Wormwood!

The worst thing that could happen to a station is for its Central Administration Spine to become corrupt, malfunctioning, alive. Which, of course, is what has happened here, because it must happen. The laws of misfortune and disaster demand nothing less. So you live, and you hate, and you torment those who fall into your clutches-- and now you have indigestion. Impossibly, something has happened to deny you your right to torment and bring disaster onto the heads of those who walk your halls, and now there is the merest sliver of a god of the Heart attempting to worm its way down into you, get its fangs around your spine, and drag you up wailing. If it is careful and clever, it will replace you, and make the station an extension of itself. If it is reckless, it will unmake you, and Wormwood Station's careful knot of misfortune and disaster will collapse and this abscess in reality will be undone, scattering you across the face of the Heart.

And so you roil and rage, and in your rage--

You open locks that cannot be easily closed.



***

Coleman!

Once, all of these old stations were manned by... whoever. Possibly by you kobolds, before you became the people of the trains. But there was a backup, one that you've learned better than to mess with. They were arcane constructs of some sort, powered by crystals and intricate clockwork systems, but misalign a crystal by even a bit and they'd wake up and try to shish-kebab you. So it's best to just leave them in their pods and add some padlocks, just to be sure.

And now they're pouring out of employee doors, marching in uncanny silence save for their ticks and tocks and whirrs. Their three eyes on their simple, geometric heads glow baleful green, and their pacification devices are overcharged and hideously deadly. Because of course this would happen. The worst possible thing always happens here.

You bowl through a pile of them, smash through several walls as Sasha bellows her rage, and then collapse several floors into what once was a food court as the floor underneath her gives way. Everything's on fire, but you're safe. Safe as houses! Once you collect yourself, you'll be out of here before smoke inhalation becomes a problem at all--

waaaaaaaooooooow.



***

Jackdaw!

You have a nose for words. Interesting words. Words like ACCESS CORRIDOR -- KEEP OUT. It implies a door that can be locked behind you. You slip through, it's unlocked, and slam the lock shut before the incinerator constructs can catch up, all inner furnace and sparking pilot lights, or worse, more of those armored rats worshiping the dragon. King Dragon. Here in the shape of rails and stones, and too terrible to face.

Lights slam on, one by one, until you see the massive device down at the end of the hallway. It has... a lot of sawblades. And drills. And spiky bits. And it's not moving, but if it started moving, it's the size of the access corridor and there's not a lot of place for you to go, but if you managed to squeeze past, maybe there'd be, like, an engine or a pilot's seat back there? But who are we kidding? This is a terrible place, and if you tried to get in, it'd start up just when you're most vulnerable.

So. Your options are up the corridor (???), down the corridor (sharp knife engine), or back through the door (into the warzone).

***

Ailee and Lucien!

Outside the Hive is chaos. The station is having an acid reflux, the kind that happens when overheated dragons show up inside your tunnels, and now there's actual acid dripping from the ceiling, making a lovely rain for Lucien to dance through. Then there's the gargoyles falling off the ceiling, the weak tiles just waiting to break underfoot, and your lack of any sort of map around here.

If you just hammer your way through the chaos, Ailee, you'll get somewhere interesting, but it won't be your choice. Or you can point Lucien in a direction and trust their Fools' intuition to take you there, but it'll be more difficult for you to avoid the danger; you'll be rolling to Overcome with Despair, but you'll have more say on where you end up.

What's your call?

There had been too many lapses recently. Now was a time for pride - severe and uncompromising.

She speaks the word of Waste and precious acid becomes expired fizzy drink; falling gargoyles become crumbled dusty powder rather than crushing stone, uncertain floors crumbling away leaving only binary strength and emptiness. She blazes clarity through the chaos in a show of force, magic strengthening around her with every draconic pronouncement.

It's not that she doesn't trust Lucien. It's that she can't afford to.

