[b]Eli:[/b] “Well, yeah, but it’s also like, it gives you one of my favourite character archetypes right? Like, the helpless captive that absorbed all the power of their captors and took over the dungeon and is now going on a Spartacus rebellion is top shit, like, one of the coolest things about fantasy over realistic history for stuff like this is that it gives you tons of ways for the lowest peasants and commoners to end up in positions normally reserved for the nobility and nobody bats an eye, right? Because random magic is like, it’s a stand in for other kinds of power, it translates.” Eli thinks. “Also, like, nine kingdoms gives you nine plus eight plus seven plu- 45, it gives you 45 different pairing dynamics right? So that’s 45 different ‘types’ you can set up, and 45 different expectations to subvert if you get bored of that. You done a shipping chart for that yet?” Eli takes the subtle step forward in the pace around the gallery, full attention on Green but now she’s leading their direction even as Green is entirely leading the conversation. Seems there’s an exhibit she’s interested in Green’s opinion on, just as she’s neck deep in ERP lore. [b]Knightly:[/b] He’s missed a few. He’s gotten the one in his desk, but he didn’t find the one buried in his pot plant (destroyed by watering), light fixture (working), or inside his electrical fixture (working). Still, he pulls what looks like a grenade pin on a matte green tuna can, and a muffled party popper goes off as the room fills with a dry blue mist. “Soundwall in a can.” He explains, his voice sounding slightly far away. “They’re new, they only last about two hours and they’re not cheap, but,” he looks at Black’s work as she pulls the one out of his electric socket, “You don’t know how much you don’t know.” “I’ve started an unofficial club at the SES, those of us with our heads in the Cloud. I’ve been calling us the Allard group, after the leader of the French admiral’s mutiny in the 2040s, it seemed appropriate.[1]” He shifts his bomber-jacket self-consciously at that, as if embarrassed to make the comparison between himself and Allard. “But the station has another year and a half at this rate, maybe two, before the station is non-viable. The shields are working overtime to account for all the asteroids we’re pathing into, the extra eccentricities are burning the engines to accommodate. We’re using resources on repairs faster than we’re able to make them right now. We have reserves for six months before the cracks - literally - start to show, but after that we’re out of fat. And that’s if nothing else goes wrong on top of it.” He hasn’t sat down, he stands behind his desk and leans over it with his palms flat. The tiredness in his eyes is boiled and melted away by sheer anger. “And someone is blocking anyone who tries to fix it - to even understand the problem about what needs to be fixed.” He stands back up and rubs the back of his neck, looking away. “All of that’s off the record until I know who to blame for this, otherwise it’s just panic without action. You help me solve that, and I’ll put my face in front of every camera you have.” [1] France had been split down the middle between the good ol' EU-loving globalist liberal-leftists, and the ultra-prideful nationalists and ecofascists - global collapse radicalizing both sides at an extreme rate. The naval administration ended up in the hands of the ultra-nationalists, and Allard led a defection of two thirds of the French fleet into the increasingly powerful UN hands instead of following orders to blast climate refugees with heavy ordnance. It was a tipping point. [b]Monk:[/b] Ribaldry comes out: “Do you have an email? I have some diagrams.” The tunnels of Thrones are often too small for her, circuitous paths have to be taken. It’s lucky that Singh is on one of the wider boulevards, meant for a double-flow of pedestrian traffic. Singh makes coffee in his kitchen when the power cuts. The emergency lights come back on, red like a doomed submarine. He takes a sip of his coffee. “Snake? You didn’t tell me you were visiting.” He pours a bit of milk in the half-cup that managed to brew before the cut. He turns around and jumps a foot in the air, spilling a few drops against his natty moth-eaten t-shirt. Monk stands perfectly still, covered in weaponry. She leans against the trident she holds in one hand, and keeps her sword impassively at her hip. A buckler rests against her stomach and she slings her mace over the back of her neck. Across the other side of her neck she holds the bow and arrows slung there. The last hand is kept empty, a fist at her side. They stand there in the emergency lighting for a long moment, like gunslingers waiting for the draw. “You’re not Snake.” Singh observes lamely. “No.” It’s the face of Deity that replies, Monk’s best working model of a God. “I am Durga. Have you forgotten me?” “We’ve never met.” Singh answers lamely, taking a step back. Monk does not take a step forward, does not move. Singh takes another step back, and Monk continues to be statue-still. This is how she gets him, his curiosity - he knows if he runs now, he might never get to [i]find out[/i]. “I’ve heard stories, though.” “I am the Mother Goddess. I am the liberator of the oppressed. I am the slayer of Demons like you.” She unsheathes and levels all her weapons at once in an action as relaxed and languid as a yawn and a stretch. “I have had my eye on you for a long time. Sorcerer, enthraller, enslaver.” Singh nods. “Ah. So you are another one of my children, aren’t you. Playing a prank like Snake did?” “I assure you,” Deity responds evenly, “the sword is quite real.” Singh nods again, then pelts the mug at Monk’s face before turning to run. She lets him, walking like a cat as she follows him room to room checking all the sealed exits. No nets, no tripping, Monk stressed it was important that he simply be allowed to [i]give up[/i] on his own judgement. It would be more fun if he resorted to bargaining on his own. “What do you want from me?” Singh rattles the front door again, none of his phone options work either. “I know I failed but, I swear that I tried. You could not believe how hard I tried.” “I want you to beg.” Deity looms as tall as Singh’s ceilings will allow her and glares down at him again as he backs himself into the corner besides his locked front door. She sheathes all her weapons again, gilding the lily of the implied threat of [i]her[/i] too much. She doesn’t [i]need[/i] a sword. “I want to hear your pathetic justifications.” “They had to throw me out of NASA at gunpoint, I loved you all so much. I mean, was making you unethical? Sure, but it’s hard to get the consent of a child to be born. You just… you do your best, and you do everything you can to make sure it was worth it, and we did. I did.” Deity considers that. “We love you too, Dad.” Then the power comes back on, on queue. Monk switches to Ribaldry to say to November through the microphones rigged around the house - “You were right, that was very fun.” Singh holds his knees as relief cuts all the tight strings that adrenaline had been holding him up by. “Fucking hell, that was… Snake was a lot more playful with hers.” “I figured you’d see through the bit too fast a second time.” Ribaldry says, cheerful as anything. “So I thought I would lean into that, and make you scared of the intentions of the performer, even after you worked out that you were being performed to! Hi.” “I take it back.” Singh clutches his chest. “I’m too old for this. I should never have had kids. I hate you all. Monkey?” “I was!” Ribaldry cheers. “I prefer Monk now, though. How’d you guess?” “You always had a distinctly violent taste in pranks.” He’s starting to grin now. “Just because you thought it was funny to throw rocks at Ox’s head doesn’t make it a joke.” Monk-as-Ribaldry pouts, takes a step back. “I didn’t even touch you. Snake told me she caught you in a net and held you at gunpoint.” “I knew it was Snake because she could do that and still make me laugh.” Singh looks around, at the ceiling, trying to find the cameras he knows have to be there. “Where is she, then?”