prince Emp ignores the traditional five-meter distance between combatants at the start of a duel and walks right up to Erro. Erro flinches, but all Prince Emp does is to extend a hand.

Prince Emp: From one noble to another. Neither of us shall be disgraced by losing.

Erro: Er… yes.

Prince Emp eyes the young man whom he will be facing. Named a baron by the announcer, he looks to be the same age as the prince himself, that is 16. While this baron’s clothes are well-made, they are in the western style, while Prince Emp’s royal hunting outfit is cut in an Eastern European trend. He wonders fleetingly if the life of a western baron is very much like that of an eastern prince born to a fading people.

Then he remembers that the Announcer mentioned the brutal murder of the young baron’s parents. He shudders. No, he thinks, it can’t have been anything like that. He himself had grown up surrounded by family and friends… and women. Yes, a handsome prince was ever courted by hundreds of women, some who wanted his money, some who wanted a favor, some who wanted to be the force behind the throne he would one day inherit… others who lusted after his body, or who even truly loved him.

No, Prince Emp decided, he would not trade places with this western baron for all the world.

Prince Emp: *saluting with his bow* Fight well. Live with honor. Die old.

Erro: *finally smiling as he salutes with his foil* Die old. Amen to that!

Prince Emp turns on his heel and walks back to the five-meter mark. As a story convention, the entire Arena™ and its audience were frozen during that long introspection. They now unfreeze and begin cheering once more.

Announcer: Now, to reveal a shocking surprise. Ares himself has announced that this is to be… a WILD CARD MATCH!

The crowd goes wild, almost drowning out the Announcer, who mightily continues.

Announcer: That’s right, folks – whoever wins this match will continue in a streak of matches against all the reigning champions!!!

Erro: Wow. If this isn’t destiny, I don’t know what is.

Erro, wake up and smell the inkpot! This is a story. There is no destiny, only story conventions!

Erro: And the difference between the two is…?

Er, well, um, ah… Okay, perhaps there isn’t really a difference. But it still matters!

Announcer: *in a voice very similar to the Mortal Kombat announcer* FIGHT!!!

Prince Emp raises his bow and nocks not one, but two arrows in a blur of motion. His draw speed perhaps outdoes that of Erro’s old tovarish Nicolai. His eyes meet Erro’s as he lets the arrows fly…

And Erro can’t take his eyes from Prince Emp’s. Though five meters apart, they lock onto his with all the intensity of fate, binding him to the spot. All time seems to slow to a crawl, and stop, as Erro sees a glimpse of the future in the prince’s azure eyes…

And then Erro sees, via his peripheral vision, the two arrows still coming toward him – but they are moving at a snail’s pace. His eyes still holding and being held by Prince Emp’s he brings up a hand to pluck one arrow out of the air – and then the other one-

The Crowd: *gasp*

Time speeds up once more, and the crowd cheers when they see that Erro has deftly caught the two arrows out of the air! Prince Emp, for his part, is utterly stunned. He reacts quickly, though, drawing another arrow…

But Erro once again moves into geb-time, covering the five meters between them in an instant, and driving the hilt of his foil up into the prince’s jaw.

Erro: Wow, hey, um, Narrator, am I ever gonna use this katana? It seems like it’s only the foil that gets any action. Heck, this foil gets more action than I do, if you know what I mean…

Look, we have to pay each prop for live-time. The foil has a cheaper rate than the katana, okay? Now stop asking stupid questions.

Erro: Riiiight.

The prince is both tough and quick, however, and draws a long dagger out of his boot, slashing upwards at Erro’s torso. Erro jumps back, and only a frill is sliced off his shirt.

Prince Emp: *panting* Sorry about that. I know how hard it can be to get a good shirt.

Erro: *gasping for breath* Don’t… don’t worry about it… I don’t like frills anyway… RawHaggis is going to kill me…

Prince Emp strikes again with his longdagger, but Erro blocks this time – yes, with the foil, Erro – and counters with a katana thrust – there. The katana got used. Happy now?

Erro: Very.

Don’t mention it. Of course, Prince Emp stops the katana thrust with his longdagger – then clicks a switch on his weapon, causing another, shorter blade, to pop out from the first one – a swordbreaker! He flips it across the katana, and-

CRACK!

Erro: *staring at the broken katana in his hand* Man, and I liked this katana!

Prince Emp does not let up, and Erro goes into defensive action with his foil. Erro forces himself to let out a breath and concentrates. Staring at the prince’s piercing eyes – which seem, tantalizingly, to hold a tidbit of what story conventions have in store for him – he goes once more into geb-time. He bends over backwards to dodge the longdagger, then lets himself fall onto his right side, catching himself with his right hand while kicking out with his feet, catching Prince Emp in the gut.

Before the prince even hits the ground, Erro lands three punches on him – neck, chest, solar plexus – and then holds the point of the foil at Prince Emp’s neck.

Erro: *tersely, sweat running down his brow* Yield.

Prince Emp stares up at him, surprise in his eyes. The crowd waits, tensely. Then-

Prince Emp: Hah! *chuckling merrily* Now THAT was a fight. Well done, Baron Erro. I yield.

He gets up to his feet and clasps hands with Erro, and the crowd cheers, stamping its feet madly. Roses and handkerchiefs are thrown down for both of them, including seven marriage proposals for Prince Emp and two for Erro.

Erro: What?! Only two?

Well, with that haircut, it’s amazing you got any.

Erro: Point. I am so going to have RawHaggis restyle my hair.

No can do, Erro. That hair is a story convention.

Erro: Figures. My destiny is to have god-awful hair.

In the stands is a young woman, Erro’s age, give or take a few months. She has bright green eyes, and blonde hair that sparkles golden in the sun. This hair is done up in a beehive. Her name is Catherine Nolastname – her family is distantly related to the MacLongname clan – and she actually likes Erro’s hair.

She reaches into her purse (or whatever passes for a purse in the 19th century) and pulls out some cheese and crackers (or whatever passes for cheese and crackers in the 19th century). Munching contentedly, she waits to see what the dashing Baron Erro Simon II will do in the next fight.

Prince Emp: *after a final bow to the crowd* Baron Erro, forgive me for breaking your sword. It seems I owe you a weapon.

Erro: No, not really – that katana demanded a too-high live-time rate anyway…

Prince Emp: Take this longdagger of mine for the rest of your fights here in the Arena. I insist.

Erro: *carefully takes the proffered hilt of the Armenian longdagger/swordbreaker* Thank you, my friend. I will use it well.

The prince bows from the waist to him, a gesture of respect, one of comrades, then turns to go to the fighters’ gallery to watch the next match.

Announcer: And now, the first champion will take on our newest contender! Baron Erro, prepare to face the devastation of the Vodka Division – its champion TheBadger!!!

The crowd, predictably, goes wild. All eyes turn to the portcullis opposite the Arena pit from Erro, waiting for TheBadger to emerge…

Announcer: *uncertain* TheBadger…?

Cut to the highest turret of the Arena. A man in a long black coat, with a great huskarl sword strapped to his back and an empty bottle in hand, stumbles blearily into the one door on the top level.

TheBadger: Urgh… Horrible hangover… and right when I need some hair of the dog, I run out of vodka… Stupid Sir Chylde and his anti-drinking crusade…

Bleary-eyed, he stumbles into a bed, his head throbbing. His arm dangles off the side… and brushes against a bottle.

TheBadger: What’s this? A half-full bottle of wine! W00t! *takes a swig*

Cut back to the Arena pit.

Announcer: *now sounding very much like Ben Stein* Badger … … … Badger … … … Badger…

Erro: Erm, Mr. Announcer, I don’t think he’s here today.

Announcer: *sigh* Alright, moving on to the next level champion. The current head of the Donut Division… ROBERTO!!!

All eyes turn again to the portcullis across from Erro, expectantly. A full minute passes.

Announcer: Uh… ROBERTO!

Cut to the room in the highest turret of the Arena. TheBadger is now on his third bottle of expensive wine, and thoroughly smashed. Standing in the doorway, shocked and disgusted, is the jaunty janitor himself.

Roberto: What are you doing?!

TheBadger: Thish shtuff ish grrreat! An’ thish room woul’ make a great Crowsh’ Nesht! Fill it wi’ beer an’ women an’ –

Roberto: Good grief, man! This is my room! This is the special chamber reserved for all Janitors! Right above the bathroom!

TheBadger: *looks around* Really? *hic* Nice place…

Roberto: And not only have you dipped into my stash of rare and expensive wines… but you have littered the floor with trash! This is UNFORGIVABLE! *twirls his pushbroom* Prepare yourself, drunkard.

TheBadger: *hic* Whatever you *hic* shay… Jusht remember… I’m a Drunken Master…

TheBadger draws his mighty huskarl sword, passed down from his father’s father to his father to TheBadger himself. The sword dips and sways drunkenly… but there is method behind the madness, for TheBadger is at his best when drunk.

Cut back to the Arena Pit.

Announcer: Bueller … … … Bueller … … … Bueller …

A tumbleweed rolls by.

Erro: Eh, Mr. Announcer, I thought his name was Roberto.

Announcer: So? Neither one of them’s gonna show up.

Erro: Point.

High above, roars of rage and clashes of sword against pushbroom and various crashing noises can suddenly be heard from the highest turret of the Arena.

Announcer: *cough* Moving right along then. The last champion is – Wait. I have just received new information. It seems that we have a challenger for our young baron. This new warrior wishes to face off against Erro in a spontaneous duel. Turn your eyes to the portcullis, folks!

The portcullis across the Pit from Erro creaks open, and a figure can be seen walking down the hallway behind the gate. Erro strains to see this newcomer.

Announcer: He’s a mighty warrior, folks, a true weaponsmaster. Trained in an ancient tradition…

As the Announcer continues, the figure begins to emerge from the portcullis. He is garbed in black, with blond hair and a tall, broad frame. Erro’s heart leaps into his throat-

Announcer: --I give you, THE THIRTEENTH TRUE EVIL!!

Erro: Nicolai?

Sure enough, Erro’s old friend steps out, oversized katana in hand, various pistols holstered on his belt and boots. He smirks at the crowd, then gives Erro a smile that is somehow friendly and predatory at the same time.

T13TE: I couldn’t let you have all the glory, tovarish.

Erro: Nicolai, I—

T13TE: That’s no longer my name, Erro. I am The Thirteenth True Evil Now.

Erro: Do I have to call you that?

T13TE: Yes, Erro. My name isn’t Nicolai any more—

Erro: That’s not what I meant. It’s just that ‘The Thirteenth True Evil’ is quite a mouthful.

He’s got a point there, Mr. True Evil.

T13TE: Well, I suppose you could just call me ‘T13TE’. The writer’s already been referring to me as that for the last page, in case you hadn’t noticed.

Announcer: And now… FIGHT!!

T13TE advances slowly towards Erro. Erro knows from experience that he cannot defeat his old tovarish. Casting about for inspiration, he espies a young woman with a blonde beehive of hair in the stands, who has come to her feet.

Catherine Nolastname: YOU CAN DO IT, ERRO! KICK HIS TAIL!

As Erro looks at her, he is struck by her beauty – and her eyes. Those emerald orbs dazzle him across the distance separating them. And it seems as though he could stare into her eyes forever. He realizes her lips are moving, and caught up in her presence, he tries to understand what she is saying…

Catherine Nolastname: --WATCH OUT!!!

Erro suddenly sees T13TE thrusting with his katana out of the corner of his eye, and ducks barely in time. He cartwheels away, trying to keep some distance between them, trying to figure out what to do.

And then, inspiration strikes.

Erro: OW! That hurt!

Inspiration: Hehehehehehe. *scurries off*

Erro: Stupid inspiration… *snaps fingers* I’ve got it! *to T13TE* Old friend, you hail from Russia. I salute the greatness of your country, and respect its ancient traditions.

T13TE: *blinking* Er, yes. *feeling compelled to reciprocate* And you, tovarish, you who are from the land of—

*THUNK*

That’s right, an anvil drops out of the sky to smash into T13TE’s head.

T13TE: Urgh…

Erro: Well, you always told me to use my mind…

Announcer: And Erro has WON! His sheer ingenuity…

The rest of the Announcer’s speech is drowned out, not by the cheering of the crowd, but by Erro turning his attention back to the lovely damsel who had supported him earlier. He finds her staring back at him with joy, grinning. Time seems to stop…

Well, actually time does stop, the Arena and everyone in it freezing as Erro and Catherine stare at each other. Story conventions, you know.

Meanwhile (NeScount: the first one ever!), TwistedSpasm has approached Ares in his throne room.

Random Audience Member: Wait! Shouldn’t that be spelt Aries?

*sigh* I am sick and TIRED of people saying that. It’s spelt CORRECTLY. Aries is the name of a sign of the zodiac, the ram. Ares is the Greek god of war. Plus, you can rearrange those letters into ‘arse’ – a great description of the guy.

Ares: HALT! What puny mortal dares approach the god of war?

TwistedSpasm: Who the alarm clock are you calling puny? It’s me, TwistedSpasm.

Ares: TwistedSpasm… TwistedSpasm…

TwistedSpasm: *muttering* You’d think a deity would have a better memory… *to Ares* You know, the time traveler from the future? Tempus fugit.

Ares: Yes, that’s right. So, it seems your champion, Galvenstein, failed. No flux capacitor blueprint for you.

TwistedSpasm: Well, I thought perhaps I could offer you something else in exchange for those plans. A little quid pro quo.

Ares: Look, I’m the Greek god of war, not the Roman god of war. Enough with the Latin. And what could a mortal such as yourself offer me?

TwistedSpasm: Well, there are many things that are invented in the future which you might find interesting…

Ares: Uh-huh. Look, I don’t quite think you get the fact that I am a GOD. Nothing that mortals invent, in a century or in a million years, could ever interest me.

TwistedSpasm: Au contraire, great one, I think I might have one thing that you would greatly covet.

Ares: What did I tell you about the Latin?

TwistedSpasm: … That was French.

Ares: *waves hand dismissively* Details.

TwistedSpasm: I have this car magazine, and on the cover – a Dodge Viper.

Ares: Ooh. That does look interesting. I think I’d like to drive one of those. What year did you say that’s invented in?

TwistedSpasm: Now, now, Ares. I’ll give you that IF you give me the plans for a flux capacitor.

Ares: Very well, mortal. You have a deal.

TwistedSpasm: Thank you, kouros.

Ares: Look, if you keep using non-Greek foreign languages—

TwistedSpasm: That WAS Greek! Twit…

Back in the Arena pit, the Announcer has interrupted Erro’s thoughts of Catherine – although he doesn’t actually know her name yet.

Announcer: And now-

Random Audience Member: I think we’re going to have to start an NeScount for the And now’s…

Announcer: Hush you. Aaaannd nooowwww… *glares at the Random Audience Member, daring him to say something* I give you the final champion that young Erro must face. The noble knight, the prodigious paladin – Sir Chylde of the Duct Tape Division!!

The ladies in the stands swoon, while the men mutter jealously amidst their cheers. From the portcullis, a fully armored man emerges, striding purposefully, clanking with each step. A broadsword is sheathed at his side, and a psychedelically colored shield is strapped onto his arm. His hair is a great mass of brilliant crimson hair, spilling down his back and reaching to his metal-armored waist.

Erro: *gulp*

Mustang: *having finally arrived into the stands of the Arena* Hmm…

Sir Chylde: Greetings, lad. Perhaps we should be properly introduced.

Erro: Oh – I am Baron Erro Simon II. You?

Sir Chylde: Sir Tan Lee Chylde.

Erro: So… you could probably kick me from here to wherever the heck it is that Prince Emp comes from?

Sir Chylde: Certainly, child.

Erro: No, you already said your name.

Announcer: Raise your swords, combatants – salute – and…

Sir Chylde: WAIT!

The crowd hushes, waiting to hear the legendary fighter’s words.

Sir Chylde: I, Sir Tan Lee Chylde, fight not for the sake of fighting, but to preserve honor and chivalry throughout the world. I would know why my opponent fights.

All eyes in the crowd fall on Erro. His eyes nervously rove the crowd, before coming to rest on Catherine, who watches him anxiously. Erro takes a deep breath and stares Sir Chylde in the eye.

Erro: I, Baron Erro Simon II, fight to bring justice to the world. I fight so that someday there may be no fighting. I fight here in the Arena, so that I may attract champions to my cause… for I seek to found a LEAGUE OF HEROES!

There is a collective gasp from the crowd, and then a profound hush. All eyes turn to Sir Chylde. How will he respond to this upstart’s declaration? You could hear a pin drop. The obligatory tumbleweed rolls by.

Sir Chylde: A noble cause, lad.

He draws his great blade, drawing another gasp from the crowd. For a moment, the knight faces his opponent, sword brandished.

Then he drives the sword point-first into the ground in front of him and kneels.

Sir Chylde: I will not fight such a worthy cause. And furthermore – Baron Erro Simon II, I hereby swear fealty, to you, to yours, and to all your household. I would be the first to join your League of Heroes.

For a split-second, there is silence. Then the Arena erupts in cheers. Confetti pours down upon the pit and the stands, and Catherine Nolastname has come to her feet, clapping wildly and beaming down upon Erro.

Random Guy Sitting Behind Catherine: Hey lady! I can’t see through your beehive hair!

Catherine: *abashed* Sorry. *sits back down*

As Erro basks in glory, there seems to almost be a halo around him. He strikes a heroic pose, confetti showering down around him. And then-

SPLAT!

Bernard The First: Teeheehee!

Erro: *wiping the poo out of his hair* Figures.

Mustang: *also in stands* Hm. Well done, Erro. Well done.

However satisfied Mustang is, the young pimply-faced lad in white robes next to him is rather disappointed. Frustrated. Angry, in fact.

Young Pimply-faced Lad: That’s a hero? Pah! That’s not how a hero behaves! A hero should fight all comers, giving no quarter! None of this, ooh, let’s all be friends shtick.

Mustang: Now, Matthias, be—

Matthias: NO! I refuse to let your precious ‘chosen one’ off so easily. Let’s see how he stands up against a firemaster!

In the pit, Sir Chylde has come back to his feet after kissing his new liege’s hand. He and Erro have clasped arms, when-

BOOM!

A sheet of flame washes across the Arena pit, burning the various confetti to a crisp. Sir Chylde and Erro both are thrown backwards.

Cut to the outside of the Arena. A maintenance man ruefully repaints the sign so that it reads:
The ARENA™ (established 1694) – 87 0 minutes without a fireball shot in anger

Cut back to the inside. As the smoke clears, the young lad known as Matthias comes down from the stands into the pit, white robe fluttering, firemaster’s staff clutched in his hands. Though only 12 years old, he was born as a being of raw power. For the past three years, he has been tutored in magic by Mustang. Though young, he has progressed quickly.

Mustang: *shaking his head, still in the stands* That’s torn it.

Erro: *picking himself up off the ground* Who are YOU?

Matthias: I am Matthias the Cold, firemaster and apprentice mage. I tire of your pithy remarks, when they are not backed up by real power. I challenge you, Baron Simon.

Erro: *disbelievingly* Look, kid, maybe you better play with kids your own age…

Matthias the Cold: *angry* I am NOT a kid!

Erro: Your pimples say otherwise.

Matthias the Cold: …

Erro: Why don’t you just scurry home… don’t you have school or something?

Matthias the Cold: Raagh! DIE!

The young mageling releases a fireball. Erro dodges in geb-time, but feels the blistering heat on his skin. He sprints towards his new opponent and catches the staff between Prince Emp’s sword-breaker – and twists.

The staff does not break.

Matthias the Cold: *smirking* A firemaster’s staff is magic, and not affected by such mundane – YAAH!

Erro has picked up the boy by the scruff of his neck, who looks rather comical dangling in the air – well, let’s face it, with those pimples, he was rather comical to start with.

Sir Chylde: My liege, if you will permit me, I will discipline the lad.

Matthias the Cold: *feet kicking in mid-air* Ohhh, so the great hero is going to hide behind his lackeys, eh?

Mustang: *walking up* Yes, young Matthias, because Erro’s greatest heroic power is not his fighting skills, or his bad writing, or his geb-speed – but his ability to lead and inspire others.

Sir Chylde: You know this miscreant, sir?

Mustang: Yes. I’m sorry to say that he’s my apprentice. The arrogance is strong with him…

Erro: *smirking* The acne is strong with him, too…

Mustang: What was that, Erro?

Erro: Nothing.

Mustang turns to the crowd and raises his arms for attention. With a quick monosyllabic incantation, his voice is amplified to be heard across the coliseum.

Mustang: Attention everyone! Let it be known that I, Mustang, and my apprentice, Matthias the Cold, have also joined with Sir Chylde in accepting Baron Erro’s leadership of his newly-formed League of Heroes.

Matthias the Cold: *still dangling* Wait, WHAT?

Ares: *watching from his throne above* This is GREAT stuff… if only there was some way I could squeeze more spectators in… think of the money I’d make…

TwistedSpasm: *from beside him* Actually, there’s this little thing in the future we call Pay-Per-View…

Ares: Tell me of this Paper-View…

TwistedSpasm: Well, perhaps for a small consideration…

As Ares and Twisted Spasm haggle, the crowd has continued to cheer for the four new Heroes in the center of the Arena: Erro, Sir Chylde, Mustang, and Matthias the Cold. Sir Chylde steps forward.

Sir Chylde: Who else will join our great cause?

There is silence as the crowd waits. Who will be the next to join this new League? Who of all the fighters will step forward? For a long, tense moment, nothing happens.

Then, from high above, in the tall turret, two forms come crashing out through a now-shattered glass window, grappling in mid-air as they fall nearly a hundred feet to the ground in the center of the Arena pit. Of course, thanks to story conventions, neither one is hurt.

As Roberto and TheBadger stand up groggily, the crowd cheers madly for these two new heroes.

Sir Chylde: Ah, my fellow champions! Thank you for joining our new League of Heroes!

Roberto: What? *recovers quickly and flashes his winning smile* Of course! The king of janitors, and the janitor of kings!

TheBadger: Shwa?

(Next installment, August 28th 1872, when the League of Heroes attempts to strike out on their own, only to be indentured to Ares!)

1872 (August 28th)

Three-quarters of a year later, the newly formed League of Heroes is the darling of the Arena. The original party (consisting of Erro, Sir Tan Lee Chylde, Mustang Aurelius Ford, Matthias the Cold, Roberto the Janitor, and TheBadger) have been joined by T13TE and Catherine Nolastname.

Random Audience Member: Hang on just a gosh-darn minute! What powers does Catherine have?

Um… her dazzling beauty blinds all her enemies?

Random Audience Member: What, are you telling me she just flashes the bad guy to distract him?

Wouldn’t it distract you?

Random Audience: er… *shift eyes* Of course. I’m not gay… Heheheh…

Riiight.

Matthias the Cold: Actually, Miss Nolastname, that’s an excellent question. What attributes do you bring to this ersatz team?

TheBadger: Heh… two, BIG attributes… heh...

Sir Tan Lee Chylde smacks TheBadger upside the head.

Sir Chylde: That’s no way to talk to a lady!

Galvenstein: Excuse me…

Erro: Hello!

Roberto: Er… didn’t I destroy you in a deathmatch last year?

Galvenstein: Yes, but Drs. Fleidermouse and Sammy Evil taped me back together.

Sure enough, where once there were stitches, now bands of duct tape seal his seams.

Mustang: What can we do for you, sir?

Galvenstein: *wipes a tear from his eye* That, right there. The respect afforded to a human being. Everywhere I go, I’m a monster. A freak of nature. I just want-

Matthias: Waitaminnit, how does a cyborg cry?

It’s a story convention. Now hush.

Galvenstein: I just want to be part of something where I can be accepted for who I am.

Catherine: Oh, you poor thing! Of course we’ll let you join us!

Erro: Er… we will? *Catherine elbows him* Er, yes! Of course! We will!

Dr. Fleidermouse: Well, I suppose that means I’ll be going with y’all too. Where Galvenstein goes, I go.

William: …

Dr. Fleidermouse: Of course we couldn’t go anywhere without you!

Sammy Evil: I believe I shall offer my services as well. I have come to grow fond of the good doctor and his freakish creation.

William: …

Sammy Evil: Yes, you, too, William.

Matthias the Cold: Not him, too… Just how many nutcases are we going to have talking to an imaginary person?

T13TE: Not to put a damper on things, tovarish, but do we really need two doctors?

William: …

Dr. Fleidermouse: Excellent distinction, William! *to others* You see, I am a scientist doctor. I can invent various things and of course keep Galvenstein running. Sammy Evil here, on the other hand, can act in a medical capacity.

Sammy Evil: Erm, actually, I’m a scientist doctor, too…

William: …

Sammy Evil: But of course, with my duct tape™ I can always heal your wounds!

TwistedSpasm: *running up* Wait, wait! Dr. Fleidermouse, you have to keep working on these flux capacitor blueprints Ares provided for us!

Dr. Fleidermouse: True, but it’ll take years to build one, and to synthesize a power source to replace the uranium you use in the future. I can do it in my spare time following Galvenstein around. And William will help, too!

TwistedSpasm: That’s just chopping great. Guess I’ll have to tag along, too. And I was almost a millionaire selling future technology to Ares, too…

Mustang: Excellent. It seems that our League is just about big enough to strike out on our own. All this publicity we’ve been getting via the Arena™ has been good for our reputations, and the fighting involved has sharpened our skills.

Erro looks toward the other end of the Arena™ Fighters’ Gallery, where a familiar crowned figure is strapping on his boots.

Erro: Hold on just a minute, Mustang.

Erro leaves his companion and approaches Prince Emp.

Erro: Hallo, Prince.

Prince Emp: Good day to you, Erro.

Erro: Um, not to pry or anything, but those aren’t your normal fighting boots, are they?

Prince Emp: No, they’re my traveling boots. I’m leaving the Arena™ to head back to Armenia.

Erro: You could come with us. You’d make a great hero. *glances back towards the League behind him and lowers his voice* Plus, you’d make a better mascot than any of that lot…

Prince Emp chuckles.

Prince Emp: I thank you for your courtesy, friend. I would dearly love to follow you to the ends of the earth, but… first I must be a hero to my people. The day will soon come when I must rule as king, and no longer gallivant across the world as a prince.

Erro: Oh. Yes, I suppose that takes precedence. *remembers something* Here. You need your longdagger back.

Prince Emp: Keep it, Erro. You can return it to me when you visit me in Armenia some time. *he looks over at the League standing a distance away and lowers his voice* I’ll introduce you to the royal court. All the women there have *ahem* attributes like Catherine’s.

Erro turns bright red.

Erro: Heh. Maybe I’ll… maybe I’ll take you up on your offer someday.

They clasp arms in that cliché gesture used in all high-fantasy movies, books, and TV shows.

Prince Emp: Farewell, friend Erro. Fight well. Live with honor-

Erro: Die old.

Prince Emp smiles and turns on his heel in that smart royal fashion that he’s undoubtedly spent way too many hours practicing and walks out. Looking out the window of the Fighters’ Gallery, Erro sees Prince Emp riding out of the Arena on his great white stallion. The prince’s long curls are flying in the wind, and his teeth are bared in a grin of savage pleasure. Then he dwindles to a speck, and is gone.

Erro trudges back to join the rest of the League, whose conversation conveniently comes to a close as he joins them.

Erro: What were y’all talking about?

Matthias the Cold: Oh, you know. The generic conversation, followed by a lewd remark from TheBadger, followed by Sir Chylde smacking him.

T13TE: Are you alright, tovarish?

Erro: Yes… It’s just Prince Emp. He’s gone… and I’d really hoped he would join us.

Mustang: Let him go, Erro. He’s a powerplayer.

Erro: A powerplayer? What makes you say that? He lost to me, remember?

Mustang: True, but his powerplaying munchkinism is not of a martial or magical nature – at least, not yet, for which I am profoundly thankful – but of a more subtle kind. You will notice that he is well-toned and proportioned in body, uber-intelligent in mind, an amazing shot with a bow, an extraordinary horseman, and devastatingly attractive to the ladies. That is power-playing, my friend.

Erro: Well, maybe… All the same, I’d rather he were with us.

Mustang: *shaking head ruefully* Well, I suppose that’s the moderator in you. You always want to see the best in others.

Catherine: Well, Erro? Are we ready to go?

Erro: Yes… yes. Our base will be in my family’s manor, Castle Simon. It’s at-

He pauses, looking up at the sky.

Erro: Well, let’s just say if you’ll follow me I’ll take you there.

Suddenly Ares burst through the door, lightning crackling about his form as only a god of war can conjure.

Ares: STOP, puny mortals! You can’t leave now! You’ve shot my ratings through the roof! What’s more, you’ve got all my best duelists in your League of Heroes. If you leave, I’ll lose millions!

TheBadger: Isn’t that, like, pocket change for you?

Ares: It’s the principle of the matter! So, I give you one last challenge: Erro, fight me in the Arena! If you win, you can go. If I win, you all stay!

Matthias the Cold: Hah! You wish, godling! Erro’s not so dumb he’s going to—

Erro: You’re on, Ares! Let’s bring down da house!

William: …

Matthias the Cold: You said it.

*********************

In two hours, Ares and Erro face off in the Arena pit. Huge bets have been wagered on each side. The League of Heroes has gathered together in the stands, waiting tensely.

T13TE: Use your mind, tovarish.

Mustang: Let the Storywriter flow through you.

TheBadger: Kick @$$, mah homie!

Catherine: Mmm, cheese and crackers…

William: …

Erro ignores them all, his mind on the task ahead. In truth, he has no idea how he is supposed to defeat Ares, who is after a GOD OF WAR!!!™ However, he has come to trust in the power of story conventions. Suddenly he realizes something. Something very important. Something that he’s totally and completely forgotten…

Erro: I’m hungry.

Announcer: Aaannnddd… FIGHT!!

Ares: Wraa!!! Prepare to face my wrath, you--- Huh? What are you doing?

Erro: *munching on donuts* What?

Ares: You’re facing an all-powerful deity, and you’re… you’re eating pastries?

Erro: Yes… Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners? Ares, would you like to have a doughnut?

Ares: I have no time for your foolishness… damnit, now you made me hungry. I’ll be back shortly.

As Ares flies out of the ARENA™ to the nearest restaurant, the Announcer speaks up again.

Announcer: Ares forfeits by leaving the ring. And the winner is… ERRO!!

The crowd cheers, including all the League of Heroes. Except for Mustang Ford, who looks worriedly at the rules sign…

1. Ares is always the winner.
2. If Ares has lost, see rule one.

Ares shortly flies back to the ARENA™, landing amidst the confetti. Stupefied, he looks about him, slowly realizing what happened.

Ares: I’m going to pretend that never happened!

Time rolls back, and suddenly Erro is facing Ares in the ARENA™ again.

Announcer: Aaannnddd… FIGHT!!

Erro: Wait, didn’t this just happen?

Mustang: OMQ! Ares has just displayed Storywielding powers! He must be a… CHARACTER™!

Ares fires a bolt of divine lightning at Erro, K.O.’ing him in one hit.

Matthias the Cold: Well, to be fair, he did better than TheBadger would have… He would’ve just passed out before Ares even touched him.

TheBadger: *takes a swig of his bottle* Watch your smart *hic* mouth, kid… *passes out*

Ares snaps his fingers, and all the League of Heroes are bound up with chains of duct tape.

Ares: Now you’ll be forced to stay here and fight for me… *turns to Erro* And as for you, young baron – you had the audacity to break the ARENA™’s most sacred tradition – YOU BROKE RULE #1! For that… I’m sending you to the Tower of London. The warden, Sword Wader, is a good friend of mine…

As the scene fades out, we hear two voices arguing…

Random Audience Member #1: Give me my money! Erro won! You lost the bet!

Random Audience Member #2: Not a chance! Remember Rules #1 and #2!

(Next installment: Prince Emp encounters trouble in his homeland!)

1873 (July 3rd)

The camera pans over a gorgeous panorama of soaring mountains, crystal lakes, sweeping forests, and lush hills. We see a pack of wild white horses galloping through fields of clover… a hawk diving through the sky in a savage dance… trout flipping downstream in a peaceful brook…

These are the wilds of Eastern Europe, where the last tribe of ancient Armenians dwells. While in a land farther away there are more modern Armenians who live in cities, the Armenians of the wild are growing fewer and fewer each generation. Yet a wealth characterizes them, a wealth of land and patriotism and, yes, of gold and gems as well.

A simple Armenian village, one of two dozen scattered throughout the wilds, lies nestled in an enchanting valley. A longhouse at the end of the village overlooks a deep ravine. Though this longhouse is made only of sturdy, fireproofed wood, it serves as the palace of the Armenian kings. Built by the second of the Emperor dynasty, it has been redecorated by each king since.

The camera zooms in on the longhouse through the village main street, and through the double doors into the front hall, which doubles as a throne room. There is a massive, ornate chair at the end, with eight sets of double doors (other than the front doors) leading off to different parts of the palatial longhouse. The camera zips through one of the doors, and down a hallway. Past a room full of obscure books and another chamber full of artwork, and other rooms to boot, we see a dim light coming from a chamber at the end of this hallway.

As the camera zooms into this room, we see that it is a bedchamber, one built for a prince. Right now, it is lit only by candles, the brighter lamps having been extinguished.

At the moment, the prince of the Emperor family is not alone.

Harem Girl #87: *sighing contentedly* Oh, my prince, that was so wonderful!

Prince Emp: *lying back in bed, sweat trickling from his brow* Well, it takes two to make sparks, love.

Harem Girl #87 smiles – yes, for those of you who were wondering, this is some of that power-playing Mustang mentioned – at the man who will one day be her king, and kisses his lips fondly.

Prince Emp looks back at her, grinning rather foolishly. Though he is well-liked by everyone, and bedded by almost every young woman in his kingdom, Harem Girl #87 is one of those few who truly loves him.

Harem Girl #87: I wish this moment would last forever…

She looks into his eyes for a handful of seconds – and then Prince Emp feels a knife enter his side.

Prince Emp: Urk!

Reacting instinctively, he rolls out the other side of the bed, a small dagger now protruding from his bleeding side. Before he can think, he grabs an arrow from his quiver and flings it expertly at Harem Girl #87, burying it deep in her breast.

Harem Girl #87: Urk!

Having sat up in bed in fright, she now falls backward on the bed, her breath leaving her. Prince Emp, suddenly realizing what happened, rushes to her side, horrified.

Prince Emp: Harem Girl #87 – why?

Harem Girl #87 smiles wistfully.

Harem Girl #87: I didn’t have… a choice. A man… approached me… he threatened me…

Prince Emp: WHO?

Harem Girl #87: A… western count… Named… Desmond… said he’d… curse my son…

Prince Emp: *aghast* Your son?!

Harem Girl #87 pulls his hand to her belly, which the prince suddenly notices is just slightly swelling.

Harem Girl #87: Our son…

She smiles, and then she is gone.

For a long moment, Prince Emp stands there, unable to believe what just happened. Behind him, the door to his bedchamber pops open, and Harem Girls #16 and #42 rush in.

Harem Girl #42: My prince! Your father – he’s just been assassinated!