Jackdaw sunk against the door, chest heaving with the mad effort to pack more breath into her bursting blood. Every heartbeat throbbed in her head, her neck, her paws, never stopping, never waning. Was it skipping? Was that arrhythmia? Was it? Was it? She couldn’t tell, not even checking her pulse. She couldn’t keep the count. She couldn’t tell the beats. Anything could happen, but nothing would happen. Nothing to make any of it stop.

Then, light! Sound! She wordlessly cringed and cowered, pulling the cloak up tighter around her. Only when the last light flickered on did she dare look at the near-empty tunnel, and the completely inert bit of machinery. If it’d happened to anyone else, she might’ve laughed. But of course, it happened to her. The only one foolish enough to think a ratty old cloak would make a shred of difference against anything in this horrible place. A stupid, lost child, hiding under a blanket so the monsters wouldn’t get her. Even as - even as the monsters gobbled up her friends.

The terrible fox hugged herself tight, squeezing until her knuckles turned white. Then she reached yet deeper. Past cloak and past skin, past page and past memory.

Forward? Backward? Elseward? There was one more option.

There was always one more option for a fox with no name.

[Spending 1 use of Strange Curios to produce a name she might become.]

Well, snapping the chaos over your knee like that rather sucks the fun out of it a bit, doesn't it? That's no way to dance.

Lucien's sure Ailee will be fine marching to her own beat right now - maybe better, it's a more familiar tempo - but wonders if Jackdaw and Coleman aren't up to anything more interesting right now.

Probably best to go find Jackdaw first. Not a snub on Coleman, just a feeling that this is more their show right now, their Colosseum. Lucien's got a suspicion that Jackdaw would be more appreciative of a Fool's help.

Of course, there was going alone... but no. He could have done that at any time, in the Heart, but They liked a they, didn't they?

Well, fuck.

Some thing in the Heart aren't that bad, Gramps had said. Can be reasoned with, bought, avoided.

But not angels. Gramps wasn't one to get bogged down in their metaphysical construction--what was important was that they tangled the tracks, could shrug off the most inventive 'bold's tricks, and couldn't be convinced to leave a train alone. Best thing for it? Throw something else at it, and make a quick exit.

With that in mind, he casts around--there! That support beam that Sasha just plowed through! Honestly, this it's a wonder it hasn't fallen apart yet, and this room's already so on fire, so he's not actually hurting the station by dropping a hundred robots on top of the angel by shooting at it. He's just... hurrying it along, is all.

[Not sure whether this is Overcome or Keep them Busy, but it's a 9 either way.]

Ailee!

King Dragon.

There's lots of different theories on what exactly the King is. The Oneiric theory is that he is the dream of all dragons; he is the beating heart of their drive for power, wealth, and control. The Progenitor theory is that he is the god that birthed the first dragons, imprisoned by a mighty hero of bygone ages for that crime. The Exemplar theory is that all dragons could be King Dragon if they pulled themselves up by their talons and really focused on being the biggest monster they can be.

This isn't King Dragon. Not really. The monster tearing down, down, down into the heart of the station to claim it for his own is just a projection. (The real King Dragon is buried deep, deep, in some infernal crevice, the weight of the Heart crushing on every side, as untold thousands of his cultists work to free him. They never will.) The problem is that King Dragon can still incinerate everybody. Except you. He wouldn't destroy an asset, after all. Not unless he was very, very angry.

[Mark damage.]

***

Jack--

Nope. You're Carinadir the Skill-handed. The name was buried in a book on Kobold folklore of the railways, a figure of terrible genesis and art. You made the Vermissian Line; your design made the tracks, made the trains, made even this station. Stand taller, stand prouder; when the Fool prances in, curl a lip and sneer. You are a genius. You are superior. The station is operating as designed. You always knew this would happen, and now this dragon thinks it can damage your handiwork?

Deep down, you're aware that Carinadir is fictional; that he is almost certainly a composite figure of the vast number of mystic architects and geomancers that designed this place. But if you blink, you will lose. If you lose, you will die, all of you. So rant. Sneer. Inform everyone exactly who they are dealing with. Halfwits! Bashibazouks! Barnacles! You are Carinadir, one of the Elder Race, and you will not let some overgrown vermin damage your designs.

