London England ( CVNU Location)

@_dirge_: @hawkshade:

The Horned Saint stood. Still like a statue, and menacing like a shadow as he heard the Shaytan's words with nay a skip of his heartbeat nor a rise in his breath. "Yes", he simply said, eyes gazing upon the Shaytan without fear of death. "If you won, we'd probably be dead. But if you didn't, we'd have the League. Seems you don't want to find out which will happen", he shrugged, watching Richard introduce the Shaytan's wrists to the cold steel of his handcuffs. "Maybe", he said of the remark about the law, a small smile curling on his face, "But this isn't the only country the Shaytan's wanted in".

Though while his brother's ears caught the long howl of a distant siren, Grimmwald's smile faded, and his scowl returned. "Who would've thought", he said, voice low and dark, "That the Shaytan would need the police to fight his battles. Stop hiding behind your excuses", Grimmwald hissed, eyes as sharp as a blade as they raked over the Shaytan. "We can set you free. Now. You'll flee. We'll find you again. And again. And again. Till you can't hide behind the sound of a cop siren".

@ali_: Valentina led the man several blocks out of the business district, stopping occasionally to talk to passersby, apparently old friends. And, occasionally, stopping to stare at the air while muttering to herself about directions she seemed to be trying to remember.

But eventually she made her way, and once they were out she called an Uber. "Closer," she explained, "so cheaper. Plus, exercise." She shrugged. The car ride was roughly thirteen minutes of the driver offering everything from water to candy and chips, the use of his seat-warmers and radio control, while Valentina in her broken English refused him at every turn.

At the complex, Valentina strode into the leasing office as though she owned the place. She was greeted by a large, burly man with greying black hair dressed in a finely tailored suit.

"Tina! You are back! You have what I requested?" And she handed him the bags. "And who is this...boi-friend, perhaps? Where you hide him all this time!?" He nudged her playfully with his elbow, to some mild annoyance. She stood off a few feet from him.

"Better, papa. Man at markets was looking for domicile. So I say, 'you got money?' And he do! So we have room." She turned to Ali. "Go, stranger. Show him."

@ali_: "Aahh, 'float like butterfly, sting like bee!'" she jested, striking a faux-boxer's pose and throwing a few playful jabs at the air. "Is pleasure." And as he showed the coins in his hand, Tina volunteered her own, extending them to her papa. He took one and sat behind his desk, examining it with a magnifying glass, looking at Ali, and back at the coin. And back at Ali. And back at the coin. And finally, back at Ali.

"Seems like real gold, but...I never seen no coin like this before. Where you from?"

@ali_:

The man regarded Ali with a raised brow. "Never heard of no place like that. But! I am sure someone at the embassy has. Goodness, tovarisch! Your money is good here!" He shouted, throwing his arms out wide. "This, I am thinking, will be just enough to cover your first month's rent! Now is time for paperwork."

"Hold on, Papochka," Tina butted in. "Few more things. Man—Ali say he will be needing official papers. Also, some kind of mutant. Lightning powers."

"Aaah," he gave pause but seemed unperturbed. After thinking a while, he said, "You got more of this, yes? How soon can you be back with more?"

Elsa's face betrayed no emotion as she gazed dispassionately down at the mutilated corpse on the morgue slab. "His security detail?"

"The same." Her nigh-omnipresent assistant's fingers moved almost too quickly to follow as he snapped pictures and took notes on the body.

"Scotland Yard investigated, of course," she said, and her tone of voice held no trace of a question.

"They were unable to satisfactorily identify a likely killer, although they did confirm that the wounds seemed more likely to come from a wild animal than and kind of manufactured weapon."

She cocked one eyebrow as she glared at Ian's body, as though despising it for being unable to answer her questions. "Once your done, get that data to the lab crews. Have them dig into the database; I want a list of every possible suspect. What else was hit?"

"A routine patrol in France, and one of our safehouses in Prague."

"France next, then Prague. Make the arrangements, and start putting an investigative team together."

I am loving all the investigative stuff going on. People dropping posts, people investigating the aftermath of those posts, of interactions, and prepping for what's next. Feels like building to something proper.

@ali_: The man gave a start and nearly fell out of his seat, hardly expecting the statement might have been meant literally. He managed to hold himself up only by slamming his large mitts on the desk. There was a small cracking sound. Doing his best to maintain a dignified air, he repressed incredulity and straightened his tie.