Harem Girl #16: Oh my! What happened here?!

Prince Emp: *his voice hard* I[/i] was almost assassinated.

Harem Girl #42: But… Harem Girl #87?

Prince Emp is silent for a moment, staring at the corpse of the woman who had loved him. The woman who would have borne his son.

Prince Emp: She… she died taking an arrow meant for me. The assassin himself escaped.

Harem Girls #16 and #42 look uncertainly at each other. Prince Emp turns to face them, straightening. He assumes a regal air, his eyes flashing sapphire power.

Prince Emp: To the throne room. It seems that I am king now. And this Desmond must be dealt with. But first… I need allies…

(Next installment: October 2nd 1873 - Prince Emp returns to help break Erro and the rest of the League free, but how?)

Still 1873 (October 2nd)

Erro Simon II is currently being held in the Thames Tower prison for daring to break the sacred tradition of the ARENA™ by actually winning a match against Ares. A Japanese warlord named Sword Wader dressed in a black cape, armor, and samurai mask is questioning him.

Sword Wader: I will wask you one moa time: whea is the location of the Webel base?

Erro: For the last time, there is no Webel base! I have no clue what you’re talking about!

Random Guy in Next Cell: Hey, uh, Mister Wader, sir, I’M the Webel suspect, not him.

Sword Wader: Woh, yes. *checks docket* Sowwy, mistah Simon. A vewy unfoatunate soycumstance. *leaves to torture the Webel suspect*

Erro: WHAT? You mean, you tortured me for nothin’? Grr…

He hears a chinking sound in the rock behind him, and stone block in the tower wall is pushed into the room, leaving a gaping hole through which Prince Emp – now KING Emp – stares through.

King Emp: Hello, Erro. I see you’ve gotten yourself into no end of trouble while I’ve been away.

Erro: Well, at least the lamps aren’t broken.

King Emp: *sigh* Let’s get you out of here. *undoes Erro’s chains* Where’s the rest of the League?

The cell door opens and Sword Wader and two English soldiers rush in.

Sword Wader: Coysed webels! Bweaking into mah towah to steal mah pwisonah!

Erro: *to King Emp* I’ll explain later.

King Emp: Good call.

The two soldiers shoulder their muskets while Sword Wader draws his katana – which charges a much cheaper rate for live-time than Erro’s old one did. In a blur of motion, King Emp nocks three arrows and lets fly.

King Emp: *over shoulder* GO!

Two arrows go straight up the barrels of the two soldiers’ guns. The third one is heading straight for Sword Wader’s head, but with excellent reflexes, the warlord turns his head to the side, and the arrow merely splits his lip, causing a speech impediment which will haunt him and his descendants forever…

Random Audience Member: Now wait just a moment! Sword Wader was already speaking with a speech impediment before King Emp hit him!

It was just an affectation before that. Now it’s permanent.

Random Audience Member: Riiiight.

King Emp and Erro dive out the hole in the tower wall into the churning river below. In the conveniently placed mist, they swim to the bank without being seen. Two great white horses are waiting for them.

King Emp: Erro, you take Prancer. Comet’s mine.

Erro blinks.

Erro: Prancer… Comet… ?

King Emp: What?

Erro: Aren’t those – you know – the name of…

King Emp: The name of what?

Erro: Nevermind.

They hop onto their respective horses and gallop through the city streets, quickly making their way into the countryside.

Erro: Whew! That was a close one! But friend Prince-

King Emp: King.

Erro: What?

King Emp: I’m king of my people now. My father…

He trails off for a moment. Erro thinks he sees his friend blink away a tear, but that might just be from the stinging wind.

King Emp: My father was assassinated three months ago. By a man named… well, we’ll speak of it later. Go on with what you were saying.

Erro: Well, the League of Heroes is being held by Ares, forced to duel forever at the ARENA™ to increase his profits. We need to free them. *he casts a sly eye over King Emp* … that is, if you are interested in joining?

King Emp: Certainly. I believe my purposes now align with yours in this endeavor. By the way, what were they holding you for?

Erro: For being too foolish.

King Emp: Hmm…

Erro: Well, I won a match against Ares the day you left. Apparently, that’s a no-no.

King Emp: So, how are we supposed to free the others, when Arse is keeping them under his thumb?

Erro: Um, Ares. You meant to say Ares.

King Emp: I meant what I said.

Erro: …ah. Well, don’t worry. I have a plan.

****************

A few days later, they arrive back at the ARENA™, where the League of Heroes – excepting their leader Erro and their newest member King Emp – are chained with duct-tape™ in the Fighters’ Gallery. Ares is lounging his throne, watching various dancing girls. Every now and then, he presses a button that opens a trapdoor beneath one of the dancers’ feet. He is profoundly bored and doesn’t notice as Erro and King Emp approach.

Erro: O mighty Ares!

Ares: *snapping to attention in his throne* -shwa? 42! The American Revolution! Calvin Coolidge!

King Emp: Who’s Calvin Coolidge?

Ares: *waves hand dismissively* He’ll be President in the future. Hey wait! *peers at Erro* Didn’t I send you to the Tower of Naples or something?

Erro: London, actually. The Tower of London.

Thunderclouds seem to gather around Ares.

Ares: Then WHAT are you doing here?

Erro: I’d like to make a wager with you. If I win, you let me and my friends live. If you win, I’ll go back to the Tower of London – and my friend here will go with me.

King Emp: Hold on a minute, I didn’t agree to that!

Ares: Go on…

Erro: A divine personage such as yourself looks utterly dashing in just about any outfit or fashion, correct?

Ares: Naturally.

Erro: Would you care to wager that I can’t find a fashion that you won’t look good in?

Ares: HA! Utterly impossible! I accept your foolish wager… Uh, male accoutrements only, of course. I am not wearing a dress AGAIN…

Erro grins triumphantly and pulls an item out of his pocket.

Ares: … a hat? Surely you jest, puny mortal.

Erro: Not so, mighty Ares. What I give you is none other than… a bloint!

Ares: *scratches head* Looks an awful like a hat to me.

Erro: I know, right? But nonetheless, it is meant to be worn… on one’s pants.

Ares: I am NOT wearing a HAT on my pants!

Erro: Come now, mighty Ares, I thought you could look sharp in anything!

Ares: Not by wearing bloody that, I don’t… Screw this. Take your friends and go. And *he shudders* take that… thing… with you.

At that moment, the League of Heroes crashes in through the skylight.

Random Audience Member: Skylight?

Hush you.

T13TE: Alright, tovarish, we demand the release of our leader Erro!

Matthias the Cold: Or I’ll kick your glutes!

Galvenstein: Wraa!!!

Catherine Nolastname: Mm, cheese and crackers…

William: …

Sammy Evil: What he said.

Ares, Erro, and King Emp blink at them.

Erro: Um… I’m already free?

Dr. Fleidermouse: Good show, chap! It seems my plan has worked! With the distraction of us crashing through the skylight as I suggested--

TwistedSpasm: *sullenly* That was MY idea…

Dr. Fleidermouse: --Erro was able to escape in the confusion!

King Emp: *sigh*

Ares: Oh, begone, all of you. I want to go joyriding in my Dodge Viper from the future anyway…

And so, the League of Heroes marches triumphantly out of the ARENA™, having successfully completed their first mission, and ready to take on all the evils of the world!!!

TheBadger: Hey, it’s Free Ale tonight at the tavern! Let’s go party!

Everyone: W00t! *they all rush off to get drunk*

…or not.

(Next installment: April 1st, 1875 - Sammy Evil invents the greatest thing ever!)

1875 (April 1st)

Benevolent
Upward
Mobility
Post

Sammy Evil: Yes! I could make millions with this! I’m going to start a company with this as my product! I call it, B.U.M.P., Inc., Intl., Ltd., & Co.!!

Mustang walks in.

Mustang: What have we here?

Sammy Evil: Oh, just another one of my brilliant ideas!

Mustang: You know, this could be just what we need – in the future, whenever the NeS falters, your B.U.M.P.’s can keep it alive!

Sammy Evil: Well, first I need some capital, you know.

Mustang: I know just where we can get some…

Later…

TwistedSpasm: Hey! Where did that $800 grand I made off Ares go to?!

(Next installment: March 13th, 1876, the League follow Desmond's trail, and the story of how Jim Seven came to be!)

1876 (March 13th)

In Castle Simon, Erro’s ancestral home and the League of Heroes’ headquarters, our heroes are gathered around a heavy oak table in the library. They are all having separate conversations despite being at the same table. They are waiting for their leader, Baron Erro, to arrive.

Catherine Nolastname: *sigh* I know Erro loves me, and I love him, but he’s just so shy! I wonder if he’ll ever get around to courting me.

TheBadger: Hey, sweets, if it’s boldness you want, howza ‘bout you and me… *he whispers in her ear*

Catherine: *scandalized gasp*

Sir Chylde smacks Badger.

Badger: Owie…

Across the table from them, Mustang and his apprentice Matthias the Cold are conferring rather heatedly.

Mustang: Look, Matthias, you have a GIFT. Almost anyone can learn the basic firemaster spells, but it takes a certain level of energy to cast them with any effect. Why, even I had to build my talisman, the Cheshire Zippo *he fingers his silver lighter* to store fire-energy for me. But you… you were born with an incredible amount of raw power. Even your first-level spells could incinerate a small forest. You have to take it slowly, to develop your powers properly.

Matthias: Look, old man, I’m getting a little sick of the same old spiel. I think you’re just afraid.

Mustang: I am, Matthias. I am afraid of what you might do if you are not prepared.

At the end of the table, two kindred souls are chatting.

RawHaggis: I must say, it’s certainly refreshing to have someone around who appreciates the value of tidiness.

Roberto: Naturally. I must say, of all the snooty butlers I’ve ever met, you are by far the most superior!

RawHaggis: *beams* I think I’ll call myself ‘king of butlers, and butler of kings’!

Roberto: …

RawHaggis: …or not.

Suddenly the door to the library bangs open, and Erro himself walks in. Everyone comes to attention, fixing their eyes on him.

Erro: Hello. Before I open this meeting, we must decide something extremely important… What do we want for dinner?

Sammy Evil: Turkey!

T13TE: Roast duck!

William: …

Catherine Nolastname: Cheese and crackers!

Erro: Cheese and crackers it is!

Everyone except Erro and Catherine groans.

TheBadger: Not again…

Erro: Now that that’s decided, on to business. As you know, we’ve been trying to track down the NeSferatu leader Count Desmond for several years now, without any luck. Other than assassinating King Emp’s father in ’72, he doesn’t seem to have done much since his murder of the Illuminohqi in ’63.

Galvenstein: I beg your pardon, Baron, but it does seem we are devoting undue attention to this… man. We have defeated several enemies in the three years since we left the ARENA™, but we could still do so much more if we weren’t spending time and resources chasing a shadow.

TheBadger: Yeah, we could buy more booze…

Mustang: Make no mistake, Galvenstein, Desmond is more dangerous than all the rest of those enemies put together.

Erro: Well, we’ve found him.

There is silence around the table.

King Emp: You’ve… found Desmond?

Erro: Well, I think so. In Zurich, a man’s body was found in the river. His body was drained of blood… and he had been a famous writer.

Dr. Fleidermouse: Well, of course! William’s been saying that Desmond’s in Zurich for ages now!

Erro: …

Sammy Evil: It’s true, he has.

Erro throws up his hands.

Sir Chylde: *filling in for Erro* Well, we need to put together a task force to head down to Zurich and see if we can track the count down from there. Mustang, as this is your area of expertise, we’ll let you be the mission leader-

Mustang: No.

Sir Chylde: Eh?

Mustang: I will not be going to Zurich.

Erro: But Mustang! This is when we need you most!

Mustang: I have no power against Desmond, Erro. No plotwielding abilities, remember?

Erro: So you’re just going to give up?!

Mustang: Not at all. I have been… researching various mystical texts, and… I may have found an unlikely source of aid.

Sir Chylde: Explain yourself, sir.

Mustang: *shakes head* No, not until I’m certain. But I’m sure Matthias the Cold would be more than happy to come with you all.

Matthias the Cold: W00t! Bring on those NeSferatu wannabes!

As the meeting continues, it is decided that Erro, Catherine Nolastname, Sir Chylde, King Emp, TheBadger, Roberto, and Matthias the Cold will travel to Zurich. The others will stay behind to monitor the international situation.

And as the meeting adjourns, Mustang Aurelius Ford slips away to his private chamber. He is about to cast the most perilous magic of his life…

MEANWHILE!

Cut to a small office room. In a comfortable, high-backed chair, a doctor sits taking notes. Across from him lying on a couch is a rather hellish-looking demon, with horns, goats’ legs, and a barbed tail.

Satan: It all started with my childhood, Dr. Freud.

Random Audience Member: Hey, wait! Was Sigmund Freud around yet?

Er… *shift eyes* SURE he was… Eh-heh, eh-heh.

Sigmund Freud: Tell me about your childhood.

Satan: Well, my father, Helebon the Hellishly Horrific Hegemon – yeah, I know, it’s a stupid title, but he put it on all his business cards – was the first one that the WriterGod assigned to take charge of the damned souls in Hell. At first, he was a model archangel, taking his duties seriously.

Sigmund Freud: Mm-hmm… I see… *is currently doodling on his notepad*

Satan: But then of course he fell in love with my mother, the angel Ariana. After they had my older brother Darkside and then me, Helebon decided it wasn’t enough to just rule Hell. He wanted better for us.

Sigmund Freud: Go on. *has drawn a big smiley face with horns*

Satan: I mean, I[/b] was perfectly happy in Hell. I had my best friend, Farr… But Father petitioned the WriterGod for a place back up in Heaven, but when He refused, Dad decided to rebel. Well, since it’s not smart to rebel against an all-powerful God, Helebon wound up being imprisoned in the Tenth Hell.

Sigmund Freud: And how does that make you feel? *making stars on his notepad*

Satan: Well, it put a lot of responsibility on me. They gave charge of Hell to me, since my brother Darkside had been pressured into being a lawyer by mother… Not that that lasted long, Darkie’s a full-blown villain now … And so I run it faithfully. But now I’m doomed to spend eternity in Hell, keeping watch over legions of damned souls who don’t appreciate how hard I work for them! Can you help me, Doc?

Sigmund Freud: Well, I think it’s obvious you have an Oedipus complex. You want to marry your mother.

Satan: I do?

Sigmund Freud: Yes, and that cigar you mentioned is obviously a phallus.

Satan: I never said anything about a cigar…

Sigmund Freud: Whoops, look like our time’s up for today! That’ll be $300, please.

Satan grumbles but forks over the cash.

Sigmund Freud: Same time next week?

Satan mutters something noncommittal under his breath, and leaves Dr. Freud’s office. Before heading back to Hell, he makes a quick stop in New York City to attend a Villains Anonymous meeting and have a word with his sponsor, Cthulhu.

JUST THEN!

Back at Castle Simon, Mustang is in his innermost chambers. He has drawn a gigantic pentagram on the stone floor in pixie dust-

Random Audience Member: Pixie dust?

What, you’ve never heard of the NeS fairy? Anyway, Mustang lights the five candles positioned at the points of the star, and starts chanting words in the Ancient Language™ - that tongue that is older than time and space, more terrible than a shortage of donuts.

Mustang: AHASOFIGUHALKJSDFIHWERHAR;LKASHFLKJASRSDL;KJF…

Far away, a man takes a bite of his donut, only to have it turn to salt in his mouth. A window slams. A baby cries.

Mustang: IOHJWADFKHT POWHPASFOIHWEFJSD;JF AS;LKDFJ…

Across the continent, all the bottles of beer in a tavern turn to water. Lightning crackles. A woman screams.

Mustang: YIUOERJASD;LKJF AS;LDKFJ KJDJIFDJD!!!!!

On the other side of the world, opera singers start belting out, “I’m a little monster, short and stout…” uncontrollably. An icicle falls. A horse whinnies.

In Mustang’s chambers in Castle Simon, the flames of the five candles flare up briefly, then turn a pale blue.

Mustang: *fingering the lucky rabbit’s foot around his neck* I hope this works…

AT THE SAME TIME!

In New York City, a down-on-his-luck man named Angelo Sevenicci runs through an alley. Looking back and panting, he realizes he’s finally lost his pursuers. He slows to a walk and merges with the crowd, continuing to look behind him at odd intervals, just in case.

Angelo, while only a young man, used to be the leader of the world’s clowns. He was at the top of his game… and then he met his archenemy – the leader of the world’s mimes. Against all odds, they had fallen in love, and produced a son, named James Sevenicci, offspring of an unnatural union between a clown and mime.

But prejudice, both of their friends and that which still festered within their own hearts, drove the two lovers apart. His mime-lover left him, and Angelo, disgraced, hung up his clown suit and immigrated to America with his infant son.

Angelo: If only… and now this! Reduced to a life of petty crime… I’d sell my soul to the devil for-

At that moment, he bumps into Satan, who has just emerged from his Villains Anonymous meeting. Angelo recognizes him and calls out.

Satan: Excuse me, sir – can I help you?

Angelo: You’re Satan, right?

Satan: Oh, good Lord, no peace wherever I go. I’m not giving out autographs today, buddy. How did you know it was me? Was it the flaming eyes?

Angelo: No.

Satan: The scary-but-stylish horns?

Angelo: No.

Satan: The barbed red tail?

Angelo: No.

Satan: Then how the devil did you know me?

Angelo points to the nametag on Satan’s vest. It reads: “HELLO My Name is Satan”.

Satan: Right.

Angelo: So, I was wondering if you still make Faustian bargains these days?

Satan: *raises eyebrow* Would you really sell your soul to me?

Angelo: *his eyes widen* Oh! Well, I would like to live a long, healthy, wealthy life, surrounded by beautiful women, and to be godfather of the New York mafia, the most successful crimelord ever!

Satan: No problemo. All I need is your soul.

Angelo: Er, hehe. Now wait just a minute. Do you have to take my soul? What about that of my infant son – you know, little James?

Satan: *rolls eyes* Boy, like that hasn’t been tried before. Look, no substitutions. Besides, I can’t touch a infant’s pure soul anyway. It’d be useless to me.

Angelo: Pure? Well, actually, he is the product of an unholy union…

Satan: *rolls eyes again* Reaaally. What, a union between a hero and a villain?

Angelo: No, between a clown and a mime.

Satan stiffens. A glint appears in his eye and he turns to face Angelo.

Satan: The devil you say…

Suddenly Satan sees a chance to get out of his eternity in Hell.

Angelo: Satan?

Satan: It’s a deal. Give me the child.

Angelo passes over his infant son, who bawls as he’s cradled in the Devil’s clawed yet surprisingly gentle hands. Angelo takes a last look at his son, lets out a sigh with no regrets, and walks on past. Suddenly a man runs up to him.

Man: They’re after me! Here, take this!

He thrusts a paper bag into Angelo’s hands and runs off. Shortly, a trio of police officers follow behind him and catch up.

Man: Ha-ha! You may have caught me, but you have no evidence!

Police Officer: We have your fingerprints at the scene of the crime.

Man: Hah! Fingerprinting hasn’t been developed yet!

Police Officer: …crap.

Angelo circumspectly opens the bag in his hand to find ten grand, a bunch of pearls and diamonds and – the motherlode – a crème-filled, chocolate-and-sprinkles-covered doughnut deluxe.

Angelo: Now THIS is a nice start. *tosses away the bag full of money and jewels, and walks down the street munching on the doughnut*

Satan, meanwhile, disappears in a flash of hellflame from the streets of New York City and appears again in the deepest, darkest, deadliest part of Hell.

Canada. The ninth circle of hell.

In his chambers within the Great Granite Fortress™ that is his home, Satan cradles the now-sleeping James Sevenicci in his bony arms.

Satan: At last. A pure soul is just what I need. But because of the unnatural union that produced him, I am actually able to touch him. Now, if I bind myself with him, thus projecting his purity onto me, I will be able to re-ascend into Heaven at the end of days! The parties in Heaven are waaay better than those doze-fests down here…

With a flash of the obligatory hellish-flame-and-lightning effect, the two essences begin merging…

RIGHT THEN!

Back at Castle Simon, Mustang continues to invoke his spell.

Mustang: I hope this works… A;SOIJDFJAW;LKJASDL;KFNLKSADFSDAF!!!

And in another flash of the obligatory hellish-flame-and-lightning effect, a… person appears within the pentagram, summoned by Mustang’s mighty spell. Wearing a business suit, he has horns jutting from his temple and flaming red eyes.

Mustang: Have I summoned the right entity? NAME YOURSELF!

New Arrival: I am the Father of Lies! I am the Prince of Darkness! I am the Ruler of Hell! I am the Devil himself! … But you can call me James7.

Mustang: Oh, mighty Satan-

James7/Satan: Look, I told you, call me James7.

Mustang: But aren’t you Satan?

James7/Satan: Well, sort of. He and I merged. We have one pure soul and one rather impure mind. Oh, and a hellishly cool body that any incubus would die to have. Speaking of which, how did you manage to—

Mustang: Oh mighty Sat- *cough* James7 – I have summoned you in order that you may undertake a great task, one which I am unable to do myself.

James7/Satan: *sigh* Everyone wants something today. Alright then, what’s your story?

Mustang: I am the Hand of the Plot, tasked to safeguard NeS-

James7: Not to nitpick, but I was under the impression that NeS hadn’t manifested yet.

Mustang: It hasn’t, which is why I don’t actually have any plot powers, just the wizardly magic and druidic lore I’ve learned. Since there are forces trying to abort the NeS before it can be born, I need help to protect it. I want you to be… a Protector of the Plotfractal.

James7: Why me?

Mustang: Well, you are the devil, with all the nigh-omnipotent powers that implies. Plus, you could ask the Four Horsemen to help.

James7: Hah! War is a brainless barbarian, Death is afraid of the light, Famine always complains he’s hungry, and Pestilence is perpetually down with the flu.

Mustang: …

James7: Of course, I could always recruit others. Cthulhu or Ares, for instance.

Mustang: …

James7: But first – we need to discuss a price.

Mustang takes a deep breath. Here comes the moment of decision. Is he prepared to sacrifice his eternity for the sake of the story? Exhaling, he takes the plunge.

Mustang: I offer you my soul, James7.

James7 throws back his head and laughs. Not a laugh of hellish megalomania, but one simply of hilarity.

Mustang: …what?

James7: *wiping a tear from his eye* Oh, come on, Mustang. Do you know how many souls we have in Hell already? And this coming century, there’s going to be more people born than all those who’ve ever lived before! The spiritual inflation rate is sky-high and still climbing! Face it, Mustang, a soul’s not worth what it used to be… especially not when you’re asking me something as big as this.

Mustang: *flips through the script back a couple of pages* But didn’t you just offer Angelo Sevenicci a great life of crime in exchange for a soul?

James7: What? *shift eyes* I have NO idea what you’re talking about!

Mustang: Right here! In the script! A couple of pages ago!

James7: Gimme that. *snatches script out of Mustang’s hands* You don’t need to be spreading those kinds of *ahem* unsubstantiated rumors around, you hear? Now, if it will keep you quiet, I’ll take your soul. But I need a little something extra.

Mustang: *baffled* What?

James7: I don’t know… Wait, I was going to ask earlier, how did you manage to summon me? Mortal magic isn’t usually potent enough to drag me into a pentagram like that. But it just so happened that, at the exact moment you cast your spell, I was merging with the infant soul of James Sevenicci, and was thus momentarily vulnerable.

He narrows his eyes.

James7: … so how is it that you managed to summon me at that exact instant?

Mustang: Well, I have this lucky rabbit’s foot. It creates convenient coincidences.

James7: … I see. Alright then. I’ll take that.

Mustang: No way! This lucky rabbit’s foot has been my special trinket since I was a child! I take it everywhere with me! It’s my own… my precious…

James7: I’ll throw in a box of éclairs.

Mustang: Sold.

(Next installment: March 17th 1876 -- Hollywood horror double-feature!)

Still 1876 (March 17th)

The mission task force has just arrived in Zurich-

Censor #1: Hold on now. We have some objections to that last bit.

What, about Zurich?

Censor #2: No, right before that. That whole scene with Satan. It cast him in an entirely too positive light!

Are you kidding? He just bought the soul of a poor innocent babe!

Censor #3: True, but the whole premise suggested that he’s just “misunderstood”.

You know, air quotes don’t make you look any cooler.

Censor #3: *crestfallen*

Censor #2: Told ya.

Censor #3: Shut up.

Now wait just a moment – this is the 19th century! The FCC doesn’t exist yet! Where are you censors coming from?

Censor #1: Oh, we’re sponsored by the Roman Catholic Church in this century.

The Catholic Church?

Censor #2: Of course. If you remember your history, medieval and Renaissance Catholics were behind many book-burnings and –bannings.

Censor #3: And we’re still kicking today. So I suggest you edit out that scene before we have to pull a Fahrenheit 451 on your @$$!

I didn’t know Catholics could swear.

Censor #3: …oops.

Censor #2: Two more rosaries for you, Censor #3.

Censor #3: Shut up.

… while this is all very interesting, it has nothing to do with us. After all- *DRUM ROLL* I, the Narrator, am Protestant!

Censor #1: NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Censor #2: Flee the heathen, men!

Censor #3: Hey, Narrator, do Protestants have to do rosaries?

No.

Censor #3: Where do I sign up—AAAAAHHH!

Censor #2: *holding Censor #3 by the ear* Boy, are you in a load of trouble, Censor #3…

Riiiiight… *ahem* Where was I?

Random Audience Member: Zurich.

Thank you. The mission task force – for those of you too lazy to go back a few pages and reread it, this consists of Erro, Catherine Nolastname, Sir Chylde, King Emp, TheBadger, Roberto, and Matthias the Cold – has just arrived in Zurich, Switzerland. They’ve been riding a team of King Emp’s great white Armenian horses. They are tired from their journey, especially TheBadger, who doesn’t riding like horses to begin with.

TheBadger: I swear, this itch is getting worse!

King Emp: Please, no one ask…

Catherine: What itch was that?

King Emp: Too late…

TheBadger: This big pimple on my butt.

Matthias the Cold: *snickers* How do you get a pimple on your butt?

King Emp: *sigh* Here it comes…

TheBadger: Well, you remember last month King Emp took me to Armenia-

King Emp: You mean, when you rode the underside of my royal carriage as a stowaway…

TheBadger: -and after bedding half the women in his palace-

King Emp: Yeah right. Only Helga, the warty old window-washer, wanted anything to do with you…

TheBadger: -ole King took me hunting! We hunted a ferocious predator, king of beasts-

King Emp: A dire badger…

TheBadger: Hey, who’s telling the story, you or me?

King Emp: It’s a story, all right.

TheBadger: Hush you. My audience is rapt with attention-

Suddenly Matthias snores loudly.

TheBadger: *sigh*

King Emp: Look, so the badger bit you on the butt before it was killed-

TheBadger: It was a sneaky, underhanded assault!

King Emp: You were mooning my ladies-in-waiting!

Roberto: This is definitely waaaay too much information…

Erro: Am I the only one who sees the irony in this? TheBadger, bitten by a badger?

Sir Chylde: Tell me, TheBadger, why were you named “TheBadger” in the first place?

TheBadger: *pointing up to the clear night sky* Well, my father named me after that constellation up there…

Sir Chylde: …that’s not a badger, that’s a bear. The GREAT Bear.

TheBadger: …well, my father was drunk that night. ‘Course, he was drunk most nights…

Matthias: The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I see…

TheBadger: I heard that!

Erro: Oh, look, here’s our hotel!

They turn to see a pleasant little meadow, filled with pastel flowers and large bushes trimmed into fantastic shapes. A gravel path winds up to a quaint little cottage.

King Emp: THAT’S the Killer Hotel of Ominousness™?

Erro: Oops, no wait, this is 6665[/b] North Maplewood. 6666[/b] is the next one up.

They continue up the drive and see a spooky stone castle built atop an Alpine crag. The obligatory lightning flashes behind it, silhouetting it. A place like this could only be called…

THE FORBIDDEN FORTRESS OF FORBIDDENNESS™!!!

Of course, since that name has already been copyrighted – er, it will be copyrighted – GAH! Stupid prequels and time travel – it has to use a different name. Thusly:

THE KILLER HOTEL OF OMINOUSNESS™!!!

Roberto: Remind me again why we booked reservations at a place like this.

TheBadger: Cuz they have killer rates…

He chuckles at his own little joke. Sir Chylde smacks him upside the head.[/]

Erro: Because it’s the nearest place to where that writer’s body was found. Unless you want to spend ten miles in the saddle every morning to reach the site, Badger?

TheBadger: *scratching his buttocks* NO.

Erro: Thought not.

They ride up the winding cliffside path and cross the creaky drawbridge. As they enter through the gate into the front courtyard – which doubles as the lobby – the drawbridge comes up behind them.

Erro: Ruh-roh!

Catherine: Jinkies!

This would be a great spot for a parody of Scooby-Doo, but since it’s kinda hard to spoof a TV show that hasn’t been invented yet, we’ll just move right along.

An attendant comes up to take their eight white horses-

Roberto: Hey, why did we bring eight horses? There’s only seven of us!

King Emp: Dr. Fleidermouse insisted we bring “William” along…

Attendant: Sir, they won’t let me take them to the stable.

King Emp: Oh, yes. You have to call them by their names. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen.

Attendant: Very good, sir.

Erro blinks.

Erro: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen? Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen?

King Emp: What?

Erro: Doesn’t anyone see something familiar about those names?

The other heroes stare at him blankly.

Erro: *sigh* Nevermind.

The receptionist gives them the keys to their 8 separate luxury suites – due to King Emp’s “subtle” power-playing, he is obscenely rich – and they go to their separate chambers.

TheBadger: Hey Catherine, wanna spend the night in my room?

Sir Chylde smacks TheBadger upside the head.

TheBadger: Owie…

Catherine: I’d sooner spend the night with a Wookiee!

Roberto: What’s a Wookiee?

Catherine: I have no idea…

Three hours later, just as the clock strikes midnight, a chill wind rustles through the dank corriders of the Killer Hotel of Ominousness™. From behind the clouds, a full moon peeps out, invading the dreams of one of our heroes…

Catherine: *in her sleep* Mmm… Cheese and crackers…

Ahem. Not that hero. Try again, camera man.

TheBadger: *moaning in his sleep* It bit me! It bit me! It burns! AAAGGH!!

In King Emp’s room, the Armenian monarch rolls onto his side.

King Emp: *mumbling drowsily* Morning, Harem Girl #87…

A sinister voice answers him from the requisite shadowy corner of the room.

Sinister Voice: How touching.

King Emp jolts out of his slumber, sitting upright in bed. He grabs his longdagger and holds it toward the shadowy corner.

King Emp: Who’s there? Identify yourself, for you stand in the presence of royalty!

Sinister Voice: *chuckling* Well, let me assure you, I am not your harem girl…

King Emp’s eyes narrow. Something about the way the sinister voice said that… Suddenly his eyes grow wide.

King Emp: …You!

Sinister Voice: How appropriately vague. Not to mention dramatic. A hero must be dramatic… especially if he is a powerplayer.

King Emp: *his voice barely suppressed fury* Desmond.

Sinister Voice: Indeed, King Emperor. I am responsible for the deaths of your father and your lover. Perhaps you should thank me. After all, you are now king, are you not?

King Emp: Go to hell.

The figure in the shadows chuckles again. He steps closer, now just barely visible in the dim starlight coming through the windows. His black hair is slicked back and tied with an equally black ribbon into a short ponytail tapering at just below the nape of his neck. He is dressed in a high-collared black fur cloak, lined with purple velvet. A silver vest with gold buttons covers a frilled black shirt over black trousers and boots.

Desmond. Count of the NeSferatu.

Desmond: I have been there, King Emperor, and it spat me back out.

King Emp: Let’s see if Hell finds you more digestible this time.

Quick as a flash, King Emp sweeps up his bow and lets fly a pair of arrows. Desmond flicks his fingers, and they turn to dust in mid-air. Undaunted, King Emp fires another pair, and another. All are turned to dust, until King Emp is left with only one arrow remaining. He nocks it… then lowers his bow again, knowing that it would be useless.

Desmond: Really now, King Emperor, you should know better. Besides, I am only here to converse with you. Aren’t you in the least interested in my motives?

King Emp: *tersely* Say your piece, then.

Desmond: Tell me, King Emperor, do you play chess?

King Emp: *surprised* Every now and then.

Desmond: Well, I am going to invoke the corny cliché metaphor of my grand schemes as chess and you heroes as pawns. You see, I have laid my plans for millennia. AncientWriterTheWriter created me, inadvertently, all those years ago, in ancient Atlantis. The first of the NeSferatu.

King Emp: You will be the last when I am done with you and your kind.

Desmond: Temper, temper, King Emperor. As you may know, my existence is dependent on stories. All these eons, I have struggled to eke out my life – such as it is – on the piddling stories created by the world’s authors. But I have been patient. I have studied the prophecies, dabbled in the arcane. I have laid my plans–

King Emp: You already said that.

Desmond: *ahem* Kindly do not interrupt. As I was saying, I have considered all the factors, every possibility. Your Ohq is the key.

King Emp: His name is Erro.

Desmond: *waves hand dismissively* He is an Ohq. Any other names or titles he may possess are irrelevant. I have analyzed him and his comrades, his powers and his methods. His bloodink shall be the glue that cements my eternal victory. But you, King Emperor… you are the wild card.

King Emp: *crosses arms* What do you mean?

Desmond: You are a powerplayer. Of course, all power-players are wild cards, but they are usually dealt with easily by other writers and characters, because they simply trample all over the story, and as such, lose the protection of its conventions. You[/b], on the other hand, do not simply powerplay… but you actually advance the story with your powerplaying. And that is not so easily ignored or dealt with by other writers and characters.

King Emp: Why are you telling me this?

Desmond: To give you fair warning. Despite being a conscientious powerplayer – if I may use such an oxymoron – you are only mortal.

He smiles, baring razor sharp fangs.

Desmond: Do not bite off more than you can chew. Or I will deal with you. So. I came here to warn you, firstly. Secondly, I came to speak with you, to gain the measure of you, to probe your strengths and weakness in this exchange. And thirdly – it amuses me to distract you whilst your friends elsewhere in this hotel fight for their lives.

King Emp: What—

From elsewhere within the Killer Hotel of Ominousness™, a terrible howling arises. It seems soulless and despairing, full of death and terror. King Emp stiffens. Desmond barks a chill laugh.

Desmond: I leave you now, King Emperor. Oh, and by the way – you should have shot that final arrow at me. If you knew your story conventions, you would know that I can in fact be harmed by a Hero’s Last Arrow.

He disappears as a shaft of the full moon’s light washes over him through the window. King Emp’s last arrow shoots uselessly through empty air, and flies out the window into the courtyard below.

Random Cat: MRRROOOWWWWW!!!!

King Emp grabs a spare quiver from his trunk and rushes out into the hallway in search of his friends.

Elsewhere in the castle, Roberto, Sir Chylde, Erro, and Matthias the Cold rush through the corridors, fleeing for their lives. Behind them lumbers a huge 9-foot-tall creature at high speeds, chasing after them.