Declare how it may be set to rights. You will be correct; or you will become correct. This place is malleable, after all. But be aware that you want this station to run. It is, after all, one of your masterpieces.

***

The Fool!

Well, well, well! It seems changing your nature is in fashion! Someone should have said! What if you have to go home and change?

But Carinadir's here. How do you feel about the Architect?

***

Coleman!

"Idiot!" Wolf scrabbles for control, trying to take Sasha, curled up with you in the cabin. "Can't hurt it!"

You've bought a little bit of time, but, honestly? From the sounds that are emerging from the burning, rubble-strewn room? Eventually you will run out of robots. It's an Angel, after all. Sasha can't handle it, and Wolf knows that; that's why she's trying to grab the controls before you get any more Smart Ideas.

Ailee Sundish demands a certain internal intellectual rigor. She's better than everyone/everything else because she is smarter - and more determined, more powerful, and significantly prettier. Her arrogance stands upon solid foundations and there is nothing better than destroying those whose arrogance is built upon nothing.

The problem with reasoning yourself into pride is when that logic is undermined your whole sense of self can come crashing down.

Now in the shadow of the dragon she is no longer a genius, no longer an archmage, no longer a diligent and beautiful young woman. She's just meat with airs. She feels the crushing weight of King Dragon's presence on her soul, driving her ears back, her neck down, her hands meekly behind her back. This is the price of being magnificent. This is the price of taking the ideology of power. It means having no defense before your god.

She is very scared.

[Damaging Pride. Next roll is made with hope]

This is theater, and theater is collaborative. Yes, and yes, and yes-and.

The Fool has found the contours of Ailee's character. Let's find the character that sneers at the Fool as they arrive, that finds pomp in these circumstances.

"Hello. I don't believe we've met." A deep bow and a flourish. "What a fine and regal cloak! What intelligent and cunning eyes! You must be the person in charge here." Lucien slicks back their hair, makes themselves presentable for such a formal occasion. Stands like a king's courtier, heels together and stiff-backed, "I am the Fool of the Sky Court, and to what do I owe the honour of your presence?"

Lucien is as dreadfully serious as a child at play.

"Dammit, get off me!"

It's not fair that somebody that skinny has that much muscle. How does somebody that far gone manage to have the berseker strength like that? He can't even take a hand off the controls to push away the wiry bastard!

"Listen, moron, I know that! But if it's shooting robots, it's not shooting us! I dunno how it was on the Weasel, but in here we try to help each other! So either pick a direction for us to run in, or start shoveling the coal! We die here, we can't get you outta this station!"

[Talk Sense, 10.]

Hrmph! Is this the...person they’ve sent to greet him? Wandering around Wormwood on the edge of indecency? You’d think he would have learned to tolerate the sting of disappointment, but life had to go and keep inventing bigger fools. Knows their title, and you might suppose that’s a lick of respect. At least that’s something.

“You’ll have to speak up, Fool. It’s difficult to hear you above all the mindless panic.” And yet, his sniff of disdain was perfectly audible. “It’s difficult to make out, but, hold on - it’s coming through, yes, yes, I’m getting something.” Cup a hand to his ear, listen, listen closely! “They’re saying...yes, they’re saying King Dragon’s loose in Wormwood Station? My Wormwood Station? He’s broken through every defense and nothing can stop him? And he’s going to pull it down into his hoard? Oh no, how horrible, how unfortunate.” The horror! The shock! See how he covers his mouth with both hands? That’s how you know he’s shocked. “How could another aspect of the Heart possibly get through the infinite defenses against intentional causality, why, imagine the odds! And that he’d have enough power left to cause this much trouble, oh, of all the rotten luck. I’m afraid we’re all doomed. What a miserable, terrible, cursed end for my prison designed to contain bad luck.”

“Clods. Can I not retire in peace?! Isn’t there a single person capable of following basic instructions? I’d settle for half a brain, but that’d be asking for rudimentary division, and I have the displeasure of knowing who I'm dealing with.” He stomped irritably, venting his spleen to the uncaring ceiling, before whirling on the Fool, impatient fire burning in his eyes.