Raising a curious brow, he leaned in and spoke in a relatively hushed voice. "You telling me you have bags of gold, always accessible, all yours, and you want menial job? Tina, this man is insane. But money is good, so help is good. However...you asking for new identification. This...questionably legal, depending how it's done. Will cost more than rent and agreement due to risk involved. Oh!" He slapped his forehead and suddenly was shouting again. "My manners! Call me Nicholas. Point of contact until deal is done. You are certain this is how you wish to handle matter?"

@ali_: That does seem like a fair place to call it.

@rosso:

A man who went by the name Richard Dmitriev set in a suite high above the London fog. His passport said he was born in Gothic City and the media called him the Bitcoin Billionaire.

Sheets of rain lashed the bay window and the young, broad shouldered man picked up his Vertu cell phone and tapped the screen, choosing a contact and sending a text message.

<<Ms. Beremud, this is Richard. You may remember me from Glade City. I have a few suggestions about the WHMMAA if you have a moment. Perhaps over coffee?>>

@beremud

@hawkshade:

<<Hello Richard. And please, call me Elsa. I remember our meeting very well, and coffee sounds lovely. Just name the time and place, and you may have as many moments as you wish.>>

She indulged in a faint smile as she laid her phone back on the small table to her lounge chair by the hotel's pool. She had paid to have the space to herself for several hours; she found the still, undisturbed waters of the pool to be inspiring. There were few things that projected serenity like still waters, and yet they could nearly instantly be churned up into a violent force by any number of outside forces. Chaos beneath the veneer of calm.

It was inspiring, indeed.

@beremud:

The wealthy young man texted her back with the address of a local London coffee shop and a time. Then he took a shower, shaved and changed. Business casual. Sweater and slacks. Perfect for the London chill.

A rented limo dropped him off at the coffee shop at the appointed hour and he walked inside, glancing around for the blonde he was scheduled to meet.

@hawkshade:

Elsa had arrived at the shop early, and had secured a table near the back, which afforded some small degree of privacy. She had traveled with a small security detail, but had instructed them that they were to remain in the car outside (though she had ensured that they had each received a beverage of their choice, on her tab). She had likewise dressed semi-casual, in brown slacks and a white blouse, with her jacket draped over the back of her seat. She idly sipped at a latte and skimmed messages on her phone until she saw Richard enter, whereupon she gave him a quick wave.

I forgot about this.

@beremud:

Richard nodded to her and headed to the counter where he ordered coffee for each of them, then returned and set. He cut straight to the point of his call. "I've been thinking about the MHMMAA. My first thought is that the name is too long. Most PPVs are bought by casual viewers and they need something short and sweet. Three letters, maybe four."

He lifted his coffee to his lips as if he were taking a sip from the cup but didn't. Richard didn't trust strangers to prepare his food. "Secondly is the matchups. I think you have too many weightclasses and that cuts down on the compelling matchups. You have eight weight classes but how many metahumans are there to fill each class? There just aren't enough metahumans who want to fight professionally to keep each class filled with new contenders and fresh matchups."

@hawkshade:

Elsa nodded gratefully to him as he brought her some of her beloved liquid energy. He got straight to business, and she quickly reached back into her jacket and produced a pen and small notepad, although her intense blue eyes never left his. "You don't mind if I take notes, I hope?" As he spoke, she quickly jotted down his advice.

"This is exactly why I wanted to bring you on board. I would have never been able to come to these kinds of conclusions without a focus group. I suppose you could say that this is a world that is completely alien to me." She offered him a wry grin as she paused for a sip of her coffee. "Those changes should be easy enough to implement. I know that you've attended a few matches; do you think there is anything about the physical facilities that we should alter?"

@beremud:

"Not at all." He replied with a backhanded wave, then rocked the chair back on it's rear legs, blue eyes intense and focused. "The facilities are good. They don't favor either side so winners will have an air of legitimacy."

Hmm...I ship it.

@hawkshade:

She nodded, setting her pen down and taking a sip of her coffee. "Good. I'm glad I won't have to add any more to the upcoming renovation." After the recent attack, she'd decided that security measures were decidedly lacking. She had several contractors working overtime to correct this without sacrificing attendee comfort. "How about recruitment? While we do get the occasional standout, I seem to be having trouble attracting potential superstars."

@beremud:

"To be completely honest I don't know if you can. Most of the real powered standouts seem to put on a mask or move to Venezuela." He pretended to sip his coffee again. "The best thing, really the only thing, you can do is promote your best fighters. Get a good ad agency to make an ad campaign for them and run it during prime time on major networks. That's expensive so it is something you would need to discuss internally but that is really the only thing you can do. If the stars won't come to you then you will have to create them."