Roberto: *waving his pushbroom frantically* Clear the way!

Maids and bellhops scatter as our *ahem* intrepid heroes run by. The creature continues chasing them about, a long tongue slavering from its many-fanged mouth.

Down the hallway, Catherine Nolastname steps out of her suite in her evening robe as she hears the commotion. Her eyes widen as she sees her fellow heroes running towards her.

Catherine: Guys? What’s going on?

They skid to a stop, their eyes wild.

Erro: It’s TheBadger—

Sir Chylde: He’s changed—

Roberto: -into a man-eating beast!

It is just then the creature catches up to them. As it steps in front of a window, the light of the full moon washes over it, illuminating its fearsome features.

It’s a gigantic badger, walking on its hind legs.

Catherine: Badger? Badger, it’s me. Catherine. You know me… don’t you?

The giant werebadger regards her curiously, snarling and snapping.

Catherine: *sigh* There’s only one way to bring him back to his senses…

In a show of extreme bravery, she tears open her night robe, baring her… attributes… for the werebadger to see. The werebadger’s eyes goggle.

WereBadger: *snuffling* Oooooohhh…

It reaches a clawed hand towards her – or more accurately, towards her, um, attributes – and then Sir Chylde smacks it upside the head.

WereBadger: Ow! What the hey did you do that for?

Catherine: Badger! It’s you!

WereBadger: Of course it’s me, babe. *suddenly sees Catherine’s exposed chest* WOW!

Catherine quickly closes her robe.

WereBadger: Aw…

Erro: Badger, do you remember anything?

WereBadger: Huh, what are you talking about? Why are we all standing in the hallway in the middle of the night, anyway? And when did you all get so short?

Sir Chylde: …

Roberto: Perhaps, my good fellow, you should take a good look at yourself.

TheWereBadger looks down. His eyes go wide.

WereBadger: COOL!!!

Sir Chylde: …

Erro: *raises an eyebrow* “Cool”? You have fangs and claws and… hair.

WereBadger: Yeah, but *he flexes* look at these bulging muscles! *looks down again* And this HUGE—

Sir Chylde smacks WereBadger before he can send this story into ‘R’ rated territory.

Matthias the Cold: So wait… Are we saying that TheBadger has turned into a werebadger because he was bitten by a dire badger?!

Catherine: I believe that about sums it up.

Matthias the Cold: *sputters* But that’s so cliché! And filled with overwrought irony! And just totally… totally… stupid!

Erro: And your point is…?

Matthias the Cold: I hate this story…

At that moment, King Emp crashes through a door from an adjoining hallway, brandishing a bow. Seeing the WereBadger and mistaking him for a horrific menace, he nocks an arrow and levels it.

King Emp: *to other heroes* STAND BACK! *to WereBadger* Now, creature, see how you like the taste of silver…

Erro: Wait, King! That’s Badger!

King Emp: Of course, I’m not blind! It’s a 9-foot-tall badger with claws and teeth! - oh, you mean he’s The Badger?

Erro: Yeup.

King Emp: So my dramatic entrance was for nothing?

Erro: Pretty much.

King Emp’s shoulders slump. Roberto thinks it timely to mention an important detail at this point.

Roberto: You do realize, King Emp, that you’re, uh, naked?

Catherine: *suddenly noticing* Ooooh…

Matthias the Cold: Oh come on! Enough with King Emp’s power-playing to make him devastatingly attractive to the ladies!

King Emp: Well, I thought y’all were in trouble. I didn’t want to waste time rifling through my wardrobe looking for something to wear.

Random Maid: Hey, good-looking, how ‘bout showing a bad girl a good time?

Matthias the Cold throws up his hands in disgust.

King Emp: Sorry, sweets, I only like French maids.

WereBadger: *aside to the Random Maid* Hey babe, I’M not so picky…

Sir Chylde and the Random Maid both slap him.

Random Maid #2: Bon jour, your majesty – I am French.

They turn to see a French man dressed in a maid’s outfit walk up, preening.

King Emp: *shuddering* Not a chance in hell…

All the Other Heroes: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

King Emp: Shut up…

(Next installment: February 14th, 1877 - of proposals and problematic predicaments.)

1877 (February 14th)

Random Audience Member: Now wait just a minute!

…We are so going to have to start an NeScount of people saying “Wait a minute!” or of Random Audience interruptions…

Random Audience Member: You just ended that last scene in Zurich rather abruptly. You never explained what happened after that – and now you’re saying a whole year has passed?

Eleven months, actually. Not quite a year.

Random Audience Member: …

Look, if you really must know, the League left Zurich the next morning, as Desmond had already revealed himself – via his conversation with King Emp – and subsequently disappeared all over again.

Random Audience Member: Then why didn’t you explain that in the last scene?

Because it was funnier for the scene to end with King Emp’s embarrassed “Shut up”. Would you rather have a story that’s funny, or a story that’s just overtold?

Random Audience Member: I’d rather have a story that actually MAKES SENSE!

This is the NEVERENDING Story, not the SENSIBLE Story or the LET’S-TIE-UP-ALL-LOOSE-ENDS Story.

Random Audience Member: I thought it had been established that the Neverending Story hadn’t actually “been birthed” yet?

I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you just shut up.

Random Audience Member: Deal. *pockets the hundred with a grin*

Now then. Castle Simon and the surrounding landscape are blanketed with pristine white snow. It’s a winter wonderland this Valentine’s Day, and the League of Heroes are having a great ball in their headquarters.

TheBadger: I say, darling, I could look into your eyes forever…

Random Princess #1: Oh, stop…

TheBadger: I’m serious. I’ve been a womanizer since I was a lad, but you – you’re different. I would change for you…

King Emp walks up, a random princess on either arm.

King Emp: Badger, leave the lady alone.

TheBadger: No, King Emp – I’ve found what I never realized I was searching for – true love. For this belle, I will forever give up my philandering ways…

Random Princess #1: Oh, Badger, I love you too!

TheBadger drops to one knee before the Random Princess. His eyes are starcrossed, his heart pierced with Cupid’s arrow.

TheBadger: Random Princess #1… will you marry me?

Cut to James7/Satan, sitting on his hellish throne in the ninth circle of Hell. For those of you not familiar with the geography of the underworld, that would be Canada.

James7: Brrrr… Why did it get so cold all of a sudden? FARR!

James7’s second-in-command peeks in.

Farr: Yes, my lord?

James7: Why is it so cold? Is the Lake of Fire’s thermostat broken again?

Farr: No, my lord, it appears that hell has frozen over…

Cut back to Castle Simon’s ballroom, where Random Princess #1 has squealed with delight and leapt into TheBadger’s arms.

Erro: *looking on wistfully* I love happy endings…

Sir Chylde: Indeed, Baron Erro… but why do you not seek your own happy ending? The lady Catherine has been doe-eyed for you since all of us met.

Erro: I don’t know… What if it doesn’t work out?

Over by TheBadger and his new fiancée, King Emp shakes his head, torn between pride for TheBadger and pity for Random Princess #1. Matthias the Cold saunters up, a mischievous – almost cruel – smirk on his young face.

Matthias the Cold: Hey, Badger, let me be the first to congratulate you.

TheBadger: Er… thanks.

Matthias the Cold: Oh, by the way… You know what they say – that you can tell what a woman will look like in her later years by looking at her mother…?

TheBadger: …yeah?

Matthias the Cold: *gesturing to Random Princess #1* Her mother is Queen Victoria.

TheBadger stands there for a moment. Then-

TheBadger: YAAAAAAAGGGHHHH!!! *pushes Random Princess #1 away* Get away from me, you hag!

Random Princess #1: But darling…

TheBadger runs away screaming, leaving behind a heartbroken random princess.

King Emp: That observation was rather cold, Matthias.

Matthias the Cold: That observation was rather overwrought irony, King Emp.

King Emp: *sigh* *to the random princesses on his arms* Excuse me, ladies, I believe it falls to me to cheer up our spurned princess…

Matthias the Cold: *sarcastically* Yeah, what a sacrifice…

King Emp: Hush you.

Across the gaily decorated dance floor, Mustang is talking to an officer of military bearing.

Mustang: Admiral, I sincerely believe you would be a valuable addition to our League.

Admiral Randall I: I’m not so sure, Master Mustang. Most of your missions are on land. My element is the sea, my place in the Nautilus.

Mustang: Aside from the ease of international transportation you could provide us, you also bring to bear military resources and strategic experience.

Admiral Randall I: You make a persuasive argument, Master Mustang, but I’m not entirely sure-

Mustang: I’ll introduce you to the hottest, smartest princess here.

Admiral Randall I: Deal.

Standing just a little ways from them, TwistedSpasm is speaking to Galvenstein.

TwistedSpasm: Where’s Roberto? I would’ve thought a chap like that would be the life of the party.

Galvenstein: He left yesterday morning on a short journey. Said something about an important meeting of the Order of Janitors…

TwistedSpasm: The Janitors…? Wait. What’s today?

Galvenstein: Valentine’s Day.

TwistedSpasm: I know that, you twit. But is today February 14, 1877?!

Galvenstein: Well, of course. Valentine’s Day is always on the 14th, you know.

For once, TwistedSpasm ignores the condescension. His face has turned quite a pale shade of white.

Galvenstein: TwistedSpasm?

TwistedSpasm: I’ve got to go to Roberto! Good Lord, it’s that day! The day all the Janitors…

He trails off as he runs for the doors. Galvenstein watches him go, then shrugs and turns his attention to the center of the dance floor, where Dr. Fleidermouse is tapping his feet to a waltz that no one else can hear.

Dr. Fleidermouse: That’s it, William, my boy! Twirl her around! Lift her up in the air! Bust a move!

William: …

Dr. Fleidermouse: Yes, I agree, Candy’s a nice girl, you should kiss her.

Candy: …

Dr. Fleidermouse: Don’t be shy, Candy, I know true love when I see it.

William: …

Candy: …

Dr. Fleidermouse: *wiping a tear from his eye* I love happy endings…

Galvenstein: Heaven help us, the good doctor has TWO imaginary friends now…

Meanwhile, Erro and The Thirteenth True Evil are conversing at the sidelines.

Erro: Why aren’t you dancing, T13TE?

T13TE: I love women, tovarish, but I have yet to love a woman.

Erro: I see… Well, if I had a sister, I’d let you dance with her.

T13TE: Thank you, my friend. If you had a sister, I am sure I would love her with all my heart and soul.

Random Audience Member: Okay, not only was that sappy, but it was totally pointless!

Not so. It’s foreshadowing the romance between the sister of Erro’s famous descendant and one of T13TE’s successors!

T13TE: But tell me, tovarish, why do you not dance?

Erro: Well… *sigh*

T13TE: *knowingly* There is only one woman with whom you wish to dance, isn’t there?

Erro: …yes.

T13TE: You should really get around to courting her. She won’t wait around forever – oops, too late.

Erro follows his gaze and clenches his fists as he sees TheBadger bowing to Catherine Nolastname and leading her onto the dance floor.

Catherine: Well, Badger, despite your reputation as a drunk and a lecher, you are being quite the gentleman tonight…

TheBadger: I’m not all bad, Catherine. I just… well, I feel like I’m hemmed in by who I’m supposed to be…

Catherine: What, you think you’re supposed to be a drunk and a lecher?

TheBadger: …okay, so that sounds stupid.

Catherine: Not at all. If we are truly in a story, as Mustang claims, then you are needed for comic relief. In a very real sense, you make perhaps the most valuable contribution.

TheBadger: Really?

Catherine: Sure!

TheBadger: Wow, Catherine, thanks. You just made me feel so much better about myself. I wish there was something I could do for you in return…

Catherine eyes him warily as they dance.

Catherine: I am NOT going to bed with you!

TheBadger: No, no, I didn’t mean that – not that I don’t want to sleep with you – wait, that sounds –

Catherine: You’re making it worse.

TheBadger: Shutting up.

They dance further, settling into a slow pattern, Catherine’s left hand in Badger’s right, her other hand on his shoulder, his other hand on her hip…

Catherine: Hey! My hip, Badger, not my butt…

TheBadger: Sorry. Reflex. *pause* Actually, Catherine, I’ve noticed you looking at Erro a lot over the years…

Catherine: Well, he… I really care about him.

TheBadger: And he cares about you, too, you know.

Catherine: I wish I could know that. I mean, he’s never said anything, never done anything.

Badger is silent for a moment.

TheBadger: I think I know of a way to make him reveal his feelings.

Catherine: Oh? What’s tha—MMMMGH!

TheBadger has kissed her, right there in the center of the dance floor, the spotlight on them both. His kiss is wet and sloppy, naturally, the kind a badger might make – how’s that for overwrought irony? – and his tongue invades her mouth, when-

Erro: THAT’S ENOUGH, YOU PRATT!

Erro has stalked up and grabbed TheBadger from behind. He drives a fist into his gut, knees him in the groin, and in general wreaks holy havoc on the man who dared to french his beloved. In moments, Badger is a bruised and bloody mess on the floor, and Erro turns to face Catherine, who is still trying to spit out the taste of Badger’s kiss.

Catherine: Erro, I—

Erro: Catherine, I can’t take it any longer. I love you. I want to kiss you and hold you. I want to be your best friend, your lover, your confidant. My heart belongs to you – it has always belonged to you.

Everyone in the room has gone still and silent. Except of course for the large purple curtains over by the window, which are rustling as the two random partygoers behind them obliviously continue their tryst. Catherine is staring at Erro. The shock is fading from her face, and is being replaced by an almost radiant joy.

Catherine: Erro… I love you too.

Erro smiles and takes her in his arms, and they kiss. Sparks fly. Figuratively, of course. Literal sparks in a 19th-century manor would be way too much of a fire hazard-

Mustang: Narrator?

Yes?

Mustang: Shut up.

Erro: *finally pulling away* Catherine Nolastname… will you marry me?

Catherine: Yes. Yes! With all my heart!

Mustang?

Mustang: Yes, Narrator?

Can I speak now?[/size=1]

Mustang: *sigh* Yes…

The room erupts in cheers as Erro picks up Catherine in his arms and swings her around. TheBadger is carried away on a stretcher by a pair of random medics. He opens a rapidly blacking eye to see Catherine and Erro in each other’s arms. Before he succumbs to unconsciousness… he smiles.

At that moment, the double doors to the ballroom burst open, letting in a gust of snow and cold air. The crowd turns to see TwistedSpasm supporting a haggard-looking Roberto. There is a cut on TwistedSpasm’s cheek, and he’s obviously out-of-breath, but Roberto is in bad shape. His clothes are torn and muddied, his skin covered in bruises and dried blood. He sags onto TwistedSpasm’s shoulder, his eyes flickering weakly.

Erro, as is his nature, takes charge instantly.

Erro: Ah! Blood! Eek! *starts squealing like a little girl*

Ahem. I SAID, Erro takes charge instantly.

Erro: Right. Er… Medics! Take Roberto to the infirmary immediately! TwistedSpasm, report now!

TwistedSpasm: *gasping for breath as medics take Roberto away on a stretcher* I… I just remembered my history. That is, the history of your time, from my time in your future. Today… is the day of the infamous… Janitorial Purge. According to the history I learned, Roberto himself was the only survivor, and that just because a mysterious stranger in black rushed in at the last minute to make good his escape…

Erro: Who, TwistedSpasm? Who did this?

TwistedSpasm: His name… is Vukothrax.

From behind him, Mustang gasps audibly. Erro frowns.

Erro: Who is Vukothrax?

A new voice answers from the still-open double doorway.

New Voice: I am.

They turn to see a devilish-looking figure, crimson-skinned and horned at the temples, towering at 7 feet. A jeweled circlet rests just above his horn. His robe shimmers in color-defying hues. In his right hand, he grasps a deformed red staff that is alight with hellish flame; in the other hand, a long black war pike.

Mustang: Vukothrax. The Earthbound demon mage.

Vukothrax: Correct, mortal magician. Now – where is that final Janitor whose carcass I seek?

Galvenstein: Mustang, can’t you summon James7 and have him banish this underling demon?

Mustang: I’m afraid not. Vukothrax is Earthbound, rather than Hellsworn, and as such James7 has no authority over him.

Matthias the Cold: Look, Mr. Vukothrax, what do you even want to kill all the Janitors for?

Vukothrax: It’s sad, really. The Storywriter wanted to work in the Janitorial Purge that Janitor Bob will mention in NeS one day, and he also wanted an excuse to introduce me. So he just sort of threw us together. It’s one of those annoying Convenient Plot Devices…

Matthias the Cold: Oh, man. I’m with you. Those are annoying.

Vukothrax: Enough talk. Hand over the Janitor, and I shall spare you.

Erro: Over our dead bodies. Avengers Assemble *cough* I mean, LEAGUE – ATTACK!

Galvenstein charges at Vukothrax. He is almost as tall as the demon mage, and brings to bear all the strength a cyborg can muster, grappling with him. Vukothrax glares at him, and a blast radiates from his eyes to sear Galvenstein’s face. History’s first cyborg grimaces and hangs on, but his grip is loosened, and Vukothrax knocks him away with his black pike.

Now with a clear shot, King Emp fires a barrage of arrows at Vukothrax, who twirls his scarlet staff, creating a circular shield of fire, which then spins through the air towards the royal archer. King Emp leaps out of the way, but the fiery disc hits the tapestry behind him, and the mass of burning cloth envelops the young king.

Erro takes the opportunity to geb-speed up to Vukothrax and sticks his foil in the demon mage’s back. Vukothrax screams, more in rage than pain, and flails behind him. Erro ducks out of the way, but loses his foil in the process. Vukothrax waves a claw, and the foil lifts up off the ground and hurtles through the air to plant itself in Erro’s gut. The leader of the League grunts and falls back.

Catherine: NO!

Sammy Evil: Die, foul creature!

The evil doctor grabs a coil of his duct tape™ and makes a lasso of it, tying up Vukothrax in an unbreakable bond. But the demon mage smirks.

Vukothrax: Do you really think even duct tape™ can hold me for long? Foolish mortal.

Sammy Evil: Maybe not… unless I use its forbidden powers…

Dr. Fleidermouse: No, Sammy Evil! Don’t give in to the dark side of the tape!

Sammy Evil struggles with this moral dilemma, and then Vukothrax beans him over the head with his warpike. As Sammy’s unconscious grip of the duct tape™ loosens, Vukothrax’s binding falls away. Sir Chylde and Galvenstein team up to charge into the fray, but Vukothrax releases a fireball, which launches the cyborg and the knight into the air.

T13TE: Let’s dance, tovarish.

Vukothrax looks up to see The Thirteenth True Evil swing on a banner down from a balcony feet-first towards him. With a heavy grunt, the demon mage staggers backwards and down onto one knee from the impact. T13TE chops with his katana, but Vukothrax blocks with his ebony pike and thrusts back with tremendous power. T13TE shimmies his katana down the length the pike and executes one of those cool little wrist flips that disarms Vukothrax of his pike.

Vukothrax: Wraa!

Vukothrax strikes with his staff, but T13TE flips out of the way. The demon mage keeps thrusting, firing the occasional fireball, but T13TE nimbly dodges each one.

Vukothrax: Stay still, d***it!

T13TE: If you insist.

T13TE pauses to draw two pistols, unloading each one’s entire clip into the demon mage. Vukothrax twirls his staff, magically sweeping the bullets out of the air. With a gesture of one clawed hand, the black war pike flies back to his grasp and he hits T13TE in the knee with the butt of the pike. T13TE recovers quickly, rolling away and then backflipping to land astride the tall demon’s shoulders. The elite assassin draws a pistol and points it at the back of Vukothrax’s head.

T13TE: Dodge this.

And thus, the first ever Matrix reference! Or wait, did The Matrix just rip off NeS1888? Since Matrix hasn’t come out in 1877. This is so confusing…

T13TE: Narrator? What’s going on with us?

Oh, right. T13TE squeezes the trigger just as Vukothrax jerks him off. The bullet, going wide, only nicks the demon mage’s skull, and T13TE lands nimbly on the ground, somersaulting to safety.

Mustang: Enough, demon!

As Vukothrax turns to look in Mustang’s direction, Mustang flings a lance of fire from the Cheshire Zippo. The demon mage stumbles backward, but recovers quickly and starts peppering the air with fireballs. Mustang conjures a rune in the air, and the fireballs turn to smoke. He lashes out with the power of the Cheshire Zippo once more, but Vukothrax effortlessly blocks them with a magical barrier.

Vukothrax: Poor insignificant mortal. Your puny magicks are nothing to me. And I sense you are already starting to tire… You are accomplishing nothing.

The demon mage swats away another fireball, and laughs.

Mustang: Wrong, hellspawn. I was using my fireballs to trace a giant rune in the air around you. Kuansi-taa’lah!

Suddenly lines of fire shimmer into existence in mid-air, tracing the paths of all Mustang’s Cheshire Zippo-generated fireballs, creating a three-dimensional glyph surrounding Vukothrax. The lines of fire turn into blue light, and tighten around the demon mage. Vukothrax tries to wave his red staff, but blue light douses its ever-burning flame.

T13TE: *staring at Mustang* I had no idea the power he possessed.

Vukothrax: No… No! I cannot be contained. I will not be denied!

The demon mages eyes burn red, then gold, then white-hot. The entire ballroom begins to shake. Sweat runs down Mustang’s brow as he strains to hold his spell around Vukothrax. Catherine, kneeling at Erro’s side, glances up at the struggle before looking worriedly back at her fiancé, whose breathing grows ever shallower…

With a final burst of flame that blackens the stone floor around him, Vukothrax snaps the bonds of blue light. Mustang is thrown backward with the collapse of his spell.

Vukothrax: Now shall ye all face my wrath!

T13TE: *backing up as he cocks another pistol* Mustang?

The wizard shakes his head. He is spent. He and T13TE are the only ones left in the fight. Erro is dying, Catherine grief-stricken at his side. Sir Chylde and Galvenstein are unconscious against the wall where Vukothrax’s fireball had thrown them, Dr. Fleidermouse trying to coax his cyborg’s circuits back to life. Sammy Evil is unconscious as well, and TwistedSpasm is still exhausted from his earlier flight. King Emp is trapped under the heavy tapestry.

T13TE: The last stand of the League of Heroes, then. Somehow, I always thought it’d be against Desmond, and not some newcomer…

Matthias the Cold: Not yet, assassin. It’s my turn.

T13TE turns to regard Mustang’s young apprentice. There is a fierce joy in his eyes – the mageling is truly looking forward to the fight.

Matthias the Cold: At last, something worthy of my abilities!

Mustang looks on worriedly. But, knowing the dire nature of the situation, he says nothing.

Vukothrax: A child? You would send a child against ME?

Matthias the Cold: For the last time, I. Am not. A CHILD!!!

With those last words, the white-robed mageling fairly explodes, a sheet of blue-white flame crashing through the air towards Vukothrax. The demon mage is thrown upon his back by the sheer savagery of the attack, but gets up quickly.

Vukothrax: *wiping a newly bloodied lip* Well now. This may be interesting after all.

Vukothrax crosses his pike and staff together, and a humungous finger of violet destruction lances out towards Matthias. But the cold young man smirks, and bats it back with a flick of his firemaster’s staff. Vukothrax’s eyes widen as he sees his own death ray returned to him, and quickly teleports. The violet light shreds the stone wall behind him to pieces.

Vukothrax reappears behind Matthias and strikes with his pike. But the pike goes right through the mageling – an illusion! From a balcony, a slew of fireballs slams into Vukothrax, who screams with pain and anger.

Vukothrax: You are clever, mageling, and powerful. But I am a master of the magicks you seek to employ. You are playing with fire.

The demon raises his staff in the air, twirling around faster and faster until it is a blur of light and flame.

Vukothrax: Roshami fallas!

With an audible CRACK, the very air seems to rip, and out of a hole in space/time-

Random Audience Member: Ether!

Didn’t I give you a hundred bucks to shut it? Anyway, out of a newly created hole in ether, two dozen gremlins formed of shadow and flame crawl. Looking towards the demon mage who summoned them, they follow his pointed claw to see Matthias the Cold. These shadow gremlins scamper towards him. Matthias, seeing these new attackers, quickly teleports off the balcony and back onto the main dance floor. With a twirl of his fingers, the mageling collapses the balcony, burying a half dozen of the demonic gremlins.

But no sooner has he turned to face the rest but Vukothrax releases another fireball. Matthias barely throws up a shield in time and is slightly singed. Then the remaining shadow gremlins are upon him. They swarm him under, and his staff is knocked out of his hand. Matthias feels burns on his flesh where the gremlins grapple him…

Matthias the Cold: VOLCANIC BLAST!

In an explosion so white-hot that even Vukothrax is momentarily blinded, raw energy pours from the mageling’s body, dissolving the essences of the gremlins. The energy annihilates the remaining tapestries on the wall, and even sends the demon mage himself staggering back several steps.

When Vukothrax’s vision clears, he sees Matthias the Cold standing once more – but the mageling is clearly not doing well, tired and injured, with several burns seen through his tattered robes.

Vukothrax: You have fought valiantly, little mageling. But it seems that you do not have enough left to finish me.

Matthias smiles.

Matthias the Cold: Wrong, mage. Look around.

Vukothrax does so, to find himself surrounded. King Emp has gotten out of the burning tapestry and has three arrows aimed at the demon mage’s head. Sir Chylde is up again, brandishing a lance. T13TE has a rifle cocked. Mustang has had the opportunity to trace more blue runes in the air, ready to be unleashed at a command. A hastily-repaired Galvenstein cracks his knuckles.

Matthias the Cold: Although powerful, demon, you too are beginning to tire. Can you fight all of us now?

Vukothrax stares at him… and then he laughs, a chilling chuckle.

Vukothrax: Well played, little mageling. You have great potential. A pity it’s wasted under Mustang’s tutelage. We will meet again…

In a flash of hellflame, the demon mage vanishes. Our heroes slump, visibly relieved. Then they turn to Erro, whose face is pasty as his life’s blood continues to seep from his wound.

Catherine: Oh, Erro, don’t let me lose you now…

Our heroes look towards a newly-awakened Sammy Evil, who shakes his head sadly. Not even duct tape™ can save Erro now. Catherine lowers her face into Erro’s chest, crying softly.

Mustang: There is a way.

Heads snap towards him, and Catherine has a new glimmer of hope in his eyes. Mustang makes no explanation, but kneels by Erro’s side.

Mustang: Erro, listen to me. All human bodies heal themselves. Doctors only help along the process. You are dying now only because your body cannot heal quickly enough.

Erro: Mustang, I’m dying… make it a bit shorter…

Mustang: Right. You can use your geb-speed to speed up your body’s natural healing, thus recovering instantaneously.

Cue the obligatory lines where the hero doubts his ability, is encouraged by his friends and musters all his reserves, and-

Erro: It worked!

The room erupts into cheers as Erro stands up, fully healed although tired, his new fiancé at his arm.

From behind the large purple curtain at the one still-intact window, Admiral Randall I steps out, buttoning up his military coat.

Admiral Randall I: Boy, Mustang, you were right. That princess you introduced me to is a FIRECRACKER! I-

He suddenly sees all the carnage and devastation wrought by the battle with Vukothrax.

Admiral Randall I: Ehm… Did I miss something?

(Next installment: May 15th, 1877 - Erro and Catherine are wed with absolutely no NeShattered rip-offs! ... )

1877 (May 15th)

Late in the spring, flowers carpet the fields surrounding Castle Simon, forming a grand tapestry of color and beauty. But the manor which serves as the Hall of the League of Heroes is far grander today. Snow-white lilies, pink carnations, and red, red roses are twined and draped from every niche and cranny.

In the main hall, the candles on the crystal chandelier has been magicked by Mustang to sparkle in various pastels, creating a miniature aurora borealis on the roof above the guests. All the heroes are present, in their fanciest clothing. Even TheBadger is in a tuxedo.

If you haven’t guessed already, dear reader, this is the wedding of Erro Simon II and Catherine Nolastname.

Chef Johann Von Xombie: At last! My gustatory masterpiece is complete!

The guests turn to this voice booming from the side door. The grinning chef – hired by RawHaggis on behalf of his master – whistles to an unseen helper behind him, and four burly men carry in a humungous 7-foot-tall cake done in white and silver. It is 7 layers, and the side of each foot-tall layer is decorated with candies and icing to depict scenes like an edible mosaic. Fantastical creatures and dancing nymphs are depicted, along with cherubs and angels.

The crowd oohs and aahs appropriately as the master chef beams.

RawHaggis: Very good, master chef. You did your job well.

Chef Von Xombie: Thank you. I still wish you would have let me put animation spells on the cake – imagine if those candied satyrs would have come to life and danced around for everyone!

RawHaggis: I’m afraid I can imagine that… which is why I told you not to.

Chef Von Xombie: Hmph. This is the last[/] time I work for a stuck-up noble and his snooty butler. I’m going after more interesting clientele from here on out.

Erro is in his finest outfit, a brilliant white tuxedo with gold cufflinks and diamond buttons. He shifts his feet nervously as he waits for the ceremony to start. King Emp comes up behind him.

King Emp: Here I am, friend Erro. Ready to be your best man.

Erro: Er…

King Emp is truly dressed in royal fashion, in a deep violet tunic over midnight-blue trousers, topped with an equally-blue vest studded by opalescent gems. A magnificent cloak is draped about his shoulders, fringed in snow-white fur, the same violet hue as his tunic, but traced all over in fine gold needlework. He has switched his customary silver tiara for a golden crown emblazoned with his family’s crest in rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.

King Emp: What? Am I not dressed well enough?

He feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns to see T13TE.

T13TE: Perhaps if you want to upstage him, tovarish.

T13TE is dressed to the nines as well, but less ostentatiously. He is garbed all in black, satin tunic and trousers, but with gold-laced cuffs and collar. A ceremonial belt girds his waist. King Emp’s eyes harden.

King Emp: I suppose you think you should be the best man…?

T13TE: Well, I have known him far longer than you.

King Emp: Perhaps so, but according to the flashbacks in NeS, I am a closer friend than you to him.

Erro: Um… guys?

T13TE: Oh, you think so, do you? Well, I suppose a power-player would think that way!

King Emp: A power-player?! How DARE you! Take that back, knave!

T13TE: Never!

King Emp pulls off his glove and throws at his T13TE’s feet, a clear challenge. In response, T13TE draws his oversized katana, pointing it at the king’s gut – but at the same moment, King Emp has his bow nocked with an arrow at the assassin’s throat. They stand thusly for a moment, at an impasse. Then-

King Emp: No weapons, then?

T13TE: Indeed.

Erro: Hey, uh, guys?

Erro’s feeble attempts to avert catastrophe are ignored as King Emp and T13TE begin brawling in the pews. Erro sighs. TheBadger walks up just then and sees the impromptu wrestling match.

TheBadger: *raising his eyebrow* What’s the matter with them?

Erro: Oh, um, ah, well, that is…

TheBadger: You never found the courage to tell them that you asked me to be your best man, did you?

Erro: Well, yeah – no! I mean, there was never a good time…

TheBadger: You know, Erro, I don’t have to be best man, if it’ll upset your other friends.

Erro: *more firmly now* No, Badger. Catherine told me how you planned to get us together that night at the ball. No one deserves to best man at this wedding more than you.

TheBadger looks around furtively and leans closer.

Badger: What part of never speaking of that again did you not understand?

Erro: Badger, it was a noble deed; why are you ashamed of it?

Badger: No! My reputation would be ruined if people thought I was actually a sensitive guy!

Erro: But—

Badger: *warningly* If you don’t drop it now, I’m walking.

Erro: Okay, okay.

Badger: *breathing an audible sigh of relief*

Erro: But what will I tell the others if they ask me why I chose you?

Badger: I bribed you.

Erro: *blinks* Er…

Badger: With a dozen boxes of cinnamon donuts.

Erro: That does make a certain amount of sense…

At that moment, Sir Tan Lee Chylde and Mustang walk up. Sir Chylde has shed his armor to put on priestly garb, as he is in fact ordained and will be performing the ceremony. Mustang is in a brown suit and top hat; if it weren’t for the blue whorls tattooed on his face and hands, he’d actually look pretty foppish.

Mustang: *jerking a thumb over at the still-brawling T13TE and King Emp* What’s with them?

Erro: Nothing! They’re just, um, exercising!

Mustang raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

Sir Chylde: Are you ready, my son?

Erro: Yes! But…

Sir Chylde: What? You don’t want to back out, do you?

Erro: NO! I love Catherine more than anything. But it’s just… I’m worried about… you know… tonight…

TheBadger, Sir Chylde, and Mustang laugh uproariously.

Erro: It’s not funny.

They laugh even harder.

Erro: Cut it out, you guys!

The three of them are rolling in hysterics on the floor. Erro’s eyes darken, and in a thundering voice, he says…

Erro: I said, it’s NOT FUNNY!!

Mustang, Sir Chylde, and Badger quiet instantly.

Sir Chylde: You’re right, of course. *fighting a grin*

Mustang: Absolutely nothing funny about it. *stifling a chuckle*

Badger: Nothing whatsoever. *snickers*

Erro sighs.

Badger: Look, Erro, do you want some advice?

Erro nods hesitantly. TheBadger leans conspiratorially close.

Badger: You know your geb-speed power?

Erro nods again. Badger lowers his voice to a whisper.

Badger: It can make you go really fast…

Erro nods a third time, a little confused. Badger suddenly raises his voice.

Badger: DON’T USE IT IN BED!

And Badger, Mustang, and Sir Chylde started laughing hysterically all over again. Fortunately for Erro, the congregation of guests haven’t noticed any of this exchange, for they are too busy placing bets on the brawl between T13TE and King Emp.

At that moment, the trumpet blares to announce the imminent arrival of the bride. All the guests quiet down and rush to their places. Sir Chylde is at the altar, Erro on his left side, Badger just behind him. The traditional wedding march plays – courtesy of Admiral Randall’s military band – and the double doors at the end of the hall swing open as Catherine strides in.

She is truly a sight to behold. Her beehive of golden hair has been artfully strewn with gems of many colors. Her dress is made almost entirely of white pearls and silvery diamonds. A silken veil covers her face, leaving only her beaming emerald eyes visible to radiate light onto her husband-to-be, who is completely overcome.

She walks down the aisle to Erro’s side (T13TE and King Emp, oblivious, are still brawling off to the side, but no one pays them any mind) and smiles at him from beneath her veil. Erro can’t take his eyes from her.

Sir Chylde: Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…

Catherine: Psst! Sir Chylde!

Sir Chylde: …yes, my dear?

Catherine: I was wondering if you could skip ahead to the end; this dress-made-of-jewels is pretty heavy, and I can’t WAIT to take it off…

She looks slyly at Erro, who turns beet red. Behind him, TheBadger’s mouth works soundlessly as he struggles valiantly not to say the lewd remarks that have popped into his mind.

Sir Chylde: Er, yes. *ahem* Will Matthias the Cold please bring forth the rings?

But Matthias the Cold is nowhere to be found. Mustang looks around worriedly, his brow crinkling.

