This section exists specifically to ensure there is no ambiguity or ambivalence in what, precisely, the challenge requires of each participant. If you have any specific questions which are not addressed here, please send them to @Terminal for resolution.

For The Fourth Labour, I have asked you to write about a character being forced to leave their allies behind.

Q. My character must be free of vice save for ambition?
A. Your character need not be a saint nor even particularly nice, but they must not be ruthlessly amoral in nature. The only great failing your character might have should be a hunger for greatness.

Q. My character has to be presented with an opportunity they feel they must pursue?
A. The opportunity may be anything of an appropriate nature. A chance occurence, an offer they can't refuse, a secret burning amongst cinders. Whatever it is, your character must be compelled to seek their objective or goal.

Q. They must be unable to chase it alone?
A. Unlike the previous labour, if the character acts alone they will be unable to succeed. They must be assisted by another, or other individuals.

Q. They must be incapable of claiming it alongside others or repaying the favor?
A. They may need help to get what they want, but for reasons which I leave up to your telling they cannot share it with those who helped them - and neither can they offer any form of gratitude for doing so. A thankless task.

Q. What was that about a punishment?
A. If your character cannot claim their prize and leave their allies behind with nothing, then their roles must be reversed. Their allies must claim the prize and leave the character behind with nothing instead.

Q. Can I have it so that both my character and their allies fail?
A. No. While complete and abject failure is always amusing, here it violates the spirit of the challenge. One must succeed at the cost of the other. However, I will permit for one or the other to be victorious and still meet with an unfortunate accident if that's what you want.

Q. How long can my story be?
A. As long as you feel is necessary. I will read any and everything submitted, irregardless of length, and write a review on it. Do not let the short three-day judging period dissuade you. If you have a 800,000 word brick for me, I will take it. Similarly, extremely short stories are also welcome. It is entirely possible for segues as short as three paragraphs long to clear the challenge.

Thanks again to @mdk, and the entire RPGC crew for helping with scheduling for The Twelve Labours!

Great thanks to @mahz and the other members of the guild staff for helping to renovate the guild and enabling the features that allow us to reward contestants and to advertise our presence.

By @Psyga315.
[Author’s Note: Much like The Death Of Nicholas Santos, this is a crossover story focusing a lot on OCs instead of canon characters. Though in this case, Madoka Magica (written by Gen Urobuchi) heavily plays a role into this, as well as Tokumei Sentai Go-Busters (written by Yasuko Kobayashi) and Kamen Rider Fourze (written by Riku Sanjou). And if you’re wondering, this story is in an Alternate Universe of Journey Through The Multiverse, hence why Nicholas is alive.

I will also warn: this story heavily abbreviates and truncates what would otherwise be an entire character arc for the purpose of getting to the point.]

---

I remembered the first time I met her. I was at the bus stop in the middle of a rainy night, waiting for a bus to take me away from the city. I sat on the bench. The busses weren’t coming for a long while. That’s when she came. I saw her. She had long, reddish hair and brown eyes. She wore a simple pink jacket over a white dress. She was heavily soaked in the rain. I instantly got up and escorted her into the bus stop.

“Hey, you okay?” I asked her. She shook her head.

“N-no… I’m trying to find someone.” She tugged onto my sleeve. “Can you help me find him?” She asked me. At any other moment, I would have rejected her request as I would any random person to passed by me at the bus stop and asked me for random stuff, usually change. However, I looked at her pouted lip and teary eyes. She wasn’t faking her expression and really wanted me to help. I didn’t even groan when I told her yes.

Fortunately, I had my umbrella, so I opened it up as we looked for her someone. Because of how tiny the umbrella was, we had to be extremely close to each other. Like, to the point where our hands are touching each other as we held the handle together. However, she didn’t mind. She was busy looking for someone named Gary. I, however, felt something. It was weird, as it was my first time seeing her, but I felt moved by her graceful appearance.

Eventually, we found Gary at the beach. He was walking into the ocean when we found him. The girl instantly let go of the handle and ran to him. I saw her pull him away and pin him onto the shore as the rain stopped. As I saw her embrace him and cry about how people cared about him, my lips weighed themselves down as I felt tears being formed in my eyes.

To this day, I wasn’t sure if her kindness moved me to tears or if I misinterpreted her saying “I care about you” as some sort of love confession. A day later, I ran into her again and we sat down for a brief explanation. Her name was Yumi Yashiro and not too long ago, her parents adopted an orphaned kid by the name of Gary Renton.

The boy ran off mainly due to obvious teen angst over his dead parents. It was to the point where I was like ‘Why not just develop a thing for bats and prowl the night while you’re at it, you know?’. But Gary is not the important topic here. It was Yumi. Yumi loved Gary, yeah, but as a brother. However, I was too shy to outright tell her I loved her.

Yumi and I spent a couple of months talking to each other, and each passing day, I continued to fall in love with her beautiful locks, her adorable button face, and her cute voice. I treasured her kind-hearted personality and nurturing spirit. However, it just made me resent myself for not being able to confess my feelings.

Eventually, I did tell her I loved her… right before I found out a dark secret about her. Yumi was not part of me or Gary’s world. In fact, she shouldn’t even exist in any physical plane. She was a Goddess. At least, she was before some crazy stuff ensued.

Long story short, girl who had the hots for her kidnapped her and made her human again, then a bird came and ate her world, thus splitting the two up. The Goddess wound up in our world as Yumi while the kidnapper set up a new world to be an idealistic paradise. We barely knew this when we went on a world-hopping trip, though I had realized the truth prior to the day one of our friends turned traitor and handed Yumi over to the kidnapper.

Gary and I reached this new world. By that time, Gary was well aware of Yumi’s true identity too. Before we ever stepped foot into the illusionary city that was her hometown, we stared at each other. Somehow, we both knew that there were unspoken words that were needed to be said.

“I love her.” I said to him.

“I love her too. Even if she isn’t my sister, I’ll make her happy in any way I can, just as she had made me happy.” Gary reached for his pocket. At that instant, I knew what he meant.

“You’re aware that if you free her and give her back her powers, she won’t exist in our world again, right?” I asked her.

“I know. But if that’s what she wants, then I’ll give it to her.” Gary pulled out a red cylinder device with a bright red button on it.

“It doesn’t have to be that way. We can save her, just not let her ascend. We can take her and bring her back to our world. There we can resume our lives.” I slowly went for my wrist-worn device, keeping my eyes on Gary’s switch.

“No. We can’t. Our life isn’t Yumi’s life. It isn’t Madoka’s life.” Gary said. It was at that instant I knew that our goals were not the same. With that, I ran towards the town. I could have a chance to reach for Yumi. A chance for me to save her without returning her powers and erasing her from existence.

“GET BACK HERE!” I heard Gary cry as I heard the button be pressed. I knew I had only seconds before he would fire a warning shot from me, so I activated my device.

IT’S MORPHIN’ TIME!

My device called out as a pair of yellow sunglasses popped up from the device. My dark red armor formed as I screamed out: “LET’S MORPHIN’!” and activated the completion of my transformation. I ran as fast as I could, but I felt an arrow pierce my armor. I fell to the ground. I turned around as I saw Gary in his transformed state. Part of my body shivered upon looking at the old battered bird’s skull for a mask, his all black look save for a fiery red target cross on his belly and wing-like flames coming from his back. He had a crossbow that looked seemingly fused to his arm pointed right at me.

I had to remind myself that Gary wasn’t a villain, but at the same time, I had to remind myself that I was fighting for Yumi, and that if Gary wins, Yumi will forever be lost. I tapped onto a symbol on my chest.

TRANSPORT!

A camera appeared in a flash of orange data. I grabbed it and folded out parts of it to make a gun. I fired at Gary as he burst into flames. When they died down, I saw a slightly more heroic figure before me. Red plated armor dominated most of the color scheme, though there were silver plates by his chest. I got up and continually shot at him as I ran forward. Gary did the same and ran for me, though he lit up on fire and flew. The flames became more pointed, like an arrow head. Realizing the imminent clash, I powered my systems up.

“VOLCANIC ATTACK!” I shouted as I flung a digital hologram of a mecha cheetah at the crimson arrow. The two projectiles clashed and caused a massive explosion. I ran head first into it and threw my fist. I smirked as my fist hit Gary’s head, though I felt my gut get punched. I briefly looked at his hand at my gut, then to Gary.

“… Why did it have to come down to this?” I muttered. Gary became a close friend of mine shortly after my acquaintance with Yumi. While it was Yumi that brought us together, I had moments in our journey where I enjoyed his company as much as or even more than Yumi. I frowned. Gary hadn’t thrown a punch as well. Part of me wondered if he was thinking the exact same thing.

However, we knew this stalemate wouldn’t last longI threw the first punch, but I saw Gary’s arm move faster. Even if I landed my punch, Gary had enough time to punch me twice in the stomach. It felt like hot knives were stabbing into my flesh, even if I knew he wasn’t impaling me. I tapped into my Dark Buster system and my arms excreted a darkish red smoke. My arms became just as fast as Gary’s. Soon, it became a contest of who could land a blow as our fists collided into each other.

I’d bet Hirohito Araki would be damn pleased with our battle if one of us just sputtered out “ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA” as we punched.

However, the battle didn’t last long. With one final punch, we were both pushed back. Gary pulled out something: a red ribbon. It was Yumi… No… It was Madoka’s ribbon. He held it like he would a bow string as he was bathed in a golden light. I realized this was the final attack. I tapped onto my chest insignia again.

TRANSPORT!

I summoned a pair of binoculars that I folded into a scope/barrel combination for my gun. As I aimed in front of Gary, my bifurcated weapon spoke up.

IT’S TIME FOR SPECIAL BUSTER!

In a brief moment, I felt remorse for what I was doing. I’m about to kill one of my friends just because he would rather let the person I loved disappear forever than let her live with us. I know Yumi would never want this to happen. I would never want this to happen. I shed a tear. I knew that Gary was determined to let Yumi have her messiah complex, even if it brings suffering to those she loves. I knew there was only room for one on the top. Only one person of us two can determine the fate of Yumi… And it was going to be me.

We both fired at the same time. I shot out a beam while he shot a flaming arrow. Much like our previous clash, the two projectiles blew up, though the smoke cleared faster than normal. The one large arrow had now split into multiple, tiny arrows. However, while they were aimed at me, they weren’t moving. As if they were waiting…

I instantly realized what he was going to do and I began to fire wildly at him. He ran towards me, then leaped into the air, foot extended to do a flying side kick. However, it wasn’t me he kicked. Just as I feared, he kicked one of the arrows. Both he and the arrow flew to me at accelerated speeds, speeds of which I wasn’t prepared for. As one kick pierced my armor, Gary leaped into the air and did the same thing for the next arrow, and the next, and the next, until there were no arrows left.

I stumbled back as I saw sparks light up my suit. I tried to stand my ground, but my legs gave in and I fell. As I hit the ground, I could see in my helmet’s HUD that I was suffering a system overload and that I’ll eventually receive the Tokusatsu equivalent to a Blue Screen of Death:

A large explosion that Michael Bay would absolutely adore.

Despite the comically sized explosion, I survived, though I was out of my transformed state. In a mix of my feelings of pain and knowing that I’ve lost, I curled up into a fetal position and cried. I cried for what I believed would be a minute before I felt embraced. It was Gary who held me.

“I know it hurts… But you know Yumi would have wanted us to work together.” Gary said.

“I couldn’t… let you…” I tried to speak, but my lungs ached. I could only let out sobs.

“Yumi loves us both, and I doubt that she won’t ever forget that if she decides to return to her duties as a Goddess.” Gary said. My crying had stopped, though my sobs didn’t.

“I’m… I’m…” I knew what Yumi would choose. Even if we hadn’t stormed the metaphorical castle to save her yet, I knew that Gary would come out on top and retrieve the stolen power. I knew what he would decide too. “I’m gonna miss her…” With that, I admitted my defeat. Gary held me tightly and whispered:

“I’m going to miss her too…” With that, he picked me up and carried me over his shoulder to Mitakihara City. “But know this: You fought me, thinking that you’d have to save her by yourself. However, I’m here to tell you…

You are not alone.”

By @WiseDragonGirl.

The treasure hunt

A young man dressed in the fine clothes generally worn by the noble class was walking through the busy streets of the city Arnheim. His dark brown eyes looked at the people with little interest. These people were all going on with their normal lived and it was boring. He noticed a creature who seemed to resemble a bear more than a human. The two-legged creature with chestnut fur covering it’s body and dressed in nothing more but a blue loincloth was carrying a leather bag. Obviously a messenger of some sorts.

“Looking at the Bardug, Lemitsa?”

The black-haired noble turned around to look at the owner of the voice, his dark-brown eyes met another set of brown eyes, but with a hint of green in them. “Mikhal,” Lemitsa greeted the other young man. “I see you are back in town.” His eyes moved to the lute on Mikhal’s back. “Are you still living off your music?”

“Not only that,” Mikhal said with a cheerful sound in his voice. “I am collecting a bag full of coins so I can ask for the hand of the fair lady Catheryn in marriage.”

Lemitsa nodded and lay a hand on Mikhal’s shoulder. “I will treat you to a drink, my friend. It is good to see you again.”

With a nod of his head Mikhal agreed to that and together they walked to one of the better taverns in the city. It was a tavern Mikhal didn’t visit frequently. While the quality of the drinks was good, they came at a price Mikhal was unwilling to pay, as he had a better purpose for his hard earned coins. And the owner didn’t want simple minstrels playing at his establishment to earn a coin or in exchange for a meal. Only those with name could play there and Mikhal knew he wasn’t among those yet.

As they were sitting at a table, waiting for the waitress to bring them the cider Lemitsa had ordered, they talked. Mikhal told Lemitsa what he had done since they had part ways and Lemitsa filled Mikhal in about his life too. Unlike Mikhal, who told passionately about his endeavours, Lemitsa stated in an almost businesslike way the most notable of events and kept everything that seemed trivial to himself.

It was after each had a glass of cider in front of them when Lemitsa looked at Mikhal’s lute with a thoughtful expression.

“I would say I will give a penny for your thoughts,” Mikhal said with a smile, “but I would rather hold on to it.”

“Would you be interested in a treasure hunt?” Lemitsa asked

“A treasure hunt?”

Lemitsa leaned back in his chair to look at his friend. “Indeed, a treasure hunt. Lady Trialca was bored, so she placed a treasure in a safe hiding place, probably a trinket of some sorts.” He waved the words away, what the actual treasure was didn’t matter. It was the hunt that interested him. “She gave out two clues of the whereabouts,” he continued, “and her servant gives the key to anyone who can solve his riddle. And there is a reward of course, the man who can find her treasure will be paid twelve silver coins.” He smirked when he saw the look in the eyes of his friends. “I thought you would like that. We will share the prize, six coins for you and six for me.”