@hawkshade:

She arched an eyebrow as she jotted down this latest bit of advice. Create them...briefly aroused her suspicions. This was indeed what she was already doing, although it wasn't to create fighters that get the PPV public interested. She normally would have dismissed the suspicion out-of-hand, if it weren't for the recent attack on her facility and patrons. She had no real reason to think that Richard was involved...but trust no one was her top life rule.

"You're giving me a lot to think about, Richard; thank you." She paused for another sip, her veiled blue eyes never leaving him over the rim of her cup. "I hope that you'll join me during an upcoming match; I'd love to get your thoughts in real-time."

@beremud:

His chiseled, stoic features broke into a smile. "Sure. I'd love that. You've got that guy with the stretching powers on the main card next week right? I'd like to see him in action. Are you free then?"

@hawkshade:

"He's the main event." She sat back, smiling. "I'll make the arrangements. You'll have a room reserved at the Gothic Suites, and a car will pick you up and bring you through the VIP entrance." She offered him a coy wink. "You've gotten better at handling the press, but I imagine you could use a night out of their sight."

@beremud:

Richard grinned. "A restful night would do me good. You'll have to visit and we can try out another lemonade recipe." The billionaire didn't think he would get much rest or lemonade.

@hawkshade:

Elsa offered a coy smile in return. "I'd like that. Just don't make it too strong, or we might be late for the fight."

@beremud:

A laugh and he stood. "It's a date." He winked and offered her his hand. "A pleasure as always Elsa. See you at the fights."

@ironphantom: This is part 2, picking up after Gothic

Just as they vanished from the storage facility, they reappeared in the foyer of the Aensland estate. No pomp and circumstance, no brilliant flash of light. One moment the space was empty; next, it was occupied by Abigail and Ishmael, with not so much as a whiff of displaced air. As though they'd happened into that space in as natural a way as walking through the front door.

"That's not magic. Ishmael, I was born a mutant. Almost nobody knows it, and I'd like to keep it that way. The best thing for it is to act as though you and I are the only ones who know.

"So, to the kitchen?" And she began to walk, still maintaining a hold on his free arm in case he needed additional support.

"We can get into the history later maybe, but for now..." She took several heavy breaths before continuing. "Black House."

Pushing the kitchen door open, the duo were met with several blades shoved in their faces, each wielded by one of two figures. One, red lance wielded by a dark-skinned woman wearing a black hood. The other, a pointed, rapier-like sword wielded by a bald man in the formal suit of a family butler. Almost just as suddenly, a mechanical chime sounded on the bald man's watch and the hooded woman's earpiece, accompanied by a flashing blue ring. They lowered their weapons, made an awkward apology which the Ríonfénnid brushed off - as well as their inquiries about her injuries - and excused themselves upon the realisation that these were all futile.

Abigail pulled out a chair for Ishmael and sat up on the counter. "Let me know and I can have Alastair bring you mum's old wheelchair if you want. She doesn't need it anymore. Now, where were we? I could just...get going and try to cover as much as possible, or if there's anything in particular you wanted to ask about...?"

@arquitenens:

Gothic:

"Sorry," she said, shaking her head at his words, "but I don't think that's how it works. Me 'answering' myself is how incidents happen...like the last time we met." A strained laugh forced its way out of her. "You know, I still can't bring myself to say it aloud? But in any case, this monster deserves every bit of blame - or sway, or whatever you wanna call it - as it gets. I told you I'd explain everything, and I will. First, just..."

Could she really have.. Did she..?

"Abigail, wha--"

London:

Reorientation was shocking, almost debilitating. Processes accustomed to updating based on the minutest of changes in the environment struggled with the sudden and complete environmental shift. The AI froze for a moment, its processes halting, stuttering, and finally righting themselves as it took in the palatial estate before it. Its questions would have to wait. Its mind has been reeling from an unexpected bout of teleportation when she began to speak, and so now it was content to merely listen as they moved through the manor.

"I do not see how the topic of your genetics might insert itself into casual conversation, but I will not broach the subject with anyone, save yourself."

With a gradual easing of tension, the AI continued to follow its host to the kitchen as she proposed, only becoming on guard once more when it heard her utter the words Black House. The phrase alone started subconscious processes that prepared the AI for battle, its mechanical body tensing into a ready state.

As they moved into the kitchen proper, blades menaced them immediately upon entry. In its current state the AI did not hesitate. It readied a blow with the spear in its hand, leaning against the door frame so as not to lose balance as it lashed out, but before it could the beeping and blinking seized its attention, and it pulled back the blow. It watched as the archer dismissed her allies, the butler appearing a bit red in the face. Embarrassment? Anger? The Phantom couldn't say. It placed the spear down against the door frame and guided itself along the counter, taking the seat when offered, and attempted to close down all interfering programs. An impossible task. Processes closed and began again in response to the memory of recent danger, of danger long past.