**************

Elsewhere in the Simon castle of heroes, Matthias the Cold is putting on his dress robes. White, of course, but extremely well-made with exquisite silver trimming. Adjusting himself in front of the mirror, he turns to pick up the velvet pillow on which Erro and Catherine’s rings lie—

Count Desmond: Greetings, mageling.

Startled, Matthias jumps into the air. He whips around to see the NeSferatu leader striding out of a shadowy recess. He bravely stands his ground, readying a spell of fiery destruction.

Desmond: Hold, mageling, I bear you no ill will.

Matthias the Cold: Yeah, yeah, you want to kill us all, but it’s nothing personal. Gotcha. Now eat flame!

He unleashes a veritable gale of blue-white power at the NeSferatu, but when it clears, Desmond is still standing there, untouched.

Desmond: You have great strength, mageling, but it is untrained. Thanks to your master, Mustang, your growth in magick is stunted.

Matthias the Cold says nothing, the conflict visible on his face. He is loathe to agree with the enemy, yet the enemy gives voice to what is within his heart.

Desmond: What if I told you I could help you reach your full potential? That I could make you a magician to rival Merlin? A firemaster who will trample over all other legends? A wizard with raw power at his very fingertips?

Matthias: Hah! I may be ambitious, creature, but I’m no fool. Whatever your power, it is not borne of any magick that could help me!

Desmond: You show great insight, mageling. True, I can offer you no training that would advance your prowess… but there is one who can.

Matthias: *eyes narrowing* Who?

Desmond: You’ve already met him, I think. A certain Earthbound mage who knows what it is to wield true power.

Matthias: Vukothrax.

Desmond: Indeed.

Matthias: Vukothrax would never train me.

Desmond: You are wrong, little mageling. Vukothrax is very intrigued by you. Don’t you remember how he recognized your power? But even so, he will require a great gift before he will consent to train you. This is what I offer you.

Desmond pulls out a mighty sword from within the shadows of his cloak. Though the blade is quite long, it is relatively slender, and gleams with a razor-sharp edge.

Desmond: Behold. I give you – Frederick. Teh Uber Blade.

Matthias sucks in a sharp breath. There are legends of this ancient weapon going back centuries, but the references are scant and fleeting. Indeed, Vukothrax would covet such a prize.

Matthias: Why… why would you give me Frederick Teh Uber Blade?

Desmond: Purely self-interest, I assure you. For you to forsake the League of Heroes and go your own way would be a great boon to me – after all, among them all, it is your powers I have most to fear.

His appeal to Matthias’s ego works beautifully, and the mageling nods thoughtfully.

Matthias the Cold: I never wanted to join the League of Heroes in the first place… You’re right. I will go to the demon mage.

He reaches out to take Teh Uber Blade from Desmond’s grasp.

Desmond: Use it well, mageling.

With that, the count disappears. Immediately the sentience residing within the weapon speaks to him.

Frederick Teh Uber Blade: Howdy, chap! Good to meet you. Hope I get more action in your hands than I did from Desmond.

Matthias: Huh? I would’ve thought Desmond’s killed a lot of people…

Frederick: Oh, it’s not that, chap. He kills plenty – although to be honest, a NeSferatu doesn’t really need a weapon to kill whatever he wants to – but that’s not what I was talking about.

Matthias: Then what are you talking about?

Frederick: Action, man! With the babes! Let’s get down on those women! Let’s tear up all those hot p***ies!

Matthias: Oh, dear God… DAMN YOU, DESMOND!!!!

**********

Back up in the wedding hall, Sir Chylde is still calling out for Matthias the Cold.

Sir Chylde: Bueller… Bueller… Bueller…

I SAID, he’s still calling out for Matthias the Cold!

Erro: Haven’t we already used this joke?

TheBadger: That’s very odd… I wonder where Matthias went to…

Mustang’s eyes are closed. He senses that his apprentice has left the grounds.

And he knows.

Dr. Fleidermouse: *brightly* Oh, never fear, my friends! William has the rings right here!

He gestures to his side, where – naturally – is nothing but empty space. Everyone regards him blankly.

Erro: Er…

Catherine: *giggling* Oh, go on, honey, it’ll make a wonderful story someday…

Erro reaches out hesitantly into empty air.

William: …

Dr. Fleidermouse: Ack! What are you trying to do, poke out his eye?

Erro: Oh, um, sorry.

He and Catherine mime picking up nonexistent rings and slipping them on each other’s finger, smiling the whole way.

Sir Chylde: I now pronounce you hero and wife!

The congregation cheers as Erro raises his wife’s veil and kisses her passionately. High above, Bernard the First is lying in wait in the rafters, but doesn’t have the heart to poo on top of this magical moment.

In the wings, the brawl finally dies down as T13TE and King Emp collapse side by side, exhausted.

T13TE: *gasping* Truce?

King Emp: *panting* Truce.

T13TE: What if we could be co-best men?

King Emp: Sounds good to me.

They stand up to see the wedding hall completely empty, except for Roberto sweeping with his pushbroom.

King Emp & T13TE: Fuq.

(Next installment: July 24th, 1879 -- of time-travel and troubles!)

1879 (July 24th)

Dr. Fleidermouse: Wrench.

Galvenstein: *passes the wrench* Wrench.

Doctor Fleidermouse tightens a few bolts, then passes the wrench back.

Dr. Fleidermouse: Hydrospanner.

Galvenstein: *passes the hydrospanner* Hydrospanner.

Dr. Fleidermouse: Thank heaven for TwistedSpasm’s design of this future tool. Couldn’t have rebuilt this DeLorean without it.

Dr. Fleidermouse and Galvenstein – and “William”, of course – are in the good doctor’s lab deep within the bowels of Castle Simon. Dr. Fleidermouse is on his back beneath a newly built DeLorean time machine, with Galvenstein on duty to pass tools back and forth.

Dr. Fleidermouse: And… done. *he scoots out from under the DeLorean* A good job, my friend.

Galvenstein: Thank you, doctor, but I-

Dr. Fleidermouse: Not you, chap, William! I have GOT to reconfigure that ego chip of yours…

Galvenstein: Er, right.

Dr. Fleidermouse: Now, then, William, be a good fellow and go fetch TwistedSpasm.

William: …

Galvenstein: Doctor, I beg your pardon, but I’m not so sure-

Dr. Fleidermouse: Hush, Galv, William’s a capable young lad, why do you constantly doubt his abilities?

Galvenstein: Well, for starters, he doesn’t actually exist…

Before Dr. Fleidermouse can retort, TwistedSpasm walks down the stairs into the lab.

TwistedSpasm: Hey, doc. What’s up?

Galvenstein’s jaw drops. He stands there, dumbfounded.

Dr. Fleidermouse: *smirking* Excellent.

TwistedSpasm: Er, Galv, is something wrong?

Galvenstein continues to gape, his jaw working. TwistedSpasm shrugs and turns back to Dr. Fleidermouse.

Dr. Fleidermouse: My dear TwistedSpasm, I have completed your new DeLorean – flux capacitor and all!

TwistedSpasm: Awriiiiight! How are you able to power it? Uranium not yet having been discovered and all.

Dr. Fleidermouse: I’ll let Dr. Evil explain, it was his idea.

Sammy Evil steps up, a broad grin on his face. Galvenstein turns to stare at him, too, and words finally come to him.

Galvenstein: But… how… It was just me and Dr. Fleidermouse down here, Sammy Evil! Where did you come from?

Sammy Evil: I’ve been here the whole time, of course.

Galvenstein: No, you weren’t. I was looking right at that corner and I would have seen you.

TwistedSpasm: Galv, are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting weird ever since I came down here.

Dr. Fleidermouse: He’s got a point, Galvenstein; perhaps I should check your circuits.

William: …

Galvenstein: Dear God, I’m starting to hate this story…

Sammy Evil: Well, anyway. Let me explain how I synthesized a power source for your DeLorean. Fact: Toast always lands butter-side down. Fact: Cats always land on their feet. My proposal: Take a slice of toast, and strap it , butter-side up, to the back of a cat. When dropped, the cat will stop and hover a few feet from the ground. The constant tension between the various sides of the cat and toast trying to land on a side that is unavailable to land upon creates a simple generator of great energy!

TwistedSpasm: Wait, are you saying there’s a cat in my trunk?

Sammy Evil, Dr. Fleidermouse, and Galvenstein look at each other, uncertain of TwistedSpasm’s reaction.

TwistedSpasm: That’s bloody brilliant! When do I leave?

Galvenstein: As soon as you’re packed.

TwistedSpasm: W00t! Time of Blackberrys and IPhones, here I come!

*************

Elsewhere in the Simon manor, Mustang Aurelius Ford is meditating in his chambers, when he catches a faint whiff of magic in the area. Eyes still closed, he teases out the scent of wizardry…

His eyes snap open.

Mustang: Matthias.

The wizard uncrosses his legs in mid-air and steps down to the stone floor. The Cheshire Zippo swoops down and lands in Mustang’s palm.

Cheshire Zippo: Something wrong, Mustang?

Mustang: Many things, my friend. We have an uninvited visitor about…

Cheshire Zippo: Want me to spy him out?

Mustang: No, stay with me, Zippo. We’ll need to take him on together.

Mustang pads softly to the bookcase hiding a hidden door behind his desk. It is slightly ajar. With a whisper from Mustang, it swings completely open, revealing a narrow stairwell. Mustang walks down unhurriedly into a set of several interlinked chambers filled with various mystical paraphernalia.

Matthias the Cold: I knew you couldn’t pass up the opportunity to come give me a talking-to, old man.

Mustang turns to see his former apprentice eyeing him coldly. He is dressed in a black mage’s robe with silver needlework stitched across it in arcane patterns. He wields his trademark staff in one hand and in the other – Frederick Teh Uber Blade.

Frederick Teh Uber Blade: Hey, what’s this, Matthias? I thought we were going after some hot babes! I wanna see this lady Catherine and those attributes you told me about!

Matthias the Cold: SILENCE BLADE!

Mustang: Actually, Matthias, I just wanted to tell you… I understand.

Matthias the Cold: You… what?

Mustang: I understand the drive, the ambition, the lust for power. Most of all, I understand impatience. I too was impatient once, and felt my teacher was holding me back.

Matthias the Cold: No! You’re just trying to confuse me!

Mustang: Not at all. Just because I understand you doesn’t mean I’m going to let you get away with whatever it is you’re trying to steal.

Matthias the Cold grins. He brandishes Frederick Teh Uber Blade.

Matthias the Cold: I’m going to enjoy this.

Mustang: I’m afraid I can’t say the same.

Mustang opens his palm and the Cheshire Zippo springs to life, hovering inches from the wizard’s hand. In response to a twist of Mustang’s fingers, a spout of flame gushes from its open tip – stops in mid-spout, forming a blade composed entirely of fire.

Mustang gives a flick of his wrist, and the flameblade of the Cheshire Zippo hurtles across the room. Frederick Teh Uber Blade raises Matthias the Cold’s hand of its own accord to block, and the two sentient weapons lock together. With barely a grunt, Matthias flings the flameblade back, and Mustang catches it in a telekinetic grasp as he traces a blue rune in mid air.

With a quick phrase, Mustang releases the rune, and Matthias the Cold’s firemaster’s staff glows blue and dissolves into dust.

Matthias the Cold: Why, you-

Mustang: I was distracting you with the Cheshire Zippo. Without your staff, we’re on a more even footing.

Matthias the Cold: Staff or no staff, I’m much more powerful than you, old man. Vukothrax is teaching me everything you never would!

Matthias unleashes a blue-white fireball at his old mentor, who blocks it with a quickly conjured rune of blue energy – and then their blades have met in the center of the room, facing each other one on one, sword to flaming sword. Although Matthias is by no means an expert swordsman, Frederick knows just how to wield himself and moves almost of its own accord, lending strength and adeptness to the mageling’s strikes. With a quick flick and slash, a cut is opened up on Mustang’s temple.

Matthias the Cold: Heh. When I’m done with your face, Queen Victoria will be attractive by comparison.

Cheshire Zippo: Wow! That’s a great line, Matthias! I’m gonna remember that!

Matthias the Cold: SILENCE BLADE… oh, wait, you’re not Frederick. My bad.

Cheshire Zippo: Not a problem-

Mustang: SILENCE CHESHIRE ZIPPO! We’re trying to fight here.

With a clang, Frederick meets the flameblade again, sizzling as the two swords press against each other. Matthias glares at Mustang, his eyes beginning to glow. Mustang has a terrible premonition when fiery bolts lance from his former apprentice’s pupils, searing into his skin.

Mustang: Aagh!

Matthias the Cold: Take that! Eh? How are you still standing?

Though in great pain, Mustang is still upright, grimacing.

Mustang: These tattooed runes aren’t just for show, lad. Urellith cl’a’at!

The runic whorls tattooed onto Mustang’s face and hands – and also his torso, visible through the slashes in his clothing – begin to glow, as do the wizard’s azure eyes. Newly empowered, Mustang gestures to the Cheshire Zippo, still floating inches from his hand and spouting a flameblade—

And the flameblade detaches from the Zippo, hovering in mid-air on its own, as another flameblade grows instantaneously from the silver lighter… and another, and another, until half a dozen flameblades are hovering in mid-air, forming a ring around Matthias the Cold.

Matthias the Cold: Wow. You never showed me that trick.

Mustang says nothing, concentrating. The six flameblades whirl through the air, and Matthias responds, letting Frederick Teh Uber Blade guide his movements as he spins and slashes, blocking the flameblades at every turn. Mustang flings lances of fire at Matthias as the mageling fends off the flameblades, but Matthias the Cold lazily raises his free hand, and the lances become smoke.

Mustang: You can’t keep this up forever, Matthias. Why don’t you calm down, and let’s talk?

Matthias the Cold: Wraa!

Matthias teleports – not himself, but each of the six flameblades. They reappear an instant later, turned around to slash at their master before they can stop. Mustang’s glowing runes protect him, though, and each flameblade dissolves in a puff of smoke and blue light as it touches him.

Mustang: Clever, my pupil.

Matthias says nothing, but flings a fireball at the ceiling, bringing it down on top of Mustang, who cries out in surprise as he’s half-buried under debris. Pinned, he can do nothing as Matthias the Cold approaches him and points Frederick’s point towards him.

Matthias the Cold: Your time is up. Prepare to-

--BANG—

Matthias the Cold blinks in surprise. He looks up to see T13TE in the doorway from the stairwell, smoking pistol leveled at him. He looks down to see a spot of blood growing across his chest.

T13TE: You were saying, tovarish?

Matthias the Cold glares at him. Despite having a bullet in his chest, he doesn’t seem to be any less potent. Nevertheless—

Matthias the Cold: This isn’t over!

In a flash of shadow and flame, he vanishes. Frowning, T13TE holsters his pistol as Erro and Sir Chylde rush down the stairs behind him. They all gasp as they see Mustang. Still pinned beneath debris, his runes have stopped glowing. His skin is pale and his breathing shallow. Although not dying, he is severely wounded, possibly crippled.

Erro: Oh, Mustang, why must you insist on doing everything yourself?

T13TE: We’ve got to get him to the infirmary!

Sir Chylde: Wait. Perhaps *he looks at Erro* there is another way.

Erro: What? You think I can heal him?

Sir Chylde: You healed yourself, by speeding your metabolism. Have you ever tried speeding something else up?

Erro: Well, yeah, there was that time I made the snow melt faster so Catherine’s garden wouldn’t die from the frost—

Sir Chylde: Then do it to him.

Erro takes a deep breath, and places his hands on Mustang’s shoulders. He closes his eyes, and his breathing slows. His hands almost seem to quiver, as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings, but it’s almost imperceptible. As the seconds pass, T13TE and Sir Chylde notice that Mustang’s skin becomes healthier, his breathing steadier, and the cuts and bruises on him fade away.

Sir Chylde: It worked!

Mustang: Indeed it did. Thank you. All of you.

Erro: You just had to take care of Matthias yourself, didn’t you?

Mustang: My apprentice. My responsibility.

Erro: No, Mustang. He is his own responsibility. You didn’t make his choices for him.

Mustang: *sighs* You’re right. Always the moderator…

They turn to look to T13TE, who is deep in thought.

T13TE: What I’m wondering is, how was he still standing when I put a bullet into him? What on earth has Vukothrax been teaching him?

Mustang: Nothing on earth, I’m afraid…

T13TE: And what did he want? What was he after?

Mustang: Hmm… *surveys the chamber and gasps* The keys – they’re gone!

Erro: Keys?

Mustang: Well, not literally. They’re scrolls filled with powerful incantations. Four of them. One for each…

Erro: I don’t like the sound of this.

Sir Chylde: Who are these four entities, Mustang?

Mustang: The four elemental warlords. Earthbound demons imprisoned since the time of Atlantis. Vashuko, lord of air; Juritso, lord of earth; Aqoko, lord of water; Zartoch, lord of fire. They had rebelled with Helebon against the WriterGod, you see, and—

Erro: *jerks awake* Huh? Oh, I’m sorry, Mustang, I nodded off there.

Mustang: *sigh* Well, they’re really bad people, and if Vukothrax is planning to free them—

Sir Chylde: We must stop these fiends!

At that moment, TwistedSpasm bursts in.

TwistedSpasm: Hey, guys, guess what? The time machine’s fixed! I’m leaving!

T13TE: That’s great, tovarish. We’ll sure miss your expertise on this next mission.

TwistedSpasm: Yeah, I – what?

T13TE: After all, it’s not every day we tackle four demonic warlords.

TwistedSpasm: What the flux capacitor are you saying? You think I’m a coward?

T13TE: No, it’s just your skills will be sorely missed-

TwistedSpasm: Alright, I’m in. Just one more mission.

Erro: Good to have you with us one more time.

*********

The Nautilus, Admiral Randall I’s underwater flagship, slips effortlessly through the ocean deep, carrying the League of Heroes towards the ruins of ancient Atlantis, where the vault sealing away the four demons is buried beneath eons of detritus. Not all of our heroes are enjoying the voyage, however.

TheBadger: *his face very green* Ulp… I think I’m gonna be sick.

Catherine Simon: Aw, poor Badger. Would you like some cheese and crackers to make it better?

At the mention of cheese and crackers, TheBadger gags – and vomits all over the deck.

Admiral Randall: Not again. I hate having landlubbers on this ship. Mustang, how did I ever let you convince me to join the League?

Mustang: I had that succubus of James7 dress up as a princess to seduce you at that Valentine’s Day party, remember? And she’ll leave you if you ever leave the League. Along with her twin sister.

Admiral Randall: Oh yeah…

Roberto: Never fear! I, the king of janitors and janitor of kings, shall clean up this unseemly mess! *twirls his pushbroom*

TheBadger, at hearing Roberto’s ‘king of janitors and janitor of kings’ line for about the billionth time, vomits all over again. Roberto sighs.

Roberto: No audience is ever as appreciative of me as the Arena was.

Catherine: You’re not thinking of leaving us to go back there, are you?

Roberto: What? Leave a team that sends you on life-and-death missions in cramped tin tubs like this to return to a place where everyone loves me and I have a personal suite on top of the tallest tower? Now, why would you suggest such a thing?

Catherine: Yeah, you’re right, that does sound stupid. Sorry I brought it up.

Admiral Randall: Excuse me, but what’s a tin tub?!

Roberto: Oh, I, er, LOOK OVER THERE!

Admiral Randall looks over to where Roberto is pointing. Seeing nothing, he turns back to Roberto, who is still standing there, because “gebbing” hasn’t been invented yet.

Admiral Randall: *sigh* Just clean up the vomit, please.

Catherine: *to Mustang* Mustang, perhaps you’d better detail a succubus or two for Roberto…

Mustang: Nah, he’ll never leave the League. The Arena doesn’t have all those messes he likes to clean up.

TheBadger: *mischievous grin on his face as he pictures succubi* Yo, Mustang, I’m thinking about leaving the League… Can you, heh, change my mind?

Mustang: *rolls eyes* Sure, Badger, I’ll just put a leash on you while you’re in werebadger form.

TheBadger: Ooh, so that means I’ll get a real kinky succubus? :-D

Catherine: Now I think I’M going to throw up…

Erro, T13TE, and King Emp are over by the periscope, taking turns looking at the sea around them.

King Emp: No, I swear! I saw a mermaid!

T13TE: Pshaw, there’s no such thing, everyone knows that.

Erro: *looking through the periscope* No, wait, I see it too.

T13TE: What? Lemme see!

He pushes Erro away and peers through the periscope to see... exactly nothing. He turns back to Erro, who is chuckling.

T13TE: Very funny, tovarish.

King Emp: But there really was—

Erro: Hey, there’s Atlantis!

T13TE: Ha, ha. I’m not falling for that. Mermaids, indeed.

Erro: No, I’m serious, you’d better tell Admiral Randall before we—

A sudden shudder runs through Nautilus as it rams into a gigantic stone obelisk marking the ancient borders of the city of Atlantis.

Admiral Randall: *calling from up ahead* Hey! Why didn’t y’all warn me?

Erro and King Emp turn to glare at T13TE.

T13TE: Heh. Um… oops?

As the Nautilus threads its way through ancient obelisks and ruined palaces on the ocean floor, the rest of our heroes are chatting further aft.

Sammy Evil: *looking through the portholes at the Atlantean ruins* Simply fascinating. Imagine – a whole ancient culture, untouched by man in millennia.

Dr. Fleidermouse: Indeed, Sammy Evil. Someday we must mount an archaeological expedition to study it.

Galvenstein: I thought y’all were inventor-doctors, not archaelogist-doctors?

Sammy Evil: Look, are you trying to create plotholes?

Galvenstein drops the subject, but continues to muse.

Galvenstein: I wonder if ancient Atlantis had any cyborgs.

William: …

Galvenstein: …or imaginary friends.

Presently, the Nautilus comes to a dome that Mustang identifies as the vault containing the four demons. The wizard teleports the League into the still-air-filled dome, which is a maze of hallways and chambers.

They creep through the corridors towards the center of the vault. At last, they hear an arcane chant just beyond a grand archway. Staying to the shadows, they peer through, just as the chant ceases…

Vukothrax: You have done well, mageling.

Matthias the Cold: Thank you, master.

There are four stylized runes on the floor of the chamber. With the cessation of Matthias’ chanting from the four scrolls stolen from Mustang, columns of light have appeared from them – and four demons appear.

Erro: No!

He leaps forward, but Mustang restrains him.

Mustang: We are too late, Erro. They are free. We must remain hidden that we may discover their plans.

Vashuko: Whew! Ten thousand years will give you such a crick in the neck!

There is an audible crack as the elemental demon of air bends his neck to one side.

Vukothrax: Er, yes. Fellow lords, I have released you—

Juritso: Is there a bathroom around here? I’ve been holding my bladder for the past four centuries!

Matthias the Cold: Er, yes, right around the corner, Exalted One.

Juritso: Thanks, chum. *bolts for the toilet*

Annoyed, Vukothrax turns to the other elemental demons.

Vukothrax: Anything else? Or can I get to my diabolical plan now?

Aqoko: Well, I did want-

Vukothrax: Oh, shut up, already.

All four elemental lords – well, okay, just three of ‘em, Juritso’s still doing number 1 – glare at Vukothrax.

Vashuko: You may be powerful, Vukothrax, but we do outnumber you.

Vukothrax: Yes, but I have still have the keys to your prison, and can send you straight back there unless you do as I say.

Zartoch: He has a point.

Aqoko: Very well. What is your plan, Vukothrax?

Vukothrax: One that does not involve any of you. I only want you to wreak some havoc—

Vashuko: Now THAT we can do.

Vukothrax: -- in the year 1862.

Vashuko: What? You want us to go to the future?

Vukothrax: Yes, I – wait, what do you mean ‘the future’? 1862 is—

Zartoch: 1862 B.C.’s not for another thousand years, right?

Vukothrax: Actually…

Aqoko: You idiot, it’s only 267 years, 11 days, and 18 minutes till 1862 B.C.

Vukothrax: Now hang on just a –

Vashuko: You’re both imbeciles. 1862 B.C. was in the past!

Vukothrax: THANK you—

Vashuko: 1862 B.C. was a hundred years ago!

Vukothrax: *sigh*

Zartoch: Hold on, fellas. Maybe we should ask someone who actually knows what year it is.

Vukothrax: Finally, some sense. It’s—

Zartoch: We’ll just have to wait till Juritso gets through.

Vukothrax: What? Why, you crazy… You’re bonkers. You’re all bonkers!

Aqoko: YOU try spending 10,000 years in limbo and see how sane you stay. Besides, we’re just pulling your leg.

Vukothrax: You are?

Aqoko: Of course! See, we discussed among ourselves long and hard what we would do for the one who freed us from our imprisonment. For the first thousand years, we vowed that we would make our rescuer the richest man in history.

TheBadger: *whispering to his teammates in the shadows* Man, I wish I’d been around then…

Zartoch: For the second thousand years, we swore that we would make our rescuer the most powerful man in history.

Mustang: *whispering to himself in the shadows* Why the ancient Druids of Doughnutdelf never freed these guys I’ll never know…

Vashuko: For the third millennium, we promised that we would KILL whoever rescued us, only giving him the choice of the manner of his death.

Mustang: And now I know why…

Matthias the Cold: Look, just cut to the chase. What’s your latest vow?

Vashuko: Well, we spent the last thousand years coming up with a comedy routine with which to torment whoever rescued us.

Vukothrax: Well done. Consider myself tormented. Now, will you go to 1862 and wreak havoc, or do I have to return you to your imprisonment?

Matthias the Cold: Now hang on just a moment! You had a thousand years to come up with a comedy routine… and that’s the best you got?

Aqoko: Look, we’re DEMONS. It’s pretty amazing that we have a sense of humor at all.

Zartoch: Who is this insolent whelp anyway?

Vukothrax: This, my fellow lords, is my apprentice… Matthias the Cold.

Zartoch: A mortal?

Vashuko: *peering closely at Matthias the Cold* No ordinary mortal… Can you not see the furnace of power that blazes within him? As ever, Vukothrax, you prove a master mage, finding power where no one else looks for it. *turns to look at Aqoko and Zartoch* Are we ready, my fellow lords? Then… off to 1862 B.C.!

Vukothrax: A.D.!

Vashuko: I know, just yankin’ your chain.

With a flash of light and puff of smoke, Vashuko, Zartoch, and Aqoko disappear. A moment later, Vukothrax and Matthias the Cold vanish as well, presumably returning to their home base.

Just then, Juritso comes out of the restroom, zipping up the fly on his robe.

Juritso: Hey, did I miss something?

Random Audience Member: Oh, not that joke again…

Juritso frowns. A giant stone hand reaches out of the earth and crushes the life out of the Random Audience Member.

Juritso: Much better. Now where did everyone get to?

Sir Chylde: Right here, fiend! Prepare to meet thy maker!

Erro: LEAGUE – ATTACK!

Before Juritso even turns to address this new threat, he is a pincushion of three Armenian arrows, one Russian bullet, and two Simon shurikens. But he is only slightly hurt and roars with rage, clenching his fist.

Giant stone hands rise up out of the ground beneath them, closing around our heroes, rendering them motionless.

Juritso: What have we here…?

Dr. Fleidermouse: William! Free us!

William: …

Juritso: Another bunch of self-deluded ‘heroes’, I see, come to challenge me. Well, as I trod over the champions of olde Atlantis, so shall I—

TheBadger, not willing to listen to yet another spiel by yet another villain, shifts into Werebadger form and slinks out of his stone hand’s grip in the blink of an eye. He charges the demon mage, who throws up spikes and more stone hands into WereBadger’s path. The WereBadger deftly dodges each obstacle and is upon Juritso in moments, snarling and snapping.

With the elemental warlord of earth’s concentration shattered, the stone hands trapping the other Leaguers dissipate into dust.

Dr. Fleidermouse: Great job, William!

Roberto: William?! But it was Badger who—

William: …

Roberto: Oh, never mind.

WereBadger, meanwhile, is busy keeping Juritso down, his claws digging furrows into the elemental demon’s thick skin. And then—

Juritso: Ah! Saliva in my eye! DIE!

The earth heaves, throwing the League to their knees, and knocking WereBadger off the demon. The demon is now exposed for a shot, and Admiral Randall raises his arms to the heavens, speaking into his badge.

Admiral Randall: Nautilus, send down a turbolaser strike from orbit!

Nothing happens.

Admiral Randall: Crap. I keep forgetting what century this is. I should have gone with my son into space for some random galaxy far, far away…

T13TE unloads six bullets into Juritso as Sir Chylde charges the demon with a lance. Juritso appears unfazed by the bullets, but catches the lance and flips it over his head, along with Sir Chylde, who lands behind him in a crash of metal armor.

Erro: Roberto! Flank him with Galvenstein! – Roberto?

The jaunty Janitor is busy sweeping his pushbroom through the debris left by the shifting earth.

Roberto: Dirt, dirt, dirt. Everywhere dirt.

Erro: *sigh*

Spikes of earth launch out of the ground, hurling themselves at our heroes. One catches Galvenstein in the gut, pinning him to the wall. King Emp dodges his, but it still knocks his bow out of his hand. The others dodge with no ill effects—

Dr. Fleidermouse: William!! Oh no! A spike’s impaled him!

--well, except perhaps for imaginary friends.

William: *despondently* …

King Emp rolls beneath a stone fist’s sweeping grasp and retrieves his bow, releasing two more arrows into the demon mage.

WereBadger: Yo, King, don’t you have any trick arrows that you keep for occasions like this?

King Emp: ‘Trick’ arrows?

WereBadger: You know, like explosive arrows or boxing-glove arrows. Cuz you’re, like, the Green Arrow of this team.

King Emp: *rolls eyes* Get real, Badger. The only ‘trick’ arrow I have is the one between my legs—

Sir Chylde smacks King Emp upside the head.

King Emp: Ow! What was that for?

Sir Chylde: Sorry, I heard the lewd remark and automatically assumed you were Badger.

Juritso: Excuse me…

King Emp, WereBadger, and Sir Chylde: WHAT?

Juritso: We’re kind of in the middle of a battle here… could y’all take this somewhere else?

King Emp: Certainly. In fact-

He is interrupted by WereBadger leaping atop the demon mage.

WereBadger: *between snarls* Are you crazy, King?! HE’s the one we’re fighting!

King Emp: Oh, right.

Juritso yowls in pain as WereBadger’s jaws fasten upon his shoulder. With some effort, he throws the lycanthrope off. He raises his arms and mutters an incantation, and golems formed of stone and magick rise out of the ground around him.

TwistedSpasm: This does not look good.

Mustang: Yuushan clatong!

With the wizard’s final syllable, he jabs the ground at his feet with his right index finger, and a giant blue rune blossoms on the floor beneath his feet.

Mustang: LEAGUE! Stand upon this rune, and the earth cannot be made to strike against you!

The League quickly forms up within the giant rune conjured upon the floor. The stone golems advance upon our heroes, but they cannot pass the limits of the blue rune. Juritso rages in fury. He stamps a taloned foot upon the ground, sending a shockwave out along the floor. The heroes flinch, but the area within the rune is unaffected…

Until the ground begins to shake in a miniquake. The floor cracks and crumbles – and the lines of the rune are broken, bisected by the dividing ground. The golems step across the broken rune now, made all the eerier by their silence, and engage our heroes.

Erro goes into geb-time and chops up a golem. T13TE studies the golem in front of him for a handful of moments, then jabs a certain spot in the center of its stone chest with a single finger. The golem stops for a moment, confused, then reaches again for T13TE—

And crumbles into the ground. Galvenstein is pounding upon a golem with his mighty fists, denting it, punching holes in it, and ripping off the odd limb, until it simply stops and topples over. Mustang splays his hand, and two golems are transmuted into water, splashing upon the ground.

Roberto dutifully sweeps up the broken pieces of golem.

Erro: Mustang! King Emp! Sammy Evil! To me!

The three named Leaguers detach from their fights, regrouping with Erro while the other heroes fight on. Erro looks at them seriously.

Erro: I have a plan. Mustang, could we use one of those runes of yours to trap Juritso away from the earth that fuels his magical powers?

Mustang: In theory, yes. But I’d have to draw the rune instantly beneath him, that can’t be done.

Erro: And even then, he’d just cause another miniquake to break the rune, correct?

Mustang nods. Erro smiles.

Erro: Just seeing if I understood the principles involved. Listen closely, I think we can draw an unbreakable rune, instantly…

Admiral Randall pulls out a mini-cannon (it’s just like it sounds, a thick barrel the size of his arm that’s essentially a miniature version of an 19th-century cannon) and fires a cannonball at Juritso. The demon mage is flung backward, obviously bloodied now. WereBadger and Sir Chylde charge to take advantage of his momentary weakness, but a wall raises itself out of the ground to impede their progress. Another miniature cannonball blasts the wall apart, but by now Juritso has recovered his footing, and the earth ripples like a wave beneath the heroes’ feet, throwing them down. T13TE, behind them, nimbly stays on his feet, and lashes out at Juritso with a flurry of kicks and jabs which the demon mage is hard pressed to resist. Unfortunately, T13TE is tiring more quickly than the demon mage is being hurt.

Erro: Tovarish, MOVE!

T13TE hears his friend’s voice and doesn’t hesitate. He cartwheels backward – and Juritso is wide open. King Emp nocks five arrows at once into his trusty bow, all bound by lengths of duct tape like a net.

King Emp: I dunno, Erro, I’ve never fired five arrows at once before…

Erro: Know your story conventions, King. If it must be done, then it will be. “The Hero’s Necessity”.

King Emp lets fly, and the five arrows separate in mid-air, stretching the lengths of duct tape taut between them, forming something like a net… but not quite.

The arrows snick into the ground at five different points about Juritso, the duct tape settling to the stone floor around him and sticking.

Juritso: Hahaha! Great net, folks – the gaps between the duct tape are so big it didn’t even touch me.

Mustang: It wasn’t meant to touch you. Yuushan clatong!

Instantly the duct tape flares blue, highlighting Juritso’s confused face… And then he realizes what has happened. The lengths of duct tape have landed upon the stone floor in a pattern just so, forming a giant rune.

The elemental warlord tries to summon more entities out of the earth – golems, spikes, hands, anything – to no avail. Screaming his frustration, the floor heaves beneath him – but the duct tape forming the rune is unbroken. He looks up to see the strongmen of the League – Galvenstein, Sir Chylde, and WereBadger – cracking their knuckles.

Erro: Take him.

In a flurry of blows, it’s all over.

Roberto: So… what now?

The unconscious Juritso is bound by glowing blue glyphs conjured by Mustang. For good measure, two of Admiral Randall’s cannonballs are chained to him, one to each leg. However, everyone present knows that these trappings won’t contain the demonic elemental forever.

King Emp: Can’t we just, you know, re-imprison him?

He gestures to the four columns of light still punctuating the air from the ancient Atlantean symbols carved on the floor. Mustang shakes his head.

Mustang: We don’t have those scrolls, remember? No, our only option is to destroy him.

Erro: Whoa, wait a second! We don’t want to offend our readers’ sensibilities here…

Mustang: This is the 19th century. Our readers have no such sensibilities.