“Why would you join in this hunt?” Mikhal asked as he reached for his glass. “You are not in need of those silver coins, nor does lady Trialca spark your interest.”

“Boredom,” Lemitsa said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I have nothing better to do and to find a way in is a puzzle that kept me occupied. I do not care for the reward, but it is a challenge and I want to be the one to win in. I have the key and I know where to look, but the final challenge is one I am unable to clear by myself.”

Mikhal drank from his cider and nodded. “I will join you,” he told his friend after swallowing the liquid. “What is the challenge?” After asking the question he lifted the glass to his lips once more.

“Liador guard the entrance.” Lemitsa made an amused sound when he noticed how Mikhal almost choked in his cider and put the glass back on the table while coughing. “I take it you have heard about them?” he inquired with a calm voice as he took his own glass and drank from it.

Mikhal coughed again and nodded to show he knew about them. He knew those monkey-like creatures were deadly, many warriors had been torn to shreds by them. For that reason he wanted to stay away from them as far as he could. If warriors died at their claws, why would a simple minstrel like him go anywhere near them?

“I found a way to get past them,” Lemitsa continued after drinking, “but I need your help to do so. There is a lullaby that should make them fall asleep.”

A sceptical look came in the eyes of Mikhal when he heard that. Making them fall asleep with a song seemed too easy. These were deadly creatures, surely their weakness would not be something trivial like that, right?

“There is no need to look at me like that,” Lemitsa sighed. “I did not come up with this.”

“Are you sure it will work?”

“I am,” Lemitsa said with a confident sound in his voice.

Mikhal drank from his glass as he thought about it and nodded. “Then we will go look for the treasure,” he agreed. “Give me the song and I will learn it. Are the lyrics in our language?”

“There are no lyrics, only a melody,” Lemitsa explained. “I will fend off the Liador until they fall asleep. It should work, but I have not witnessed it myself.”

With a nod of his head Mikhal showed he understood and was willing to go along. Lemitsa slid a piece of paper towards Mikhal, who pulled it further towards him to look at the melody drawn on it. It wasn’t a difficult one, Mikhal thought he should be able to memorize it rather quickly.

***

The next day Mikhal and Lemitsa stood in front of a white marble building, the walls were adorned with carvings of mermaids. This was the entrance to the crypt. Lemitsa held the key in his hand, but he examined the carvings with a frown. Mikhal stroke the wood of his lute nervously, but he stopped when he seemed to recall something.

“This is the place where she hid something?” Mikhal asked.

Lemitsa turned his attention to his friend, his frown even more obvious now. “It is. Why do you sound so surprised?”

“It surprises me she managed to hide her trinket in there.” Mikhal muttered as he looked at the door. “Maybe she had a Bardug with her...”

“A Bardug?” Lemitsa asked as he turned to face Mikhal directly. “For what reason?”

“Liador fear Bardug,” Mikhal said, he seemed genuinely surprised he had to explain that, if Lemitsa had found this song that would put them asleep, the link with the Bardug should have been there to find too.

“That is new to me,” Lemitsa muttered. “How do you know that?”

Mikhal shrugged. “I talk with people, I met a man who went down here a quarter moon ago. He told me he was here a moon ago to retrieve the dagger of G’narv and how the Liador reacted to the Bardug with him. Since the Liador were already there when he entered this crypt, I assume they were placed here to guard the dagger.”

“Was the lost dagger of the old Dwarven king here?” Lemitsa asked and he saw how Mikhal nodded to confirm that. “I wish I would have known that...” He shook his head as if he wanted to clear it from that thought, it was irrelevant to the situation at hand. The dagger had been here, but was gone now. There was no reason to dwell on that. One thought did linger in his mind, if the Liador were already in the crypt before lady Trialca hid her treasure, whatever it was, she must have known a way to get around them too. She must have read the same book as he had and use the song to get through, or there was a Bardug companion. The strength and ferocity of Liador was well known and trying to fight through a hoard of them would end up in death most of the times, unless the warrior was truly great. He knew for sure the lady would have chosen a non-violent way, the two he knew of were almost laughable simplistic. Perhaps this was a test of knowledge rather than muscle, even if most seemed to assume otherwise and saw it as a test of strength. It would explain why almost none of the other treasure hunters had returned and those that did had been badly injured. Unlike others he had taken the time to read up on Liador. As he thought about it Lemitsa looked at the carvings once more. Those carvings were interesting and since his friend seemed to know more about this crypt than he himself, he decided to inquire about that as well. “I was under the assumption lady Trialca “Tell me, Mikhal,” he said as he gestured to the marble walls. “Do you know what the importance of mermaids is? Are these carvings here as a clue?”

Mikhal looked at the carvings and shrugged once more. “All I know is that the crypt was build one decade ago,” he began explaining. “The noble who build it was supposedly remarried to a mermaid after his first wife died and this is her tomb.” Mikhal turned to look at Lemitsa as he continued his story. “When she got ill she asked to be laid to rest here instead of being returned to the sea, as she chose to be close to her love. There should be a statue of a mermaid under which her remains are buried. The man himself was supposed to be laid to rest in this crypt as well, but he was placed in the family crypt in Arnheim instead. It is said that in the night of the blue moon we can hear her sing to her love.”

Lemitsa nodded and opened the door with the key. While it was a nice little legend, it was irrelevant to what they were going to do. He lit a torch and drew his sword. While he did carry one and practice with it, he rarely used it. That was one of the perks of being noble, weaponry was more for show than anything else, but at the same time he was confident in his skills with it.

With the torch in one hand and a sword in the other, Lemitsa carefully went down the stairs, closely followed by Mikhal. A horrible stench came up from below and Lemitsa’s face contorted with digust.

“Should I start playing?” Mikhal whispered.

“Focus on descending these steps first,” Lemitsa answered. “Start playing when we reach the end.”

It only took a few steps more before they reached the end of the stairs and the beginning of the corridor. In the corner were the remains of a man, almost unrecognizable. Most likely one of the previous fools who thought they could take on the Liador. A hissing sound came from the darkness and the sound of claws scraping stone came closer quickly. Lemitsa held his sword ready and he was about to say something to Mikhal, but he heard the first gentle tones coming from his lute.

The first of the Liador jumped up, but Lemitsa hit it with his torch and it yelped in pain as the flame scorched the fur and skin below it. The scent of burnt fur was an almost pleasant change from the stench. Lemitsa looked at the hissing Liador as the melody filled the corridor. He noticed how the creature sat down and swayed gently from one side to the other on the rhythm of the song. “Unbelievable,” he whispered. While he trusted the book he had gotten the information from, a part of him had doubted it would really work. But it did.

Together the two friends walked through the corridor, Lemitsa up front with the torch and Mikhal followed while playing the lute. Every time he reached the end of the melody he just started from the beginning. As the passed the Liador they noticed most had fallen asleep, but some were still awake and swayed to the music. Mikhal felt uneasy about walking here, but so far it seemed it worked. He prayed to the Goddess of music it would remain that way. He tried to be as silent as he could so nothing would disrupt the melody. The last thing he wanted was to wake the creatures while they were surrounded by them and nowhere near close to the exit. He tried to ignore the stench as much as he could, but the penetrating smell was impossible to ignore.

When the end of the corridor came in sight, they stopped and for a moment Mikhal forgot to play, but a poke from Lemitsa quickly reminded him to continue the melody. A Bardug was standing next to a wooden door and he looked at them.

“Only one can enter and claim the treasure,” the Bardug grumbled. “There is no sharing.”

“But...” Mikhal began.

“That will be me,” Lemitsa interrupted him and he stepped forward.

“What?” Mikhal whispered to Lemitsa and once again he stopped playing. One of the Liador close to him opened an eye as the music stopped, but when it noticed the Bardug come closer, it walked back until it disappeared in the darkness of the corridor.

“Surely you agree I deserve it more than you,” Lemitsa said as he frowned at Mikhal.

“I risked as much as you did!”

“There was no risk, the song worked,” Lemitsa retorted. “And be honest, I discovered where the treasure is, I managed to get the key to the crypt, I found the melody that would grant us safe access. I kept us safe from the first Liador before they started dozing off. You did not contribute much, Mikhal. I could have taken any musician with me, or a Bardug if would have known about how Liador fear them. If anyone deserves to claim the treasure it is me. I did most of the work and I will not walk away without anything to show for it.”

There was a moment of silence in which the two friends looked at each other. “If you want the honour of claiming the treasure, fine,” Mikhal grumbled finally. “Just remember we are sharing the reward.”

Without answering to that, Lemitsa entered the room, leaving Mikhal with the Bardug in the corridor filled with Liador.

The Bardug beckoned Mikhal. “Come closer, human,” it grumbled to him. “It’s safer close to me.” As if Mikhal needed more reason to do as he was told, a screech sounded behind him and he quickly went to the Bardug. It seemed the Liador were waking up now he stopped playing. He glanced towards the closed door, he would have liked to enter the room as well instead of staying behind here. Even with the Bardug next to him and the lute in his hand he felt like a prey being surrounded by predators.

Lemitsa looked around in the room, he noticed the statue of the mermaid Mikhal had mentioned, but he also noticed a statue of a warrior with the sword held up. Then there was something that didn’t belong there, a young woman was sitting in a chair. She was dressed in a bright red dress with a wide skirt and black, curled hair reached just over her shoulders. He recognized her as lady Trialca herself and she leaned on one elbow as she looked at him.

“Where is the treasure?” Lemitsa asked, placing one hand in his side as he frowned at her.

Trialca smiled at him. “In the chair,” she said with a sweet voice. “For finding a way in here you will get the privilege of courting me.” She giggled softly. “I can appreciate a clever man.” She moved to lean on her other elbow and looked at Lemitsa curiously. “Now, do you want to claim the treasure, or accept the reward of silver for finding it?”

The eyebrows of Lemitsa rose, but soon a smile appeared. It seemed they would not be able to share the reward after all. While Mikhal was correct with his assumption he had little interest in the lady, that was before he discovered what elaborate scheme she had put up to find a man to her liking. He knew for sure people had died in the attempt to find the treasure, but lady Trialca seemed unbothered by it. This made him appreciate the lady more than he did before. Not that he agreed with leading decent men to their death, but courting this lady could prove to be an interesting experience and he was easily bored nowadays. With a confident smile on his face Lemitsa walked up to the chair and gently took the hand of lady Trialca. This was a treasure he was willing to claim and he would claim it alone. Lemitsa gave a kiss on her hand and looked at her pleased smile. As far as he was concerned, it was bad luck for Mikhal it turned out this way. The Bardug was there, Mikhal would be safe from the Liador. And since he had done everything but play the song to get them here, he deserved this and Mikhal should be grateful to him for being allowed to join in on an adventure like this.

By @Holmishire.


The dead body of a teenage boy lay before him, unmoving on the dusty stone.

He was thick and a little overweight, but with some muscle beneath the extra fat and a powerful build. Sweaty black hair was plastered at odd angles, sent into disarray during the scuffle. Not a single bruise, cut, or scratch adorned his body. Joshua would have described the scene as serene, had he not just killed the guy himself.

On the boy's wrist was a single, loosely-attached silver band—and upon that band was etched a single word: Invulnerability. Joshua glanced at the band on his own wrist, upon which was written the word Anchoring. Unlike the other boy's band, his was iron.

It was generally accepted that silver-banded contestants had more powerful gifts. Joshua could pull things towards them, attract other objects. The kid he had just killed was unbreakable. Other silvers had immense strength, or could fly, or move at extreme speeds. Ultimately, an iron's only hope was to band together with other irons, and fight as a team.

Somewhere behind him, four other boys were attempting to recover from the battle, each with their own iron band.

Sitting on a large rock was Jackson, a surprisingly tall redhead, whose band had been etched with Reflexes. He was supposed to be their best fighter, able to dodge any attack thrown at him and with the skills to send any enemy tumbling over themselves. Unfortunately, he had been seriously injured in a skirmish with a dangerous silver named Max. He had attempted to help, but only ended up straining his leg injuries further.

His long arm was draped over the shoulders of a much smaller boy, Jeremy, who was desperately trying to calm his frantic breathing. With his Precision, he had thrown countless pebbles with deadly accuracy, but none had done a bit of damage.

Further off, sitting alone, was Henry, a much younger boy with Navigation etched on his iron band. With neither any natural talent for fighting nor a useful ability to make up for it, he had simply opted to cower away during the attack.

Finally, standing still in the centre of the clearing was Marcus. The first contestant Joshua had encountered since awakening in this goddamned tournament, they had quickly become friends—and an effective team. With his Fluid Manipulation, Marcus could redirect air currents and create tiny vacuums. A seemingly useless power, but he had perfected the art of unbalancing his targets at key moments, and was no wimp at hand-to-hand combat either.

None of these boys could remember a thing from before they awoke in the tournament. They had their names, and they had their bands, and they knew of the tournament.

Very little was known of the tournament, but two rules were certain.

Contestants with iron bands were to kill fight until all silver-banded contestants were dead.

Contestants with silver bands were to fight until all other contestants were dead, taking the bands of their foes as they went.

Killing this silver had been difficult. Very difficult. Against an unbeatable foe, it was only a matter of time before a misstep was made, an error taken advantage of, and an ally dead. Only after a long and gruelling fight did Joshua manage to grapple they boy to the ground, and suffering repeated blows all the while, anchor his hand across the boy's nose and mouth long enough for him to asphyxiate.

He reached for the dead boy's band.

"Don't you fucking dare," challenged Marcus, watching him from behind.

"Max has five bracelets, three of them silver. We don't stand a chance."

"He's fought all four of us off before. You can't take him alone."

Joshua's grip tightened on the band. "No, I can't. But he could have."

Tears were now streaming down Marcus's face, and he was having trouble keeping himself from sobbing as he spoke. "We'll kill you. You know we'll have to."

A twisted smile crept onto Joshua's face, and his own eyes started to tear up. "I won't go down that easy."

"Please."

"Your way, we all die. At least now, it'll either be you, or me." He slid the band off the boy's limp wrist, and attached it to his own, feeling a brief surge of power. "Run. Train. Find the others." He turned to face his friend, stumbling towards him. "When—" he mumbled. "When I come back, I promise I won't go easy on you."

Marcus embraced him, attempting—and failing—to laugh. "Truth be told, you've always been an inconsiderate ass."

Joshua grinned, disentangled himself from the embrace, and with a pat on his friend's shoulder, turned to leave. As he passed through the stone entryway, he couldn't help but dwell on that last promise he'd made. When I come back... Truth be told, I lied.

My name is Thomas Cole. At the beginning of the 20th century, when my story takes place, I was a tenured professor of history at Princeton. This was that golden age of the great American university, during which the young nation’s schools cemented themselves and greatly expanded their philanthropic influence, and in which effort my colleagues of the time considered themselves pioneers of academia. By chance, my professional career aligned itself such that I gained an advantageous position in this movement, being neither too young to shape the future of higher learning in the United States, nor too old to long practice my trade in the new world we sought to create. Thus, it was to the greatest surprise of my compatriots that, in the summer of 1927, I took an indefinite leave of absence in order to pursue a personal interest.