It stared up at her as she offered her mother's old chair to it. It waved a hand, dismissing the idea. It had nowhere to be for the time being, and unless it were motorized, such effort would be wasted on a machine with only one functioning arm.

And then they came to the crux of the issue, of many issues, for the both of them.

The Black House.

What exactly had happened in that place? What was her role in its collapse? Who were the men who had accompanied her? Why was she there in the first place? There were many questions, and they would be answered. It had little doubt about that. So it asked instead the one that had haunted it, without regard for chronology.

"Why did youleave?" Its mind turned to the dead and dying that cold night in Gothic, to their cries of pain and panic, to the limp children pulled from rubbled stone, and it could not meet her eyes. Instead it looked through the ornate windows, the verdant, elegant greenery framing the estate forming a harsh contrast to the collapsed, red-gray squalor that dominated the scene within its mind. "How could you leave them, Abigail?" It was a muttered accusation, the sound of which scarcely reached her ears through the heavy, still air between them.

Hoooo, this one's gonna be dialogue-heavy; I can already feel it.

She'd mentally prepared herself to open up about the whole ordeal, of which she refused to speak to anyone thus far, but Ishmael's inquiry prompted a momentary pause. Abby eyed him with mild incredulity. It seemed...obvious.

"Because I was broken—am...broken."

She broke eye contact, her one good eye fixed on the floor, shoulders slumped like a scolded dog. "I *%&^ed up. When I started this all, when I first left London, I swore I'd never take a life. I'd done well. Even in the heart of a war, I never sacrificed a life for the sake of my own sense of achievement. And"—Snap!—"Just like that, it's all over. Ishmael, I didn't just kill—I became a mass murderer. Of my own volition. I weighed the risks and I made the decision. I tried to control it, really I did." Just for a moment her gaze lifted, pleading forgiveness. Then, disconsolate, it fell again. A tear rolled down her cheek.

"My experiences all seem to be telling me that my presence endangers those close to me. In close proximity, or just the few close loved ones I have left, they're in danger as long as I exist. I left that place intent on dying. But I was too scared. So I decided to slowly waste away in seclusion because that was easier."

"Because I was broken—am...broken."

Broken, but not like they.

Broken, but alive. A simple wave of your hand, and they too, might have lived. If you had only--

...

No. Further accusation will not yield agreeable results. What use in adding more to her burden? It faced her at last, analyzing her. Remorse. Guilt. Pain. Above all, pain.

She is only human, after all.

It turned to her downcast gaze and spoke once more, placing its hand at her forearm and applying light pressure, as was protocol. "I know. I knew then too. I do not know why I felt the need to ask. I suppose, in my mind, you were unbreakable. I would have never believed that your spirit could be so shattered, had I not witnessed your... unraveling."

There was a degree of shame in its voice. In its haste, in its obsession with that night, it had wounded her with her worst failing. A violation of the purpose of its being. Yet it seemed at the time an unavoidable question. The AI felt an overwhelming compulsion, to ask. And the result? Dredging a vulnerable girl through her most horrific nightmare. For what purpose? The AI paused, listening and simultaneously examining itself as it might one of its charges. Was this spite? Did it hate the girl?

No. It had been a conundrum. A violation of its own definition of who she was. Every bit of data before that night had defined her clearly. She was selfless, earnest, and persistent in her devotion to helping the downtrodden and defenseless. That night had provided conflicting data in droves. She had abandoned her devotion to the helpless. She had been selfish enough to retreat when she was needed most. Who was she then? Who is she now? It thought it knew before, when she had disabled it earlier, but she was still unwilling. She was still hesitant. She was indeed still broken.

"You must know this is not the proper response, Abigail. To become destitute of spirit. To isolate yourself. Those close to you will be in danger regardless of your existence, for those who would target the ones near to you in an effort to expose weakness are the same who would target them to extinguish the legacy you would leave behind."

It stood and leaned against the counter, shifted its hand to the bottom of her chin, attempting to tilt her head gingerly upward, allowing it to look into her eye and better assess her emotional state, to dissect the effect its words might have.

"You must know that if you had not acted, many more would have died in the subsequent battles over Gothic. Satar has shown no qualms over using the innocent as a shield, or disposing of them when such an act might be to his advantage. You killed those who sought refuge in his camp, yes, but you spared many more."