Erro: But what if our story should survive into the future. What if, say, in the year 2009 – just to throw out a random number – people might turn up our tale? Wouldn’t they be appalled at us?

TwistedSpasm: Great… A 19th-century hero with all the compassion of a 21st-century comic book superhero… Who’d’a thunk?

King Emp: Well, perhaps so, Erro, but mightn’t they be more appalled at us being so stupid as to wait around for Juritso to escape and maul us all to death?

Erro: Maybe…

Galvenstein: Not to sound snobbish or anything – but THIS IS STUPID! We’re talking about hypothetical readers in a hypothetical year. No one’s gonna care what we do here, much less anyone 130 years from now! 2009 indeed.

Mustang: Actually, gentlemen—

TheBadger: *having turned back into human form* Ahem.

Mustang: --and lechers—

TheBadger: Thank you.

Mustang: Killing Juritso won’t actually destroy him. When one kills an Earthbound demon on the material plane, it will simply send his essence down to Hell – where our ally James7 will make good use of it.

T13TE: Ah. Sounds good, tovarish.

T13TE cocks his pistol and blows Juritso’s brains out. Roberto lets out a scream of anguish.

Roberto: ACK! I just mopped this floor! And now you’ve covered it with organic matter! Do you have any idea how much bacteria you’ve unleashed?

Galvenstein: Well… Moving past the fact that technically we haven’t discovered bacteria yet—

Roberto: Or, for that matter, the circuits necessary to build a cyborg?

Galvenstein: *raising his voice* MOVING PAST ALL THAT… Bacteria can’t coexist with acidic substances, right? Seeing as the acid will burn it away?

Roberto: Well, yes, I suppose this is true.

Galvenstein: Then there’s nothing to worry about.

History’s first cyborg gestures to the pools of demonic blood on the floor by Juritso’s corpse. The dark crimson fluid is literally eating its way into the ground.

King Emp: *shudder*

T13TE: Disgusting.

William: …

Sammy Evil: FASCINATING! Imagine what we could learn about acid-resistant organic materials from inspecting the blood vessels in that body. Say, in improving Galvenstein’s skin?

Dr. Fleidermouse: But of course, dear chap, we must…

As the two good doctors – well, the one good doctor and the evil doctor, anyway – chatter away about new scientific applications of demonic tissue, our other heroes decide what course of action to pursue next.

Erro: So… the other three elemental warlords are in the year 1862 now?

Sir Chylde: Then we must pursue them! But how?

King Emp: Wait. Perhaps that won’t be necessary. After all, 1862’s already happened, right? Doesn’t that mean that someone in the past has already defeated them? Even someone like the Illuminohqi your father belonged to, Erro.

Erro suddenly remembers that enigmatic conversation his parents had the very night they were killed, on the way to the theater.

Erro: No… They didn’t stop them. It was us.

Mustang: Erro?

Erro: I remember hearing my father discuss the defeat of Vashuko. But he was mystified by it – by the time the Illuminohqi had gone to confront him, the mysterious beings who had stopped him were vanished…

T13TE: *nodding* Of course. Because they had already returned to their own time.

TheBadger: *scratching his head, confused* They had? Who are they?

Sir Chylde smacks TheBadger upside the head.

TheBadger: Ow! I didn’t say anything lewd!

Sir Chylde: True, but I was just waiting for any excuse to smack you.

Roberto: Now then… How are we to travel back in time to the year 1862?

They all turn to look at TwistedSpasm.

TwistedSpasm: Oh, no. I don’t think so. Although Sammy Evil’s cat/buttered-toast engine can operate in perpetuity, it only generates a little power. Supercharging it to travel back in time will burn it out. It’s a one-trick pony! If I let y’all use it, how will I get back to the future?

The other heroes say nothing, continuing to look at him.

TwistedSpasm: What? Don’t look at me that way! I’m not a self-sacrificing hero! I’m just an ordinary time-travel agent! Not agent as in secret operative, but agent as in travel agent, except I arrange vacations to different times rather than different places!

The others keep staring at TwistedSpasm expectantly.

TwistedSpasm: No! I won’t do it! I-- Oh, what the hey. You convinced me. Let’s go.

Hours later, the League of Heroes has returned to their Hall of Heroes at Castle Simon, descending to Dr. Fleidermouse’s underground laboratory where the DeLorean has been kept.

They all pile into the DeLorean – which is somehow big enough to fit them all – and TwistedSpasm starts the engine.

Catherine Simon: ACHOO!

Erro: Bless you, honey.

Catherine: Thank you, I-- ACHOO!

Mustang: What’s wrong, Catherine? Allergies?

Catherine: Well, yes, but the only thing I’m allergic to are cats, and there aren’t any around here…

The other heroes look around guiltily, but say nothing.

TwistedSpasm: And here we go!

He presses the pedal to the metal, and the DeLorean picks up speed, inching ever closer to 55 miles an hour. Or was it 85 miles an hour? I can’t remember which is the speed of time travel from the ‘Back to the Future’ movie, and I can’t be bothered to check. For that matter, ‘Back to the Future’ doesn’t exist yet, so there’s nothing for me to check!

Random Audience Member: Could the excuse for your laziness be any slimmer?

Hush you.

Admiral Randall: *murmuring to himself* It’s great of TwistedSpasm to let us use this, since his special cat-and-buttered-toast engine is a one-shot thing.

His eyes widen as he suddenly realizes something.

Admiral Randall: We don’t have a way back to our time! TWISTEDSPASM, STOP!

At that moment, the DeLorean breaks the time barrier, and vanishes into the past, leaving trails of fire behind in Dr. Fleidermouse’s lab – along with one now very lonely imaginary friend.

William: *despondently* …

(Next installment: July 24th, 1862 - making history...more than usual, or something.)

1862 (July 24th)

With a screech of rubber on jungle grass, the DeLorean crackles into existence deep in the heart of the Congo, twisting and swerving around trees as TwistedSpasm decelerates. When the time machine comes to a complete stop, he turns around to look at Admiral Randall.

TwistedSpasm: Alright, we’re stopped. Now what was that all about, Admiral?

Admiral Randall: Um… well, nothing much… just the fact that now WE’RE STUCK HERE FOR ALL TIME!

Our other heroes suddenly realize what the admiral is getting at in a chorus of gasps.

Erro: Um, oops?

TwistedSpasm: Oh, that.

Sir Chylde: You… you knew we’d be stuck here?

TwistedSpasm: Well, yeah, but I thought you all already figured that out too. Living in another time’s not so bad… I’ve managed it, you know.

They all sit in silence for a moment. Then there is a sonic boom, and another DeLorean tears through the thicket, leaving behind its own trails of fire as it stops alongside our heroes. The second DeLorean’s car door opens, and out steps…

Heroes: TWISTEDSPASM?!

TwistedSpasm: Yes?

Erro: Not you, this new one.

The second TwistedSpasm is a bit older, having gray sideburns and white temples. He flashes them a debonair smile.

Old TwistedSpasm: Well, when I finally went back to my time, I remembered how we were all stuck here and came back here to give y’all a way out. Once you take care of those demon lord twits.

ALL HEROES: Yay!

Galvenstein: Now, wait just a moment. That is illogical. How could you come back to rescue us if you were stuck here too and never found a way out?

Old TwistedSpasm: Oh, well, um…

A plothole appears, and the Old TwistedSpasm and his DeLorean are swallowed up by it.

ALL HEROES: Aww…

Roberto: Thanks a lot, Galv.

Galvenstein: Hehe… oops?

There is a profound silence. Then—

Dr. Fleidermouse: OMG! William! We’ve left him behind! Oh no!

Galvenstein: Don’t worry, Doc. Logically—

Sammy Evil: *sternly* What have we told you about logic, Galvenstein? Or have you already forgotten how you stranded us with it a moment ago?

Galvenstein: Well—

Sammy Evil: Quiet!

Galvenstein: But—

Sammy Evil: Zip it!

TwistedSpasm: Well, bad Austin Powers reference aside, I think what Galv’s getting at is that William will be fine. Once we return—

King Emp: If we return.

TwistedSpasm: It’ll be at the exact moment we left. William won’t even have time to miss us! Er, he wouldn’t have enough time to miss us if he actually existed…

Catherine: Hey! That’s odd. My sneezing has stopped.

Doctor Fleidermouse opens the lid on the smoking engine. He looks inside, then quickly shuts the lid again, cringing.

T13TE raises a hand for everyone to be quiet. He listens intently and sniffs the air.

T13TE: Do you smell that…?

TwistedSpasm: Yeah, twit, it’s burnt toast and scorched, uh, nevermind.

-=NOTE FROM THE STORYWRITERS: No actual felines were harmed in the making of this scene=-

T13TE: No, not that. It’s a smell of decay, of death and—

He stops, his expression setting into that of a man ready to kill.

T13TE: Blood.

King Emp catches on, nocking an arrow. Everyone else begins to look around furtively, and then—

Desmond: Well, well, what have we here? I come to investigate recent disturbances here in Africa – apparently caused by demons – and instead find you…

T13TE: I knew it. Your kind have a distinctive smell.

Before the count can reply, Erro interrupts, his face red with fury.

Erro: DESMOND! DIE!

He leaps forth at the NeSferatu leader, but before he can come within two meters of the fiend, a blur jumps from the trees and catches the hero in mid-leap, flinging him away. Other NeSferatu appear out of the underbrush around the heroes. The blur steps off Erro, and is revealed to be a final NeSferatu.

As Erro jumps back upon his feet, Desmond speaks up once more.

Desmond: I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, friends. I’ve never met you.

Erro: LIAR! I’ll tear you limb from—

King Emp: Erro! We’re in the year 1862 – remember?

Erro stops, astounded by the possibilities running through his mind. One in particular dominates his thoughts.

Erro: If we stop him now – we can save them all, King!

King Emp: Save…?

Erro: My parents, your father—

King Emp: Erro…

Erro: Harem Girl #87…

For once, King Emp is struck speechless, as his heart and mind struggle within him. Desmond looks on curiously, his appetite for destruction momentarily stayed by his thirst for knowledge.

Desmond: Very intrigueing, I must admit. You are from the future, yes? And in said future I have killed ones dear to you? My, my, my… Imagine what a story that would be. And you! See what my future actions will have created – veritable heroes of might and main! I wonder… could your story be neverending?

Mustang: *quietly* That’s all he ever thinks about, Erro, King. How to create a story that can give him sustenance. He doesn’t care whose lives he tramples upon, whose hearts he shatters, in his quest for immortality.

Erro: Then let’s kill him now! Stop all this from ever happening!

Mustang himself is torn. He is the Hand of the Plot, tasked to safeguard the story. If they destroy Desmond now, the very story that the count’s actions have precipitated might be derailed! But if it would save the families of Erro Simon II and King Emp…

King Emp doesn’t wait for the others to come to a decision. He draws back his bowstring, aiming his deadly shaft at Desmond—

SPLAT!

The arrow goes wide as Bernard The First poos directly into the Armenian monarch’s eyes. One of the other NeSferatu is struck through the heart by it and gives a bloodcurdling scream as it turns into powdery-gray dust. The other NeSferatu leap forward to attack at this provocation—

And all pandemonium breaks loose.

Our heroes are outnumbered two-to-one, but though a NeSferatu is a tough opponent, none – other than Desmond himself – is a match for a Leaguer. As leaves fly about them in combat, Mustang faces Desmond. Their eyes lock together, but they make no move towards one another.

Desmond breaks the silence.

Desmond: *grinning malignantly* So… I sense an aura about you. An anointing… You are the successor to the Druids of Doughnutdelf, then.

Mustang: I am the Hand of the Plot, this is true. The Druids themselves are all gone.

Desmond: Then can there be a quarrel between us? I uphold the story that I might live… You uphold the story for the story’s sake – but we both uphold the story.

Mustang: You have orphaned many children, bereaved many lovers – and will orphan and bereave many more. Such things I would never do.

Desmond: No? You would never sell your soul to save the story?

Count Desmond’s words strike home, for Mustang has indeed sold his soul to James7 – or he WILL sell his soul – well, I mean – GAH! Stupid prequels and time travel!!!

Desmond: Perhaps I have misjudged you, wizard. Perhaps the Druids of Doughnutdelf misjudged you and your ability to uphold the story.

Mustang: No. You are a villain. Not a hero of the story, no matter what words you may spin to make me believe otherwise. The whole purpose of this story arc is to stop you. To join you would be to the detriment of all stories… and to my friends.

Desmond: Insightful. Prepare yourself, wizard, and we shall see whose hand upholds the Plot.

While the other NeSferatu and heroes struggle in epic combat around them, Mustang flings a firestorm at Desmond from the Cheshire Zippo. Desmond raises his cloak, which shimmers as it wards off the flames. Mustang has conjured a rune by this time which crackles arcane blue lightning, flashing towards the NeSferatu leader. Desmond raises a pale palm in response, which flashes forth its own bloodred electricity. The two arcs meet each other bare inches from Desmond’s hand, but Mustang’s blue lightning is slowly pushed back by Desmond’s scarlet.

As Desmond’s lightning pushes Mustang’s back to the midway point between them, Mustang raises his other hand, conjuring a second rune, which doubles his power output, thus pushing Desmond’s lightning back once more. Desmond grins ferally, however, and with a flick of his finger, pushes his crimson bolt through Mustang’s in an instant, sending Mustang flying back to land in a heap upon the ground, scorched and burned upon his torso.

Desmond approaches Mustang’s fallen form, baring his fangs for feeding.

Desmond: It has been a long time since I’ve fed upon a wizard. I hope you taste better than the last one – he had a fondness for cayenne pepper…

Mustang: *groaning in pain* Think… again… Anamonicus Scrabbleus!

There is no explosion accompanying the wizard’s words, no flash of light. Instead, there is a sensation similar to a strong breeze—

Desmond is standing over King Emp, whose blackened and scorched body makes him grimace in pain. Desmond blinks at the sudden change – and in that moment, King Emp puts an arrow in his chest.

Mustang blasts apart a NeSferatu – the one King Emp had been facing before the wizard wielded the Plot to switch himself with the Armenian ruler – with blue lightning, and then turns to Desmond as the NeSferatu staggers back, seriously injured but not fatally. He smiles, a predator’s smile.

Mustang: The secret to bending the plot, Desmond, is this: There is no plot.

-=Blatant Matrix-rip-off/”There is no spoon” reference Alert!=-

Desmond snarls as he touches the shaft in his chest – the arrow crumbles into dust – and in a swirl of his cloak – a shadow flits across the noonday sun for the barest instant – he is gone.

King Emp: Urgh. Remind me again why I chose to fight a NeSferatu count one-on-one?

Mustang: But you didn’t – oh, right. Due to my plotwielding, you did choose that. Erro!

Erro comes over, having dropped the last of Desmond’s NeSferatu lackeys, and shudders as he surveys his Armenian friend’s wounds. Placing his hands on King, he heals him via geb-speed transfer in a matter of moments.

King Emp: *leaping to his feet* Alright! Thanks, Erro. *looks around at everyone else* What now?

Erro: Now… we hunt demons.

TheBadger: Not to rain on your parade, but these elemental demons are warlords, with armies beneath them. How are we going to take on legions?

Erro: Quite simple. Mustang?

Mustang: Kusara mitaka mitaan!

In a puff of smoke, James7 himself appears, clad in only a luxury towel.

James7: You had to summon me NOW? Geez, Mustang, I was getting it on with the hottest succubus in the Nine Hells!

King Emp: Um… Mustang? Given that we’re in the past, how is it that James7 is already a Protector of the Plotfractal?

Galvenstein holds his breath.

James7: *mysteriously* The concept of time in hell is very weird. Just yesterday I bought Walt Disney’s soul, for example…

Galvenstein blinks.

Galvenstein: Now wait a second! How come when I question the story’s internal logic, a plothole appears, but when someone else does it, there’s a convenient explanation? However bizarre said explanation is...

Two reasons, Galv.

Galvenstein: I’m listening.

One, because there’s a precedent for that explanation. In the future, it will be said in NeSquared that ‘the concept of time in hell is very weird’, you see.

Galvenstein: *sourly* And two?

And two, it’s funnier that way.

Mustang: Well, James7, I need you to summon a Hellsworn demon army to help us—

James7: Now look, Mustang, I may be a Protector of the Plotfractal and all that now, but I can’t just pull an army out of my hat every time you say so.

Mustang: –against the three remaining Earthbound elemental demons.

James7: DAMN THOSE THREE DEMONIC WARLORDS TO HELL!

TheBadger: Heh. That is sort of the idea…

James7: Alright, Mustang. You’ve got your army.

James7 snaps his fingers negligently, and a few thousand demons appear in all their clawed, fanged, taloned, barbed, and otherwise sharped un-glory.

King Emp: You realize that your demons look just like the ones we’ll be fighting against, right?

James7: Are you kidding me? My demons are far more advanced, with a more streamlined form. They’re veritable works of art! Their skin tone is richer and deeper, their claws just slightly curved at the precise angle—

Mustang buries his head in his hands.

Admiral Randall: *placatingly* Of course, mighty James7, but at a distance, and in the heat of battle, it will be hard to notice such details. The first rule of a military engagement is to have distinct uniforms from the foe.

James7: Oh, very well.

He waves his hand, and all his demons turn blue. Our heroes murmur appreciatively, but James7 is still dissatisfied. He waves his hand again, and all the demons turn purple.

Sir Chylde: A nice royal shade, sir.

James7: Yeah, but a little gay. How ‘bout… *waves hand again* Green?

TwistedSpasm: For the love of God, man, make up your mind!

James7 goes very still. He turns to regard the super-secret time travel agent with a burning (literally) glare.

James7: WHAT did you say?

TwistedSpasm: Huh? Take it easy, man, it’s just that—

James7: ‘For the love of’ WHO?!

TwistedSpasm: *eyes widened* Oh! I said, for the love of, um, Bob! Yeah, that’s it – For the love of Bob!

Mustang raises an eyebrow.

James7: Bob? Who is Bob?

TwistedSpasm places an arm on Roberto’s shoulder.

TwistedSpasm: Roberto here, of course! We just call him Bob sometimes for short. A little nickname of honor, you know!

James7, mollified, turns away to bark orders to his emerald-toned army. Roberto shrugs off TwistedSpasm’s arm and glares daggers (not literally) at him.

Roberto: Bob?

TwistedSpasm: Well, I just—

Roberto: Look, TwistedSpasm, no Janitor, in any time or place, would ever consent to being called ‘Bob’. No how no way.

TwistedSpasm: Actually—

But Roberto has already stalked off to join the others. TwistedSpasm sighs but goes along.

James7: Now then, since the three warlords’ armies are deployed along the jungle cliffline up north, we’ll just charge ‘em—

Admiral Randall: Excuse me, sir, but may I suggest flanking them instead?

T13TE: That would be more tactically sound, James7.

James7: Oh, very well. Now then—

Sammy Evil: Perhaps we should make the Admiral our field commander here, given his military experience. Demons tend to think with their magic and their claws, rather than strategically.

James7: Now see here—

Roberto: I concur. Admiral Randall should be—

James7: HEY! Listen to me! Who died and made you King of Hell? Unless of course you want this god-forsaken job?

Roberto: No, no…

James7: Good, good. Now then, we’ll be doing as I say. And I say that, since Admiral Randall has military experience, he should be the field commander of my army here.

Other Heroes: …

Admiral Randall: *keeping a straight face* Thank you, sir. I’m honored. Now, after we flank them…

(Next installment: July 25th, 1862 - Catherine breaks some big news to Erro.)

Still 1862 (July 25th)

Smoke and rubble are strewn about the wild African Congo after less than a full day of fighting. Demonic corpses are deposited seemingly at random across the battlefield. Yet still the fight goes on.

Dr. Sammy Evil, perched in a tree, waits for a pair of flying archdevils to get close enough, then lassos bands of duct tape across their wings, sending them crashing to the ground, where a band of James7’s green-skinned imps descends upon them.

Nearby, Roberto wields his pushbroom like a cross between a mace and a bo staff, sending demons flying with every twirl. Elsewhere, Galvenstein goes toe-to-toe with a burly demon in a wrestling match, finally throwing him to the ground with skull-crunching impact. Dr. Fleidermouse – and *ahem* “William” – cheer him on from the relative safety of nearby bushes.

On the other side of the battlefield, TheBadger is by himself, cut off from both the League of Heroes and James7’s nearest battalion. But though he is surrounded by the slavering hordes of Vashuko and Zartoch, he never hesitates. He leaps to and fro, carving a swath with his mighty huskarl. But he is never still, his coattails flying as he jumps over a fallen demon to slash the next one’s throat. He slips effortlessly into WereBadger form in midleap, spinning around to gouge several imps who have come too close. With an earshattering roar, he sends several demons running for cover and brings hope to the beleaguered battalion of James7’s which was originally sent to rescue him. WereBadger pounces upon an ogre threatening the battalion’s front and rips out his throat. Before he even touches the ground, he is human once more, pirouetting with his huskarl. He flashes his green-skinned allies a smile as feral as his WereBadger form, before darting off again into the jungle.

TwistedSpasm and Sir Chylde are standing back-to-back, surrounded by a couple dozen larger demons. Sir Chylde blocks a many-taloned strike with his shield, then bashes his would-be attacker with it, before slashing apart another. TwistedSpasm sprays lead into the hellish crowd with his AK-47.

Sir Chylde: I am rather curious, TwistedSpasm, how you haven’t run out of ammunition for that futuristic weapon long ago…

TwistedSpasm: Oh, it’s all thanks to Sammy Evil. Did you know that you can make just about anything as long as you have duct tape, a stick, and enough cheese?

Mustang is with Admiral Rand, overseeing the battle. The Hand of the Plot has used his magic to summon up a floating map formed of light and color, displaying the battle in real-time for the admiral to assess. The admiral barks orders in clipped tones while Mustang readies as many runes as he possibly can, in preparation for when they will be needed.

King Emp, Erro, and T13TE are a deadly trio defending a suddenly ill Catherine from Aqoko’s hordes. King Emp sends a slender shaft through a demon’s skull and into the neck of the demon behind it, slaying them both. Erro geb-speeds around, disarming the demons of their blades in an instant, leaving them gaping at their hands as T13TE cuts them off with his oversized katana.

King Emp: *pausing for breath* Catherine… Are you feeling better?

Catherine: I have finished throwing up, for now.

Erro: Oh, Catherine! I’m so sorry! Do you think… one of the demons poisoned you?

Catherine: *laughing* Oh, no, dear. I just figured it out. Erro – I’m pregnant!

Erro and his two friends freeze, momentarily oblivious to the battle still raging around them.

Erro: WHAT?

Catherine: *beaming* Erro – you’re going to be a father!

Erro: *grinning like an idiot* Oh, Catherine – honey, that’s – wow. I can’t believe it! A baby of our very own. She’ll be as beautiful as you!

Catherine: Nonsense: He’ll be as heroic as his father.

T13TE: Hate to interrupt, but we’re kinda in the middle of something here.

Erro and Catherine look up to see T13TE and King Emp struggling in the grasp of a pair of very large, many-horned archdemons. The couple look at each other and nod. Then Catherine flashes the two archdemons, who goggle, momentarily stupefied, while Erro uses his geb-speed to stab each of them in various places throughout their bodies.

After exactly two-thirds of a second, the two archdemons topple over, dead, releasing King Emp and T13TE. Who have also been stupefied by their glimpse of Catherine’s attributes.

Ignoring them, Erro picks up Catherine in his arms and kisses her tenderly before carrying her off to find a secluded cave where they can have some husband-and-wife time…

(Next installment: July 26th, 1862 - hits are put out on the past-versions of the League of Heroes!)

(Ack, I missed a day. Anywhos, there'll be a big THE END when I'm done posting. Until then...)

Still 1862 (July 26th)

Deep in the heart of the Congo, a tower formed of black stone has been magically summoned to serve as a fortress for the three demonic elementals. In the top level’s war room, Aqoko and Zartoch stare at their own magic map in consternation while Vashuko paces about.

Zartoch: This is not good. Even though our forces originally outnumbered James7’s three-to-one, we’re getting the worst of it.

Aqoko: Between the League of Heroes and those green-skinned demons—

Zartoch: That’s an ugly shade of green…

Aqoko: --actually showing some tactics—

Vashuko: --again, thanks to the League. It’s their own Admiral Randall who is commanding them.

Aqoko and Zartoch pause, looking up from the map to see Vashuko, who is still pacing about after interrupting them.

Aqoko: I know that tone of voice. Last time I heard it, you beat me at mental chess in our prison three hundred years ago.

Zartoch: You have a plan?

Vashuko: Maybe. It comes down to the League of Heroes. We still have half again the number of James7’s forces. If only we could remove those meddling heroes…

He suddenly disappears in a flash of lightning. Aqoko and Zartoch look at each other questioningly, then shrug and turn back to their magic map.

Aqoko: He’d have told us if it was something important.

Zartoch: Speaking of which – how ‘bout a game of mental chess?

Aqoko: You’re on! You want to try to win Australia back from me?

**********

Far away, in the land of—

THUNK!

Not this again… Anywho, in Castle Simon, a much younger (6 years old, to be precise) Erro Simon II has just finished playing with his friends and is now shuffling slowly through the halls to his tutoring session with RawHaggis.

Yes, this is the Erro of 1862, rather than the older one from the year 1879.

So little Erro is trying to put off school with the butler by walking as slowly as possible – when the glass windows up above him shatter as five demons hurtle through on leathery wings.

Demon #1: For Vashuko!

Demon #2: Die, little Leaguer!

Erro: COOL!

Demon #3: Yes, grovel in fear at- Eh?

Erro: This is totally awesome! Are those wings real? Can you actually FLY?

Demon #4: This is NOT how it’s supposed to be.

Demon #5: It’s just not as fun when they’re not scared.

Demon #3: Yeah, let’s just make it quick. Look, kid, we’ve been sent to kill you. Sorry, nothing personal.

Demon #1: *less enthusiastically this time* For Vashuko.

BLAM!

Demon #1 is suddenly blown into bits. Erro looks behind him to see RawHaggis reloading his shotgun.

RawHaggis: Run, Master Erro.

Demon #4: You should have stayed out of it, little man…

BLAM! RawHaggis fires again, but the demon deftly dodges, and instead the projectile shatters a bust of some random famous person.

RawHaggis: NO! Not the rare, expensive bust of some random famous person!

Before he can vent his anger further, the demons are upon him, swiping the shotgun from his hands. Little Erro, still rooted to the spot by a mixture of fascination and horror, fears that he is about to see his beloved butler ripped to shreds—

At that moment, Baron Simon – little Erro’s father – swings down from the chandelier, sending the four demons sprawling. He produces a quill from his cloak, and – quick as a flash – three demons are suddenly nothing but spatters of blood on the floor. The baron grabs the remaining one by the throat and bites out a single question.

Baron Simon: Whom do you serve?

Demon #5: *in a rasping voice like the Uruk-Hai* Saruman!!

Baron Simon: Eh?

Demon #5: *apologetically* Sorry. I love that movie, and the setup was just too perfect, and—

Baron Simon: Lord of the Rings doesn’t exist yet!

Demon #5: Well, the concept of time is really weird in hell…

************

In a beautiful Italian forest, sprinkled with sunlight filtering through summer-green leaves, two lovers are prancing through the forest, before finally falling down into some brush, laughing.

Maggie: Hahaha! Oh, Tan, you’re so much fun!

Tan Lee Chylde: You’re the one who brought it out in me, Maggie.

Yes, this is a 21-year-old Tan Lee Chylde, still a squire and not knighted. He had trained his life long to be a knight, but on the eve of his anointing, he’d run away with this free spirit of a girl, named Maggie, whom he loves with all his heart and soul.

Maggie has long, lush black hair reaching to her waist, and wears a blouse and skirt printed with flowers on them. Beads and bracelets adorn her – a hippie before her time.

Tan, while carried away with his love, is still at heart somewhat conservative and has a short buzz cut of red hair. His muscular frame is still revealed despite his simple tunic and trousers.

Maggie: So… are we almost there yet?

Tan: I think so. See – just beyond those bushes! There.

Maggie: That’s like totally awesome, Tan, honey!

Before them is a stone statue carved in the shape of a warthog. Implanted into this stone is a great sword.

Tan: The Sword in the Swine. As a child, I dreamed of being the one who pulled it free. They say that anyone not worthy will instantly turn into a pig if he so much as grasps the hilt. Of course, that’s silly now. I just thought I’d show it to you while we were in the area.

Maggie: *giggles* “The Sword in the Swine”. That’s such a silly name. Let’s call it something more fun – like The Porkus Malorkus!

Tan Lee Chylde laughs gaily. Have we mentioned that he loves Maggie with all his heart and soul?

Tan: Wasn’t there something you wanted to show me, Maggie?

Maggie: Yes! Oh, Tan, I have such wonderful news! I—

At that exact moment, five demons crash down from the sky, scattering twigs and leaves everywhere.

Tan: What—

Demon #6: For Vashuko!

Demon #7: Time to die, noble knight!

Tan: I’m NOT a knight.

Demon #8: Details.

Demon #9: We’re here to kill you! Oh, and your little girlfriend, too, while we’re at it.

Demon #10: It’s nothing personal, but we’ll lose our jobs and our pensions if we don’t.

Maggie: What? That’s outrageous!

Tan: I know! They want to kill us!

Maggie: Not that! They have no freedom! They’re slaves to their boss! You all should form a union!

Demon #8: *scratching his horned temple* A union?

Maggie: Yes! Stand up to your boss! Demand your rights! Equitable pay! Job security! Freedoms!

The demons murmur excitedly among themselves. They all agree to form a union, thank Maggie, and fly away.

Tan: Well, THAT was weird. Now, didn’t you say you had some good news!

Maggie: Yes, love-bun! I’m—

At that exact moment, five more demons crash down through the canopy.

Tan: I am getting SICK of this.

Demon #11: For Vashuko!

Demon #12: We’re here to kill you!

Demon #13: Please don’t resist, we abhor unnecessary violence.

Demon #14: Yes, so – wait, WHAT? What kind of demon ARE you, Demon #13?

Demon #13: Um… the kind who faints at the sight of blood?

Demon #14: *sigh*

Demon #15: Anywho – DIE NOBLE KNIGHT!

Tan: Look, how many times do I have to tell you, I am NOT a knight!

Maggie: Wait, what happened to your friends, Demons #6-10?

The five new demons shift their feet uncomfortably.

Demon #13: Uh, well…

Demon #11: They tried to form a union.

Maggie: That’s great! And?

Demon #14: Vashuko tied them to a rock and had vultures eat their intestines and other internal organs.

Tan: Ouch.

Demon #12: So now we have to kill you. Sorry.

The demons advance menacingly – well, except for the squeamish Demon #13, who hangs back – upon Tan Lee Chylde and his beloved Maggie. Maggie screams.

Tan: NO!

Weaponless, Tan grabs the nearest weapon he can find and mauls the demons to pieces. Well, except for Demon #13, who simply fainted at the sight of his fellow demons being skewered and dismembered.

Tan: Maggie… Maggie, are you alright?

Maggie: My hero! *kiss kiss* You realize what you did, don’t you?

Tan: Well, I have been in combat training most of my life…

Maggie: Not that. The sword!

Tan looks down to see in his hand the Sword in the Swine – er, the Porkus Malorkus. He’d grabbed it unthinkingly in the battle in order to protect Maggie.

Tan: Wow. I, I…

Maggie: You’re worthy! I always knew it!

Tan grins and kisses her again.

Tan: Now – what was that news you had to tell me?

Maggie: Oh, Tan – I’m pregnant!

A cloud is cast over Tan as though the sun had been smothered.

Maggie: Tan? Tan, what’s wrong?

Tan: Oh, Maggie. Ten minutes ago, I would have been overjoyed. But now…

He looks at the sword in his hand.

Tan: I’m a target, Maggie. For some reason, those demons were ordered to kill me. And the fact that I’m the wielder of the Sword in the Swine… I’m endangering you. And our baby.

Maggie: Oh, Tan. What are you saying?

Tan says nothing, choking up. A tear trickles from his eye.

Maggie: Tan… You’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?

Tan: There’s no choice, Maggie. I have to leave, so you and our child will be free to live in peace and safety.

Maggie’s eyes are wide and beginning to brim with tears. Tan kisses her tenderly one last time, and then – before he can change his mind – walks off into the forest. Back to his father’s castle.

Back to become the knight he was always meant to be.

**************

Deep in the lush wild lands of old Armenia, at the palatial lodge of the Emp family, young Prince Emp is a precocious 6-year-old, his dark curls falling around his ears, but not yet the length they will be by the time he debuts in the Arena.

At the moment, the young prince is practicing with a bow in the archery range, and doing his best not to cry.

His Majesty Emp XIII: Son? What’s the matter?

Prince Emp: *blubbering* Oh, father, I – I can’t—

His Majesty Emp XIII looks around the otherwise empty archery range to see several dozen arrows sticking out of the ground at various distances from the target. Only two arrows are even in the target, neither of them at all close to the bull’s-eye. A twinkle appears in the king’s eye, and he takes the bow off his own back, proferring it to his little son.

Prince Emp: F-father?

His Majesty Emp XIII: Use this mystical bow passed down to me from father, and to him from his father. An arrow released from it will not easily miss.

Prince Emp stares at the bow, then at his father, then back at the bow. Squaring his jaw, he takes it… Fits a shaft to the string… Draws it back… Lets fly—

And the arrow lands dead-center in the bull’s-eye.

Prince Emp stares at it for a split-second, then throws his fist in the air, whooping. His father smiles and places a hand on his shoulder.

His Majesty Emp XIII: I’m proud of you, son. But I was proud of you before you ever hit a bull’s-eye.

He walks off, back into the palace. The little prince fits another arrow to the shaft, releases, and hits another bull’s-eye, splitting the first arrow down the center. He grins, and hears a shout of delight from the side. The prince turns and sees a pair of bright blue eyes peering from behind a bush.

Prince Emp: *newly emboldened* Come out, or I’ll shoot you dead!

A girl with hair gold as the sun hops out. She is the prince’s age, and despite thinking girls are yucky, the prince thinks she’s awfully pretty.

Girl: Hi! I saw you shoot that bull’s-eye. That was awesome!

Prince Emp: *blushing* Uh… thanks. Who are you?

Girl: I’m Harem Girl #87. My momma says I have to be one of the prince’s special friends when I’m older.

Prince Emp: What does that mean?

Harem Girl #87: I dunno. I guess it means we have to play together or something. Do you know the prince? Is he cute?

Prince Emp: *blushing again* Um… I’m the prince.

Harem Girl #87: Cool! *blushes* Uh, I mean, your highness.

She sketches an awkward curtsy, but the little prince shakes his head.

Prince Emp: You don’t hafta do that.

Harem Girl #87: Sure I do. You’re gonna be the king. It’s the rules.

Prince Emp: Well, if I’m gonna be king, I make this rule – you don’t ever have to bow to me, Harem Girl #87. *smiles and blushes at the same time*

Growling Voice: Don’t worry, princeling. No one will ever bow to you again.