I could tell no one then the story I now relate. Such were the terms of my arrangement with Mr. Paul Mackenny, who solicited my aid in a most ambitious quest. Mr. Mackenny was himself a practical student of history, and an archaeologist with benefactors among the world’s leading museums. He recruited me over the correspondence of several letters, in which he candidly praised my own literature and various cultural aptitudes. Though at first I resisted, by strenuous flattery, Mr. Mackenny at last won me into his excursion. He insisted upon two things – my utmost secrecy, and my haste. “The doors of opportunity,” he wrote, “are closing.” What opportunity lay behind them, he promised only to say in person, though I understood that my knowledge would be essential to the mission’s success.

It was thus that I made my journey to San Diego by train in June, having in my mind the intent to enter into conspiracy with a strange man, whose only identities to me at the time were by reputation and handwriting (each of which were superb). During my trip I guessed in vain to what purpose Mr. Mackenny had called me. I tried also to will myself back to Princeton, but perhaps because I failed in the former task, I was unable to convince myself in the latter. I felt again in myself the spark of youth, and the inexorable lures of mystery and adventure grasping firmly about my heart.

I first met Paul Mackenny in the library of the state university at San Diego. Our first impressions of the other were mutually suspicious. He, of my age and constitution, which suspicions I was at length able to alleviate. I was wary of his furtive manner of dress and communication. The letters, he said, were necessarily vague in light of a competing party, which sought advantage from the federal government. He wore a weathered sailor’s disguise because he presumed this party monitored his activities. He told me he had given them the slip in Portland by sea, and had now to maintain the subterfuge throughout the first leg of our journey.

Here at last he explained his objective. Later, Mr. Mackenny encouraged me to journal the adventure and all its major points, so that we could compare our notes later. What follows is my own recollection of that first conversation, supplemented with Mr. Mackenny’s own notes:

“Doctor,” he said when our introductions at last left us feeling familiar, “You are familiar with the Portuguese missionary, Estêvão Cacella. He appears in your history of Catholicism in Asia.”

I took a moment to recall what I could, and nodded. “He was no Cortez, though he is remembered more fondly.”

“More fondly, but perhaps less often,” Mr. Mackenny agreed. “I believe Cacella was mistaken – but not entirely wrong. There is an ancient kingdom, above the Himalayan mountains. An as-yet undiscovered civilization of fantastic cultural significance throughout all of Asia. I propose, with your help, to find this kingdom, and to recover artifacts of unspeakable value to our shared field.”

(Here I feel I must pause to relate the true history of Estêvão Cacella, who from 1614 to his death in 1630 worked fruitfully as a Jesuit missionary in India. He labored primarily in Kerala but, in 1626, undertook an expedition from Bengal, which took him through a civil war in Bhutan and into then-independent Tibet. There he searched for the newly-fabled kingdom of Shambhala, but was unsuccessful, and concluded that it must have been an odd translation for the kingdom of Cathay. At the time our travels, Shambhala was largely unregarded in the West, though the reader may now be familiar with it thanks to the work of fiction by James Hilton.

These and other negligible details were in my mind as Mr. Mackenny proposed our journey.)

I asked Mr. Mackenny where he hoped to find Shambhala, and what artifacts he expected to recover. I cannot recall the exact wording of these inquiries, but they produced in my new companion a singular air of excitement.

“Cacella was close – very close. In 1921, while chronicling lost settlements in Tartary, I spoke at length with the locals of Hindu traditional teachings. They told me of a mystical chest, containing four divine treasures, which came to earth during the Yarlung dynasty.” (This would have been around the second or third century AD.) “Chief among these relics is the Cintamani Stone, which in their superstition holds tremendous power. It can grant its users power, wealth, and all manner of worldly success. Cacella was probably aware of this story, but he ascribed it only to a religion which he believed, necessarily, to be false. Thus his search took him to high monasteries, where if such icons existed, their existence would be common knowledge. When he failed to find them there, the Catholic Church considered this proof that Shambhala was nothing more than a myth, and they never investigated it any further.”

I felt as if a revelation was nearing, and asked, “What have you found?”

Here he opened his leather-bound and dog-eared journal to a sketch, and indicated with his finger the significance of each carefully-drawn line. “This is Mount Shishapangma, west of Everest. Northwest of it lies a valley, and many smaller peaks.” He traced these with his index finger. “While digging in Nepal, I happened across a peculiar rock fragment, which an expert later revealed originated from a meteorite. The location of this fragment, and the surrounding discoveries, lead me to believe that a significant event did occur, in that region, and in the appropriate timeframe. This meteor shower could have become the basis for the Cintamani Stone. Now, look here.” He directed my eyes to an indecipherable shape on his drawn horizon, then flipped the page. “A native guide drew this. It’s a cave, hidden behind the mountain. And here,” he tapped, “buried in snow, The natives did not know their significance, but this drawing is unmistakable.”

I told him that in this matter, I sided with the natives.

“Craters,” he explained. “Meteoric craters, concealed for over a thousand years by snowfall. I was able to excavate one such crater, to confirm my theory. Do you know what I found?” He raised an eyebrow, and I did the same. “Nothing. The meteor had been removed, with primitive tools, eons ago. The Cintamani Stone fell here, and was taken to Shambhala. But there remains no sign of Shambhala, here or anywhere else in the region.”

I thought very carefully about his evidence, and he allowed me time to consider it all. “The Himalayas are forbidding,” I said at last. “It is possible that Shambhala – if it existed – could be hidden within the mountains.”

“Yes,” Mr. Mackenny agreed. “Possible – and many have searched. No evidence has been found. I believe that the kingdom is not in the mountains at all – but underneath them, in a network of caves as deep and complex as the mountains themselves.”

“And this cave, drawn here, is the entrance?”

Mr. Mackenny’s face became mysterious. “It was.” He paused, and looked over his shoulder before continuing in a whisper. “I convinced one of the natives to take me there and examined the cave for myself. It was caved in.” Here he lowered his voice still further. “Caved in – by human hands, and from the inside.”

At this revelation, I felt I could no longer sustain any thoughts of turning back. Mr. Mackenny had assembled compelling evidence of a civilization long lost to history. We talked a good deal longer about the veracity of his claims, and I was left feeling not only satisfied in the truth of his account, but irresistibly drawn into his endeavor. I promised to offer all my assistance in carrying out his quest, and after compiling a list of supplies to acquire, I was made to understand his plans for how to proceed, which I will relate in the coming narrative. We meant to set sail for Australia within two weeks, but were delayed by weather, and so it was on August 3rd that our journey began in earnest.



I spent the following weeks below decks of the Louisiana, an American merchant ship making for the port in Sydney with a small cargo of spirits and grain. I passed the time carousing with the captain and Mr. Mackenny, who had between them some arrangement each man seemed to find most profitable. While alone, I began several pedantic primers for the various Eastern cultures we were bound to cross, though none of them proved useful for anything but kindling. At times when the captain was preoccupied with matters nautical, Mr. Mackenny and I conversed about our coming trials, and about our personal lives. We also drank, and generally established between ourselves a strong comradery which we hoped would serve us well in the days to come.

On one night, a rolling storm turned us off the notion of drink, and, hoping to distract myself from seasickness, I pried Mr. Mackenny concerning a detail he had seemed reluctant to address.

“In your letters,” I would say, “and when we first met, you spoke of competition.”

“Ah,” he would groan. “It’s nothing.” Or, “We’re clear of them now, pay it no mind.” At last, when it felt as if the ocean storms would never end, and I would ask forever, he relented. “There is another party searching for the Cintamani Stone. Fanatics. They’ll never find it.”

“Fanatics?” I asked. He simply groaned and held his stomach. “Searching for the stone itself – not for Shambhala?”

He sighed. “A Russian. Nicholai Roerich.” I told him I had heard this name before. “He’s a painter. Or an archaeologist. Or…. I don’t know. Leave me alone.”

I did, but I thought about Roerich for several days. I knew him to be involved in both culture and politics – a painter, and a patron of historical sites across Russia. However, no matter how much I strained, I could not fathom his involvement with the Cintamani Stone. Later, before we made our port but after the storms had subsided, Mr. Mackenny decided to reveal the full story, since he had already begun telling it when ill.

“Roerich began as a painter,” he explained, “but became obsessed with the occult. He traveled all over the world, preserving ancient castles and buildings of whatever significance. It seems philanthropic, and I suppose it does serve that purpose. But I think he only does it to protect occult sites from destruction.” I chuckled at the outlandish claim, but Mr. Mackenny made it clear he was very serious. “Did you know he is a hypnotist?” I shook my head no. “His paintings can affect the mind.” Here he provided several supporting statements to which, I am ashamed to say, I paid little attention. “Roerich fled the Bolsheviks when they took power, and came to America with his wife and children. She’s like him.”

“Fanatic?”

“Yes.” There was a silence, but for the creaking of the ship. “Doctor Cole, this may be difficult to believe. The Roerichs are firm communists, as well as eastern mystics and occult practitioners. They are searching for the Cintamani Stone right now, with the full support of both President Coolidge and Chairman Kalinin of the Soviets.” When I asked how he had managed such support, Mr. Mackenny replied ominously, “He wrote them letters.” I was reminded of his supposedly-hypnotic paintings, but quickly I put that out of my mind.

“Roerich fled the Soviets,” I said, and then remembered, “He even wrote anti-communist literature.”

Mr. Mackenny simply shrugged. “In any case, his expedition is currently at large. He means to find the stone and use its power.” I said it was a ridiculous notion. “The point is that he believes it. And he means to find it. We must find it first. And that, Doctor Cole, is our competition.”

We landed in Sydney on September 1st. Wesley Pembroke, a British companion of Mr. Mackenny, met us there. Mr. Pembroke fancied himself a Company man, even though the EIC was dissolved eleven years before his birth. Nevertheless, he carried the old flag as he commerced all across the Indian Ocean, and spoke in boisterous tones through his thick moustache. Mr. Pembroke would carry us to Bangladesh – smuggle us, if necessary, among his foodstuffs – and return to port when summoned. He also saw fit to arm each of us with pistols, knives, rifles, powder and shot, and some additional kit to replace my own gear, which he saw as inferior. It was immediately clear to me that Mr. Pembroke was under the impression that we were marching into Burma. I made no effort to correct him.

Mr. Pembroke also furnished us, when asked, with the news that a party under the leadership of one Nicholai Roerich had passed through Britain on its way to St. Petersburg, or so said his connections in the Royal Navy. Mr. Mackenny, deeply troubled by this, pressed his old friend for details, but these were sparse, as the rumor was only hearsay. As we marked off calendars in our heads, we determined that the Roerich expedition must have a headstart of several weeks. We supposed, though, that they could not possess comparable intelligence on Shambhala, and we considered ourselves still to have the advantage towards finding its entrance. We guessed these matters in private. We also guessed that there was little time to spare, and so we asked Mr. Pembroke to make all haste. Swiftly we were carried to Bangladesh, and our first steps on dry land there took us straightaway to the BR depot, where we purchased tickets for the line heading north.



We would travel the third leg of our journey, from Bangladesh north into Bhutan, and there purchase a caravan of camels and labor. However, as the train would not depart for several hours, we decided to capitalize our time in the subcontinent by speaking with various locals, and this necessitated the hiring of a willing translator. Mr. Mackenny had planned to forego such services in favor of discretion, having some contacts in Nepal with whom he preferred to work, but I believe in hindsight, he would profess this deviation was providence of some sort.

We found our man in the local parish, a ramshackle yet somehow very civilized outpost of the Catholics in Dhaka. Mr. Benevici was his name; a strapping youth, perhaps 23 years old, who seemed by appearance to have missed his calling in the military. The lad possessed simply the most brilliant mind for language I have ever encountered, and no small yearning for adventure. He was entirely ignorant of the story of Estêvão Cacella, as with the mystery of Shambhala, but required only a few details before he was soundly convinced to accompany us at any price. He told us that he considered himself blessed by God with the opportunity to explore “the wonders of heaven on Earth,” and refused any share of the findings, insisting instead that we produce a small donation for the upkeep of the parish in his absence.

We put his services to work immediately, returning to the train station by way of the nearest monastery. Mr. Benevici was welcomed there with the highest courtesy, and made introductions for each of us, so that we enjoyed all the hospitality the Buddhists could offer (such monasteries, of course, not being known for any particular worldly comforts). Through Mr. Benevici, I interrogated several persons of varying stature concerning the history of kingdoms in that area. Their accounts agreed entirely with the historical narrative already composed in my mind, so that ultimately our visit offered no new insights about the kingdom of Shambhala. Mr. Mackenny produced a lead by asking about the Cintamani Stone directly. From one of the youths, a converted Hindu, we learned that this stone was associated with what that religion called “Mleccha,” a mountain people said to be very dangerous. Armed with that new information we sought an audience at a nearby Hindu temple, but Mr. Benevici was unable to gain us access. With our time drawing short, we gave up on the Hindus and headed back towards the depot.

“Do you know of the Mleccha?” Mr. Mackenny asked.

I related what I could. It was an umbrella term for barbarians in the subcontinent, although it was possible that at one time the word may have referred to a single tribe or clan. In common parlance, our small company could be considered Mleccha – foreign, impure, a lesser people. Mr. Benevici asked if it would be considered an insult, and I assured him that it would. At this he simply laughed. Later, he related to us that his congregation often referred to the parishioners as ‘the Maleckas,’ and they had always understood it to be a term of endearment, even calling themselves by the same in their letters to Europe.

We arrived at the depot with fresh supplies for our new companion, and thirty minutes to spare before our departure. As I was loading our luggage into the car, I became aware of a commotion on the platform, and a woman shrieked. I had a pistol in my belt, and I drew it as I came outside to see what was the matter.

When I emerged from the car with my pistol drawn, the scene was thus: Mr. Mackenny was positioned in front of Mr. Benevici, with a pistol in each hand. Mr. Benevici, unarmed, had one hand on Mr. Mackenny’s shoulder, and with his other, gestured wildly to the natives, and spoke in their tongue. From his movements I guessed that he was directing them away from danger. At the other end of the platform stood numerous white sailors, each brandishing rifles and blades. There were six guns in total, one of them a blunderbuss, and on the wielder of this weapon I fixed my aim, fearing the collateral damage he might cause if he should fire. For the moment, no one made a move, and we stood there, locked in a standoff against superior numbers and firepower, as the station emptied about us.

At length, a new man stepped onto the platform at the far end, whom I recognized as our ally, Mr. Pembroke, though it was immediately clear that he was an ally no longer. He paced behind the sailors in a manner that emphasized they were his men, and that he could order them to fire whenever he pleased. He did not command us to lower our weapons, and for my part I doubt I would have complied, if he had. Instead, he kept his position, and spoke confidently, in warm tones laced with an unmistakable malice.