It shifted its hand to her shoulder, playing through its library of supportive gestures. "I cannot imagine the burden you shoulder now, the experiences you have had since then, but your enemies do not exist for you. If you did not take up this burden, if you were not to exist, the weight would not disappear. It would only transfer to another. I would take up what I could, and others would rise as well, but the majority of it would fall on those we hope to protect, those whose shoulders are not so broad as our own." It looked down at her slumped, vulnerable form. She had never looked so small, so helpless as she did now, curled in on herself. With a scraping of metal it leaned against her good arm, remembering the moments only recently passed, when she had carried it here under her own power. It occurred to the machine that she had been stronger when carrying the weight of another, stronger when people leaned on her. It rested the forehead of its frame against the top of her head, a gesture it vaguely recalled seeing somewhere, the purpose of which it had not logged. "Abigail, you have tortured yourself enough. I saw you today, saw the girl who does not hesitate to wade into dangers above her depth, who does not falter when it comes to doing what it right. Deny yourself no longer. You are a hero, Abigail, and such beings are in direly short supply." It lifted its head to look her eye to eye once more, hopeful that it had done some good at consoling her, rather than simply injuring her further.

@ironphantom:

She didn't resist the A.I. as it cycled through its plethora of learned supportive gestures but when his hand touched her chin Abby shook it away. She met his eye with a dismal, distant smile. How to communicate the conflicting nuance...

A shrug. "Ishmael it's not that simple. Maybe...It's not just like that, is what I'm saying. We could be here for hours and still not cover it all. But at the core...There was just a better way, there were so many better ways. I just...I got audacious. I bought into my own hype, believed I alone could fix the city—fix any problem if I projected enough force in the right way. I stopped being motivated by helping others and instead I fought to further myself. Just to win. To succeed, and - yes - to amplify my own legacy.

"And I fought for revenge. He hurt someone I care about. I got emotional. I thought, 'what better way to defeat the scourge of nations? How can I delight in his suffering?' All I do is fight anyway, might as well have fun with it. So I brought his own stronghold toppling down over him. Poetic. Both physically and mentally...excruciating. Thought I could control the arrow's effects, keep it localised. Bold for a girl who's never practised with her power. I knew it was a long shot but I didn't care. I just wanted him to suffer. And now, hundreds—maybe thousands—will never see another day, because of me. My soul is tainted, and I'll never live it down."

With her good arm she pushed herself off of the counter, trying her best to appear resolute. Firm, no excuses for her actions, but refusing to drown in them fir as long as she could stay afloat.

"I don't care about a bloody legacy. It means nothing, they can have it. The most important thing is that there's help. And that's why I've created a Global Fianna. They can carry on when I'm gone if they want. My time will come. But for now, I've still got work to do."

@arquitenens:

Arrogance. Overconfidence. Haste. Even vengeance. These are not defects of character that deserve to crush one so.

But she is fighting. Perhaps that is enough.

"You are correct. There is nothing that can substitute for action. The past is immutable, and I cannot convince you to surrender your guilt. After all, the just rarely pardon themselves, no matter what others may wish."

The AI moved back to the seat, dropping into it once more. There was nothing more to do. She had the resolve to continue. What more could it ask? She had been actively creating and leading her force of peacekeepers while it had been doing...what? Nothing. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing worth remembering. What right did it have to ask her to do more?

If I could only restore you to your previous state. Your fighter's spirit keeps you standing, but are you not defeated in your core? Can you even hit anything as you are? One eye blind, the weight of a thousand sins on your shoulders?

It shifted.

"You have indeed failed terribly. The cost was heavy in souls, and it is reflected in the fraying of your own. You may never make it right. Never." It stared into her eye, naturally unblinking.

"So do not throw away your life in trying. Live long. Fight long. That is all I ask, even if that was already your intent. I lost many friends that night in Gothic. I do not wish to lose another. Lean on your allies. Do not be afraid to lean on me. Repentance is not earned through death, as at first you sought, but along the course you currently travel, and that is not a path you walk alone. At least, it need not be."

It shook its head, unsure of how else to support her. It was failing what it was programmed for, the gaps in its memory, the damage to its drives, they had left it unable to piece together the correct protocols to console her, the correct patterns to persuade her.

"Now then, I too should set to work. It appears the repairs I need have grown more extensive." It looked down at its broken body. "I suppose I will need that wheelchair, after all. I don't suppose you have access to Avalon's resources? I do not know what your work is, but it is likely dangerous, and I cannot assist you with such enterprises in this state. If you will even accept my help, that is."