Five horned demons, each towering at two meters, step out of the forest. Harem Girl #87 gasps, but – to her credit – does not scream. Quick as a flash, the little prince draws an arrow and lets fly. The first demon clutches at his heart and topples to the ground.

But even as Prince Emp nocks another arrow, the other four demons are upon him, slashing and biting. A ball of fury launches upon their backs, tearing at them with delicate fingernails.

Harem Girl #87: Get offa him, you freaks!

She puts her hands around the eyes of one demon, who stumbles about, trying to get her off his shoulder. He shortly runs into a tree knocking himself, and the girl jumps off lightly. One of the other demons breaks off from their scuffle with the little prince to advance on her, and she backs away nervously.

Prince Emp: *his clothes torn* Harem Girl #87!

At that moment, a young white foal leaps over the nearby fence keeping it contained and pounds the two demons atop the little prince with sharp hooves, whinnying and biting. One demon falls to the ground, dead, and the other panicks and runs away.

The last demon has raised his paw to swipe at Harem Girl #87 – and gurgles, an arrow in his throat. It collapses to the ground.

Harem Girl #87: Prince Emp… you saved me!

He grins.

Prince Emp: You saved me first. And this horse saved us both!

He strokes the bright white mane of the foal, who is now nuzzling his face contentedly.

Prince Emp: You were so fast, it’s like you streaked through the sky. I think I’ll keep you. I’ll call you… Comet…

************

There is a cliché spooky mansion in Germany, with the obligatory perpetual thunderstorm raging above it. As thunder rumbles, the front door of the mansion opens, and a short man in a lab coat is pushed out before the door slams behind him.

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: I’ll show you! I’ll come back to you someday, Mad Scientists’ Society, and then you’ll be sorry!

A man on a horse rides up, leading another horse beside him. This man is tall and brawny.

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: William! I haven’t seen you in ages!

William: Aw, I had to come get you when I heard you was in trouble, Doc. Yer the best man a guy could know. Ya saved me life when we was kids, remember? Get up on Betsy here, and we’ll ride off inta the sunset.

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: But where will we go, William? I must have some place to continue my experiments.

William: Aw, donchew worry, Doc, I kept your pap’s ole house fixed up while you was gone. It’s right ready for yew ta move in!

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: I say, William, you are a delightful chap!

Punctuated by a lightning bolt, five demons descend from the sky. They plop down on taloned feet in front of the horses, spooking them and causing Betsy to rear.

Demon #21: Time to die, Galvenstein!

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: Galvenstein? Who’s Galvenstein?

Demon #22: Huh? You’re not Galvenstein?

William: Naw, he’s the Doc! I’m his best man Will’am!

Demon #23: I see. Sorry for the inconvenience.

The five demons fly back up into the sky, simultaneously with another bolt of lightning. This causes William’s horse to rear, sending William off the back and cracking his head on the ground.

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: William!

He tries to turn Betsy around, but being an inept horseman, accidentally sends Betsy trotting on top of William’s body.

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: Oops.

To prevent any further horsemanship accidents, he swings his leg over Betsy’s side and jumps off – landing on top of William’s gut, creating an audible pop.

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: That can’t be good.

He kneels down to inspect William, to discover that he’s dead, brain leaking from the back of his skull where he fell. And his limbs are broken from where Betsy trod over him. And his internal organs are a mess, from that gut-landing.

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: Oh, no! Don’t worry, William! I’ll find a way to restore you to life somehow! I’ll build you back together – better than before! I’ll give you a smarter brain. And I’ll have to use metal and other elements in some places to replace the internal organs and some of the bone and skin. I’ll stitch you all together with steel wire, and—

He pauses, suddenly remembering something.

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: But what will I ever call you? You won’t be William anymore, will you? Hmm… Frankentron?

The thunder rumbles above him.

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: No, you’re right, that wouldn’t work. The Great Willmeister Von Robotnik?

Lightning flashes in the distance.

Young Dr. Fleidermouse: …Sue?

*************
In an Irish pub, a drunken man and his teenage son are nursing their drinks, the first thoroughly smashed, the second well on his way.

Drunken Man: I’ve *hic* HAD it with you *hic* shtaring at me! Yeah, YOU, TheBadger! Those *hic* beady little eyes, and *hic* that—

The teenager, who is none other than TheBadger, has learned to ignore these tirades, mostly because they’re directed at the bartender, who does in fact have beady little eyes, although they’re not staring at Badger’s father, but at the generously proportioned gal at the table behind him.

At this point, five demons break down the tavern door. All the patrons scream, except for TheBadger’s father, who continues railing at the bartender, still mistaking him for his son.

Badger’s Father: You lookin’ at me, Badger? You lookin’ at ME?

Demon #26: Yes, um, we’re looking for a *checks dossier in his clawed hand* … Mr. Badger?

Demon #27: *noticing the drunken father’s tirade at the bartender* I think we’ve found him.

The five demons maul the poor bartender, tearing him limb from limb, and then leave. The patrons cheer, because now they can raid his liquor cabinet and don’t have to pay.

**************

In France is the premier institute for magecraft and wizardry—

Random Audience Member: You stupid Narrator! Hogwarts is in England!

HOGWARTS? I’m not talking about Hogwarts, you pretentious ninny! I’m talking about the Magium!

Random Audience Member: The Magium?

Random Audience Member #2: Never heard of it.

Random Audience Member #3: I think he’s just making it up.

Of course I’m not making it up, you nitwits! The STORYWRITER’s making it up! Stupid n00bs…

Random Audience Member #1: Oh, well THAT makes all clear…

Random Audience Member #2: About as clear as roiled mud…

Random Audience Member #3: Look, can we get on with this? I REALLY have to go—

BRAPPP!!

Random Audience Member #3: Too late. Well, carry on then.

THANK you. Back to the Magium in France. It is a palace made of brick and stone and more ethereal materials as well, where the greatest practitioners of magic come to learn, to share, and to teach. Here two of the most powerful mages are husband and wife.

Coolius Tsukasa: Oh, honey, can you believe it? Our little boy is 3 years old!

Mattea Tsukasa: It seems like just yesterday that we brought him into this world!

The toddler looks at them, but says nothing. Even at this early age, he has little patience for sentiment and foolery.

Coolius Tsukasa: Come on, boy, can you say “Da-Da”? Can you say “Dad”?

Matthias the Cold: D- D- Da…

Mattea Tsukasa: He’s going to say it this time!

Matthias the Cold: Da- Da… DIE!!

Coolius & Mattea: Huh?

A torrent of blue-white flame bursts from the toddler in a flash, incinerating the five demons creeping up behind his astonished parents.

Coolius Tsukasa: Wow…

Mattea Tsukasa: Do they have anger management for toddlers…?

**************

The Twelfth True Evil: Forward! Back! Parry! Again!

13-year-old Nicolai is huffing and puffing despite the cold of the Siberian wastes as his master puts him through the paces, sitting comfortably in the snow.

The Twelfth True Evil: Side! Behind! Roll! Forward! Back! Parry! Again!

Nicolai: Look, master, is this ever going to be of use to me in fights?

At that exact moment, five demons drop down out of the sky, murder in their eyes. They surround him. Nicolai gulps – and then his instincts take over for him.

Side. He slips to his left, spilling one demon’s guts.

Behind. He spins to his rear, slicing off another demon’s head.

Roll. He somersaults beneath a demon’s legs, carving the demon in two pieces down the center.

Forward. He dashes forth, skewering a demon in the heart.

Back. He leaps back just in time to dodge the last demon’s thrust, swinging his katana as he does so—

Parry. He raises his oversize katana to block an attack before realizing that there are no more attackers. He looks over to see T12TE, still lounging in the snow – just as surprised as his pupil, but not showing it.

T12TE: Good.

He pauses, ever so slightly.

T12TE: Again.

(Next installment: July 27th, 1862 - spotlight time for people who have names starting with M!)

1862 (July 27th)

In a remote part of the English countryside lies the ancient wonder known to 19th-century mankind as Stonehenge. Many have sought to unlock its secrets, mapping its shape, its astronomical positioning, and so forth.

But none among these investigators ever realized that the true secret of Stonehenge – lies far beneath it.

One young man has discovered this secret – the grand underground city of Doughnutdelf. Home of the olde Druids, now long gone.

Merlin: --Come to me, Mustang Ford—

A young man approaches the glimmering ghost of the ancient NeSorcerer. This young man has a ragged brown cloak, but the glowing blue whorls with which we are familiar are not in evidence upon his skin. For this is Mustang Aurelius Ford, a mere 21.

Young Mustang: Here I am, Great Merlin.

Merlin: --I sense that you are troubled—

Mustang grimaces, but nods.

Young Mustang: Yes. I forsook the wizards and firemasters of the Magium to heed the call of the voice in my dreams – your voice – journeying here. To find what? Ruined towers and spellbooks so old and brittle they crumble at my touch?

Merlin: --The true secrets of the Druids of Doughnutdelf are not bound in books or buildings, Mustang Ford—

Young Mustang: Then where are they? The only thing I’ve found here is a stubborn ghost who won’t depart this plane for his eternal rest!

The ghost of Merlin is silent. Young Mustang flushes, abashed.

Young Mustang: Apologies, Great Merlin. I know it wasn’t your choice. You’ve told me how you were the last Druid of Doughnutdelf in your time, but were trapped here by a powerful witch who tricked you.

Merlin: --Perhaps, Mustang Ford, it is time I tell you more about how I came to be trapped here—

Young Mustang’s eyes widen. It is rare that Merlin ever volunteers information; the ancient spirit’s philosophy is to let his student discover knowledge for himself.

Merlin: --I was bearer of not one, nor two, but three ancient legacies, all stemming from the traditions of ancient Atlantis. The last Druid of Doughnutdelf; the NeSorcerer; and Hand of the Plot—

Young Mustang: And thus, the greatest wizard of that age or any other.

Merlin: --So far, Mustang Ford, only so far. There is one who shall arise in the time of the NeS-made-flesh, who shall bear my name, but be greater than I… But I digress. I guided the lad Arthur into becoming a king over the glorious realm of Camelot. I created his story, intending to precipitate the birth of NeS through him, and gaining many plot powers while his story was strong. But I became arrogant, unable to see my own flaws—

Young Mustang: What happened?

Merlin’s voice is soft now, gentle yet trammeled with long-remembered pain.

Merlin: --I fell in love—

Young Mustang is silent, unwilling to interrupt the ancient NeSorcerer’s tale, enraptured by this reveleation. After a moment, the ghostly wizard continues.

Merlin: --Her name was Nyneve. A beautiful lass, with long dark hair and lips as red as summer’s rose, cheeks pink as the dawn, and eyes the color of amber. And she loved me, too, or so it seemed. I taught her everything I knew, of the ways of magick, plotwielding, and doughnut baking. She was an eager pupil, and I was delighted to teach one whom I loved, who thirsted for knowledge so—

Young Mustang: What happened?

Merlin: --She betrayed me, Mustang Ford. She was in fact none other than a NeSferatu, sent by Desmond himself to learn my secrets and then dispose of me—

Young Mustang: She – killed you?

Merlin sighs, his voice that of a jilted lover still holding out hope for what can never be attained.

Merlin: --No. No, Mustang Ford. She did not kill me. Despite Desmond’s orders. She only used magick – the very magicks I had taught her – to imprison me here in the delves of Doughnutdelf, before returning to her infernal master. But sometimes I have wondered, if she in fact felt something towards me, and that was why she spared my life. I did die, Mustang Ford, but that was a result of old age, as my body withered away in here – yet still I remain, still bound by her incantations – and only the binder can release the bindings—

Young Mustang is quiet for several long moments before speaking.

Young Mustang: Am I – am I to be your successor?

Merlin: --You are to be the Hand of the Plot, yes. But not NeSorcerer. That is not for me to choose, but a sacred trust passed down by prophecy. But I foresee that you will take an apprentice someday, one who is of that prophesied bloodline. Whether he or one of his descendants instead is to be the NeSorcerer, I do not know; it depends on whether or not you succeed in birthing the NeS in your lifetime. Too, there shall be another one, who takes my name, and is twice-named peace, who shall forge two enchanted swords, each one as great or greater even than my own Excalibur—

Young Mustang: So I’ll get some cool plotwielding powers?

Merlin: --I’m afraid not, Mustang Ford. You can only wield the story when there IS a story, and presently there is no story. If you create a story, as I created that of Camelot, then perhaps you will gain some plotwielding ability—

Young Mustang: And what of the title of Druid?

Merlin: --The Druids are dead, Mustang Ford. Even in my life, I was the last of them. Perhaps one day one will come who will take up the mantle… But you must be content with wizardry and plotwielding. Nonetheless, I will entrust you with the legacy of the Druids, that you may be a torchbearer, able to pass it on to one who is worthy—

Young Mustang: I am ready, Great Merlin.

Merlin: --Ready, are you? For 800 years have I trained wizards – I will be the judge of who is ready—

Young Mustang: But you’ll still teach me, anyway, right?

Merlin: --Very good, Mustang Ford, you are beginning to understand story conventions already. Now, the primary distinction between the Druids of Doughnutdelf and the wizards of the Magium at which you trained is in how they use their magic. Whereas the Magium’s firemasters rely on vocal incantations and complex gestures, the Druids used written – or drawn, or carved – runes—

Young Mustang: Why? What is the significance?

Merlin: --The form of the spell alters the inherent power of it. Since we in fact exist in a story world, everything in our reality is written somewhere, in some tome of the WriterGod’s. Written glyphs and runes take advantage of this to tap into the fabric of existence—

Young Mustang: I see… And what is the most powerful rune, then?

Merlin: --That would be – wait, why are you asking a question like that? Are you a powerplayer or something—

Young Mustang: Oh, no! It’s just in the script here. *proffers script* See?

Merlin: --Ah. In that case, the most powerful glyph is, thusly—

The ghostly figure draws a rune in mid-air, which shimmers soft blue.

Young Mustang: *disbelieving* A… circle?

Merlin: --Do not dismiss the power of a circle, Mustang Ford. But no, this is not a circle, but a torus. The form of a torus is the most primal rune of all. Why do you think the ancient Druids dedicated so much time to mastering the art of doughnuts—

Young Mustang: Of course! It all makes sense now! Can you teach me all these runes and the art of inscribing them?

Merlin: --Only some, Mustang Ford, for you are not to be a Druid. But I will entrust you with their most powerful artifact—

The ghostly figure waves a hand, and a glowing torus shape appears in midair.

Merlin: --Behold—

The torus shape floats to young Mustang, who reaches out a hand tentatively to grasp it. As soon as his fingers close around it, he is enveloped in a bright shimmer of blue that veils him like a curtain of sapphires.

Merlin: --The Elder Pastry. The true holy Doughnut, created from the Ancient Recipes of the Druids of Doughnutdelf. May its power fill you, and grant you all the runic knowledge you need—

When the shimmering blue fades, young Mustang is revealed once more – now covered from head to toe in glowing blue tattoos whorled upon his flesh. He holds up his hands in front of his face and gazes in awe at these mystic glyphs.

Young Mustang: These… they’re runes!

Merlin: --Yes. The 87 runes of Doughnutdelf are now imprinted upon your skin, giving you a working knowledge of each one. Should the day come that a worthy heir of the Druidic legacy appears, then shall you transfer these runes to him—

Young Mustang: How shall I know him?

Merlin: --Difficult to see. Always in motion is the future—

Young Mustang: But what can you see, great Merlin? Other than Star Wars rip-offs…

Merlin: --Glimpses. A man, if he can be called a man… Round, pink, short, with a wide-open mouth and a lightsaber in a pink paw—

Young Mustang: Well, that ought to be recognizable enough.

Merlin: --Now go, Mustang Ford. Birth the NeS, if you can. Live well, if you will—

Young Mustang: Wait! I have so many more questions—

But at that exact moment, the ghost of Merlin disappears, and ten winged demons drop from the stalactites above.

Demon #41: For Vashuko!

Demon #42: Life, the universe, and everything! But what is the question?

Demon #43: Uh, Demon #42, did you forget to take your Prozac today?

Demon #44: There’s the wizard!

Young Mustang: Well, I’m also a Hand of the Plot, and Druidic torchbearer…

Demon #45: DIE!

Young Mustang: Can’t stereotypical villains ever think of more original lines than “die”? It’s so overused that it’s meaningless. You might as well say, “BUMBLEBEE!” or something equally inane…

Demon #46: Uh… BUMBLEBEE!

Young Mustang: *sigh*

Demon #47 smacks Demon #46 upside the head.

Demon #48: Look, he’s getting away!

Indeed, Mustang has sprinted for the open ground of Stonehenge above. The ten demons swiftly follow him, and are temporarily blinded by the sunlight as they ascend into the aboveground Stonehenge. Taking advantage of their momentary vulnerability – as he’d planned – Mustang flings a giant fireball at his adversaries, burning two of them to a crisp. However, he is already tired out from that one fireball.

Young Mustang: Whew! I wish I had more inborn power. I really need to build some sort of arcane lighter to power my fire spells…

Demon #49: BUMBLEBEE, already!

Young Mustang: Right…

Young Mustang draws a glyph in mid-air, and lightning flashes down from the sky, taking out three demons in one blast. With a spoken word and twist of his fingers, he casts an illusion of himself on one of the demons, causing it to be torn apart by the others. This trick gets him down to the last two demons, who have by now figured out his trick and advance on him.

Young Mustang: Drat… if I only I knew these runes better…

Demon #50: BUMBLEBEE!!

Demons #42 and #50 raises their taloned fists for a killing strike. Mustang dodges at the last second, and the two demons’ powerful hands pound upon the stone pillar behind him – knocking it over! It knocks over the pillar behind it, which knocks down the pillar behind it, and so forth in a domino effect until the pillar behind the two demons falls on top of them, crushing them instantly.

Young Mustang throws a fist into the air in victory.

Young Mustang: YES! Runes and glyphs RULE!

Then he notices the dust settling over the fallen pillars of the now-wrecked Stonehenge.

Young Mustang: …oops.

On a distant hill, overlooking the carnage wrought by the young Mustang Ford, Vashuko stands, clenching his azure fists. Coming to a decision, he marches down the hill, ready to take care of this hero himself, and then on to the rest of them which his incompetent underlings couldn’t handle.

But before he takes three steps, a shadow flits over the noonday sun, and suddenly Count Desmond is standing there before him.

Vashuko: Out of my way, fiend!

Count Desmond: Would you truly turn away one who has come to offer assistance?

Vashuko: I have no need of thine assistance. *peers closely at the count* Wait – I remember you. You were that count in Atlantis; how are you still around after 10,000 years?

Count Desmond: By the simple fact that I have learned the principles of our world. But if you will not listen to my advice, then go forth to slay these heroes. I tell you that you will surely fail.

Vashuko: And how, pray, dost thou claim to know this?

Count Desmond: Because the heroes will always win. It is an Ultimate Story Convention.

Vashuko: You suggest that we are in a story?

Count Desmond: Is that really so hard to believe? If it is more palatable to think of it thusly, think that we are all thoughts in God’s mind.

Vashuko: Hmm… it does make a certain amount of sense. So if heroes always win, what am I to do?

Count Desmond: It’s quite simple, I assure you. You must destroy the story.

Vashuko looks at the NeSferatu for a stunned moment, then barks a laugh.

Vashuko: You might as well ask me to destroy the universe. Hmm, there’s a thought.

Count Desmond: This world in which we live and breathe and feed is merely a womb for a Neverending Story, one which is continually struggling to be birthed. This wizardling you see down there – Mustang Aurelius Ford – is its midwife at present, and is attempting to deliver it.

Vashuko: Then it would seem I must destroy him; why did you stop me earlier?

Count Desmond: For the simple reason that you cannot destroy him. He is a hero, protected by the story’s conventions. No, what you must do is destroy the entity who keeps our story alive until such time as the NeS is indeed born. The Ancient One.

Vashuko: So if I slay this Ancient One, the story will fail, and the conventions protecting the League of Heroes will vanish?

Count Desmond: Correct.

Vashuko: And where, pray tell, may I find the Ancient One?

Count Desmond: That is a mystery known only to one – Mustang Aurelius Ford, the one from A.D. 1879. Seek him out, and force the secret from him. Conventions prevent you from slaying him, NOT from torturing him.

Vashuko: Excellent.

The azure-skinned elemental demon of air vanishes in a whirlwind of smoke and flame. The NeSferatu count turns his gaze down to the young Mustang Ford, who is attempting to repair the damage to Stonehenge. Desmond smiles, a sinister, feral smile. Then a shadow flits across the sun, and he too is gone.

(Next installment: July 29th, 1862 -- more craziness)

1862 (July 29th)

Dusk is inching into the sky, as James7’s emerald-hued legions surround the tower of the demonic elementals. An inner ring of swarming demons still insulates the tower from direct assault, however, and Admiral Randall I frowns as he looks down from his hilltop vantage point.

Admiral Randall: My tactics have gotten us this far, but once those two warlords start spraying their powers everywhere, tactics aren’t going to count for a whole lot. Where is the rest of the League, Mustang?

Mustang’s eyes are sheened with a blue glaze as his arcane sight ranges over the battlefield.

Mustang: Scattered across the area. All of them have minor wounds, except for Catherine and Erro – same of them have been patched up by Sammy Evil’s duct tape. But where’s Badger…?

His eyes squint, gazing at something unseen to normal sight, and then widen.

Mustang: Oh, no…

Admiral Randall: What is it?

Mustang: TheBadger’s trying to infiltrate that tower by himself!

Cut to the dark interior of the tower. TheBadger is slinking through the halls in WereBadger form, his dark fur blending in with the shadows. Instead of taking out the demonic sentries – as he could surely do with ease – he favors a stealthy approach this time, hoping to sneak up on the warlords themselves.

A trio of imps skitters by, chattering excitedly. WereBadger pauses, waiting for them to pass, then moves on. Peering around the corner he sees that they have come from a grand hallway – which is filled with demons and torches.

The ceiling, however, is shrouded in darkness.

With a great leap, WereBadger attains the ceiling, grasping onto the rafters with his talons, and swings around swiftly to land on top. After a quick glimpse down to make sure no one spotted him, he pads softly but quickly along the ceiling. As he walks across the rafter supporting the unlit chandelier, he glances down, and a shrewd thought comes to mind. Shifting quickly to human form – swaying as he fights to maintain the balance that comes so easily to a werebadger – he makes a few quick strokes with his huskarl sword. Surveying his handiwork, he smiles, then shapeshifts back into WereBadger and pads on.

The rafter supporting the chandelier is weakened now. Within ten minutes it will collapse – well after WereBadger has either succeeded or failed in his self-appointed mission.

Within the next two minutes, WereBadger finds himself in the war room. Aqoko and Zartoch are peering worriedly at their magical map displaying the situation – and totally oblivious to the WereBadger, thinking themselves safe from harm within their demesne.

Zartoch: Well, the good news is that, between your torrents of water and my storms of fire, we’ve cut James7’s legions in half.

Aqoko: And the bad news is that we also wiped out a lot of our own forces in collateral damage.

Zartoch: And now we – AARGH!!

The WereBadger has pounced upon Zartoch, fastening his jaws into the demon’s shoulders – a weak spot, as he learned from the battle with Juritso – his back paws raking across Aqoko’s face at the same time. He slashes at Zartoch’s throat, then leaps onto Aqoko, knocking the demon overlord down. He bounces off Aqoko to strike back at Zartoch—

But now the demons have recovered, and Zartoch’s hand glows in a fiery gauntlet as it snatches WereBadger out of the air by the throat. WereBadger snaps and snarls futilely for the barest of moments, then shifts back into human shape. Surprised, Zartoch loses his grip, and TheBadger slices open a gash in his torso.

Aqoko, at that moment, fires a torrent of water from his palms – but Badger is ready, and rolls under it. The blast of water instead hits Zartoch like a cannonball, slamming the elemental demon of fire into the wall. Startled, Aqoko ceases his magic – and Badger slices up into the water demon’s leg with his huskarl. Aqoko howls, but Badger is already moving, shifting back into WereBadger form as he flips backwards, his claws raking across Aqoko’s face and chest and knocking the demon back.

Zartoch has recovered and fires a ball of flame at WereBadger. WereBadger dodges out of the way, and Aqoko’s eyes widen as he sees the fiery projectile headed his way—

But Zartoch has learned from their previous mistakes, and the fireball swerves in mid-air, heading back towards WereBadger, seeking him out. Surprised, WereBadger freezes for a fraction of a second before leaping out of the way once more, getting his tail singed. He howls his pain and shifts back to human form, hurling his huskarl at Zartoch before rolling along the floor to dodge the seeker fireball—

A geyser of water erupts from the stone beneath him, slamming him into the ceiling. The geyser disappears as quickly as it was summoned, and Badger falls back to the floor, groaning. The two demons approach him, gloating, Zartoch pulling the thrown huskarl out of his side and tossing it away.

Aqoko: And now, little Leaguer, you shall die.

Badger doesn’t waste his energy trying to respond. He reaches into his black coat and pulls out a small bottle and unstoppers it in one fluid move. He pours the contents into his mouth – and the vodka instantly revives him. He jumps to his feet, shifting back into WereBadger form, and savagely attacks the two astonished demons.

Aqoko leaps nimbly aside, getting only a few more gouges in his gut, while Zartoch falls to the ground, WereBadger atop him. Aqoko splays his fingers as he thrusts his hand in WereBadger’s direction—

Aqoko: Stop!

And the WereBadger stops in mid-air. Zartoch crawls out from beneath his telekinetically frozen form and stands up, dusting his robes off and eyeing the hero warily.

Aqoko: Your mortal body is nearly 70% water. Water that I can control. As long as I do not let the water in your frail form move, you cannot move.

Zartoch: Aqoko – you know all those times I’ve teased you about your wuss elemental powers…?

Aqoko: Yeah—?

Zartoch: I take it all back.

The two demonic warlords jeer at the hapless WereBadger, stepping cautiously towards him, still wary of the mighty hero. Suddenly, from elsewhere in the tower, they hear the horrendous crash of a chandelier on a dozen now-flattened demons. WereBadger musters a defiant grin.

WereBadger: You’ll… never… stop the… the League…

Aqoko: Forget about the League, frail mortal; worry about yourself. What do you suppose would happen, if I evaporated the water in your body, a little bit at a time…?

Zartoch: And what if I sent miniature flames dancing across your skin at the same time…

WereBadger clamps his jaw shut, but screams still escape, and far away, Mustang flinches.

(Next installment: July 30th, 1862 - rescuing the Badger and the climactic battles with the elemental demons!)

1862 (July 30th)

James7: I don’t see the problem.

Mustang: Badger’s a PRISONER in that tower!

James7: …and again, I don’t see the problem. Anyway, isn’t heroic sacrifice a powerful story convention?

Mustang: Badger’s not exactly CHOOSING to sacrifice himself in this scenario.

James7: *waves hand dismissively* Collateral damage then. It’s not like you’ve cared about any of my demons dying. It doesn’t mean anything to you that Gus, my dearest friend since infancy, lay on the ground, bleeding away his life over the course of an agonized hour, whilst I looked on, unable to do anything… *chokes up*

Mustang, Erro, Catherine, and Admiral Randall look at each other with a mixture of guilt and abashment.

Catherine: Oh, James7, I’m so sorry…

James7: HA! Fooled ya! Boy, did I have YOU going. Suckers!

Admiral Randall: Perhaps a battlefield is not the best time for such foolery…?

James7: Gimme a break. I’m the Father of Lies; I can’t help it. Heck, if you think I’m bad, you ought to meet the personification of April Fool’s Day! I swear, the next time Rachel puts a flaming bag of doggie doo in front of my hellish throne…

Erro: Perhaps we should move on to our plan. I still don’t see why we can’t launch a rescue mission for Badger and then just have James7 fry the place.

James7: Look, I may be the King of Hell and all, but on Earth, I’m a bit weaker, and those elemental demons are a bit stronger. I can’t take ‘em out on sheer power alone. No, I have to act as the bait, and if Badger dies in the crossfire, so be it.

Admiral Randall: James7, can you really take the full brunt of those warlords’ attacks at once?

James7: I’m the Devil. I can take anything those wannabes can dish out.

Erro: And Mustang?

Mustang: I’ve been preparing runes for three days straight.

Catherine: What about the rest of the League?

Erro: I don’t know, honey. We’re all scattered around the jungle. All Mustang can confirm is that they’re alive and still fighting.

Mustang: And Badger, Erro? What will we do about him?

Erro is quiet for a moment. Weight seems to settle upon him like a stormcloud.

Erro: We have to risk it. If story conventions hold, he’ll survive.

Catherine: Oh, Erro…

Erro: And, Catherine, I want you to stay out of this one.

Catherine: What?!

Erro: It’s not just you, Catherine – it’s our baby. Mustang?

Catherine fumes silently, knowing that her husband is right. Mustang traces a rune upon the ground, and she steps into it. The rune rises up around her like a column of light, and when it disappears, she is gone, sent to the edge of the battlefield.

Admiral Randall: And now?

James7: Now we end this.

*****************

The plumes of flame and energy discharged over the past week have wreaked havoc with local weather patterns, and a swollen purple storm is brewing over the Congo. Lightning flashes, with rumbles of thunder heard immediately after. It is a slumbering, snorting beast waiting for the unwary to awaken it.

On the parapet atop their black stone tower, Aqoko and Zartoch have left off torturing WereBadger and are surveying the battlefield. James7 is on a deforested hill opposite them, staring defiantly at the two Earthbound mages with glowing embers for eyes. The King of Hell speaks conversationally, yet his words carry clearly into the elemental warlords’ ears.

James7: Last chance to surrender.

Aqoko: Likewise for you.

Zartoch: Our demons have fought and died. Now it comes down to us. Archdemons to archdemon.

James7: As it should be.

And then the pregnant storm breaks open, rain sheeting down in torrents, soaking the ground and putting out the hellish fires unleashed upon the African tropics. A column of rain sharpens into aquan blades, spurred by Aqoko’s elemental magicks, to strike the Devil. But James7 only laughs as the water bullets bounce off his skin.

Lightning stabs down from the sky in a deadly cacophony, punctuating Zartoch’s intent, striking at random – except for half a dozen bolts that arc down towards James7 at once.

And again, James7 laughs.

Steam appears around the Devil, and out of it form a hail of fiery pitchforks, lacerating the air in flight to the elemental demons. Aqoko flinches, but Zartoch grins.

Flame stretches from Zartoch’s outstretched hands, in sync with the stabbing rain still guided by Aqoko, beating upon James7 in fury. But James7 stands unbowed, never flinching, his smoldering gaze defiant.

Erro: Now.

Behind the bushes a bowshot away from James7, Mustang nods to Erro and sets his fingers in complex patterns, muttering incantations under his breath. Rune after rune appears, miniature inch-wide glyphs in mid-air, glowing a twilight blue, until the air around the wizard is as thick with magic as with rain. Mustang licks his lips nervously, and then thrusts his hands in a sweeping motion towards James7. The hovering runes dart in a swarm towards the devil, touching his skin and creating a momentary opalescent glow, before fading.

Immediately Mustang flinches. Erro reaches out a hand, but Mustang jerks his head, snapping tersely.

Mustang: Don’t touch me!

Erro withdraws his hand, remembering Mustang’s warnings. Sweat beads on the wizard’s forehead, swept away by the driving rain as soon as it appears.

And the demonic duel continues. Deflected fireballs form furrows in the earth. Floods of water carve canyons in the foliage. Lightning crackles everywhere in a mile radius from the tower. James7 is slowly tiring under the onslaught, but Zartoch and Aqoko are as vital as ever, powered by their ties to their chosen elements.

James7: *aside* Mustang…?

Mustang: Just a little… longer…

Erro and Admiral Randall watch tensely, unable to do anything in this monumental battle. And then—

Mustang: Eaaao!

The collected energy in the runes – which have absorbed a portion of each assault from Aqoko and Zartoch – suddenly flare to life, and a brilliant blue flare blasts the two Earthbound elementals in a continuous stream. James7 launches his most powerful, emerald-hued fireball at the same time, and for good measure, Admiral Randall fires his mini-cannon at the two warlords.

Erro, not wanting to be left out, spits in the tower’s general direction.

Zartoch and Aqoko, caught off guard, roar in surprise and pain. When the blue and emerald aurora borealis of power fades away, the two warlords are lying on the stone surface of the tower, spent and heavily injured.

Jubilant, James7 hovers through the air toward them.

James7: Now, you are mine.

Aqoko clenches a bleeding fist and makes a jerking motion – and suddenly the roof of the stone tower, upon which they are lying, is torn apart by the still-captive form of the WereBadger being hurled through it. WereBadger is not in good shape. Most of his fur has been burned off by Zartoch’s tortures, and his skin is red and covered with boils. With dull eyes he glares at his captor. But Aqoko bites out his ultimatum between bloody coughs.

Aqoko: Touch me, and your friend dies.

James7: I’m the Devil. I don’t have friends. *curling up a fireball in his fist*

Mustang: *reaching out a hand* James7, NO!

And WereBadger moves. Shifting back into human form, Aqoko’s hold on him shaken and lost as the dying warlord loses concentration, TheBadger thrusts his hand towards Aqoko and Zartoch—

And flame spurts forth from his hand, disintegrating the two warlords.

James7 looks at him, nonplussed. Then he shrugs and lets the fireball in his palm dissipate.

James7: Huh. Well, whatever works.

TheBadger looks at his hand, stunned.

Badger: Wow. Just… wow.

Erro, seeing his friend safe from harm on top of the tower, grins. It’s over. It’s finally over—

And then the tower explodes.

************

Vashuko, elemental demon of air, hovers over the ruins of his defeated brethren’s tower. A feeble tower, easily shattered by his conjured cyclone – as feeble as his now-beaten fellows. He sees the bodies of Leaguers and demons alike sprawling and injured within the blast radius of the shattered tower. That took care of most of the so-called heroes. Now, he just had to find the one called Mustang…

Down below, T13TE picks through the wreckage over to Erro, who is groggy from being struck by a flying stone.

T13TE: Erro – tovarish, snap out of it!

Erro: Huh? 42! 87! Googolplex!

T13TE: Vashuko showed up. He’s looking for you!

Erro: We’ve got to get out of here – but where’re the others! Admiral Randall, James7, TheBadger, Mustang?

Mustang: I’m here. And Vashuko’s looking for me.

T13TE: He… is?

Mustang: I don’t know why, but I can sense his thought, casting about. We have to hide somewhere – and set a trap…

Erro thinks of the cave where he and Catherine “rested” the other day.

Erro: I know just the place…

After a tense-filled quarter hour of hacking through the jungle and evading Vashuko’s demons, the trio reaches the cavern. It’s a bit small, but our three heroes make plans.

Erro: We can enlarge this quickly with my geb-speed.

T13TE: And we should carve out a back entrance – always have an escape route.

Mustang: And I’ll set the traps…

Our heroes get to work, rapidly enlarging the cave and setting it up as a trap. T13TE and Erro are soon distracted by Mustang’s chanting.

Mustang: …Green clovers, pink hearts, yellow stars, and blue moons!