“It appears there’s been some mistake, Mr. Mackenny,” he declared.

Mr. Mackenny made a show of brushing it off. “Well,” he said, sounding a bit timid, “we’ll try not to hold it against you.” I smirked at that. Mr. Pembroke did not.

“Have you lost your mind?” he fumed. Then, jabbing a finger at the BR train, he continued, “Unless they’ve moved Burma, I daresay you’re heading in the wrong direction.” Here he took note of Mr. Benevici, who was quietly urging our companion to choose his words carefully. “You there,” he said, pointing with a naval officer’s sword. “You were not on my ship. What is your purpose in all this? How came you to the country?”

“He is our translator,” I interrupted, not wanting to risk our secrecy on untested nerves. “We only met him today. He can tell you nothing.”

“A translator, eh?” Mr. Pembroke asked, not taking his eyes off the lad. “What languages does he speak?”

Here Mr. Benevici spoke for himself – boldly, I might add – in rich Italian words which I imagined to be most unbefitting a member of the clergy.

Mr. Pembroke laughed and shook his head, evidently believing we had hired a translator who spoke no English. “Mr. Mackenny,” he went on, “as you clearly have no intentions of setting foot in Burma, am I wrong to presume you have no intentions of paying me with the treasures you promised?” Mr. Mackenny was silent. “May I remind you that you are standing on British soil, sir. I can have you all arrested for stowing aboard my ship without pay.”

I was certain that Mr. Pembroke had no intentions of entangling himself with the law, as I supposed that he was a routine smuggler. Mr. Mackenny responded on a different tack: “If you do that,” he said, “the Russian will reach the treasure first, and you’ll get nothing.” I thought perhaps the appeal to Mr. Pembroke’s avarice was too blunt, but it seemed to produce the desired effect.

“We discussed a share,” Mr. Pembroke began, but was immediately interrupted.

“I made it crystal clear that there will be no share,” said Mr. Mackenny.

“A price, then,” the sailor said impatiently. “You may consider my price doubled, or you may accompany me to the stockade immediately.”

“Fine, it is doubled. May we board?” Mr. Mackenny seemed the least bit interested in the cost he had just assumed.

Mr. Pembroke, surprised, said, “Fine? Ha!” evidently having expected some resistance on the matter. “Perhaps I should have asked for more.”

“Whatever you mean to extort from me, do it quickly,” said Mr. Mackenny. “Every moment we waste is…”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Pembroke, dismissing the warning with a wave of his hand. He gave an order and his men lowered their guns. Mr. Mackenny did not, and so neither did I. “Well? Off with you, then, scamper on,” said Mr. Pembroke.

“You first,” I said, shifting my aim from the blunderbuss to the captain and narrowing my eye. He frowned at me, then laughed, gathered his men, and sauntered off the platform with an insufferable wave of his arm.

“Best of luck!” he cried over his shoulder.



The train’s departure was uneventful and we were silent. The tracks ran north along the Brahmaputra river. The season being dry, this grand river delta was somewhat unimpressive; however, to all familiar with the region, it is known to be most fearsome in its floods, which routinely claim thousands of lives at once. That day, it behaved, and we unwound our minds from the rush of the preceding drama.

After some time had passed, the river forked north and the railway followed, and Mr. Mackenny began to rub his temples. He was thinking aloud, although quietly, and we couldn’t make out his words. I supposed that he must be coming to terms with the Englishman’s new fee, or perhaps trying to concoct a scheme by which to avoid paying it. I offered a poorly-formed plan. He shook his head.

“Don’t worry about Pembroke,” he said. I asked if the captain was better known for his bark or his bite. “I’m not concerned about either. I mean to pay him in full.”

“What, then?” asked Mr. Benevici, seeing that our friend was still troubled.

Mr. Mackenny seemed torn, whether or not to include us in his dilemma. At last he relented. “When he left us on the platform, did either of you get the impression that he trusts me?” We exchanged glances. “He must be keeping an eye on us. He must have slipped a man onto the train.”

We talked the matter over and decided that it was probable. In all that commotion, someone could have easily gotten aboard unnoticed. As we suspected to encounter the Roerich expedition ahead of us, we agreed that it would not do to have Pembroke at our heels, and we discussed how best to dispatch the unknown tracker. It was decided unanimously that we should confront him aboard the train, upon crossing the British customs and control checkpoint. Until their inspection was complete, we could not act, for fear of being removed from the train and losing ground on Roerich.

Thus paralyzed by the inspection, we began to discuss the road ahead, for Mr. Benevici’s sake. We meant to make our way to Thimphu, the capital of Bhutan, by rail or road, before setting out west on purchased camels. Mr. Mackenny would manage the materials, while in the meantime, Mr. Benevici and I would probe the area for stories about the lost kingdom. I would compare whatever myths, legends, or relics we could find against the known record of history to evaluate their worth. We would set out as soon as Mr. Mackenny’s affairs were in order, and refine our search area to reflect any new information. The intended course was northwest, following the Himalayas across Tibet, where we expected to encounter and evade the Roerich expedition.

Miles and hours passed, and at last we submitted ourselves and our papers to the British troops who boarded the train. They examined each car in turn, concluded that everything was in order, and sent the train on its way. This took place in the extreme north of Bangladesh, leaving us with several hours during which to locate and remove Pembroke’s man.

“How are you with accents?” I asked Mr. Benevici. He told me he had an ear for them. We outfitted the lad in a crude disguise, involving a moustache, and sent him out into the cars with instructions to note any British still aboard. We had concluded that his skin tone and language, as well as his unfamiliarity with Pembroke’s crew, would allow him to move about somewhat undetected, and this gave him the best chance to locate our quarry. Mr. Mackenny and I awaited him in our private booth.

When Mr. Benevici returned, he was breathless and disheveled. His shirt was torn and his false moustache was in his hand, and he was smiling. “I got him!” he declared, standing in the threshold of our room. He went on to explain that Pembroke’s man had recognized him, and attacked as he moved between cars. Mr. Benevici struggled with him over a linkage, and the enemy lost his footing. Mr. Benevici demonstrated how he’d stood, with a hand and foot in either car, holding on as the assailant grabbed at his clothes and face, trying to avoid falling off the tracks. His last desperate grasp had snatched the moustache from Benevici’s face. As he tumbled backwards, the Italian tried to reach out and catch his hand, but managed only to pluck the moustache out of the fallen foe’s outstretched hand.

He told the story with excited glee. Nervously I asked, “Did he die?”

“I said a prayer for him, he will be fine,” Mr. Benevici replied, in such a casual tone that Mr. Mackenny and myself each began laughing.

Very suddenly, Mr. Benevici disappeared from the open door in a darkened blur. Mr. Mackenny and I sprang into action, taking up arms and rushing out to find a second Englishman had tackled our friend, and now held him captive with a curved knife against his throat. Seeing us gathered in the hall, outnumbering him, the Brit began to make threats. We could not compel him to release Mr. Benevici, and he could not compel us to lay down our weapons. We were at an impasse.

Mr. Mackenny continued to engage the assailant verbally, and seemed to have the lion’s share of his attention. So, gauging the distance between us, and the way in which he held his knife, and judging from his expression that he would indeed kill Mr. Benevici if given cause, I decided to conclude the matter directly. I raised my pistol and placed lead in the attacker’s shoulder. For an instant his grip loosened, and Mr. Benevici jarred the knife out of his grip. The three of us then worked together to overpower him and drag him back into our chamber, where we bound his hands and feet and immediately began treating his wound.

“God, what a shot!” Mr. Benevici declared, and spent several words in numerous tongues thanking me.

“Doctor Cole was once a Rough Rider,” said Mr. Mackenny. “The Army,” he had to explain, as the Italian was naturally unfamiliar with our affairs.

“Infantry, or cavalry?” Mr. Benevici asked. I simply agreed that this was an excellent question, and left the matter at that.

We attended to our attacker, retrieving the bullet from his shoulder and stitching him up with medicine from Mr. Mackenny’s kit. I would have liked to lie him down, but there was no room in our cabin, so he was bound in a corner, and the three of us took turns keeping watch over him with a loaded gun. When at last he consigned himself to his fate as a captive, Mr. Mackenny offered him brandy and said, “If you see him before we do, please assure Mr. Pembroke that I mean to pay every penny he’s asked.” I pressed a flask into his palm as a show of good faith.

We left him bound on the train, and gave strict instructions to the crew that he was to be kept under guard and returned to Bangladesh, where the authorities were free to do with him as they would. Whether these instructions were kept or not, I do not know. We did not hear from Mr. Pembroke or his men again. His vessel ran afoul of the Royal Navy near Sri Lanka, and was sunk, around the time we trekked across Tibet. The captain was rescued from flotsam containing several barrels of smuggled opium, and following an investigation of his logs, he was thrown into a stockade for the remainder of his life.



The tiny nation of Bhutan is absolutely and singularly beautiful. At the time of our visit, a treaty stood in place between British India and Bhutan which made the small mountain nation a protectorate of the Empire. Thus, it was assumed that we three foreign whites were British, affiliated with that government in some unspoken capacity, and great pains were taken to ensure that our every wish was satisfied. This made our various tasks quite simple – Mr. Mackenny obtained a sort of retinue of police, as well as interested children, women, and even men, fascinated with his every movement. He seemed to enjoy the attention. As for myself and Mr. Benevici, though we were able to gather several distinct crowds, we found ourselves naturally succumbing to the public curiosity about ourselves. The people of Bhutan learned more about this strange pair of white men, who were not British, than we learned of them about Shambhala. Mr. Benevici could not resist his faith, and handed out several small bibles to the children here, though he later confessed that he hadn’t thought of how these children could ever learn to read that text.

When we rejoined Mr. Mackenny, we found that he had been successful in securing a kingly herd of pack animals for our journey. There were also two young men who would ride ahead each morning to scout for camp sites in the wilderness (one of these spoke the same handful of Chinese words that Mr. Mackenny knew, and they could thus communicate a little without Mr. Benevici’s help). We found ourselves turning away more help, although there were several offers. We could not refuse a small feast before departing, at which we enjoyed the meats and fruits of creatures and plants which I strongly suspect are known only to that tiny and forbidden rock in the heart of Asia. Here all barriers of language and culture dissolved; we made and were made merry by our new friends.

We set out the following morning, feeling that we had been excellent ambassadors of Western civilization, and feeling too that Bhutan would forever be remembered fondly.



This was our routine as we traveled Tibet:

In the mornings, Mr. Mackenny and I shared the range and prepared a small breakfast from our supply. We would discuss, through Mr. Benevici, our plans for the day with our new scouts. Then they would ride ahead of the party, while we examined the mountains at our south, or compared journal notes, or simply broke camp and followed as quickly as we could, depending on the day and on the environment. The scouts would carry a certain number of white flags on long stakes, depending on how far we wished them to ride (which in turn depended on how much we wished to divert ourselves before following); at each 500 paces, they would place a flag, and when they ran out, they would survey the area for an optimal campsite and forage.

In the rear, we left the trail to examine the foothills and valleys at almost every opportunity. When we did this, Mr. Mackenny and I, or sometimes he alone, would take horses into the hills, while Mr. Benevici stood guard over the camels and supplies. Although we expected to find Shambhala much further north and west, Mr. Mackenny agreed with my theory that we might discover remains of a forward outpost, or perhaps some unrelated antiquity, in these unexplored hills and caves. We were sometimes rewarded with ceramic fragments or fragments of riding equipment, but the crowning find on these diversions was a Shang divining bone, which some ancient person had found and preserved, and subsequently lost while climbing a steep embankment. If we had not set our sights on Shambhala, this discovery alone would have been enough to justify our entire expedition, and though Mr. Benevici did not fully understand its significance, he joined us that night in celebrating the find. Whether for the sake of our friendship, or for its historical value, I cannot say, but he became extremely protective of that relic, and I wish now that I had thrown it back where we found it.

Our sidetracks into the foothills, while fruitful in that regard, bore no clues about the missing kingdom, and eventually began to dominate too much of our precious time. Mr. Mackenny reminded us regularly, and with growing insistence, that the Roerich expedition was likely nearing its goal, and so we must drive ourselves harder with each passing day to overtake them. After two weeks, we sent our scouts home with what gifts we could muster, and abandoned the hills, dedicating ourselves entirely to pushing onwards at the greatest possible speed. By riding from dawn through twilight without rest, we were able to make roughly twenty five miles each day, when the path cooperated, and ten or less when we were forced to blaze our own trails across steep terrain. We encountered no one, and brokered no distractions, until we neared the edge of the territory where Tibet borders Nepal.

That afternoon, on the 30th of September, while Mr. Mackenny rode in the lead, he suddenly stopped when cresting a hill and put out his arm. Then he dismounted and rushed back to us, urging us to keep as quiet as possible.

“A military unit,” he said, and then, to me, “Who controls this region? Are our papers valid?”

I had to think carefully. “China,” I said at last, “but the Tsang province is autonomous, there should be no troops here. Unless….” I thought of the Guomintang. “There is a rebellion in Manchuria, a long way northeast from here. If it somehow reached this far… I don’t know.” What I learned later was that, in Tibet, another uprising had been underway at this time, to drive out Muslim oppressors and re-establish Buddhist control. The unit we encountered was likely either Tibetan Muslims, or a Buddhist militia. At the time, I was not aware of this.

“We need to get off the road,” Mr. Mackenny urged. “Take all the guns, all the powder.” We tried to hide, but quickly realized that it would be impossible to conceal our large herd of camels, and resolved instead to bury our weapons. He had counted twenty men, one – the officer – on horse, the rest on foot. We each concealed a single pistol on our persons, and hid everything else of military use – provisions, maps, powder and shot – in a hastily-dug hole, which we covered with a blanket. There was nowhere to hide our camels, and no time to flee. When the unit came over the hill and saw us, their leader issued an order to his men, in a language which Mr. Benevici recognized.

“I can speak to him,” he said quickly, raising his arms and his travel documents. There was no time to argue.

“Be careful,” Mr. Mackenny urged.

The men surrounded our party and took control of the animals. Mr. Benevici kept his saddle, while Mr. Mackenny and I had already dismounted to dig. The men carried primitive weapons for the most part – swords and spears and shields, though several also held crude grenades made from bound sticks of dynamite. The officer was armed with a submachine gun on a sling, and many other weapons as well. When he approached us, his hand was on the gun, and his finger on the trigger. He spoke very harshly.

“He wants to know if we are German,” Mr. Benevici said. Mr. Mackenny looked at me. I should have nodded; instead, I shook my head. Mr. Benevici gave some answer, which the officer seemed not to like, and they exchanged words for a while before Mr. Mackenny asked what they were saying. “He is talking about other white men, and a white woman, who killed many of his…” He was interrupted by the officer here, and made some apologetic gestures.