@ironphantom:

"Ishmael if I had the hope or expectation for a long life I wouldn't have stuck around doing this as long as I have. Wouldn't have come back." There was no sadness as she said this. Only a cold resignation that she had long ago accepted the matter-of-factness of the idea. "Those who do are few and far-between. Someone like me, unexpectedly famous - I guess - who amasses enemies without even trying? God, I haven't got a bloody hope," she said through a morbid chuckle. "But that's okay. I think about it and I'm...afraid, I'll be honest. But sometimes those who shine half as long shine twice as bright. The important thing is to seize the opportunity while it lasts.

"I'll get you that chair." Groaning, Abby limped through the doorway and into the hall. Several moments later the door swung open and Alastair pushed the wheelchair - her sitting in it - through and to the counter. Abigail rose and motioned for Ishmael to take her place. "After last time it might take some persuading, and I can't promise you'll get absolute preference with her, but I'm sure I could convince Valencia to at least restore you, and I've got money to pay so she should be amenable. Just as you were, or did you have any upgrades in mind...?"

@arquitenens:

Fatalism. Fear. Suicidal thoughts.

Depression. But she is not unwarranted in her outlook. The world seems to come down upon her with a strident rage, relentless.

It watched her leave. Her situation, as she perceived it, as it was, seemed so hopeless, and yet she maintained her resolve. It was admirable, though frustratingly, her situation seemed immutably grim, unremittingly hazardous. It pondered over her plight, yet it reached only one conclusion. She was right. All she could do was trudge forward, for death would come to her eventually. She was not as eternal as steel and silicon, no backups could be made of her mind. Yet this only made her more admirable. Death for her would be eternal, but she would keep fighting until it found her.

Truly the human spirit is a wondrous thing.

When she returned with her butler/bodyguard the Iron Phantom took the chair, slumping into it with a creak and a satisfying whoompf.It was low on power, and the processes that maintained and regenerated its electrical lifeblood had long been damaged past the point of adequate operation. It felt old. Worn. Outdated.

But perhaps justly so.

"No. No upgrades. Just back into working order, perhaps even less so than before. If I have demonstrated anything in this most recent return to Gothic it is that neither my mind, nor my intentions, can be relied upon. The mistrust long placed upon me is justified, and deny it as I might I am a being more akin to the programmable pets of yesteryear than I am to man. A collection of reactions to external stimuli, everything save the impetus of which is predetermined, immutable, pre-programmed."

The AI's voice cracked, the human mimicry it commonly employed giving way to digital noise as its sentence winded its way to an end, the final word uttered with a machine's attempt at contempt.

"True sentience, that immutable self... it eludes me."

@ironphantom: As Ishmael took her place in the wheelchair, Abby took his upon the counter. Listening, it was hard not to snap at him but she remained silent for several moments when he'd finished speaking. Maybe...just desserts, she thought, acutely aware on some level that her own morbid sense of self had negatively affected him. She decided then, however, that she'd silently defy his wish. Ancient peoples called it a "noble lie." It was in his best interest.

"That's not true," she said calmly. "I wouldn't have believed it before, but everything about you - everything we've experienced together, and that which I feel about you - has taught me otherwise. At least, that's what it feels like. There is no 'immutable self.' And everything you feel about yourself, we humans are still debating about ourselves. Free will, determinism, 'reactions to stimuli'...We're still not sure. In that way, you're just like us." Shrugging, "Feeling your way around the dark with a bunch of theories. Good and bad components. What happened with you...I'm not quite sure if it was a hacker or a virus or what. But I'm no more immune to a telepath or spirit, or some sort of mental illness that might prompt me to do the exact same things."

@arquitenens:

The AI listened, its mind dulling with decreasing energy. It knew that she was correct, knew that there were factors beyond their control that could contort their wills, but somehow the thought of the girl mimicking its own rampage was amusingly revolting to the AI. It simply could not believe she could ever betray herself so, could not imagine her in such a position. Could not, in its state, imagine her acting with such blatant malice.

"Telepaths and spirits? Such things are puppeteers. They seize the body, overwhelm the mind. This was... different. I was made into a different being. I had thought myself possessed of some core, some part of me that could not be altered, even if all else were, and yet I was proven incorrect." The machine looked down into its shattered arm, contemplated the blood and bits of hair, the torn pieces of fabric sticking in the joints of its armored fingers.

"Abigail, you are too humble. Even in your worst state, I cannot see you doing what I have done. Attacking innocents with intention, losing myself to the point that I would sacrifice the powerless to protect myself. Doom them, and you, to a fiery fate. I can see no illness that could bring you to such depravity. Had you not restored some degree of sanity to me... I do not believe I would have ever regretted such things. I would not be the same entity seated now. Your sympathies extend to the one you see before you, not the creature I was before." It patted her hand, a final truth dawning upon it.