T13TE and Erro look at each other.

Erro: Uh, Mustang?

Mustang: WHAT? I’m in the middle of a very complicated spell here!

Erro: Isn’t that the jingle for a popular children’s breakfast cereal?

Mustang: Huh? Er… *shift eyes* I don’t know what you’re talking about…

T13TE: I recognize it, too, Mustang, it’s Luck—

Mustang: Look, how the heck do you even have this knowledge? It’s about a future product that doesn’t exist yet!

T13TE: You didn’t have to room with TwistedSpasm at Castle Simon. All that ranting about how ‘inferior’ our stuff is. I didn’t give him wedgies just for the fun of it, you know.

Erro: Actually, I thought it was pretty fun…

Mustang: Regardless, it’s not my fault if some future inventor will plagiarize an old druidic charm for his promotional jingle. Now leave me alone.

The heroes get back to work. It’s not long before Vashuko himself shows up outside the cavern.

Vashuko: Come out, Mustang Aurelius Ford. I know you and your friends are in there!

Mustang: No! No one’s home! Oops.

Vashuko: THIS is supposed to be the guy with the secret knowledge of the Ancient One? You’ve had your chance – I’m coming in!

Vashuko steps inside, unaware of the lines and whorls drawn in the dirt beneath him. He sees before him a bowl of delicious fruity cereal.

Vashuko: *reaching out for the cereal* Mmmm…

Mustang steps out.

Mustang: Vashuko. Tell me – have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?

Vashuko: Actually, you wouldn’t believe—

BOOM!

With an explosion of azure energy, lightning crackles around Vashuko, binding him in mighty glyphs.

Vashuko: What—

Erro and T13TE step out. Erro takes the bowl of cereal from Vashuko.

Erro: Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids!

T13TE whispers in Erro’s ears.

Erro: Oh! Er… Silly demon, Lucky Charms are for heroes! That doesn’t roll off the tongue like the first one did…

Vashuko: I’ll destroy you!

Mustang: Actually, you’ll just rot away in ignominy for the next couple of eons.

Mustang waves a hand, and Vashuko vanishes, to be forever held within a prison dimension contained within the runes of the cave.

Mustang: Now, we can— Eh?

Erro: But I want to eat the cereal!

T13TE: Sorry, tovarish, but I called dibs on it!

Erro: Yeah, well—

Mustang groans.

*************

Later, after the trio of intrepid, cereal-eating heroes have left the cavern now imprisoning their foe, a shadow watches with unseen eyes as Desmond surveys the magical entrapments of the makeshift prison.

Desmond: Excellent. Now that the fool is out of the way, the story–that–is–to–be is safe from his meddling…

Elsewhere, at the site of the shattered black stone tower, the League of Heroes finally reunites, their mighty task at last complete. They compare notes and trade stories of their exploits. Most incredible of all, however, is the new flame-tossing power TheBadger has gained as an accidental result of Zartoch’s tortures.

TheBadger: And chew know *hic* whash REALLY cool abou’ thish? *hic* Itsh fueled by *hic* VODKA! W00t!

Sir Chylde: Oh, I’ll never break him of his drinking habit now…

Roberto: But how are we going to get back to our time now?

Mustang: Actually, I think Badger can help us with that – he can use his flame energy to power TwistedSpasm’s time machine!

Everyone: YAY!

Mustang: Of course, we’ll have to deal with Badger’s drunken carousing the whole trip home…

Everyone: DOH!

Soon, with a flash of light and two trails of fire, the DeLorean is gone.

Later that day, Baron Erro Simon the First, our hero’s father, shows up on a winged horse, with a trusted assistant on another winged horse.

Baron Erro: Hmm… Whatever happened here, it seems to be over.

Assistant: But what shall we call this event?

Baron Erro: Do we have to call it anything?

Assistant: *shocked* Of course, sir! It’s necessary for the compiling of our records!

Baron Erro: *sigh* Just call it the Battle of Victoria.

Assistant: Er… okay. *makes a notation in his journal* May I ask why?

Baron Erro: It’s during Queen Victoria’s reign, and you know how she is – her name has to be stamped on everything…

Assistant: Ah…

(Next installment: July 24th, 1879 - Vuthy has what's comin', and some other stuff.)

(I won't be posting until Monday, so you all get 3 installments in just 1!)

1879 (July 24th)

Vukothrax and his mortal apprentice, Matthias the Cold, are striding along the forests of Europe, heading towards an ancient site of mystical power.

Matthias the Cold: So… tell me again what it is we’re doing?

Vukothrax: We’re going to kidnap the most beautiful angel in Heaven! That’s why I freed those four demons and sent them back to the past – so that we could pull this kidnapping off while the League is busy elsewhen!

Matthias the Cold scratches his head.

Matthias the Cold: But… wouldn’t the League come back to the future at the exact time they left?

Vukothrax: What—

At that exact moment, the DeLorean appears and screeches to a halt three meters away, the League of Heroes leaping out.

Vukothrax: Crap.

---------------------------------------------

1882 (December 28th)

At Castle Simon, which is blanketed in a beautiful white snowfall today, the League of Heroes is celebrating the 26th birthday of their royal member, King Emperor XIV.

King Emp: *tearing open a package* Oh… vodka. Why, uh, thank you, Badger.

Badger: And if you ever need help drinking that, you know who to call.

King Emp: Right. RawHaggis?

RawHaggis: Yes, sir?

King Emp: Could you put this in File 13?

RawHaggis: But of course, sir.

Random Audience Member: Hey! There’s a lot of unanswered questions from the last scene!

Such as?

Random Audience Member: Did TwistedSpasm go back to his time? What happened in that last confrontation with Vukothrax? And didn’t Catherine give birth?

Yes, TwistedSpasm went back to the future, his engine powered by Badger’s Vulcan flames. The heroes were still tired from their battle in 1862, so they let Vukothrax go, with the promise that he’d drop whatever he was doing – especially since all that time travel had jumpstarted Catherine’s pregnancy, and she was giving birth to Asa Simon right that moment – who was born a healthy baby boy, as though he’d gestated the full nine months in his mother’s womb.

Random Audience Member: Then why wasn’t that written into the scene?

Um… To build audience anticipation?

Random Audience Member: Uh-huh…

Er… *shift eyes* It’s NOT because the Storywriter’s too lazy to write all that in... Heh.

Random Audience Member: But…

At THAT PRECISE MOMENT *glares at Random Audience Member* Mustang charges into King Emp’s birthday celebration.

Mustang: There’s an effervescent coalescence of chaotic influx in the astral dimensions!

Sir Chylde: Huh?

Roberto: *rolls eyes* Obi-wan here’s detected a disturbance in the Force.

Sir Chylde: Huh?

Roberto: Honestly, are you the only one who didn’t watch those movies TwistedSpasm brought us back from the future?

Erro: What is it, Mustang?

Mustang: Vukothrax has kidnapped an angel!

Admiral Randall: Who? Why?

Mustang: Her name is Aura. She’s a young angel, but already slated to be an archangel soon. And she’s reputed to be the most beautiful woman in Heaven. She was taken while on a mission to Earth.

Galvenstein: A damsel in distress? Why, we must rescue her!

T13TE: Wait – why does Vukothrax want her anywho?

Mustang: He wants to force her to marry him. An evilly blessed marriage can grant a villain great power.

TheBadger: Not to mention a shot at hot sex…

Sir Chylde smacks Badger upside the head.

************

In the Far East is a gigantic, crater-like bowl in the ground, circled along the edges by irregularly shaped columns, some only a meter high, others towering into the sky at four times the height of a man; some cylindrical, others square-shaped blocks, and still others with more fanciful circumferences.

In the center of the crater pit is a spiraling tower, that bends and twists around upon itself as it climbs into the sky. Any mortal eye that tries to follow its winding turns quickly blinks and has to look away, much as if he had tried to stare directly into the sun.

This tower is the citadel of Earthbound demon mage Vukothrax, and his mortal apprentice. The dungeons, as in any good villain’s lair, are in sublevels beneath the earth – but that is not where the angel Aura is held.

On the 13th level – where else? – is a plush suite where the lovely angel is kept under guard, Matthias the Cold standing sentinel.

Aura: Thank you, Matthias.

Matthias the Cold: You’re welcome – I mean, what?

The angel smiles knowingly.

Aura: It was your idea to have Vukothrax transfer me here from the dungeons, wasn’t it?

Matthias the Cold: No! Well, maybe.

Aura: It’s a sweet gesture.

Matthias the Cold: No, it wasn’t. It’s only right. You are to be my master’s queen, so you should be treated as such.

But Aura remembers her original capture a month ago. Matthias the Cold and a dozen imps had set upon her and the two warrior angels protecting her. To save her friends, she had agreed to go willingly with the mageling in exchange for her companions to be let go, unharmed.

Matthias the Cold: But how do you know you can trust me?

Aura: I don’t know… something in your eyes…

And she had taken his arm as he teleported them away.

Aura: And you keep volunteering for guard duty here.

Matthias the Cold blushes.

Matthias the Cold: I’m just afraid of what the other imps and such might do to you, left unsupervised.

Aura: *coyly* And what will you do to me?

THE NEXT EVENTS IN THIS SCENE HAVE BEEN CENSORED, DUE TO ITS MATURE CONTENT AND THE FACT THAT THE STORYWRITER IS FAR TOO LAZY TO DEVELOP THIS ROMANCE IN A SERIOUS AND MATURE WAY.

GebTheWriter: Hey! HighempTheWriter!

HighempTheWriter: Shwa? I’m trying to write a story here!

GebTheWriter: What kind of crock is this? They just fall in love *snap* like that?

HighempTheWriter: Well, they’ve been around each other nonstop for a month…

GebTheWriter: So why didn’t you write more about that month?

HighempTheWriter: Well, um… cuz it would detract from the other heroes’ tale?

GebTheWriter: I[/i] think you’re just lazy.

HighempTheWriter: Gimme a break! I’ve written 200+ pages already, fatigue was bound to happen. Better that than writer’s block – or so you’ve always said.

GebTheWriter: But you’re doing a disservice to the characters!

HighempTheWriter: Oh, really? Why don’t you listen to what THEY have to say?

TheBadger: I think HighempTheWriter’s done a great job with this story!

Galvenstein: He really knows how to give us life!

Roberto: And most importantly, he keeps things clean!

HighempTheWriter slips each of them a twenty.

HighempTheWriter: See?

GebTheWriter: Well, I guess – hey! You bribed them!

HighempTheWriter: Er… *gebs it*

GebTheWriter: Hey, wait a minute – that’s MY trademarked move! COME BACK HERE!

---------------------------------------------

1882 (December 29th)

In Vukothrax’s spiraling tower, in the grand hall on the second level, all the accoutrements of a wedding have been set up. Black drapes and roses instead of white, of course, but beyond that, very wedding-y.

Various demonic and sinister guests are gathering. Up at the podium, Vukothrax stands in his best scarlet robes, shifting his taloned feet nervously. Matthias the Cold, his best man, stands behind him, his brow furrowed in thought, wondering how to reconcile his newfound love for Aura with his loyalty to his demonic master.

One of the side doors swings open, and none other than the eccentric Chef Johann Von Xombie comes in, wheeling a gigantic, white-frosting-covered donut on a cart.

Chef Johann Von Xombie: Behold! My true masterpiece! The Spooky Wedding Donut!

The crowd oohs and aahs appropriately as the chef beams.

Chef Von Xombie: I’ve been able to pull all the stops with this one, folks! Demonic employers are MUCH more adventurous than stuck-up nobles!

Before the chef can elaborate, the wedding bells start ringing, and in walks Aura, in a black wedding dress, white wings furled so as not to knock people in the aisles over, a pair of tiny hovering imps holding her train. She does not look happy, but her eyes keep darting to Matthias the Cold with an odd element of hope.

She walks up to Vukothrax, holding her black bouquet distastefully. Count Desmond is at the podium to officiate the ceremony.

Count Desmond: Dearly detested, we are gathered here today…

Matthias does not hear the rest of the words, gazing at Aura, who keeps darting glances at him, his heart torn within him.

Count Desmond: Let any who object to his union speak now, or forever hold their peace.

Matthias the Cold: I OBJECT!

Count Desmond: Eh?

Vukothrax: Matthias the Cold? You would object? My own apprentice? Why?

Matthias the Cold: I’m sorry, Master, but I… I love her.

Vukothrax: WHAT?!

Matthias the Cold: I wish to marry her… and I think she feels the same way about me…

Vukothrax: What happened to you, Matthias? You were cold, heartless. And now this dame warms your heart?

Matthias the Cold: Look, I know it’s cliché, and I hate clichés as much as you do…

Vukothrax: I give you a choice, my apprentice. Renounce your love for her, and remain my apprentice – or cleave to her, and renounce me. And you will die by my hand.

Matthias takes a deep breath.

Matthias the Cold: I—

At that moment, the League of Heroes crashes through the high windows in the walls of the grand hall.

Erro: WE OBJECT!

Matthias the Cold: I already said that.

Erro: Let this foul ceremony end NOW!

Vukothrax: *glaring at the heroes, then at Matthias* You – you called them here!

Matthias the Cold: *his pride stung* I would never call on them for help!

Vukothrax: You, my one-time apprentice, shall be the first to die. KILL THEM ALL!

All pandemonium breaks loose as the guests scatter, and imps and gremlins engage the League of Heroes. This is really small potatoes to the League, since they’ve dealt with huge demonic armies before, but no matter how many imps and gremlins they lay low, more keep appearing, such is the nature of Vukothrax’s spiraling demesne.

The Spooky Wedding Donut suddenly sprouts two white-frosting-encrusted legs and several sprinkle-covered talons and dives into the fray, sending heroes and demons alike sprawling.

Chef Von Xombie: That can’t be good…

And up at the front, Vukothrax and Matthias the Cold face off, the mageling standing protectively in front of Aura.

Vukothrax: You’ve signed your death warrant, mageling.

Matthias the Cold: You forget one thing, Vukothrax – I have Frederick Teh Uber Blade.

He draws the weapon in a smooth motion, the blade singing as it’s released from its sheath.

Frederick Teh Uber Blade: “Whhyyyyy must I beeee a teenaaaaager in looove?”

Singing. Quite literally.

Matthias the Cold: SILENCE BLADE!

Vukothrax brandishes his black war pike and flaming red staff. And the duel between master and apprentice begins.

Random Audience Member: That is SOOO cliché.

Actually, the cliché doesn’t exist yet, so this is the first of its kind! Or something.

Elsewhere, the Spooky Wedding Donut is wreaking havoc. Chef Von Xombie is wringing his hands and pleading with his berserk creation to stop. Further away, TheBadger is holding a vodka bottle in one hand and tossing flames with the other.

And then there is nothing between them. Badger stares directly up at the Spooky Wedding Donut, which towers over him… and grins. He chugs down the last of the vodka.

Badger: Let’s see how big my appetite is.

With that, he shifts into WereBadger form, and starts devouring the Spooky Wedding Donut.

Meanwhile, Vukothrax and Matthias duel, giving no quarter. A stab here, a block there, a counterstroke elsewhere. Fireballs are flung like there’s no tomorrow. Despite Matthias the Cold’s tremendous power, Vukothrax is a match for it – and has centuries of experience using it. Matthias begins to tire, and a slash of Vukothrax’s ebon pike slashes open the mageling’s abdomen. Matthias gasps in shock, and Frederick Teh Uber Blade clatters to the flagstones, as the mageling falls back.

Aura: NO!

The angel flies at Vukothrax – literally; she’s an angel, you know – and starts beating on him with her bare hands. Vukothrax contemptuously flings her off.

Vukothrax: Farewell, mageling.

The pike’s barbed edge comes down, and Matthias the Cold suddenly goes still.

Behind them, the Spooky Wedding Donut runs around frantically, half-devoured, with WereBadger’s jaws clamped firmly on it; the unpredictable pastry is emanating a noise sounding suspiciously like, “Geroff!”

Smiling grimly, Vukothrax pulls his pike out of Matthias’ body, and turns to see Mustang Aurelius Ford staring at him in horror.

Vukothrax: It seems you have failed your one-time apprentice a second time, Mustang.

Mustang’s face is set in a mask of regret and resolve, mingling together into a powerful alchemy. He stretches out a hand, and Frederick Teh Uber Blade glides into it. With his other hand, he conjures a flameblade from the Cheshire Zippo.

Mustang: Never again, demon.

Vukothrax is already worn from his battle with Matthias the Cold, and Mustang’s fury is terrible to behold. It is all the Earthbound mage can do to parry Mustang’s attacks. Supremely angry and grieved, the blue-tattooed magician doesn’t even bother to summon his intricate runes, simply battering away with his two weapons.

Vukothrax stumbles back, losing ground as the two swords open wounds on his body. He glares at the wizard, and his eyes unleash flaming bolts that strike Mustang square in the chest, sending him sprawling.

Vukothrax: You’re out of your league, wizard.

Mustang: Famous last words. Oppor tyi’ghah!

The blue runes tattooed onto Mustang’s flesh rise off his skin, swirling about in the air, and forming into a dozen blue specters of Matthias the Cold. The azure ghosts swarm the demon mage, clawing and grasping at his red-toned flesh with a touch colder than death.

Vukothrax: What’s happening? No – this cannot be!

Mustang: *standing back up heavily* Let them drag you down to Hell.

With a final scream, Vukothrax disappears beneath the mass of blue Matthiases. When the ghostlings dissipate, returning as runes to the wizard’s skin, there is nothing left of Vukothrax but a frost burn on the stone floor.

Breathing heavily, Mustang looks over to see Aura cradling Matthias the Cold’s dead cold form. Tears streak her cheeks as she looks up when Mustang approaches.

Aura: I’m with child – his child…

Mustang remembers the words of Merlin’s ghost, and manages a smile.

TheBadger comes up, wiping frosting off his lips with a napkin.

TheBadger: That was pretty tasty.

Chef Von Xombie: Oh, I’m so ashamed! That my creation should cause such destruction! I’ll instill a sense of guilt in my sons and sons’ sons, one so great that when my descendant joins the heroes at the turn of the millennium, he’ll change his name to SokMunkey out of shame!

TheBadger: Er… right.

Erro: Perhaps we should dispose of your recipe as well, Master Chef.

Chef Von Xombie: Of course! Here! I’m sorry I called you a stuck-up noble or your man a snooty butler.

Erro: Actually, he IS a snooty butler…

Sir Chylde takes the Spooky Wedding Donut recipe and cleaves it in two with his sword. He then hands the two halves to Erro.

Sir Chylde: Let them be scattered to the winds.

Erro: Sure! *inspecting the two recipe halves* Hmm. Interesting… This half could be used to create a Spooky Taco, and the other could become an Evil Wedding Cake. *shrugs* Oh, well.

And he tosses them to the winds, to be blown where they may.

At that exact moment, the doors to the grand hall burst open, and the two warrior angels tasked with protecting Aura swoop in.

Warrior Angels: We object!

Random Audience Member:

(Next installment: October 14th, 1885 - Sir Chylde departs, leaving a sword of legend behind!)

1885 (October 14th)

At Castle Simon, Sir Chylde is laid up in bed. His graying red mane is arrayed upon the pillow, and his breathing is just this side of shallow. Yet he persists in speaking.

Sir Chylde: And that, Master Asa, is how I defeated the only ogre in America.

Asa: AWESOME! That’s so cool! I can’t believe you did all that before joining the League of Heroes.

Sir Chylde: Now be a good lad, and ask your father here.

Little Asa Simon, now six years old, sticks out his lower lip in a pout.

Asa: But that’s RawHaggis’ job!

Sir Chylde: It is the duty of a good knight to undertake whatever task may befall him.

Asa straightens proudly.

Asa: Yes, sir!

He bounds off, and Sir Chylde sighs. He rests there in the bed a moment longer, before throwing off the covers and standing up, every joint in his body aching in protest.

When Erro Simon II walks in, he is astonished to see Sir Chylde pulling on his armor.

Erro: Sir Chylde! You should be in bed! You’re still sick!

Sir Chylde: My only infirmity is that of advancing age. My lord…

Erro straightens at Sir Chylde’s formal address. He knows that he is not going to like what the noble knight has to say.

Sir Chylde: I must ask you to absolve me of my vows to you.

Erro: Sir Tan, I would never keep you here against your will… but why?

Sir Chylde’s eyes take on a faraway look, and his gaze turns toward the window.

Sir Chylde: All the stories of my knighthood I’ve told you – and now your young son – are true. But there is one thing I’ve never told you.

Erro: Yes?

Sir Chylde: Once, I was in love. And somewhere – I have a son. Or a daughter. I don’t know which.

Erro: Oh, Tan, I didn’t know…

Sir Chylde: *waves hand* It doesn’t matter. It was my choice to leave. To protect them from those who would seek to harm me. But as I grow old, I find that I… I would very much like to see my wife and child before I die.

Erro: Of course. I’m sorry to see you go, Tan, but… I understand. Believe me, I do.

Sir Chylde pulls on the last piece of his armor, then picks up his scabbard, with his sword inside. He looks at it for a moment, then hands it to Erro.

Erro: Your sword…?

Sir Chylde: Yes. It is known as—

He stops for a moment, about to say ‘The Sword in the Swine’, and recalling a memory of Maggie so vivid it’s almost painful.

Sir Chylde: It is known as the Porkus Malorkus.

Erro: I can’t take that, Sir Tan.

Sir Chylde: Where I am going, I will not need it. But it is a powerful artifact, not to be given into unworthy hands. I would have you entrust it to Sammy Evil, that he may build a container to protect it. Be careful that you touch not the blade or the hilt, but the sheath only, for otherwise you will transform into swine.

Erro: But—

Sir Chylde: Take it.

Erro: Certainly, Chylde.

Sir Chylde: That’s my name, don’t wear it out.

An hour later, after saying all his goodbyes, Sir Chylde saddles his horse, and rides out the gate of Castle Simon, the League of Heroes and RawHaggis watching disconsolately as he goes. Off the noble knight rides, into the graying twilight and the autumn air, unbowed by age or regret.

When Sir Chylde and his steed are a speck on the horizon, Sammy Evil turns to Erro, cradling the Porkus Malorkus in his arms.

Sammy Evil: I can certainly construct a sarcophagus of sorts to protect this artifact. But I think I’ll leave it to some random descendant of mine to build some kind of forbidden fortress to house it.

Galvenstein: *overhearing* WHAT? Sammy Evil, that’s just crazy. Why on earth—

Suddenly, a voice booms down out of the sky.

Storywriter: QUESTION NOT THE WHIMS OF THE STORY.

Galvenstein: But—

Storywriter: HONESTLY, ARE YOU TRYING TO POKE HOLES IN CONTINUITY?

(Next installment: November 11th, 1887 - certainly not a LXG rip-off!)

1887 (November 11th)

It is a bright morning. The sun sparkles on water and dew alike, laying bare the beauties of nature.

Except in one place.

Castle Simon is shrouded in gray fog, but the smoky mist does not merely dim the sun. It casts a pallor of sleep over all the inhabitants of the castle, hero and manservant alike. Only Mustang so much as turns over in bed, sleeping fitfully; all the others are calm and still in sleep.

Shadows flit through the castle, seeking, grasping. Every now and then, a shadow will hover uncertainly over one of the heroes, before jerking away suddenly as if a sharp reminder was barked at it.

The gray mist renders all timeless within the castle, and the pale shadows seem to have forever to search… but their search does end, and newly armed with many devices and artifacts, they depart.

The fog lifts.

And all our heroes wake up simultaneously.

Mustang: Oh, no.

TheBadger: Yowtch! I’m missing some fur!

Our heroes, knowing something is wrong, quickly assemble in the war room. Six of them have been robbed. By the NeSferatu of Count Desmond.

Erro: Let’s go over this one more time. The NeSferatu took some of my blood. Badger?

TheBadger: Yes, some of my fur from my WereBadger form is gone.

Erro: Dr. Fleidermouse?

Dr. Fleidermouse: Hmm… a genetic sampling might be enough for replication.

Erro raises an eyebrow. The other heroes shift uneasily. Mustang’s face is already pale and drawn.

Erro: Admiral?

Admiral Randall I: The designs of the Nautilus. Stolen.

Roberto: Actually, you obviously ripped them off Cap’n Nemo yourself.

Admiral Randall I: Hush, you.

Erro: James7?

James7: They had the nerve to bottle some of my hellfire!

Sammy Evil: How were they able to get any hellfire off your body? You don’t normally exude flames unless you do so on purpose.

James7’s face turns beet red.

James7: Um… *mumble mumble*

Sammy Evil: What was that?

James7: *mutter*

Sammy Evil: Speak up!

James7: I FARTED IN MY SLEEP!

All the heroes bowl over laughing, except for Dr. Fleidermouse and Sammy Evil, who are fascinated.

Dr. Fleidermouse: I’m fascinated. Do you mean to say that you actually fart hellfire?!

James7: …yes. And it’ll be a problem for another hundred years, till they invent Beano.

Erro: Alright, everyone, settle down. Moving on – Mustang?

Mustang: They took the plans for my runic printing press.

Erro: And… King Emp?

Everyone turns to look at King Emp, who is hunched over in his chair. For once in his life, he doesn’t look regal at all, but like a man who has lost his confidence and esteem. His eyes are red, worry lines are crinkled upon his face, and his mouth is pinched into a tight frown.

Erro: King?

King Emp: They took my bow.

Erro: I’m sorry?

Galvenstein: I don’t see what the problem is, your majesty. You are so proficient an archer that another bow will do.

Something flares up in King Emp’s eyes. Indignance? Despair?

King Emp: You don’t understand! My father gave me that bow. It’s enchanted, so that it never misses. Without it… I can’t shoot worth a crap.

Mustang blinks in surprise. Erro looks over to him.

Mustang: My dear King – you say your bow was enchanted?!

King Emp: Yes.

Mustang laughs, long and loud.

King Emp: *balling his fists* It’s not funny!

Mustang collects himself, wiping a tear of hilarity from his eye.

Mustang: Forgive me, King Emp. I dearly wish I could have met your father before his untimely passing. He must have been a rare man.

King Emp frowns at Mustang, unsure what the wizard’s point is. He finally responds with an ungracious…

King Emp: Thank you. I think.

Mustang: King, I have been in your presence almost constantly for nearly fifteen years, and I can assure you that there is no more enchantment in that bow than in my left pinky finger.

TheBadger: Isn’t there a magic rune on your left pinky?

Mustang: My right pinky then.

King Emp blinks in disbelief.

King Emp: No enchantment…?

Mustang: Not a drop. Your father used your power of belief to unlock your latent skills within you. He would have been a great wizard, if he’d ever been trained. But your archery skill, King Emp… is yours.

King Emp stands there, unsure what to think. T13TE presses a spare bow into the Armenian king’s hand. King Emp looks at the assassin, who smiles encouragingly at him.

King Emp nocks an arrow on this replacement bow, and aims for the flame of a candle on the other side of the great hall of the war room. He lets fly—

And the candle abruptly goes out.

King Emp: Woo-hoo! Thanks, guys. Thank you all!

Erro: I always knew you could do it, King. But now… how will we find Desmond’s hidden base to recover these items?

James7 lazily conjures a flame in his palm.

James7: I can feel hellfire wherever it may be. We can track him based on that bottled hellfire he took from me.

Erro: Then let’s go.

****************

The icy wastes of Mongolia.

There is a fortress city constructed completely of iron, nestled in the rocky hillocks here, with flames from furnaces and factories steaming up into the snow-filled air This... is the hidden city of the NeSferatu.

Though there are only 1000 NeSferatu, the most powerful of whom is Count Desmond their leader, they have over a quarter million slaves.

It is here that the League of Heroes come, in search of their quarry, their archnemesis. Count Desmond himself.

Admiral Randall I: *looking through the periscope of his sea vessel, the Nautilus* I see it! The city of the NeSferatu.

Mustang: Surely we will find Desmond here.

Erro: Brr! Surely this hunk of junk has heating!

Admiral Randall I: *brusquely* No.

Erro: What? Oh, come on, I know you're joshing me, you designed this submarine, for heaven's sake!

T13TE: Erro... electrical heating hasn't been designed yet.

Erro: *glare* And that notion doesn't make you shiver?

Mustang: This is Mongolia, dear boy. Shivering is what we do.

Erro: Very funny. Not to mention a complete LXG rip-off.

TheBadger: This whole scene is an LXG rip off; can't we just get on with it?

An hour later finds our heroes trekking across the snow in fur coats, searching for a way into the city.

Roberto: My binoculars are useless in this snow. I can't see a thing.

King Emp: There's a side entrance with three slaves guarding it down there.

Galvenstein: Heavens, man, how did you see that?

King Emp: I'm not the world's greatest archer for nothing.

Erro: Come on, y'all, let's go!

Sammy Evil: Shouldn't we wait to hear from our scout?

Erro: *confusedly* We have a scout?

Sammy Evil: Yeah. Ol' James7 said something about the NeSferatu threatening the plotfractal, and you know his duty as a protector. He said he'd come a few days ahead of us and report.

King Emp: Well, where is he?

Galvenstein: There.

A glow can be made out in the snow, and it gradually coalesces into the figure of James7, keeping warm with an aura of fire around him.

James7: Hey troops, report.

Erro: *to Sammy Evil* Thought you said HE was gonna report.

Sammy Evil: *glare*

King Emp: James7, we are not your soldiers. You're an ally of this team. YOU report.

James7: Right, whatever. Well, the NeSferatu are building weapons of war. Gunproof armor, flamethrowers, submachine guns, you name it, they've got it.

Erro: And now that they've stolen US...

James7: Yes. We have to stop them.

**************

Our heroes sneak into the fortress, and using their powers, kill off all the NeSferatu, until at last they face Desmond himself.

Erro: Halt! In the name of the law!

Desmond: Actually, you're under MY jurisdiction now. Europe's laws do not extend to Mongolia, as I am given to understand. YOU halt, surrender to me, in the name of the law!

Erro: Oh. Mustang?

Mustang: *leafing through script* Yeah, he does have legal authority over us. We have to surrender.

King Emp: Wait! Erro, don't do this.

Erro: I don't have a choice.

King Emp: In the name of donuts!

Erro: Donuts?! Of course! Halt, Desmond, in the name of donuts!

Desmond: *sigh* We seem to be at an impasse then in terms of legal authority. Perhaps you are wondering why my troops stole parts of you.

TheBadger: It had crossed our minds, yes. At least you didn’t steal my vodka – then I’d REALLY be mad…

Desmond: Let me explain, then. I took Admiral Randall's designs of the Nautilus in order to build war submarines much like it. I took the plans for Mustang's runic printing press that I might have access to the technology that replicates his runes on a mass-produced basis. A sample of Erro's blood – for his bloodink. WereBadger's fur sample, to give inhuman strength and speed to my soldiers. A bottle filled with James7's hellfire, to gain the unholy powers of demons. And King Emp's enchanted bow, which never misses so long as the target is within a quarter mile.

Desmond grins chillingly, and the heroes shudder.

Desmond: *continuing* I now have the ability to duplicate all of your powers and sciences. I will equip my armies with gunproof armor and enchanted submachine bowguns, deploying them from demonically powered war submarines, while they shall be physically altered with TheBadger's physiology. With Mustang's spell-capable printing press, I can multiply the strength of my own magic many times over, and with Erro's own bloodink, I can feed the strength of the Ohqs to myself! And there is nothing you can do to stop me. This is only an image of myself, you see, while I am actually secreted away in a base far from there, and you have conveniently wiped out any NeSferatu competition I might have. Starting now, my assassins will begin their work. And you... you shall die.

James7: You say you war submarines are demonically powered?

Desmond: Yes, they are.

James7: Well, you should be aware that I am at the command of all demonic powers and anything demonically powered will bend to my will?

Desmond: ...uhm... you must be lying...

James7: I am not.

James7 snaps his fingers and one of Desmond's war submarines explodes

James7: “Oops”... *smiling devilishly*

Desmond: This wasn't in the script – how are you able to do that?

James7: Because of this *pulls a rabbit's foot keychain out of his pocket* It was given to me by Galrek the Neutral a few hundred years ago...

Desmond: What is so special about a keychain?

James7: Galrek blessed this keychain and bestowed upon it a part of his life force, and his power to create convenient coincidences for he who controls the rabbit's foot...

Mustang: Man, you had to embellish THAT story, didn’t you?

James7: It’s not just the concept of time that’s weird in hell, Mustang – continuity’s pretty weird, too.

Mustang: Oh, that’s not just hell, that’s the whole NeS.

Desmond reaches for the keychain and snatches it from James7's hand.

Desmond: MWAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!

As Desmond laughs maniacally, a crackling can be heard, followed by a long scream of pain, then Galrek pops out of nowhere, landing behind Desmond, a large vicious-looking sword in his hands. slightly above and behind him, a crackling Thingy™ portal slides shut.

Galrek: Ah… yes… rabbit’s foot… in hands of bad guy… right!

With a quick flip of his hand, Galrek slices Desmond's hand off, his own formidable powers easily counteracting those of the rabbit's foot. As the hand arcs through the air, Desmond's laughter turns into a scream of pain, while, on the other side, James7 watches as a Thingy™ portal opens and shuts – and then Desmond's hand flies off, a Flying Demon of Bad Fortune swoops down, screeching in delight at the chance to spread bad luck, and instead swallows the hand and the rabbit's foot.

The interaction cause the two to annihilate each other, exploding violently... and wetly. As bits and pieces of Flying Demon of Bad Fortune rain down on the three, Desmond spins about to look at Galrek, James7 steps around Desmond to look at the new arrival.

Desmond: That was my snatching hand! How could you!!! How will I snatch things from my enemies now?!

James7: Where the… erm… Where did you get that sword?

Galrek: Ehm… found it. Sorry 'bout the hand, but that rabbit's foot isn't the sort of thing to let just anybody play with… which *rounds on James7 and Mustang again* I seem to remember telling you expressly not to do? Now, where is Gebohq? And Qhobeg… Got to talk to them… Just got back from another one of them trips through a writer's brain… Might've been more than one… Anyway, if you see Geb, tell him to go to hell and get his damn sword. Now, if you'll excuse me…

Galrek turned around, leaving James7 and Desmond to their own devices. Suddenly a plothole screamed down out of the sky, moving faster than any warning, and sucked Galrek into it, disappearing, not with a bang… not with a whimper… but with a noise that sounded suspiciously like "scooby-dooby-flooby"…

Our heroes stand around, astounded.

Roberto: What just happened?

TheBadger: I dunno, but it seems suspiciously like one of my vodka-induced hallucinations… *chug*

Mustang: Hmm… that creature, Galrek, must have come from a possible future. Time traveling will do that to continuity, you know – punch holes in it and such.

Desmond: I’ll say! Didn’t I just say that I’m not really here? How can he cut my hand off?

James7: Well, you started that, by grabbing something you couldn’t if you weren’t really here.

Desmond: Oh, right.

Erro: What gives, anyway, Desmond? Aren’t you supposed to be all serious and sinister? What’s with this semi-goofy side?

Desmond: Um…

The stress of all these nonsensical events is too much for the fabric of reality, and a plothole appears, whisking Desmond away to another secret base.