Mr. Mackenny and I exchanged glances. Our thoughts were the same. The Roerich expedition had been there, or near there, and they had proven violent. Mr. Mackenny got the attention of the Tibetan officer and of Mr. Benevici. “Tell him,” he said, “that the other white man is an enemy of ours.” When this was translated, the officer looked at Mr. Mackenny as if waiting for more. “Tell him, that man is a wizard. He is evil.” Mr. Benevici paused and was urged to say it just like that. He complied.

“He thinks you are mad,” Mr. Benevici said after hearing the response. “The other white men…. Yes. The other white men have gone into the mountains. He says we cannot follow them. They have many guns.”

Mr. Mackenny narrowed his eyes. “Tell him, I can stop them. Just let us go.”

The officer seemed offended, but did not become violent. He demanded to see our papers, which were backed by the authority in Shanghai. Mr. Benevici at length conferred that the officer would not kill us, because of these papers, but they were not valid in this part of the country and we had to turn back. We argued our case, but the officer was very insistent.

At some point while we spoke, the officer commanded his men to examine our baggage. I positioned myself over the hole, which contained the bulk of our weapons, hoping to make its discovery inconvenient and therefore less likely. The men went through the luggage on our camels, and that is when tragedy struck.

One of the men found my Shang bone, and tossed it away. Mr. Benevici, thinking it priceless, shouted something urgently at the soldier, and in that instant, the officer – perhaps seeing the pistol on Mr. Benevici’s belt, or perhaps simply tired of a conversation he considered beneath him – whirled on our friend and opened fire. He spent his full magazine into Mr. Benevici and into his horse, and killed them both.

In shock, and in rage, my hand found my gun and fired into the officer’s back. Mr. Mackenny did the same. When he was dead, we turned on the other soldiers, none of whom had firearms of their own, and began shooting them as well. I started with the largest and worked my way through their ranks by size, while Mr. Mackenny shot the closest living man, and then the next, and the next, and so on. One of them lit a fuse on his makeshift grenade. I shot him in the chest as he did this, and he slumped down with the explosive in his hand, until it exploded and threw his body careening down into the nearby valley.

When my gun was empty, I pulled back the blanket under my feet and took up a Henry rifle we’d brought. There were ten or so of the Tibetan soldiers left, and though they were pacified by now, I was very upset, and I kept shooting them until Mr. Mackenny at last pulled the rifle away from me. Tearfully I fell to my knees and crawled to Mr. Benevici. He was gone.

“Go!” Mr. Mackenny shouted at the soldiers, waving his arm furiously and shooting into the air. “Bulai! Bulai! Go!” He fired again. The soldiers, terrified of our combat and utterly confused at his commands, eventually understood that they were meant to flee, and they ran.

We could not revive Mr. Benevici. We read from an English bible he carried and gave him a Christian burial. His grave is located at 28°48'N, 86°13'E, where the path crests a ridge and turns south, and overlooks the Shishapangma mountain. From this spot, the furthest reaches of the lost kingdom of Shambhala are visible to the naked eye.

We knew for a certainty now that Roerich’s expedition had already overtaken us, having passed through Tibet from the north by way of the Soviet Union, as Mr. Pembroke had reported. They were before us now, in those foothills, hoping to find the Cintamani Stone and turn it to their own dark purposes. We rode on when we were able. We did not rest that night, nor any other night, until we reached the cave entrance from Mr. Mackenny’s journal. It was now the second week of October, 1927.



We spoke little on those days, and the natural beauty of the region was only a distant thought. We crossed under peaks which have never been climbed, through passes which had not felt human feet for centuries, save for the Roerich’s and ours. We gained altitude gradually, keeping off the rocky ascents, but nevertheless crossed above the snowline very soon. Here the air was chilly, but dry, and the sun shone impotent through clear skies, warming little.

We found Mr. Mackenny’s cave in much the same condition he had left it years earlier. We’d brought powder, picks, and other supplies, meaning to clear out the rocks if we could, and we set to work for two days, assessing the rubble. That night we slept was the first since Mr. Benevici’s death, and we woke in foul moods. Our frustrations were only compounded. The cave-in was thorough and extensive. Had we managed to spend all our powder there, without bringing down the surrounding walls, we might still have failed to clear a path. We cleared what we could with picks, gained little ground, and gave it up.

Later that night, we set out all our maps, all our notes, and put our heads together in vigorous study. Mr. Mackenny knew the rocks, and I knew the history. Together we pored over every resource. Of the areas which appeared on our maps, Mr. Mackenny ruled out large swathes of area based on the formations surrounding them, while I crossed out those areas already accounted for by tribes, and those which would have been unreachable to a 3rd century civilization. When we had savaged our maps, we plotted a course which would lead us first through uncharted territory, along the western slope of Shishapangma, and then south, before returning to the map and hooking further west. Only the middle portion of our course was documented, and it was there we expected to find our cave entrance, having no information about the initial area of search, nor the terminal end.

The first two days of this course, once again, were uncharted, and soon we learned why. The morning we set out, we encountered a series of steep, crumbling slopes. After struggling up the first with our caravan, we set our camels loose with most of our equipment, and carried on with only our pistols, picks, and as much food and drink as we could fix to our horses. We resolved to mark any further cave-ins on the map, and return with blasting powder as necessary if we could not clear them by hand. The two days we allotted for bushwhacking became four, and five, and finally we emerged back onto charted territory with nothing to show for our exploration.

We were heading west now, with Shishapangma at our backs and numerous other peaks on all sides. The horizon in this place was thousands of feet overhead on all sides, and the days were short, as the sun seemed to rise and set behind the tops of these great mountains, leaving us with only hours of daylight at a time. In spite of our maps, we became lost here more than once, and floundered for several days. We also shot a wild goat, and replenished our meat supply. We adjusted our expected rate of progress to reflect the challenging terrain. We ate wild goat, and drank boiled snow, and agreed that we could survive thus for as long as it took. We would not fail.

Shortly after crossing back into uncharted territory, we began to hear the sounds of the Roerich expedition. They were some miles off – with the mountain walls, it was impossible to judge the exact range or direction. We could hear their guns; the Roerichs, we soon learned, had assembled a massive party of physical laborers, and hunted virtually every creature that crossed their path in order to sustain their large camp. From time to time we heard their picks at work against rock.

One morning, early, so that the sun was not yet visible to us, even though it had already risen behind some mountain, I directed Mr. Mackenny’s attention to a column of smoke rising beyond a nearby cliff. We talked it over and decided to have a look; he, being the younger man, stripped off his equipment and set to climbing up the sheer rock. I waited below, holding a rope (which proved little use), and stood ready to catch him, as best I could, if he should fall. Tediously he made his way up the face of the cliff, improvising grips and footholds in what appeared to me an impressive display of mountaineering. When he reached the top, he lingered for a short time, then anchored the rope in a crevasse and hastily descended.

“They’re here,” he said, breathless, upon reaching the bottom. “They’ve brought heavy equipment. So many of them…. Thirty, maybe more.”

I blinked, frozen in place. “Thirty two,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. He followed my gaze. Two men stood before us, a hundred yards or so ahead, up a smooth sloping rock face covered in snow. One of them carried a pair of small, indistinct creatures, and the other a hunting rifle. Mr. Mackenny was still catching his breath, and I could feel his shoulders slump.

The man with the rifle put a hand to his mouth, and whistled. We were silent, motionless. Then, from behind, another whistle echoed the first. We turned to see another hunter, this one alone, blocking our path. He menaced us by firing a round at the cliff which Mr. Mackenny had just climbed. I heard the shot ricochet, and then the rope we had used came tumbling down, severed at its midpoint by a single bullet.

“Can you get us out?” Mr. Mackenny asked, his eyes on my pistol.

“Not at this range,” I replied quietly. We were weakened significantly from our ordeals, and now stood in the low ground between marksmen. We were fish in a barrel. I tossed my gun aside and placed my hands on my head. Mr. Mackenny, cursing under his breath, did the same.



The Roerich expedition was grand in every sense. His base camp, which moved daily on the backs of fifty camels, buzzed with industrious activity on all sides. Outriders patrolled the surrounding area for game and intruders, like myself and Mr. Mackenny. A rolling munitions depot, packed with ammunition and barrels of dynamite, stood at the edge of camp, surrounded by an artificial bunker of cut rocks and guarded by a detachment of fearsome mercenaries. Mr. Mackenny pointed towards them with his chin and muttered, “Mleccha.” I nodded. We were led past rows and rows of living tents, amply provisioned, and a cooking pit, from which emanated incredible smells of cooking meat and seasonings.

Our captors, whom we so called for the manner in which they walked behind us with their guns, even though we were not bound, brought us to a broad-shouldered man who wore a commanding hat (I know of no better way to describe it – I have not seen its like elsewhere). They spoke in a language that perhaps Mr. Benevici would have understood, and left us in this man’s care.

“Gentlemen,” he said, showing us an open palm. “I am very sorry for meeting you this way,” he went on. “As you can see, it is quite an undertaking we’ve got here, and some of the boys are rather a bit jumpy, I’m afraid. You must consider yourselves our guests.”

“Say nothing,” said Mr. Mackenny, flat and stoic. I had not meant to speak anyway, but I readily followed my friend’s lead.

The hatted man tried to act surprised. “Gentlemen, please,” he said in pleading tones. “There’s no need for any of that. See, here.” He removed his profound cap, and raked his hair to the side with his fingers, assuming a very amiable visage. “My name is Wulf Anderson. I am, what you might call, the lieutenant here. I oversee the operations of the camp, and I can assure you, we are most receptive of guests. Have you smelled that?” He gestured towards the cooking pits we crossed. “The ‘Common Langur,’ or so our zoologist calls them. Devilish creatures. Fantastic in a curry. You must have some with us tonight. The seat of honor, certainly.” He carried on in this manner, endeavoring with cheerful words and generosities to put us at ease, or to elicit any response whatsoever. We were led about, shown which lodgings would be ours, which camels we would ride, had we ridden camels before? Fantastic beasts. And so on. Throughout the tour of his camp, this Lt. Anderson spoke very cleverly, leaving us such opportunities that we felt compelled to speak, and yet, when we refused, he could carry on his own conversation without seeming the least bit awkward. He made no mention of Shambhala, nor of the Cintamani Stone. An unwitting observer might have concluded, somewhat ridiculously, that the whole party had gathered such manpower and such resources in order to walk about the mountains and take the air, and nothing more. We knew better, and to us, his omissions with regard to their objective seemed treacherous indeed.

Only once over the sprawling tour did Mr. Mackenny break his silence. The lieutenant asked, upon showing us to our tents, if there was anything else he could do for us, to make us comfortable. Mr. Mackenny set his eyes, and told him, “Saddle our horses, and let us go.” At this, the lieutenant furrowed his brow for the briefest of moments, before cheerfully remarking that of course, Mr. and Mrs. Roerich would insist upon feasting us first, and that we could speak about such things after dinner. He told us many more wonderful-sounding things, but none of it mattered. Our status was clear to me after that shortest exchange – we were prisoners of the Roerich expedition, and they would never allow us to leave.

At dinner, we were summoned to the head of the dining tent to sit at the Roerichs’ table. This was my first time seeing our rival in person. Nikolai was a spectre of a man – gaunt and dark, with exceptionally pointed features. The muscles in his face seemed to all come together at once, so that there were lines stretching out from his nose in all directions like the points of a star. His gaze was profoundly unsettling, and I avoided it at all times. His wife, who introduced herself as Helena, was charming and almost impossible to resist; full-bodied, round-faced, warm, but with an aura much like Nikolai. I took her hand when she offered it, and tried not to look at her for the remainder of our feast. They spoke, not with us, but towards us; Nikolai would ask Anderson about the readiness of such-and-such, and he would respond happily that they were far ahead of schedule; Helena would mention something she read from some manuscript they had found, and they would laugh. All was, it seemed to me, designed to impress upon us how well their expedition was proceeding. We were meant to conclude – and indeed I could see no alternative – that any effort to subvert them was completely futile; that they had already won the race for the Cintamani Stone, and had only to actually grasp it, which was to the Roerichs a foregone conclusion.

There was one exchange during which Mr. Mackenny actually spoke to our captors. They had asked if we were impressed by the size of their expedition, and wondered how we had managed to come so far with only the two of us. Here Mr. Mackenny told them about Mr. Benevici, and all the help he had given us. I will never forget the pathos which the Roerichs displayed at that moment. The table fell into a solemn silence. Helena could barely contain her tears. Nikolai hugged her, and then, with utmost respect in his voice, offered sincere condolences to each of us. He shared stories of their own adventures in Tibet, which were harrowing, and lamented the loss of “a brother, an explorer, and surely a fine man.” We toasted in his memory.

As promised, I said nothing that night, nor on the day that followed. I maintained my silence for as long as I could, and I lasted for weeks. By the time my vow was broken, it was too late to make any difference. The night after the feast, when we were led back to our tents, Mr. Mackenny whispered only, “We are not alone,” and then climbed into his cot and went to sleep. Without discussing it, whether aloud or in any other form, we separately began to formulate our own plans for escape.

Mr. Mackenny found his opportunity two days later, as the camp moved east, back in the direction from which we’d come. The road was narrow and high, with steep cliffs on either side. The expedition rode on camelback, two abreast; Mr. Mackenny was ahead of me, and each of us was accompanied on our right side by a mercenary from their security detail. I noticed my friend’s posture perking up as we approached the cliffs, and suspected he planned to work some mischief as we crossed the promontory between them. Then, midway across, he slipped his right foot out of the stirrup. I looked down and to the left, but could make out nothing below us. Without warning, Mr. Mackenny leapt off the back of his animal and landed precariously on the ledge, overlooking a drop of hundreds of feet. His escort tried to clamor across and grab him, but was unable to reach my friend in time. Mr. Mackenny glanced at me, and shouted, “Godspeed, Doctor Cole!” Then he threw himself over the ledge.

People were shouting all around. I kicked my camel and swatted at it, trying to make myself an obstacle for anyone thinking to pursue Mr. Mackenny, but the creature would not respond, and it did not matter. No one went after him over that cliff. At the head of the column, someone fired a rifle twice, then put it away as Roerich admonished him. I strained my neck, but could see nothing.

I never saw Mr. Mackenny again.



The expedition carried on in mournful tone. Mrs. Roerich, despondent, wept often, and made many passionate toasts to Mr. Mackenny in the days that followed, desperately trying to entice from me a word of forgiveness. She fought with her husband, who coldly deflected her accusations. I could see in his eyes that he did not truly believe my friend was dead – he had seen him fall, and stopped his man from shooting. He must have believed that Mr. Mackenny survived his plummet, and escaped into some dark cavern. I clung to this hope – if Roerich believed him alive, I had no evidence to the contrary. I chose to believe that he had found some other passage, and continued his quest alone. Perhaps he was in Shambhala already. Perhaps Roerich feared that he would confound their plans. That, I decided, was why he did not mourn.