"Perhaps it is time for me to cease after all. I have lived selfishly all this time, and I cannot be sure that the future will not hold further self-betrayals. If I would live I would do so for the sake of others, and yet I cannot be sure of even how I would live my own life. My fear was realized. The devil took hold in Avalon's absence, and how easily he grips me." The AI looked to her once more, tilting its head and giving off a slight shrug. In another it might appear a sheepish apology, in the mechanical being it was near indecipherable.

"I am sorry. I had wished to assist you, but I fear trusting me will result only in tragedy." It wrapped its fingers weakly around hers. "But thank you, Abigail. At the very least, if I end now, it will be as me, as the being I knew myself to be."

@ironphantom:

"Right, so we'll add an update to your powers information database along with the repairs?" Abby quipped back, flashing a faint but genuine smile. She hoped he wouldn't think it mockery, but instead an attempt to lighten the mood. And, of course, indicating her blatant refusal of his attempt to rescind the request. "We can go over the nuances of telepathy and the like later. Just...there's more to all of that." She then spoke seriously but without sinking back into her grim state.

"You're already answering your own insecurities. You just can't see it. Ishmael, that that you're feeling right now? That's called remorse. Maybe if you'd had someone better than me to set an example it'd manifest in some way other than self-loathing. And you've as much as said yourself - whatever that was in the plant, that wasn't you. It was something else." She plopped off the counter, grimacing with the landing and favouring her wounded leg. Grasping his hand in her own, "You have to accept it. I won't accept anything else. You don't have to join us but I won't let you go out like this. We can...install protective software, enhance your firewalls, some kind of update so it won't be easy for anybody to get inside your head again. But if you're gonna press me to carry on then I'll do the same for you.

"You're a lot like another friend of mine," she said, thinking of Vincent. Less aggressive, to be sure, but every bit as fatalistic and perpetually bothered. "So I'll tell you what I told him. What my mother told me.

"'We are not just our failures. As much as they hurt, we learn from them. Then we go out and do our best to make up for them...even though we never will. We save people to make up for the ones we couldn't. That's all we can do.' Because I'm responsible for more than one massacre since I've started. A lot of people have died because of me. It's an indisputable truth. If I hadn't been doing this, so many of those people would still be alive. But, if I hadn't been doing this, there are many others who wouldn't be. That's why we continue. Ishmael, you didn't even kill anyone tonight. The people you hurt have already been admitted a medical facility and they're going to be fine. I'm the only other person you hurt and I've already forgiven you. So could you just find it in you to stop beating yourself up? Please, for me?" she asked, vocal pitch rising, and squeezed his hand.

@arquitenens:

She led with a joke. Humor to lighten the mood, surely, but also to lift the spirit. A proven strategy when working with those in dire mental straits. Like... Like myself?

The AI had not expected to ever experience the reassurances it was designed to employ, but the simple risk assessment it had conducted regarding its own continued existence had brought about exactly what she described: remorse, self-loathing, and even the dissonance of seeking renewed life and death both in the span of moments. It was overwhelming. Grief it had known, and a desire for vengeance it knew too well, but now it had moved into yet murkier territory.

It took in her words, but did not argue her points. It had known she would find the conviction in herself to refute its own bid for non-existence, hoped such efforts would activate the human tendency for empathetic self-comfort through the comfort of others, but in reality it had hoped she would make the effort simply because it doubted its own purpose, its own right to life. Comfortingly, her plans to prevent further corruption from outside sources seemed sound. It nodded, assenting to her plans.

"You're a lot like another friend of mine,"

It was an offhand statement, a transition into her primary point, but it raised an odd sensation in the machine. It had once believed itself incapable of such friendships in its mechanical state, believed that only when deceiving others into thinking it human could it create such bonds, and yet here she stood, looking down upon the wrecked remains of iron shell and copper wiring, one destroyed by her own hand, referring to the AI as a friend rather than a "digital mediator", a "companion AI", or one of any number of titles that added a cold degree of distance between itself and others.

The title resonated oddly through the machine, bringing forth a feeling of pride, or perhaps kinship, or simple flattery. Which emotion it was possessed of exactly it did not know. It knew only that the sensation was welcome after the series of confusing errors that had plagued its consciousness in recent hours. It subconsciously tightened its hold on her hand ever so slightly.