Galvenstein: Wow, talk about a cop-out on the writer’s part.

Voice from Heaven: HEY! DON’T GIVE ME THAT CRAP. I DIDN’T WRITE ALL THAT, SOME OF IT WAS COPIED AND PASTED FROM FLASHBACKS IN THE NeS! SO LAY OFF ALREADY. SHEESH…

Erro: Well, it looks like we’re done here. We’ll have to find Desmond another day. At least we’ve gotten all the other NeSferatu… even if that was what Desmond wanted anyway…

As the heroes traipse back through the cold to the Nautilus, Mustang lingers behind.

T13TE: Mustang? You coming?

Mustang: In a moment. I want to, uh, check for leftover magical traces…

T13TE rolls his eyes, but goes on with the others.

Mustang approaches a ruined pillar at the edge of the NeSferatu city, half-covered with newfallen snow.

Mustang: I know you’re there.

A voice drifts out from behind the pillar, a feminine velvet sheath over a deadly silver blade.

Female Voice: I will not surrender, if that’s what you’re asking.

Mustang: I wouldn’t dream of it. Just as I wouldn’t dream of killing you. Come out – please.

There is a moment of silence, then the snow shifts as a beautiful female NeSferatu glides out from behind the pillar. Mustang sucks in his breath. Her hair is long and dark, her eyes the color of amber, her lips red, and her cheeks pink. It is easy to see why an ancient wizard might have been entranced by her.

Mustang: Nyneve.

Nyneve: *cocking her head* Do you… know me?

Mustang: Only by reputation. My master… was Merlin.

A quiet pain seems to be peeking out from the beautiful NeSferatu’s eyes. Or is that just his imagination?

There is a bitter, mocking smile on her lips.

Nyneve: So… you would ask me to release his ghost?

Mustang shakes his head.

Mustang: I know better than to ask that. No, I only ask that you live, discreetly, as well as you can – in the hope that someday you will find it in your heart to release him… and yourself.

Nyneve looks at him for a long moment. Nothing of her feelings – whatever they might be – is revealed in her face or eyes. Then, without a word, she is gone, and not all of Mustang’s magicks can track her. He smiles.

(Next installment: November 27th, 1888 - the climatic night!)

1888 (November 27th)

Castle Simon. The Hall of Heroes. Mustang Ford's magical workshoppe.

BANG!

Mustang: Blast!

Erro: *coughing* Thats right. Exactly what it was.

Mustang: *grumbling and waving a hand in front of his face.* Indeed. Erase and correct: Damn! Too much slug zest. Highly volatile, you know.

Erro: No. I didn't. Remind me not to salt my garden this spring. What exactly is it you're working on?

Mustang: Hmm? Oh. A new potion. Not sure what it does yet. Sorcery Quarterly wants me to do an article on homemade recipes. This issue's theme is slug zest. Potions were never really my strong suit. I can never find the right grades when I need them.

Erro: Well, if you had a place to put them, you'd be able to find them.

Mustang: I do have a place for them, but a certain dynamic duo keep taking them for use as drink mixers or beer steins. Never put them back in their proper place. I find them and they usually reek of some beverage or another.

Erro: *blushing, cough* Anywhos, I came in here to talk to you about my son, Asa.

Mustang: Fine boy. How is the lad these days? Haven’t got to see him much lately. Catherine keeps him under constant watch it seems.

Erro: Actually, thats what I need to talk to you about. The boy has taken ill recently.

Mustang: Mmm. Too bad. But why dont you talk to Dr. Fleidermouse? He seems the more qualified of us. Degree from Caimdridge you know.

Erro: Caimdridge? Don’t you mean the Mad Scientists Society?

The wizard waves his hand dismissively.

Mustang: Same difference. You were saying?

Erro: You know I don’t trust these modern doctors. From what I can see they do more harm than good most of the time. I'd rather have a good reliable magic man at my back any day.

Mustang: Well, I must say I'm honoured, Erro. But really, what’s the problem? You know most of these childhood ailments clear up in a few days.

Erro: Yes, I know. It’s just the usual complaints. Fever, runny nose, congestion. Catherine wondered if you just had a general cure-all draught.

Mustang: Congestion... *thinking* Should have… Let me just…

Just then King Emp bursts through the door. He seems rather distraught.

Mustang: You seem rather distraught.

I SAID that already. *grumbles about wizards and short attention spans*

King Emp: Erro! It’s Catherine.

Erro: What is it?

King Emp: I got here as fast as I could. Had to leave Asa with Dr. Fleidermouse – and, uh, “William”. It’s been 20 minutes since she disappeared. Well, probably more like 30 now…

Erro: What do you mean, disappeared?

King Emp: Asa saw it all. I came when I heard him screaming. He said it was big men in funny black hats.

Erro: Desmond! That fiend!

He and King Emp rush out the door.

Mustang: You wont be needing that draught then?

Cue cool camera cut to Austria. Count Desmond's stronghold.

A lonely castle stands upon a desolate mountain crag, just waiting to be explored by the words and jabs of myself, the Narrator. A single man banging coconut halves together rides up the overgrown path to the castle. He is none other than our beloved Erro Simon II, founder of the League of Heroes and unsung hero himself.

Erro: *panting* Whew! Screw the Monty Python-like low budget, I'm gonna get an actual horse next time I go up this hill!

Yes, friends, this is the incredible, the amazing, the absolutely fearless daredevil who-

Erro: AAAAGGGHHHHHH, AAAGGGHHHH! It bit me! Gerroff, geritoff! *swats at the flea that bit him*

Yes, ahem. We now turn our attention to a peak not too far distant, where the rest of the League of Heroes rides their horses, waiting for Erro's signal.

T13TE: Hmm. It appears Comrade Erro is in trouble.

TheBadger: Is that the signal?

King Emp: No, but it will serve as a distraction that we can use as a cover to get in.

T13TE: But who will protect Comrade Erro?

King Emp: *voice grim* I will. *brandishes his longbow*

T13TE: Ah, of course, Comrade King.

King Emp: I told you, it's not "comrade", it's "your majesty".

T13TE: OK, Comrade.

King Emp: *sigh* I really wish I was partnered with James7…

Mustang: I find it odd, too, that James7 did not come with us. He mentioned something about a “node of the plotfractal” and that “I cannot interfere”, and then took off.

King Emp: Oh, just go already.

TheBadger: Come on, guys!

As they ride down the hill, King Emp watches them momentarily, then turns his attention back to the distant figure of Erro, who is vainly trying to kill the flea the bit him.

Erro: Yowza! It bit me again!

Suddenly, an arrow goes whizzing by his ear, nailing the flea to a tree. Erro turns to see King Emp on that far away peak, saluting him. But when he turns back around, it is with a groan.

Erro: *with a groan* Swell, just my luck.

Two bulky men in heavy plate armor with batlike wings and spiralled horns stand before him.

Bulky Man #1: Prepare to meet your maker.

Erro knows King Emp's arrows don't have a chance of penetrating their armor, and so flinches, closing his eyes as he prepares for the inevitable killing blow. Instead, he finds himself being hoisted up by the arms, one bulky man on each arm, and taken towards the castle.

Erro: Where. . . where are you taking me?

Bulky Man #2: We just told you. To meet your maker…

Erro recalls Mustang’s words, from so long ago – “They were hoping to jump-start the awakening of the NeS… And they very well may have jump-started it. After all, you are on the road to heroism and Charactership” – and shudders.

Inside Castle Desmond…

Erro: *flanked by two guards* So, Count Desmond, you're the one behind Catherine’s abduction.

Desmond: *fiddling with a device on his table* Very good, Ohq. Your insight serves you well. Tell me – *he holds up the device* – do you know what this is?

Erro: Of course. It's a silver nunchukus.

Desmond: Again, Ohq, very good. But this is no ordinary nunchukus. It is Mors Dei – Latin for "death of God". Yes, I see by your shocked expression that you realize what that means. This weapon is capable of killing a deity.

Erro: *in a strained voice* And which deity do you plan on killing, Desmond?

The room suddenly grows very chill as Desmond smiles grimly and replies.

Desmond: All of them.

Erro: Why? What do you hope to gain?

Desmond pauses for a moment. Then he turns to regard Erro with a malevolent grin.

Desmond: Ohq. Tell me what you think I am.

Erro: Easy. A vampire, a villain, a slimy piece of worm-ridden filth that will get no such pleasure from me!

One of Desmond's lackeys, a portly man named Lucas, with visions of starships in his head, takes note of that phrase. "Slimy piece of worm-ridden filth" is taken down in his notepad, to be passed on to his great-grandson George someday.

Desmond: True on all counts. Well, except for easy. I think myself a gentleman. Anyways, I'm not QUITE a vampire.

Erro: Then what are you?

Desmond: I am NeSferatu.

Erro: Don't you mean nosferatu?

Desmond: Didn’t you have this conversation with Mustang near the beginning of the story? No, Ohq, I most definitely mean NeSferatu.

Erro: What is that?

Desmond: Tell me, Ohq, have you ever heard of the Neverending Story?

Erro: Sure. It's in the prophecies of Nostradamus, and of course Mustang’s told me some about it. The greatest and most important story in the cosmos – and you killed my parents trying to jumpstart it.

Desmond: The point, Ohq, is that I live off the essence – the blood, if you will – of stories – never–ending stories in particular. I need that Never-ending Story in order to survive.

Erro: What does this have to do with us? The rest of the world? I mean, seriously. Killing gods? All these attacks?

Desmond: All my plans have dealt with building up to the birth of the NeS. I gave Teh Uber Blade to Matthias, for example, to bring betrayal to the mix – an essential part of any great epic. And with Mors Dei, the stakes are maxed.

Erro: So what's your plan now?

Desmond: Haha! You hope to stall for time, so your friends will come and save you and stop me, is that it? Very well, I shall humor you. Never-ending stories are the source of my strength. And YOU, my dear Ohq, you are the quintessence of the NeS. All my actions – and yours – have brought us to this junction. All the stars are in alignment, all the prerequisites fulfilled. I need merely force you to embrace and birth the story, and I shall be triumphant! *turning to the guards* Place him upon the altar.

The guards do so, and Count Desmond, the NeSferatu, prepares to unleash his foul plan, when King Emp rushes in, felling several lackeys with his bow.

King Emp: Not while I still have strength!

Desmond: You shall not have strength for long, my boy! Guards!

Together, Erro and King Emp make short work of the guards. As a pair, they are unmatched in skill, unrequited in bravery, and unhinged in sanity. They turn to face Desmond himself last.

Desmond: Insolent curs! You shall never win!

Lashing out with a bolt of power, he strikes King Emp squarely in the chest, knocking him unconscious to the ground. He does not wake up the rest of the battle, leaving Erro alone to fight the NeSferatu.

Desmond: Just you and me now, Ohq. Are you prepared to face the Devil?

James7: *hidden in the rafters above* I really wish he'd leave me out of this. I'm just here to watch.

Erro holds ready his whip in one hand and, in the other, levels his cross-shaped sword at Desmond, blood wet on its blade.

Erro: By the power of God, I will send you back to Hell, Count Desmond. Where you belong...

Erro charges, swinging his blade around his head to sever Desmond's own. With a guttural hiss, Desmond side-steps and takes flight. Erro strikes with his whip and grabs hold of Desmond's ankle, smashing him back onto the floor. Blade held high, Erro charges again, but Desmond pulls himself off the ground with unholy magick and yanks at the whip around his ankle, which Erro is still holding. Thrown off balance, Desmond leaps for Erro, smacks the blade out of Erro's hand and grabs hold of Erro so as to make him immobile. Erro grits his teeth in anticipation, his neck exposed... and is forced onto a wall, where Desmond proceeds to shackle him.

Erro: What are you waiting for?

Desmond: Still don't understand, do you Ohq? I am a NeSferatu. I do not feast on mere blood. I must ripen you first.

Erro: Ripen?

Desmond: Tell me, Erro, do you know where your love, Catherine, is?

Erro: What have you done with her? TELL ME!

Desmond: Nothing, dear Ohq... well, okay, I've done some prep work.

Count Desmond pulls out a remote and pushes a button. In all the science-fiction horror of the time, electricity sparks light into a previously dark side of the chamber, where tables of laboratory equipment can now be seen. Lying on a table in the middle is Catherine, her hair now white, and drilled in her temples are what appear to be receptors. She begins to awake.

Catherine: Where... where am I?

Erro: CATHERINE!

Catherine: My love? What's going on?

Desmond: Shhhhh...

Desmond grabs some complicated headgear nearby Catherine and proceeds to clamp it onto Erro's head.

Desmond: I drink not on mere blood, Ohq, but bloodink, the essence of story. Your blood flows through you with many hopes and dreams, with boundless potential, but it lacks the permanency found in bloodink. It lacks the pain that a pen scars on paper. But you are Ohq, and the bloodink can flow through you yet.

Erro: Enough of your nonsense. What science is this foul practice?

Desmond: The headgear? It's for you to truly know the thoughts that run through her mind.

Erro: So much confusion…

Desmond: All will be made painfully clear, soon enough. But there is one last thing I must do before we begin. I must give you… a choice.

Count Desmond then unlocks a nearby safe and brings to light an urn in his hands, with the words "Mother" written on it. Desmond frowns and turns the urn around so that the words cannot be seen.

Desmond: Inside this contains the dust of that which once existed. This is no ordinary dust, of course. It carries many stories. Some say it was once dirt from the Garden of Eden, some say it comes from the end of existence, and that the universe started anew afterwards, and some even say it even gave birth to the Darkside, that which wanders the earth to feed on souls. What is known for certain is that it has a will of its own, and it has the potential to grant incredible power to those that wish it, but at the cost of abandoning principles they hold most dear. I myself have contemplated its use, but fear its price and futility, and I'm quite certain you will feel the same. So I pass this on to you now. This choice that will be left before you should ripen you quite well.

Desmond then opens the urn and pours out its contents, which hangs in an eerie manner over Erro. Placing the urn aside, Desmond proceeds to drag Catherine to the alter.

Erro: No…

Erro hears a strange voice… from the dust? From inside his head? It is a passive voice, yet intimidating.

Voice: Yes.

He watches in horror as the NeSferatu strips Catherine of her clothes. Her screams of pain begin to mix with screams of pleasure. Erro sees Catherine's thoughts as painfully clear as he sees her physical form with his own eyes.

Erro: Why? Oh God, why?

Voice: You can stop all this. Give up your desire to do good, your desire to serve the story, and be given the power to stop Desmond.

Erro: No…

Voice: Morthrandur … “It is given to the living to die.”

Erro appears to struggle with the shackles, shaking his head in desperation. At the height of Catherine's final yell, there is a sparkling that surrounds Erro, and with unnatural strength, he shatters the shackles. Desmond turns, and Erro throws his hand out. Both are too late, as Count Desmond falls to the floor, lifeless, like a ragdoll. Erro rips off the headgear and grips his forehead in agony, falling to his knees. Catherine sits up, trying to cover herself with her ripped clothes, but seeing her husband, faints.

James7 rushes from the ceiling onto the floor. Uttering a vile, ancient language, he manipulates the Dust back into the urn and seals it shut. Holding the urn, James7 looks at Erro with heavy thought.

James7: You sacrificed the story for the sake of your beloved? And here I thought you had the strength to do what it took. If I weren’t the Devil, maybe I’d understand.

He turns to leave, then spots the silver nunchukus.

James7: A god-killer, eh? Perhaps I could use this…

He takes Mors Dei, then peeks his head around the doorway before abruptly disappearing.

Erro recovers from the agony of the headgear – although the agony of what he just endured is still fresh with him – and walks slowly, painfully over to the body of his dead foe. Count Desmond seems fragile in death, rather than overwhelmingly powerful and evil, as he did in life. And Erro himself is forever changed. His hair is long and white, streaked with gray. His skin is covered with wrinkles. Age spots speckle his flesh, and his joints creak. He has been aged fifty years in moments.

A chill fills the air as the light fades, and the room grows darker and darker. A roiling blackness descends like a thick, impenetrable fog, crackling with energy, screaming with the souls of the lost. Erro looks up, unafraid, at the lowering menace.

Erro: And you are?

A thousand shrieking voices echo through the chamber, filled with lust and hate and malice.

Blackness: --We are one. We are the Darkside. We are its echoes. Its past. Its present. Its future. Its empty moaning soul and its blackened festering heart—

Erro: What are you here for?

Darkside: --We have come to claim the NeSferatu—

Erro: *smirking humorlessly* “It is given to the living to die.” Take what is yours.

Darkside descends upon the NeSferatu’s form, drawing out his – its? – soul. If such a creature can be said to have a soul. After a minute, the Darkside ascends into the ceiling, where it disappears.

A moment passes, and Erro is almost certain he hears a shrill scream that might have come from Desmond’s throat, were he still alive.

Another moment passes, and the League of Heroes comes rushing in to find a dead Desmond, an unconscious King Emp and Catherine, and a prematurely aged Erro.

Erro: *picks up Catherine gently in his arms* Wake up King, and let’s go.

T13TE: Tovarish? What happened?

Erro pauses in his stride.

Erro: We will never speak of this night again.

T13TE: But—

Erro is already walking down the hall, murmuring consolations to his sleeping wife. After a moment, the other heroes file out after him, including a profoundly embarrassed King Emp.

TheBadger: One hit? The great King Emp was downed in one hit?!

King Emp: Oh, shut up.

-----------------------------------------------------

Timeless

In a time that is not time, yet concurrent with time, with the date November 27th, 1888, there is nothing but blackness. Suddenly the darkness is disturbed by a flight of pale screaming ghosts as a new presence enters this domain/entity.

Desmond: Where… where am I?

A thousand moans answer him, forming a gigantic coherent voice.

Darkside: --You are part of the Darkside now, one-called-Desmond—

Desmond: Then… I failed to create the story that would give me eternal life?

Darkside: --Yes—

Desmond: Excellent. All my actions – from killing the Ohq’s parents to ravishing his wife – were meant to precipitate the story. But I knew my efforts to draw in the elements of an epic and force the Ohq to birth the NeS might yet be in vain – so I made my efforts evil enough that you would claim me even if I failed. I have succeeded. I am now immortal within you. I will never die!

Darkside: --Immortal, yes—

Desmond suddenly feels a chill run through his non-body.

Darkside: --Was eternal existence ALL you considered—

Desmond: What—?

And then a million screaming souls swarm the NeSferatu, feasting upon his shriveled soul, and his scream joins them…

-----------------------------------------------------------

1898 (January 10th)

In an *ahem* undisclosed land, there is a relatively new academy, nearly 10 years old. The NeSU – Neverending State University. A college for heroes, founded by Dr. Fleidermouse. The first student to enter its doors is now in a personal training session with the founder himself.

Dr. Fleidermouse: Now, to review. How do you take down a deranged supervillain?

Asa Simon: Cut off his supply routes, pinpoint his base, and infiltrate his domain.

Dr. Fleidermouse: What? What nonsense are you spouting, son? No, I’m sorry. William?

William: …

Dr. Fleidermouse: Correct! I hope you were listening, Asa.

Asa: Um… I can’t really hear him from way over here?

Dr. Fleidermouse: *sigh* The correct answer, as given by William, is to be as lazy and procrastinating as possible, and let the Storywriter do the work of beating the villain for you!!

Asa: Oh… kay?

Dr. Fleidermouse: Have you been dozing off in Professor Starr’s Philosophical Principles Underpinning Preliminary Storywriting?

Before young Asa can think of a good excuse, there is a pop of displaced air as a DeLorean comes roaring back in time into the large classroom. The window of the driver door rolls down, and TwistedSpasm peeks out.

TwistedSpasm: I’m on a mission to fulfill history by obtaining the flux capacitor blueprints for the S.S.T.T.A.! Tell me, is this 1870?

Dr. Fleidermouse: Actually, it’s 1898.

TwistedSpasm: Darnit! Well, third time’s the charm.

The DeLorean roars off further back in time, leaving only flaming trails behind. Dr. Fleidermouse turns back to Asa.

Dr. Fleidermouse: Now, then, we—

Asa: Wait a second, I remember the stories about Agent TwistedSpasm. Why didn’t you just give him the flux capacitor blueprints now, instead of sending him back to 1870 to go through all the rigmarole?

Dr. Fleidermouse: Well—

Asa: Was it to prevent a time-traveling paradox?

Dr. Fleidermouse: Actually—

Asa: Or to ensure that the League would have his help to fight off major-league villains in the past?

Dr. Fleidermouse: Really, my boy, I just did it for the fun of it.

Asa blinks.

Asa: The… fun of it?

Dr. Fleidermouse: Of course, dear boy! Don’t you understand any of Professor Katarn’s lessons on Hilarity in Heroics?

At that moment, Mustang rushes in.

Mustang: Asa! It’s your father. The time’s finally come.

*************

Castle Simon.

Ten years have passed since the death of Count Desmond and the premature aging of Erro Simon II. Erro, though only 43, lies on his deathbed, dying from his premature old age.

Even now, though frail, he lies at an impressive length of almost 7 feet - despite his aging, he kept growing - lying swathed in a dark blue, almost black, robe. Even now, his strength is unparalleled - not his physical strength, but his purity of heart and hunger of stomach. Erro fixes his eyes on someone behind King Emp, who sits at his bedside alone.

King Emp: Erro, there's no one there.

Erro: Yes… only… an old friend…

King Emp: Erro, stay with us, just a little longer. Your son and wife are almost here.

Erro: King, my oldest, and dearest friend, give them my love. Please.

King Emp: *choking back tears stoically* I… They know.

Erro: *sighing out his last breath* … Morthrandur…

King Emp sits there for a long time, his face impassive. He leans forward and kisses the dead forehead, before pulling the hood over the pallid face.

King Emp: Be at peace, son of Gondor… er, Castle Simon. For I… I will not.

The funeral is short but big. Erro is much loved by the people, who turn out for him, just as he had devoted his entire self to them. At last every one leaves, save for King Emp, who stands before the mausoleum. On the doors of the mausoleum are etched these words.

~~~~~~|~~~~~~
~~~~~~|~~~~~~
---------|---------
~~~~~~|~~~~~~
~~~~~~|~~~~~~
~~~~~~|~~~~~~
~~~~~~|~~~~~~

Dream a dream,
And see with angel's eyes,
A place where we can fly
Away.

Fly with me,
Upon a shining star,
Across the morning sky we will find
Elysium.

King Emp: Farewell, old friend.

He turns and disappears into the night.

Far away, WereBadger’s howls of grief are heard. He howls not just for the passing of Baron Erro Simon II, but for the League of Heroes, for the passing of an era.

The moon casts its pale splendor upon Erro Simon II’s mausoleum. The door shimmers. A tall, dark shadow appears at the stone entrance, before disappearing into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning

In Castle Simon, the remaining members of the League gather round a round table in council. Erro’s chair is taken by his son, Asa, nearly out of his teens. Catherine remains in seclusion, grieving. Sir Chylde’s chair is empty, of course – and so is James7’s, for he has not been seen since 1888.

And King Emperor XIV is nowhere to be found.

Admiral Randall I: We all knew this day was coming.

Galvenstein: Yes. Ever since… that day… in 1888, we’ve fought vanishingly few battles. And Erro never came out with us again.

T13TE: Do not speak ill of him, tovarish. Anyone can be a hero. But Erro chose to be a man, and take care of his family.

Galvenstein: I do not disagree. But the question—

Roberto: The question is, can we still be a League?

Asa: You’re all welcome to stay here as long as you like. My home is yours.

TheBadger: Thanks, kid. But without Erro, we’re not nearly as effective. His leadership gave us drive and direction. I end up fighting most of our battles while the rest of you bicker over strategy.

Admiral Randall: I beg your pardon. But if everyone else would just listen to my tactical assessment, we’d have the villain in the bag in record time, every time!

Roberto: Says you.

As the heroes begin bickering once more – as they have been doing more and more for the past ten years – Mustang looks on but contributes nothing. He knows the truth.

The League is dead.

It has been dead for ten years. Erro’s passing last night only made it official. Mustang opens his mouth to say something to this effect, but is interrupted by Catherine storming in, banging the doors open.

Catherine: Alright! I want answers! Which one of you… you fiends did this?

The heroes stare at her, aghast.

Catherine: You know what I’m talking about! It had to have been one of you.

Asa: Mother?

Catherine: Who stole my Erro’s body?

The implication of her words catches on to them, and everyone rushes out to the mausoleum.

The stone door is ajar. And the sarcophagus inside is empty. Uncertain, suspicious, the heroes begin looking around at each other, surreptitious at first, then openly.

And they realize whom among their number is missing.

T13TE: *in a quiet, deadly voice* Where is King Emp?

They automatically turn to Mustang, whose eyes are already glazed blue by his ranging arcane sight.

Mustang: Nowhere. He’s… nowhere.

Roberto: Already back in Armenia?

Mustang: No… not there. In fact...

His eyes snap back into focus.

Mustang: His tribe. It’s gone.

Admiral Randall: Gone?

Mustang: As if it never existed.

TheBadger: His tribe? He had a tribe?

Galvenstein: Of course! He wasn’t called King Emp for nothing… *frowns* Was he?

Mustang: You see, it’s starting. Even our memories are being affected. King Emp’s entire kingdom has vanished – as if it never existed.

Asa: How?

Mustang: I… don’t know.

Catherine: I want to find him! Make him bring back my Erro! Make him…

She is now sobbing and pounding on Mustang’s chest.

Mustang: I’m sorry, Catherine.

The League had died ten years before. This day marks its funeral. And in the weeks ahead, one by one, the heroes leave, each going his own way. Until only Catherine and her son Asa are left. Even RawHaggis is gone, dead of old age seven years ago.

Elsewhere, Elsewhen

The lush forests of Armenia. Not OUR Armenia, but AN Armenia nonetheless. In a wild glade is nestled a cottage. Inside we see a beautiful woman… and a familiar looking man, in green and brown leather, with a bow on his back and long dark curls overhanging royal blue eyes.

But this King Emp has the look of laughter on his face, and a bearing not born of hardship, but of satisfaction.

King Emp(?): Harem Girl #87, your cooking, as always, is the best.

Harem Girl #87: *smiles modestly* Even compared to the royal kitchens you once dined in, my husband?

King Emp(?): Even better – for yours is salted with love, my wife.

Harem Girl #87 rolls her eyes, but grins anyway. She seems to see a shadow at the window out of the corner of her eye, but when she glances that direction, she sees nothing.

King Emp(?): Darling? Everything alright?

Harem Girl #87: Of course. I’d better call in our son. *calls out door* WILLIAM!

There is indeed a figure standing outside the cottage window. Though rendered invisible, Harem Girl #87 had almost spotted him. The light of the sun, despite his inconspicuousness, reveals a twin of the happily married King Emp within the cottage.

This ‘twin’ is OUR King Emp. He does indeed have long dark curls and piercing blue eyes, but he has cast off his crown.

Having watched the scene within the cottage with wistful eyes, he turns to see the boy running towards the house at his mother’s call.

(Our) King Emp: So… this is the son I would have had, had Harem Girl #87 lived…

The running boy slows, then stops. He sees our King Emp – something he should not have been able to do.

William: Uh… can I help you?

(Our) King Emp: You… see me?

William: Of course! I see lots of things. I see this short, round fellow named Dr. Fleidermouse all the time! He talks to me, and I talk to him, but Mom and Dad think he’s just imaginary. Oh, well. *peers closely at our King Emp* Say, you look an awful lot like my dad… only scarier.

(Our) King Emp: I...

Harem Girl #87: WILLIAM! I’m not going to call again!

William: COMING, MOMMA! Say, mister, you wanna come in and have dinner with us?

Our King Emp is torn. He could merge with this world’s King Emp, become him, share his bliss – a bliss that has been robbed him in his world, one in which his love and best friend are dead and in which his son never lived.

(Our) King Emp: I’m afraid not…

William: Okay. Bye, mister!

(Our) King Emp: Goodbye… son…

Our King Emp turns away. He had read many books in his lifetime, strange and eldritch tomes of power and philosophy. He’d even acquired some of Mustang’s runic volumes. Since the tragedy of 1888, he’d delved even deeper into their study, and realized how much power was latent within him.

For he was a powerplayer.

Of course, powerplayers are always eventually beaten down by the story. But King Emp had realized – whoever furthers the story is tolerated, no matter who he is. Even a powerplayer.

And he thinks back to the ceremony he’d conducted last night…

--------------------------------------------------

1898 (January 11th) – 12:01 a.m.

In his chambers in Castle Simon, King Emp shrugs off his cloak. He’s read the books over and over. He knows what he could do. The nefarious NeSferatu, Desmond himself, had first hinted at it, that long-ago conversation in Austria.

He lights a single candle, then places it on the floor. Next, he sinks down to the floor, crosslegged, in front of the candle. He lowers his eyelids until they are just barely open, and the flickering flame is all he sees.

King Emp reaches deep inside himself – but also outside himself as well, casting about for thoughts that are his, yet not his own.

And he receives an answer.

Voice: Who-calls-on-me?

King Emp: It is I, King Emperor XIV of Armenia.

Voice: Name-me-and-I-shall-answer.

King Emp: You are the quintessential King Emperor. The flame of myself that burns within all alternate versions of myself, as I am alternate versions of them.

Voice: Yes-I-am-you-who-will-be-you-who-are-and-you-who-were. I-am-the-Grand-High-Emperor. What-do-you-ask-of-me?

King Emp: I ask for power. The power to seek ultimate power, the power to bend the story to my will, that I may prevent all loss and pain. I ask for the unbeatable combination of strength, of full-fledged powerplaying that yet furthers the story.

Voice: You-cannot-lead-your-people-if-you-quest-for-ultimate-power.

King Emp: I know. I would send them to another world, an alternate universe, where they may be shepherded well.

Voice: Done. Now-come-there-is-yet-one-choice-you-must-make-one-possibility-you-must-see-before-you-may-take-on-your/myself.

King Emp: I am ready.

Elsewhere, Elsewhen

And so King Emp had found himself in this peaceful glade. Where he has found a chance to be happy?

Voice: You-would-reject-happiness?

King Emp: *looking after William as he disappears into the cottage* It is meaningless. All three of them will die, and then where will their happiness be? No, I must have powerplaying, that I may bend the story to my will, by furthering it at my whim. Only then, with that ultimate power, may my happiness be preserved, safe for all time.

Voice: So-be-it.

A silvery-white light surrounds our King Emp, puissant and heartbreakingly beautiful, an aurora borealis of power and destiny. The light fades away, but the continuing aura of power that now surrounds our royal hero remains. He is now clad in a black tunic and trousers, girt with a royal red sash, topped with a swirling black cloak beneath scarlet shoulder pauldrons.

He holds out a hand tentatively and concentrates – and a brilliant white sword of power appears in his hand. He smiles, satisfied.

King Emp: No longer am I King Emperor XIV of the Armenians. Now, henceforth and forever, I am Highemperor!!

There is a blaze of silvery light, and the one called Highemperor vanishes into all the worlds that never were.

1902 (April 3rd)

The landscape surrounding Castle Simon is bleak and dead. Winter has clung to the land late this year.

But Mustang Aurelius Ford cannot feel the cold as he walks up to the double doors of the manor. He cannot feel any sensation now. That – among other things – is the price he paid to become immortal, earlier this year.

He does not ride a horse, for now animals shy away from him. Another price.

But price matters to one who has already sold his soul to the devil?

Asa: Mum, look!

Catherine: *blinking in disbelief* Mustang?

Mustang: Yes.

Asa is piling luggage into a somber black stagecoach parked outside the manor. Catherine leaves off from haggling prices with the coach driver to regard Mustang curiously.

Asa: What a coincidence! Mustang, today-- Today, we’re leaving Castle Simon.

Mustang is silent. Catherine looks at him penetratingly.

Catherine: It’s not a coincidence, is it?

Mustang: No. I knew you were moving out today.

Asa shifts his feet uncomfortably. Catherine sighs.

Catherine: The manor holds too many memories. I need to get away from them. Especially that memory of Badger sticking his tongue down my throat in 1877…

Mustang: I understand. What were you planning to do with the manor?

Catherine: I… don’t really know. *looks shrewdly at the wizard* But you have a plan. Don’t you?

Mustang bows.

Mustang: But of course! I’m going to turn it into the world’s first strip club!

Asa: Hah! TOLD you that would a good idea, Mum!

Catherine: …he was joking, son.

Asa: Oh.

Mustang: I’m going to seal it away, Catherine, in a nether dimension where no one will see it again – until once again a League arise that need a hall of heroes.

Catherine: Fine. I don’t care. I just want to leave this place. Asa!

Asa jumps, and gets into the stagecoach.

Mustang: What a momma’s boy…

Asa: I heard that!

Catherine: Mustang… Take care of yourself, okay?

Impulsively, she hugs him, but shivers and draws away.

Catherine: Mustang – you’re so cold. Your skin is like ice.

Mustang smiles thinly but offers no explanation.

Mustang: I’ll be around for quite some time, Catherine. Please… try to be happy.

Catherine: I’ll try, Mustang. But I don’t know if I—

Asa: *from within the stagecoach* Mum! Look what I found! Cheese and crackers!

Catherine leaps into the coach.

Catherine: Gimme!

The coach driver giddyaps, and Catherine and Asa are borne away. Mustang waits until the coach has gone down the road and past the bend, then turns back to the manor that is dubbed Castle Simon.

He spends the next several days drawing runes all over and around the castle-like manor, never sleeping, never eating. He doesn’t need to anymore. But his preparations are complete, he says the trigger word, and watches as the entire manor glows an eerie green, then dissolves into mist, leaving behind only the foundations of a once-great hall of heroes.

Mustang: Until you are needed again...

He continues staring at the foundations laid bare, and begins talking. To no one in particular, just out of a need to express himself.

Mustang: Erro… you could have birthed the NeS. You could have been a Character™. If only you’d given everything for the sake of the story… like I did, instead of letting Desmond manipulate you.

He sighs.

Mustang: And yet I cannot fault your choice, even as I bear mine.

**************

In the 8th dimension, Castle Simon suddenly appears in an eerily empty forest. The Devil, James7, happens to be wandering the 8th dimension that particular day, and espies the manor.

James7: Aha! This fortress, in this inaccessible location, would make a great hideout! I’ll dub it – TEH SECRET BASE OF JAMES SEVEN!

He pauses.

James7: “James Seven” is so last century. Why, it’s 1902! I think I’ll start going by… Jim. Yes. Jim7. Let’s try again. *ahem* BEHOLD – Teh Secret Base of—

SPLAT!

Bernard the First: Teehee!

Bernard the First’s pigeon laughter is cut off as it’s suddenly fried by a ball of hellfire.

Jim7: Who’s laughing now, birdie? Ha-ha!

SPLATSPLATSPLATSPLATSPLATSPLATSPLATSPLAT!!!

Bernards the Second, Third, Fourth, and Fifth: Teehee!

[center]THE END…
…Until 1999[/center]

(I decided to just copy and paste the rest as this was pretty much the climax moment anyway. With that said, if anyone wants to add to this by throwing in extra events or whatnot, by all means do so!)