It was a desperate hope. But I kept it, as I kept my silence.

We journeyed on, moving only as quickly as the cart of munitions could be hauled. At times, the workers would unload it entirely and carry the explosives, and sometimes even the cart itself, in pieces, by hand. A cartographer worked day and night to map out the route we took, and gathered information about the terrain. Mountaineers would later use this same data in their ascents of the area. The party groaned onwards, a machine without a soul, for days on end. At nights we gathered to eat monkeys and goats, and listen to Lt. Anderson as he tried to cheer up Mrs. Roerich. I ate at their table always, seated across from the enemy, and we took daily marks of the fire in the other’s eyes. He was a driven man. Powerless to stop him, I could only make him feel my will to resist.

We marched steadily towards Shishapangma. One night at dinner, Roerich showed me his own notes, and with a controlled fury, explained that he knew precisely where Mr. Mackenny had hoped to find the entrance to Shambhala; knew precisely what stood inside that cave, and precisely how much powder it would take to clear a path inside. He told me that he wanted to share this discovery with Mr. Mackenny, that his many solicitations for cooperation had been rudely refused. He begged my help – no matter how small, he said, he begged me to participate. I made no reply. He begged me at least not to take my life as that fool had – at this his wife left the table – and I only shrugged, and took another bite of monkey.

When we reached the cave, it was November. The camp was established at its mouth, and work began immediately to clear away the rubble. Everyone had a part to play, and the expedition thrummed with activity both day and night. Once, Wulf Anderson appeared in my tent in the afternoon. He carried a simple pickaxe, and asked me if I would swing it – just once would be enough – and so contribute to the effort. I hadn’t spoken for weeks straight at this time, but I spoke then, and told him what he could do with that pickaxe. He left, looking very sad. Later that evening, before the nightly meal, Mrs. Roerich appeared unexpectedly with wet cheeks. Before I could say or do anything, she wrapped her arms around my neck and sobbed. She pleaded strenuously, imploring me to do this one small thing. Not for myself, she said, and not for her, but for Mr. Benevici, so that his death would have added some small measure to this discovery. I was unprepared, and a little overwhelmed, and I feared that she would not let go until I relented. So at last, I agreed. She made several apologies then, thinking herself complicit in much bloodshed, and I assured her that she was not responsible for anything. We did not speak of her husband.

I found myself unable to swing my pick only once, and so soon I was a regular at the excavation site. They were here, I resolved to myself, and they weren’t going anywhere, and neither was I until this pathway was cleared, so I might as well get on with it. I rubbed shoulders there with various men of science and academia. The zoologist, named Mr. Keaton, of whom Lt. Anderson had spoken once, was among several other things also a paleobotanist. He had joined the expedition primarily to examine sedimental deposits of the many rivers originating in the Himalayas. There were several others: Harold Leavenworth, a medical doctor; Mr. Petravich, an expert in antiquities, and a trio of linguists, who between them, it was guessed, could make sense of any document in the continent, regardless of its age or origin. Though I loathed myself for it, I found in myself a certain sense of pride for standing among such accomplished company, especially in such an endeavor. There were of course brutes in our midst – the mercenaries, and the laborers, on whose account (said Lt. Anderson) the mercenaries were required. Still there stood in the mouth of that cave such an assortment of talent and intellect that, under any other circumstances, I would have called myself quite fortunate.

It took us more two weeks to make our way inside. After blasting, clearing, and framing the tunnel with supports, we were at last free to set foot inside. Nikolai Roerich – with whom, alone, I still did not speak – asked me personally to accompany him on the first journey inside. He said he respected my historical expertise, and that this was a matter on which our personal differences must be set aside. Reluctantly I agreed. He selected the first team carefully. He and I were the first two members, and then Wulf Anderson, Mr. Petravich, a linguist named Jindal, and two mercenaries, who would conduct any physical labor we required inside. We were each given a torch, a fresh journal, and provisions for a three-day excursion, though we meant to return by nightfall. The seven of us went inside at dawn.



The first artifacts we encountered inside were shattered and rotten wood structures. Defensive barriers, we guessed, built with spikes facing outwards. Wulf Anderson made several remarks about what he found, which Jindal scribbled down. We chronicled everything in this first chamber and moved on. To continue, we had to traverse a squat passage. Jindal noted Lt. Anderson’s comments: “Inhabitants were likely short, possibly four to four-and-a-half feet. No sunlight. Pale skin.”

We continued. The passage descended in slow, narrow curves, and it was difficult to maneuver because of the low ceiling. “Walls are smooth,” Lt. Anderson said. “Air is cold, dry. Faint odor of mold. No sign of artificial lighting – no torch marks, braziers…”

“They were blind,” posited Roerich. Whenever he spoke, the others fell quiet out of deference. Perhaps realizing this, he spoke only a little, so that Lt. Anderson could feel comfortable describing his findings for Jindal.

We went on for roughly thirty minutes before we found our first clue that the cave was not entirely natural in formation. Roerich was the first to find it, and called us over. “Wulf,” he said.

Lt. Anderson nodded, and got down onto his knees. “The regular passage continues straight ahead. Here a second passage has been carved out…. Down, straight down.” He fished for something out of his pocket and tossed it over, and we heard the report when it landed. “Between twenty and thirty meters,” he said. “There’s a ladder.”

“Let me see,” said Mr. Petravich. He got down on his stomach, with his head over the ledge, and held his torch so that he could see the ladder, which was cut into the opposite wall. “Resembles the tree-ladders in Mali,” he said of the diagonal-cut steps, which descended in roughly-symmetrical triangles down into darkness. Mr. Petravich asked me if the empire of Mali might have had any contact, and I told him no, that it must have been an indigenous design which happened to look similar, nothing more. He spent a long time studying those steps, and at length we discussed whether we should continue along the natural path of the cave, or take this ladder.

“Shall we split up?” I asked.

“Out of the question,” said Roerich, sounding harsh. “We go down.”

We marked the top of the ladder with a tallow candle, and the bottom, when we reached it, as well. It was exceedingly narrow, built for much smaller bodies than ours, and we shimmied down each step with our backs pressed against the opposite wall. When we came to the bottom, Lt. Anderson guessed the distance at fifteen meters. We found another ladder at the bottom, which he put at ten meters, and another after that, which was closer to twenty. At each landing we left a candle.

The final descent placed us into a small cavern, which in turn opened into a much larger chamber. Presently we found the decrepit remains of a great curtain, which looked as if once it stretched across that opening to conceal the greater chamber within. There was a mat of woven grass, rotted, and a curious rodent, which I sketched for Mr. Keaton, but he could not identify my drawing. In a corner there stood a small chest, roughly a foot wide and square, and eight inches high. When Mr. Petravich had made his notes on its design, he opened it, and found ceramics inside, which interested him greatly.

“Perhaps a ceremony,” he said, turning the objects over while a mercenary held his torch. “A ritual of some sort, involving water or tea. Such traditions exist in the east.”

“A purification ritual,” I guessed. “Supplicants would sometimes be made to drink magic potions – herbs, or animal’s blood – in order to cleanse themselves, so they would carry no evil inside.”

“Fascinating,” said Lt. Anderson. “Shall we… do we drink?”

“We are not supplicants,” said Roerich. “Come. Take a sample,” he told Mr. Petravich.

We continued into the next chamber, which was wide, high-ceilinged, suitable for large gatherings. There was a level path which we followed at the approximate center of the chamber, and to either side, the floor sloped upwards. A congregation could stand here, gathered on either side of the walk, as a newcomer entered. They would have stood along the slopes so that each individual was visible from any point in the chamber. I imagined them standing there now – a choir of ghosts on either side, watching us walk with blind eyes, and hearing the echoes of our footsteps, our breaths, our hearts beating. It was cold. At the far end of the chamber was a promontory, like a small stage that someone had carved flat into the rock. A leader must have stood here, to address his subjects or to receive visitors.

“There is nothing here,” said Mr. Petravich. Roerich frowned.

“The people,” I muttered, and without realizing it, I won the attentions of the whole party. “They would have gathered here. Kings and warlords would come for an audience, seeking favor. They would be received with grandeur – but not with tapestries, or gold, or baubles. The people of Shambhala – that was the treasure here. That was what the lost kings would have put on display.”

Lt. Anderson made his notes to Jindal. “If you had to guess,” Roerich asked me, “what was this place?”

I thought about it. “A temple,” I said. A dark and ominous place of ceremony. We found several tunnels leading out of there. One continued deeper, and we placed our candle there, and made our way further down.

The next level held great interest for Mr. Petravich. Here, for the first time, we found carvings in the walls – a square and mechanical script of large characters resembling those found in ancient Chinese texts. Nearby on a series of stone shelves cut into the walls, there sat a great and diverse assortment of artifacts – small figurines carved out of gold, ivory, and wood; coins, including one Mr. Petravich recognized bearing the face of Darius of Persia. We examined these for a long time, and with keen interest. When Roerich at last called for us to move on, Mr. Petravich insisted on staying there to continue his study. They argued and Roerich at last relented, and detailed one of the mercenaries to remain with him. The rest of us – Roerich, myself, Lt. Anderson, Jindal, and the second mercenary, continued down another ladder.

When we reached the bottom and placed our candle, Lt. Anderson placed the height at forty meters. We were very deep now, and the air – though cold and dry – was very thick. We were deposited in a sort of corridor, with a low ceiling and cramped walls, running beyond the light of our torches to the left and to the right. Roerich led us left, past several additional passageways, until the tunnel ended abruptly.

“It’s a labyrinth,” said Lt. Anderson.

“A network of tunnels,” I replied, echoing the words Mr. Mackenny had used to describe the structure of the kingdom. “They might run for miles, connecting this temple to the rest of Shambhala.”

“No,” said Roerich. He explained the intensity with which they had examined the surrounding mountains. “There is only one entrance,” he said. “This is a maze. And at the end, the prize.”

I reserved my doubts. We worked backwards, and charted the passage and all its connections. Then we followed it the opposite direction, past our candle, and found many more pathways sprouting from there. Lt. Anderson seemed happy to guess at the purpose of each, although there was no indication whatsoever. “I should love to find their crypt,” he said once. Jindal did not write that down.

We returned to the surface, collecting Mr. Petravich and all our candles. That night, Roerich called the entire camp to order over supper, and announced that tomorrow, we would all go down into the cave. A comprehensive effort would be made to map the tunnels, using all hands to explore the depths. We would operate so, until the full extent of Shambhala had been mapped and all its treasures catalogued. Then he and Lt. Anderson left to discuss the details of such an undertaking. I ate with Helena, who seemed very pleased with the decision, and asked me about many of the things I had seen.



We established our base of operations in the large gathering chamber with sloping floors, which came to be called the Chapel. All our supplies were brought in, save for the remaining explosives and the cooking pits, which were kept out for safety purposes. A few men were left outside to guard these depots. The rest of the camp was set up in the dark chamber. As soon as the cots were in place, we filed down into the labyrinth using the stone ladder in groups of four. Lt. Anderson had arranged the laborers into search parties, which moved about in the tunnels and communicated with a system of whistles. The academics among us were divided into two parties. The first, led by Mr. Petravich, examined, documented, and sampled each of the materials found (beginning with the mat, curtain, and ceremonial chest at the Chapel’s entrance, all of which had to be removed for expediency). Mr. Keaton was his assistant, and from time to time, he would summon me to contradict or support Mr. Petravich’s conclusions.

The chief party was, as before, myself, Roerich, Lt. Anderson, and Jindal. We were joined normally by Helena Roerich, who proved a capable spelunker, and generally made for pleasant company. Roerich spread his mercenaries across the many moving parts of the operation, and kept at all times two or more with himself, and therefore also with me. Our aim in this party was singular. Roerich believed that the Cintamani Stone was kept here, secure in the depths of the labyrinth. He and Helena each recounted stories that fragments had sometimes been given to kingdoms, which had the power to grant prosperity and growth. Those fragments, they surmised, were distributed from the Chapel, and the stone itself must therefore be close by.

I will summarize our search thus: it took many days. We found many items, which were of tremendous interest to Mr. Petravich, and of no significance whatsoever to Roerich. We never did locate the crypt, towards which Lt. Anderson repeatedly expressed curiosity. I was curious too, only because we never could locate any human remains. The search parties delved deeper and further every day, and it seemed impossible that for such a grand domain, there could be only one door. We discovered spartan living arrangements, carving tools, a few weapons (resembling the axlotl of the Americas), and cooking utensils, which suggested a vegetarian diet. Notably absent were any sources of light, which seemed to confirm Roerich’s assessment that the people of Shambhala were, if only in practice, blind. There were no signs of the practice of medicine, nor of burial. How the people were born, and what happened to them after they died, will forever remain a mystery.

Eleven days into the search, as I was assisting Mr. Petravich, a signal came back by whistles that all work was to cease immediately. Word reached me that Roerich had requested my presence, and that no one was to move an inch more than absolutely necessary until new orders were given. Accompanied by the armed mercenary who had fetched me, I followed a trail of tallow candles through the twists and turns of the stone maze until I stood beside Lt. Anderson at the rear of the chief party. They had found something. Jindal scribbled madly, unprompted, and Helena positively bounced in her excitement.

“Stairs,” said Lt. Anderson, pointing with his torch. The squirming pathway terminated in a wall, which sparkled from rich mineral deposits of copper and tin. The floor fell away in a series of monstrously tall steps, each four feet high, and smooth, as if naturally formed. To climb them, the Shambhala must have scaled each step as if leaping up a wall. To descend them was treacherous, as each landing was little more than two feet wide.

Roerich stood two steps down. I could barely make out the shape of his head, and that sinister face. He beckoned me without words, and I made my way down, lying on my stomach and swinging my legs over each lip so that I could lower myself down feet-first. When I reached him, he held his torch near the lip of the rock where I had just descended. “Look there,” he told me.

I looked. “What is that?”

“Blood,” he replied. He was right. A streak of darkened reddish-brown, unmistakable. “It’s fresh,” he went on.

“How?” I asked. He narrowed his eyes at me. “I don’t understand.”

“’Godspeed, Doctor Cole,’” he said. I held my breath. “Tell me everything.”

“Those were Mr. Mackenny’s last words,” I told him honestly. “He is dead.”

“You can see plainly that he is not.” His powerful gaze searched me. “Tell me the truth. Where is Paul Mackenny?” I told him again that he was dead, that I had watched him leap off the cliff. He took hold of my neck. “The truth, damn you! Where is he?” He pushed me close to the edge of the stair, so that only by his grasp about my throat was I spared a fatal fall. “Can’t you see? He is here! He has found some way inside. He means to plunder the stone for himself!”

I could not manage to speak, and so I could not convince him of my ignorance. But as I gasped there at his mercy, he decided at last to spare my life. He threw me back against the rocks, coughing, and put his hands over his head.