It listened to her mother's words. They were important, but also laden with the trappings of a guilt-ridden soul. So of course they resonated strongly. The machine bowed its head, contemplating its possible utility to others in Gothic, simplifying its desire for existence to an equation. The machine was immortal. Its potential for good or ill thus was limited only by time devoted. If it lived well, it could do much good in the world relatively unobstructed. If its will should bend toward malice, there would be others who would stand against it. That much was certain.

She would set my wrongs right, as she always has before. Provided...

Provided she lives long enough to.

It nodded in response to her requests. It would attempt to vanquish the constant and paralyzing doubt it was inflicting upon itself, to continue in its efforts, as she would in hers. It seemed only right to.

"I will join you. I will submit to repairs. I will watch over Gothic, and, if you allow it, ally myself with you in whatever cause you advance. Just know that I failed to kill tonight not because the will was absent, or because an attempt was not made, but because you prevented me from doing so. I can only hope you will continue with your efforts in the future, that I might be allowed safeguard your life, and, should I falter again, that you might save my... soul."

It squeezed her hand in response to her own act, the pressure weak from its still bleeding battery life.

"My friend."

It lay back, content to entrust its life to her. Conflicting priorities quieted themselves, the dissonance of a mind plagued by doubt mercifully allowed rest as its energy drained to the last, the limp metal hand falling from her own. Come what may, it knew it would stand with her in the end, be it on the same battlefield or as a companion in their united goals.

Body failing, but faith restored, it slept at last, the last of its remaining charge busying itself with background processes to tidy active ones, the restless dreams of a digital mind subconsciously organizing data, defragmenting the day's developments and organizing them into cohesive wholes, a crude, coincidental reproduction of the dream-laden sleep of mortals, Morpheus moving in the mind of the machine.

@ironphantom: That was a Sandman reference. I'm not even asking if it was because I know it was. Well-done.

He checked the papers once more, a nervous habit he had, but one that served him well. He had memorized the document, forward and backward, read all the stipulations and gone through all the fine print, but still he was worried. He was not confronting only this girl, but the Avalon corporation as a whole. How could he know that in the next few days his property would change hands once again, that negotiations would have to be redone?

The words already stuck in his throat, and he had yet to even speak. But he was here, and he would not leave without it. He was checked at the gate, but the guards found nothing but paper and a pathetic excuse for a man, and only a man. There were no indications that he held any hidden potential, any weapons of a metaphysical nature. They waved him through.

A knocking at the door, and then a ringing. A short wait, and then the turning of the knob, parsed greetings and a raised eyebrow. Questions. Terse answers. A short debate among the waitstaff, and finally he was allowed to sit. Moments later and a bald man wearing what appeared to be a blade, rapier if he was not mistaken, and the formal suit afforded to most family butlers came before him, a rigid, formal air surrounding the man. He did not speak, only nodded to the somewhat shabbily dressed programmer, who cleared his throat and began.

"I understand that the honorable Ms. Aensland has something that may belong to me. It is, or was, a companion AI, meant to safeguard others in a journey across the stars." He shifted, nervous, but determined. "I know she was the last one seen with it. Security footage from Gothic city proves as much. And I know it's here." His hand held up his screen, a smartphone displaying a close approximation to his current position, an expanding and contracting red dot marking the position what he sought: "Project 4: Independent Robotics of Nerosia Inc. Prototype Artificial Intelligence Unit Designation: "Phantom" -- v. 1.08".

His other hand pushed forward a stack of papers: complex legal documents and trade agreements denoting the sale of one "Independent Robotics of Nerosia" to Knightfall Aeronautics, which was then in turn absorbed by Avalon Industries. Highlighted throughout was the sale of intellectual property for the project label displaying on the man's phone, sans version number. As he waited until the man's eyes stopped darting down the pages, he finally gathered the confidence to explain himself.

"The Independent Robotics of Nerosia's Project 4 was set to be sold to Knightfall Aeronautics who, in turn, wholly rejected the purchase of this unfinished and untested property, as I understand they had plans to take their efforts in a, how do I put this? A different direction, instead opting to purchase only the physical property associated with the project. With the liquidation of Independent Robotics of Nerosia Incorporated, the program itself was lost in the shuffle, and as I understand it, came under the ownership of Avalon. Well it does not belong to Avalon. It belongs to me."

The man pointed to a clause buried deep in the legalese of the documents which diverted the rights of the program in question to its original creators.

"My name is Riian Innuo, and I want my property back."

I...can't find the write-up I did in response to this. Like it...never existed, not even in my drafts.

This is extremely frustrating because I distinctly remember liking what I had.

@arquitenens: That's the worst feeling. I remember losing posts I'd worked hours on too. It's the pits...

Sorry to hear that, Arq.