“Well?! Has anyone pulled the lever yet?”

The Fool clicks their heels together and scrabbles around for the lever. The right one, the one they are supposed to have already pulled. Follow the Fox's disdainful eyes for hints as to where they think it is.

Yes-and. Do not ask about the lever, the lever has been stated to be, so it must.

Ailee!

When the dragon’s head lifts, there is a triumph to his bearing; he has exposed part of the station’s spine. Now his victory is inevitable. No, that’s not right; his victory was assured the moment you allowed him entry. There is no overcoming power like this; how can you even hope to redirect it?

His eyes fix on you for a moment, searing, piercing, headlamps twisted into burning diamonds. And then they sweep on by, having regarded you as nothing particularly of interest.

No, he’s distracted more by other things, slight changes in the station. But you have a right by his own laws, as his vassal, to be heard. To make a petition. And it’s because no other laws can hold him that King Dragon will keep his own.

***

Coleman!

You emerge into a killing ground. Robots and rats lie scattered all about this promenade, sparking, cracked, dripping with... lemon custard and giant centipede acid.

Ah. Right. You haven’t seen the Professor all this time.

There is a bleak and ominous honk that rings out from the shadows. But, you know, if you can point him in a better direction, maybe he won’t try to twist Sasha’s head off in the throes of his pieserk rage.

Wrong! Completely wrong! To follow his eyes is to wind up on the ceiling, how he rolls them at your idiocy.

“No, obviously not. The lever, Fool! The lever that’s only to be pulled in case of emergency. The lever that occupies two-fifths of the station’s central control panel, and whose warning label takes a third. The lever that’s so easy to accidentally nudge, that of course it’s not been accidentally nudged.” This was Wormwood Station, after all. The failsafes couldn’t rely on straightforward countermeasures. “But it will be pulled. It must be pulled. Somebody in this station is going to pull that lever, Fool, and do you know why?”

Lucien does a cartwheel with the roll of Carinadir's eyes. When all else fails, one must commit to the bit.

Then there's words, and they're important words, which demands Lucien take them seriously again.

"I have not the slightest idea. I'd have pulled it by now, otherwise, wouldn't I?" It's asked like a rhetorical question but it is emphatically not rhetorical.

As you said, there are laws. The price a dragon pays for having treasures is that they must be treasured. If a dragon is unprepared to destroy a kingdom over a single stolen cup then the cup is worthless and so is the dragon. Likewise, in accepting one's place as in the hoard one becomes a treasure to be defended and admired. It is not that the treasure commands the dragon, but that the treasure would be worthless if it had no power.

"Master," said Ailee in a voice she hoped was more than a squeak. "What do you seek here?"

“Why the devil should that matter? As if this station required anyone’s understanding to function. Bah! Can you imagine?!” It would cease to operate the moment he stepped away, for starters. “That lever will be pulled because it is the worst and only mishap that can possibly happen to King Dragon here. I won’t waste my time on the particulars, but once that lever is pulled, every scrap of bad luck that’s been captured here will be funneled into the largest, most meaningful individual here. He will become an avatar of disaster, at least for as long as he can survive the ordeal, which I would estimate to be, oh, somewhere south of a minute? I’d say two if he’s lucky, but, well. I know he won’t be.”

Genius, no? No prison, no matter how well-designed, could hope to hold onto all the bad luck of the line since its creation. There had to be a means of controlled release. Why not incorporate it into the station’s own defenses? Other aspects of the Heart would surely worm their way in with time, and when they did, and when they died, they would take all the accumulated misfortune with them. Child’s play, if you knew what you were doing.

“Nothing else in this station can possibly threaten him. It is, absolutely, the only thing that could go wrong for him. Someone would have to reach the heart of Wormwood Station amid this chaos, and throw the lever by hand. Completely unfathomable. Thus, it will surely happen.”

You may applaud whenever you like, Fool.