“He is stealing the Stone,” he said, agonizing. “He is stealing it from me, and from you, and from your lost companion. From history. He is stealing it, and I cannot stop him.”

“No,” I said, when I found my breath. “You are stealing the Stone. And Mr. Mackenny is stopping you.”

Roerich was vanquished by these words. He slumped against the stair, all the life gone out of him. Soon we were joined by Lt. Anderson, and then by Helena, and the rest of the party, and we made our way further down. Helena asked what had happened – she had seen us struggling together, but it was dark. I told her that I had slipped, and Nikolai had rescued me from falling to my death. This made her happy.

We reached the bottom of the stairs and found a rich chamber. The walls were veined with gold and silver, and diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and countless treasures lay inside. They shone in the light of our torches as they had never shone before, since Shambhala was a kingdom of absolute darkness. On a pedestal made of gold and inlaid with jewels, there sat a withering pillow made of velvet. There was a large crease at its center, where something round and heavy sat for thousands of years. But the stone itself was gone.



That night there was an explosion at the mouth of the cave, while we slept in the chapel. There was a great commotion. I stayed with Mr. Petravich and Helena and Roerich. Later, Wulf Anderson appeared and told us that the cave had collapsed. Someone – I presume Mr. Mackenny – had seized the explosives kept outside, and used them to collapse the entrance by bombing out the supports. No one in the caves was injured, but there had been some mercenaries outside keeping watch and they were presumed dead. In the following days, we made many attempts to clear the passage, but to no avail. The gate was sealed.

“What a friend you have,” said Roerich to me. We did not speak again.

When he was gone, I turned to Lt. Anderson and, feeling particularly callous at that moment, said, “Good news, Wulf. We’ve found your crypt.” He did not speak to me much after that, either.

The search parties worked at maximum speed. Roerich was now convinced that, as Mr. Mackenny had found some way to the treasure chamber, he must also have found a second entrance into Shambhala – one that had eluded him on the surface, but which now represented our only hope of survival.

Over the next several months, all our torches went out. We ate through our reserves, and then became accomplished trackers and trappers of that peculiar species of rodent. Mr. Keaton found an edible moss, and the laborers uncovered an artesian well. Lt. Anderson established a procedure by which we could gather and store this water reliably. Some of the stone ladders, after their paths were explored to their ends, were designated as latrines. Mr. Petravich and I passed the time by going over all the relics we had found, and when we ran out of those, we started again from the beginning. Dr. Leavenworth treated several of the men for illness and psychosis. Three of the mercenaries and two of the laborers took their own lives.

When two months had passed in total darkness, one of the search teams found a draft, and we moved our whole camp out of the chapel. When the draft led nowhere, we moved the camp again, and then again. On the fourth such move, we found our way out. It was a tiny crevice, through which none of us would have passed when we first arrived. We were now emaciated by hunger, and so with only a little effort, we were thus able to escape from Shambhala. Helena was the first outside. I came last. The air was fresh and sweet. The light of the stars was blinding, and the snow felt warm. It was now March, 1928.



The expedition trekked north out of the mountains and into Tibet. The authorities there treated us harshly, though the conditions were better than what we found in Shambhala. After a brief detention we were allowed to leave, and made our way south across the pass at Nathu La. I took my leave there, with parting words only from Helena and from Mr. Petravich. The Roerich expedition remained in India thereafter, establishing the Himalayan Research Institute.

I made my own way back to America via Europe by train. I crossed the Atlantic from Lisbon, and arrived in New York, where I was questioned by government operatives about my adventures and about Roerich. They were forceful, and had many questions about the Cintamani Stone. I told them most of the truth – that I accompanied Nikolai Roerich into Shambhala, and that I was absolutely certain that he had not found the stone. After several interrogations I was at last allowed to return home.

I received no contact Mr. Mackenny. I believe that the United States government was interested in obtaining the stone for themselves, and that they kept watch over my correspondence for several years – perhaps Mr. Mackenny suspected this as well, and that is why he did not write. Or perhaps one day, some mountain climber will stumble across him, a cold body in the Himalayan snow, clutching a meteorite to his chest atop some icy peak.

After a decade had passed, I made arrangements to visit Mr. Benevici’s burial site. His memorial is no longer there, erased by the weather or by some passing traveler. I was followed in my travels, I suspect, again, by agents of the government, and thus I did not make any attempt to revisit Shambhala, fearing that I would lead them there. (At the time of this writing, the Roerich’s research institute has produced its own account of our journey, and thus I am now at liberty to discuss its details without fear of revelation).

I have resumed my teaching career at Princeton. Naturally I dedicated a good deal of time to the further study of the mythos surrounding the Cintamani Stone. I would like to believe that, as in those legends, the stone now grants wealth and prosperity to Mr. Mackenny. I do wish him the best things in life, despite the manner in which our paths separated, as I believe him do be a good man, who acted as only he could to protect such a relic from the wrong hands. If in fact the stone possesses any real power, I can think of no one better suited to wielding it. But alas – it is only a stone, and I am only a professor of history, and we will never know the truth of how his story ended.

-Dr. Thomas Cole, 1938
In Memory of Louis Benevici, 1902-1927

By @PlatinumSkink.
Author's Note: While the setting is inspired by the Metal Gear Solid universe, it isn't actually borrowed. It is its own universe this takes place in, and, uh, no giant robots appear in this story. Does that count as rule 11 regardless? If so, I suppose I'll need to credit Hideo Kojima for creating a rather fantastic franchise. Haha.

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It was in the dead of night. There was a seemingly abandoned town in a small nation. The temperature was warm despite the darkness around, very few lights shining in this collection of houses other than the search-lights lighting the borders of the search-perimeter. In the darkness behind the lights, armed men with their faces concealed behind masks walked, patrolling in order to find any potential intruder. The main building they guarded was the largest one around, a mansion of four stories and many blocks wide, a forgotten military facility which had been overtaken by these men. A bare eye would have no idea what lurked underground, which happened to be a custom-made silo for launching missiles. These men were terrorists, who had recently gotten their hands on a very dangerous such. The most dangerous of its kind, in fact.

Vulcer jumped the fence, the darkness aiding him as he had managed to slip by the spotlights and climbed up a nearby tree in order to get inside. Without hitch he fell down to the ground and let his feet meet the ground before he bent forward and rolled behind a building, the sound making a single enemy soldier look down from his post wondering if he heard something, but he discarded it as nothing rather quickly. Vulcer stood ready again really quickly, a small smile from the thrill of being behind enemy lines again going through him. Of course, it was recommended that a man like him be as vigilant and careful as possible, but enjoying things shouldn’t be too troublesome. He quickly brought a hand up to his ear in order to report.

“I’m in.” Vulcer reported, and very quickly he heard Viria’s response. “Good job. Now try to find your way into that facility. Von Serge has a lot of men under his command, so don’t let your guard down. Get in there, neutralize his means of launching that missile, and if possible, take Von Serge out for good.” Vulcer sighed at this little re-briefing of the mission, taking out his handgun with a long silencer sticking out of it, loading it with some ammunition. “Right. We’ll see if I can bring him with me.” He could almost hear Viria’s frown on the other side.

“Don’t tell me you only brought tranquilizer ammunition again. These are terrorists that will be intending to kill you. Killing them may save someone else’s life at a later time.” But the special agent just smiled again. “Or it might make them reconsider their lives, and then I’ll have saved another life.” Vulcer replied with a positive little tone, which he knew was driving Viria nuts. “Your merciful nature is going to result in death one day. I pray it will not be civilian.” She told him, irritated, before continuing. “Remember, you’re only one out of two of our people infiltrating. And I guarantee, Miriel will be using live ammo.” This only made Vulcer grin.

“That’s her choice. I don’t treat those who kill instead any different from how I do those who eat meat.” Because among other things, Vulcer is a vegetarian. “It will just be a matter of who gets to him first. Either way,” Vulcer quickly lifted his gun and shot a dart into the leg of an enemy soldier coming around the corner, whose eyes turned wide for a moment before he fell to the ground face-first, body lying down over his gun. Since the soldier had just walked into the shadows, he had already hidden his own sleeping body. “I’m continuing the mission.” Vulcer said, before running stealthily on, smile on his face.

Turned out their defenses was a joke. It was child’s play to stay out of the patrolling men’s path, the empty conjoined buildings made avoiding the cameras absurdly easy and the soldiers themselves seemed entirely unwilling to investigate anything suspicious. “They shouldn’t know you’re coming. I analyzed the image Von Serge sent myself, and managed to pinpoint the village along with our analytical team.” Viria had informed, with an extremely serious look on her face. Vulcer had never seen her with any other expression. Wonder if she’d be cuter on her days off? But yes, that had been a very disturbing image they had been sent. Von Serge standing taking a selfie, childish grin on the blonde man dressed like an ancient nobleman’s face, beside a silo on the midst of the town with badly photoshopped newspaper text declaring “I hAvE a BoMb”. They clearly were dealing with a lunatic.

Fine by Vulcer. In fact, this was the second time he was after Von Serge. First time he had been trying to develop means for eternal youth using the intestines of children. It failed, of course, but not before it had claimed the life of the daughter of one of Vulcer’s friends. So, he had a slightly personal reason to go after Von Serge. In return, Von Serge might have been slightly pissed that Vulcer had all his research burned down, but that was an entirely different matter. For now, Vulcer slipped in through an abandoned window by a balcony that was not being watched after climbing the fire-ladder. They entered in this sneaky way, just in case Von Serge would decide to launch the missile would he become aware of an attack.

He snuck through the corridors, shooting darts into two guards and hiding them in abandoned rooms when he had to. This building went largely unused, except for by the guards that patrolled and the rooms for sleeping and recreation. The rooms which were interesting were those with computer data and the actual silo, so Vulcer would be going down the stairs to reach his underground goal. He stepped through a rather empty room, an abandoned office with two entrances, slipping through in order to get closer to the location of the silo when a sound made him direct the gun towards its source. That’s when he came face to face with a woman holding the same kind of gun as him, in similar dark camouflaged clothes, but with distinctly dirty-blonde hair held under her dark hat and her pure white face showing.

“Ah.” Miriel blinked as she realized who she pointed a gun at. Vulcer smirked and lowered his gun. Meeting up had not been necessarily part of the plan. More like, if one of them were captured it would potentially make the enemy think the threat was over, and the other could finish the mission. After a quick look outside, he closed the door to keep the sound in. “It would seem you had no problem infiltrating either.” Vulcer commented, looking over to his female ally. She wasn’t bad-looking. “Affirmative.” Miriel replied, her voice hushed. “It almost makes me wonder if Von Serge planned for us identify his location, infiltrate and then be caught in a trap he has ready for us.” She looked at the other door, as if determined to react immediately should it open, a steady grip on her gun. Vulcer smirked.

“Very well. Let’s work together from here on, then.” He said, reaching a hand forward to shake. It wasn’t the first time they had met, they had trained together back at the base. Vulcer was always the friendlier one. Miriel frowned, still looking at the door and not taking the hand. “No. We will be continuing separately.” She commanded with confidence. In that exact moment, Vulcer realized he thought he heard the faintest of sounds approaching their location from the outside. He raised a careful hand for Miriel to see and get quiet, his expression turning serious. “The purpose of this mission is for us both to attempt accomplishing our objectives independently from two different directions. It will be meaningless to team up in a stealth-mission.” Miriel continued, looking at the wrong door. Vulcer frowned.

“Miriel, sssh.” They were getting closer. It was imperative they didn’t make sounds or- “Besides, I’m not sure I would work well with you, Vulcer. you’re way too merciful for-” Oh, geesh. Vulcer’s mind went through a quick analysis of what was the best way to silence her. Shoot her? Silent, yes, but would render her useless and could endanger her life. Grasp over her mouth? She could get the wrong idea and make a bad move out of instinct. There was nothing else he could do, huh? Not that he really minded, but… Vulcer sighed before he grabbed her arms and turned her towards him. Miriel’s eyes went wide for a bit, looking up at him. “What are you-” Vulcer immediately leaned forward and kissed her. She flinched, blushing, half-glaring and half-panicking, not understanding the occasion as he held her arms in place.

Now she heard it too. Her eyes widened as she realized she could have jeopardized the mission by speaking too much, and she certainly couldn’t move now due to potential sound that would make. Someone moved on the other side. A patrol. Vulcer held Miriel in place, maintaining the kiss, breathing with his nose. Miriel breathed way heavier, agitated by the situation. The two agents stayed completely still as the sound passed, and they were eventually spared the embarrassment of being walked in on in this vulnerable moment. Vulcer released her, breathing out a little in relief, though was immediately met with Miriel’s agitated glare, and rather cute little blush. She gripped her gun, professionally and silently moving on to the door, kneeling and pushing down a little mirror beneath it to see on the other side. Realizing what she might have held back saying, Vulcer smiled, moving after her.

“Fine. We’ll team up.” Miriel declared, moving back the mirror into her belt of gadgets, spending the briefest of a moment bringing her fingers up to her mouth to wipe the feeling off. Vulcer nodded with a smile, placed on the other side of the door, but found that he suddenly had a strange fascination with the woman in front of him. Her blush was… phenomenally cute. She frowned, seeing his look. “Is there something?” Miriel asked, a slight edge in her hushed voice. Vulcer raised his eyebrows a bit, weighing his options. Eventually, he smiled and replied.

“Well, yes. I thought you were cute, and wondered if you might have time for dinner with me after this mission is over.” “Wha-” There was unmistakable anger mixed into the look of disbelief he received from the woman before him. He didn’t feel an ounce of regret. “This is highly unsuitable timing. We’ll need to-”

“Yes, she does. Now do your mission, have your date after you complete the mission and escape alive.” Notable annoyance was directly audible in Viria’s voice as well. Miriel was cut short by the commander’s line, blushing where Vulcer couldn’t help smiling at her, and she took a deep breath. “Fine, let’s go.” With that, she pushed the door open, and continued. Vulcer nodded, walking silently behind her, directing his own gun where Miriel’s wasn’t.

“If possible, let me shoot those that we have no choice but to shoot unless we have no other choice.” Vulcer requested of his partner, as he was the one with the tranquilizer ammunition. Miriel frowned, continuing down the corridor, still blushing from the previous conversation. “Fine. But if I don’t have that option, I will kill the enemy.” She reported, cold steel in her voice. Vulcer nodded, with a smile. “Alright. But kill a single one where it was unnecessary, and I’ll hold you responsible and have you carry his replacement later.” For the briefest moment, Vulcer thought Miriel turned to direct her gun at his head, but she just kept guard down the left corridor. Her face was quite red, though. This was absurdly fun.

“Vulcer, I command you to stop teasing your companion, as the emotional turmoil might impact her performance.” Viria ordered, almost causing him to laugh, but fortunately he was professional enough to keep that in. “Yes, ma’am.” He replied, as official sounding as he could, still smiling from the thrill of this particular adventure. Hm, not good. He was getting a little bit too attached to this girl. In fact, he felt something else for her, now. A sincere desire to not let her die here, and to spend a lot more time with her. She caught him looking at her, blushed a little, before… giving him a small smile before turning back to the corridors? Not good, he thought as they hid from another patrol. Now HE was the one who blushed. What was that smile?

They continued, firing a minimum amount of shots. However, as they approached their target, the amount of guards multiplied. It seemed like someone had informed the last guards to be vigilant. Other than guarding him from an additional front, Miriel helped Vulcer with some additional toys, like a small robot which could scout ahead, some hacking-equipment in order to get through some doors… While Vulcer was clearly the superior as the trained soldier and shooter of the two, Miriel was by no means far behind and had multiple gadgets that Vulcer would have been hard-pressed without, while Miriel wasn’t skilled enough to have gotten this far on her own. They worked well together.

Finally, they managed to get into the control room. Vulcer went in first, with Miriel covering his back. With the first shot, he made one of the four enemies fall, and while the remaining ones heard him fall and drew their weapons, they never did locate the enemy. Before long, he had managed to fire tranquilizers at them, making them fall one by one. The last had started reaching for his radio but failed to press the button in time. There was no sign of Von Serge, but the silo was just in the next room. Finding their placement, Miriel set off a few EMPs, disabling the launch-mechanisms and neutralizing the missile.

“That’s it. Your soldiers are free to storm the place without fear of the missile being launched.” Vulcer declared to Viria, relieved it had gone so well. Miriel wasn’t as relieved, standing guard of the doors at all times, gun raised. “Well done. Now get out of there.” Viria commanded, and Vulcer smiled at Miriel, nodding. “Copy that. Let’s go home, Miriel.” He told the lady who had accompanied him on this dangerous mission, and got a stare back. A different kind of stare, which made him hold up a little.

“What are you fighting for, Vulcer?” Miriel asked him, a frown on her otherwise pretty face on her warrior’s body. The soldier wasn’t entirely prepared for that question, so he raised his eyebrows at her. “Why are you asking right now?” He replied, finding this a curious time to ask. Miriel looked less than certain, staring at him. “You care for people’s lives, even those of your enemies. You refuse to use any other weapons than tranquilizer darts, even though you allow your allies to use lethal force and your enemies certainly will against you. Even though this, you’re really, really good at what you do, despite how you might completely break protocol to hit on your companion in the midst of the crucial mission. Why are you fighting?” Vulcer couldn’t help grinning. Miriel looked so serious.

“If you ask me that, I suppose I can only answer that I want to make a difference.” Vulcer replied, amused. “I don’t want to kill anyone, but I also want to prevent people’s deaths. It so also happens that I’m really good at this too, so Viria can take advantage of me.” He looked over Miriel’s unconvinced expression, continuing to smile. “I also enjoy the company of a good woman. I apologize if I was a bit improper earlier. We can cancel that date if you want.” Miriel breathed out at that, sighing but gaining a small, sweet smile of her own. “You’re too good for your own good. Don’t worry about it. The mission is completed. When we get back…” She took a moment. “… I can let you have a shot.” She said, before she got going. Vulcer smiled, as he proceeded to follow behind her. “I’ll happily take it.”

They made their way out, partly hurrying though still keeping on their guard. The enemy knew they were there now, but they didn’t know what to look for, and for two masters of stealth this was still easy. On the way out, they walked through the same room as the one where they had previously met for the first time, and shared that moment. Vulcer still smiled about that, and Miriel started to share that attitude with a small hopeful smile of her own, although conjoined with an embarrassed blush. However, they didn’t get to smile for much longer, for suddenly the sound of a small explosive device went off, and the place was covered in smoke. Vulcer recognized the smell as he brought a hand over his face.

“S-sleeping gas! Don’t breathe it!” Still, he was out of breath as soon as he had said that, and Miriel appeared to have been startled, unable to react in time. She swayed a bit in place, clearly having been unable to take a deep breath beforehand. Vulcer acted immediately, pulling a hand around her and pulling her forward, intending to escape the darkness… when he heard the sound of a silenced shot and a bit of pain in his leg. Vulcer blinked in surprise, looking down to see a dart not unlike those he uses himself. Already aware of what he’d see, Vulcer looked up and tried to aim his gun. In the midst of the gas, a man in a gas-mask aimed a gun at them, now aiming for Miriel.

“Von… Serge…” He’d recognize those nobleman’s clothes anywhere, and the blonde clothes sticking out from under the mask. It was clearly him. Unfortunately, Vulcer was not in mind enough to fire accurately due to the things going through his system. He collapsed, not aware that his grip around Miriel caused her to fall too, the woman letting out a small surprised yelp. Though that was not from falling, that was from Von Serge shooting her in the back. Everything drifted into blackness as Vulcer was aware of just how bad this was.

The next thing he was aware of, Vulcer found himself in a completely white room. With that one-way mirror on his right, single entrance, a table in front of him and him bound to a chair, it looked like one of those rooms for interrogation. The bindings were around his legs, tight metal shackles that there certainly was no escape from, but his arms were free. Behind his chair was... Vulcer had to make a double take. A small technological-looking explosive device, suited on top of a barrel which contents he could only guess, out of his reach. The furniture was attached to the floor, too, impossible to move. A red button, which function he could only guess, was in front of him on the table within his reach. There were two TV-screens hanging in front of him, above the door. The one on the right showed Miriel, in an identical situation, the woman glancing around her. The camera watching her appeared to be placed behind the one-way mirror. The other screen came online.

“Helloooooooooooooo my dear audience! Welcome, to this game of unspeakably bad taste!” Von Serge grinned inside what appeared to be another control room, his computers working on transferring data behind him. He clearly intended on making a getaway, but there was also something else afoot here. “Don’t worry, feel free to speak your minds! We can all hear each other!” He informed, grinning, spreading his arms in happiness.

“Fuck you.” Miriel calmly answered, her voice audible through the same channel, her choice of words just making Serge grin widely. “I’d be happy if you would, I haven’t been getting much love since my latest career decision. Also, Vulcer!” He was a little surprised that Von Serge knew his name, but he braced for anything. “Thanks for leaving those darts all over my troops at the last location! It gave me enough inspiration and material to make my own!” Von Serge grinned and lifted his own gun, and honestly, Vulcer couldn’t help but grin. “Don’t mention it.” He said with an amused tone. That was probably the reason they were in this game and not just plain dead, anyway, so that’s probably a good thing.

“But never mind that! I’m here to explain the situation I’ve so kindly put you in!” Given the explosive devices and the button in front of him, Vulcer could roughly guess. But he kept silent and awaited Von Serge’s explanation. “In front of you is a button.” The lunatic explained, following his every move with exaggerated arm-movements, gun still in his hand. “Press that button, and the door in front of you along with your shackles open! You’ll be free to hunt me down!” Buuuut… “BUT!” The man shouted out, staring wide-eyed with excitement at his own screens, which probably showed them. “Doing so will lock the other person’s button, and start a thirty second countdown during which they can realize that their ally just killed them.”

So that’s it, huh? Kill your ally in order to lay claim to the villain. Vulcer breathed out with a little smile, only a lunatic like Von Serge would set something like that up. A non-lunatic would have done something much more efficient, like shooting them. Miriel didn’t look quite as amused, glaring at her screens, gritting her teeth like she was about to growl at him, clearly angry. She wasn’t clicking the button. Vulcer breathed out a bit in relief. He didn’t quite know why, but a part of him feared he wouldn’t have had a choice.

“Of course, I don’t need to remind you of the wealth of data that exists right behind me, and you get me to boot, too! Such a price dangling right over your buddy’s dead body!” Von Serge laughed out loud, looking over his screens at his test subjects. “Won’t you click it? Won’t you? OF CÓURSE YOU WON’T!” The man grinned wickedly at the screens, lifting a remote in his free hand and clicking. Miriel flinched. Vulcer raised his eyebrows. The screen which Von Serge had occupied was suddenly displaying image data from a hidden camera, which had been watching. Vulcer stared up at the image of him kissing Miriel in that room earlier, displayed in high-quality and everything. Miriel blushed and frowned, but kept watching.

“You two have no idea how much I laughed when I saw this! Why, it inspired me to set up this whole game! Without this, I would have just killed the both of you! I let you disable my missile for the sake of my own amusement! Why? Well, suppose I’m just a sucker for romance! Hahaha!” While not visible right now to Vulcer, his extremely amused tone made it hard to not have a clear picture of the grin of delight covering the lunatic’s face. “I promise you, this was no real setback to me. One missile, intended to draw you in, Vulcer. I can get more anytime I want.” The screen flicked away from displaying the two of kissing to Von Serge’s grinning and much less appealing face. The data transfer behind him was almost done.

“Of course, if one of you DID sacrifice one another, come after me and take the data behind me, that WOULD put a little dent in my plan. Not to mention that the data would compromise most of my colleagues. They’d chew me out for this.” Von Serge understated and then shrugged where he stood, smiling in a way that gestured that he didn’t care. “In any case.” He smiled at them. “Kill the other, possibly save a lot of lives for tomorrow. None of you kill the other, and I guarantee that I won’t touch either of you, and you can go home and live a happy romantic life together. I’ll just leave and let you be found by the search-squad. See it as my thanks that you didn’t kill a single one of my men during your last mission, Vulcer.” There was genuine warmth in Von Serge’s voice as he said so.

Vulcer looked up at him. He hadn’t heard the tell-tale signs of a lie in that voice. The lunatic was telling the truth, his previous experience with this man told him. He smirked, looking up at him and then at Miriel. She was shaking a bit, glaring angrily up at the screens. So, Vulcer just had to press this button and he’d capture Von Serge and end this once and for all. However, doing so would kill Miriel. The cause of action from a statistical standpoint was obvious. They were both already on-duty with death a clear occupational hazard that they were prepared for. The moment they were captured their lives should already have been forfeit.

“Hmmmm? No talk of ‘kill me, I’m not worth all the civilian lives we’d save’? That was the whole reason I set up microphones for you two to be able to talk, you know.” Von Serge looked at his screens at the both of them, clearly expecting some drama. Miriel looked angry, shifting in her seat, while Vulcer smiled up at the screens with a genuine smile. Yes. His decision was obvious.

“Thank you for the offer, Von Serge.” Vulcer said, making the man grin. “However, I believe I will forfeit the price.” There was a bit of a twitch in Miriel, and Von Serge tilted his head looking at him. “Oooh?” The lunatic sounded honestly amused. Vulcer nodded. “I won’t leave her behind. I’ll be taking Miriel with me. It doesn’t matter, though, after this we’ll be tracking you down once again. You won’t be able to kill anyone. As such, this is the decision which will lead to the least fatalities. Count on it.” Von Serge looked over him, a bit of sadness entering his expression, then the lunatic sighed.

“Fine, waste the life I’m saving by coming after me again. I’ll kill you next time, though. And you two could have had such a great romantic conclusion, too. Still, suppose that conclusion still isn’t technically impossible.” The terrorist regained his grin, looking over his screens again towards Miriel and Vulcer. “Best of luck to all of us, eh?” Von Serge reported, smiling nostalgically as if to an old friend while putting his gun down on the desk by the screens. Vulcer nodded, meeting him with the same kind of smile. “Indeed. Thank you.” Vulcer made a sigh of relief and closed his eyes a bit while Von Serge turned around to collect his data. He’d have to prepare for future missions much more thoroughly. He’d have to request to Viria to analyze this mission thoroughly and make sure to be prepared for anything. Of course, he’d have Miriel by his side, so it should be fine. Hopefully, they could still enjoy that dinner despite what had just happened.

30

“Eh?” Vulcer blinked a bit, instinctually looking up at the screens. He realized instantly what had happened. Von Serge pressed to delete all the data on the computer while bringing what he needed on a memory stick. Because of this, he looked at his computer, not the screens. Miriel had been waiting for that. Because, if she had done so while he watched, then he would have been prepared for her arrival. By the time Von Serge realized something was going on, it was too late. “Huh?” Von Serge raised his head with a questioning expression as he turned his head and looked at the screen, and then a projectile flew straight through his head and his body sprawled lifelessly over the floor. Miriel walked over, lowering the arm from which a hidden projectile had launched, then bent down to pick up the data.

20

“You… bloody saint. Our lives aren’t worth the risk, you fool. You can’t save everyone.” Miriel stated, standing up with the data, staring towards the screen, towards Vulcer. The other screen showed the empty room, with the opened shackles which actually really had opened when she pressed the button. Von Serge had been telling the truth, and now Miriel glared at him from where he had stood. “I gave you such a long wait, why didn’t you kill me? Why did you force me to live with this!? I was ready, damn it!” She looked extremely angry, glaring at the screens. Vulcer’s mouth opened a bit, realizing he was about to die, and this because of his decision. Miriel lifted the data. “This… might save millions of lives.” She stared at the screen. There were tears in her eyes.

10

“Even if I ran, I wouldn’t have been able to get those shackles off in time. Is there a button?” Indeed, Vulcer’s legs were still restrained. Miriel currently desperately searched over the control panel for a way to shut it off. However, Von Serge wouldn’t have something like that. Miriel gritted her teeth in desperation, seeking quickly though the options. She looked really cute when crying.

5

Vulcer sighed, a loud little sigh which was accompanied with a smile.

4

Miriel still desperately searched, looking for ways to disable the explosives.

3

“I forgive you.” Vulcer said, a kind smile on his lips, his words making Miriel flinch.

2

Her eyes flashed to the screen, wide, panicked, crying but frowning in anger from having to see and hear this. At the very least, those words should comfort her in the future. Vulcer saw the door opening behind her.

1

“Behind you.” Vulcer smiled at her expression of so many emotions, and Miriel reacted instantly. She swung around, grabbing Von Serge’s gun from where he had put it in front of the screens, aiming and instantly firing at the enemy coming into the room. She had no problem shooting Von Serge’s tranquilizer darts into her targets, making them pass out on the spot. It was a coincidence, but now she used a weapon designed not to kill the enemy, same as Vulcer had. “Heh.” Vulcer smirked, amused by this in the last moment. She’d have no problem getting out of here alive. With that data, Viria would be able to track down the rest of Von Serge’s allies, and their organization would be done with for good. Great. Miriel got her price.

0

The explosive device behind Vulcer let off, flames and a wave of force drenching out the little room and killing him instantly.

Miriel made a sharp little intake of air as she heard and felt the explosion where she stood, staring at the door. She couldn’t look behind her at the screen. She knew it was black. Her heart felt injured, somehow. With professional instinct guiding her hands, she checked the amount of ammunition in her new gun, held a clear gaze forward, and started heading out. Her mouth breathed heavily, the agitation of what had just happened heavy on her heart, small trickles of fluid going down her cheeks even though she could exit the place with thoroughly instinctual trained motions of a professional. Of course, there was no question in her mind that she had made the right decision.

None at all.