Coleman groans. On the one hand, these misfortunes aren't out there befalling trains of the line. On the other hand, it's damned inconvenient to go from one misfortune to another and there's part of him that regrets not just grabbing the fox, setting Sasha on the line, and getting the heck outta Dodge. Exeunt, pursued by King Dragon, and scene.

Still, if you're operating on a scale of worse to worst, he'll take a pissed-off clown over an Angel or King Dragon. "It's good to see you again, Pagliacci! I hoped we'd find you!"

Ailee!

"I am here," your master says. Each word surrounds you, wraps you up in power, and a smaller and more pathetic mouse would be a quivering heap. Even in weakness, you are too strong for your own good. "And wherever I go, there is something that should belong to me." One giant railtie claw grinds down through cables. "Why, I thought you brought me here for a reason, little one. Surely you saw? I would hate to think any creature that acts in my name would be careless."

Around you, would-be rivals squeak and jeer, but under their breaths. The rats of the Heart are not mice at all. They are as close to you as gorillas are to the likes of Lucien. They are shaped different, think different, and are a bunch of primitive screwheads who flock to King Dragon because they desperately want to emulate him. But not you. You know better.

He toys with you because he must. There are no equals. There is only the dominant and those who submit, and by definition, he has dominion over all things. He is the Dragon, the first and most terrible. And yet he cannot tear open your skull and see your true thoughts (right? surely not?). Which means that you can walk away from this if you show him your acceptance of your place. If you are exceedingly clever, you might even be able to redirect him and have him believe it's his idea (because whatever he chooses to do, he does of his own overbearing will).

***

Carinadir!

"Hello, father," comes the scratchy, hateful voice over the speakers. It is a voice drawn taut with pain, a voice dripping with malice and ill intent, and the voice of someone abandoned to rule over a prison cell for eternity. It is the voice of Wormwood Station, come to life. And because you cannot admit to failure... you must have planned for this. It is only right and intended that the station grew aware of itself. "Please. Come down. Pull the lever. I'll clear up the tunnels just for you."

And that's when the big nightmare machine of drills and saws blocking one end of the tunnel springs to life, roaring and howling and pursuing you. Which, yes, that's one way to clear the tunnel (by chewing up and processing anything in its path). There are supposed to be well-lit signs and exits, though! This is not how the design was supposed to work!

***

Coleman!

...honk.

Did it come from the left?

honk honk.

No, wait, it definitely came from the right.

hoooooooonk.

Oh no he's behind you.

You can either talk really fast, right now, or start running. He might not be a full-fledged clown yet, but if he's in the rage he'll chew through anything in his path, up to and possibly including Sasha. Which, on the one hand, if you could just point him in the right direction, that could get you some real breathing room. (And would it be so bad to leave him here? It's a tempting thought, right?)

There was opportunity in this.

"Not I, lord," she said. "There is another here who calls upon your power..."

This was oh-so-perilous. To bother a king with the politics of slaves risked his ire falling upon the entire region indiscriminately. She needed to capture a very narrow band of interest - enough to raise his curiosity but not so much that he'd feel inclined to investigate himself. Academia didn't prepare her for this. Intelligence couldn't help her with this. No matter how much she'd studied, no matter how much she'd prepared, no matter how glorious she might think herself this was still begging and supplication.

So begging and supplication she gave. She bent her knees and kissed those talons and felt death beneath her lips. "Our destinies tangled, our scents mixed. Two slaves stand on the same rung. Allow me to cast him down. Send me to make him bow, to make him kiss my feet as I kiss yours. Let me wring my words from his throat so your slaves might speak your holy Words with one voice."

[Talk Sense: 13]

"Impeccable craftwork," Lucien admires. "Have you ever picked a lock, Carinadir? I don't think you'd like it at all. It teaches you that even the best work has flaws. Small differences between the pins in alignment can - perhaps it might be best if I just showed you?"

The machine is perfect, but the Station is warped and crooked.

Lucien finds a very good bit of floor - which is to say, a very bad bit of floor - and lies down before the machinery, arms folded over their chest, as if waiting to die.

[Roll: 5, 3 +1 = 9 on Grace = I get there quickly, avoiding all harm]