@rosso: touche miss
@musa_bashir: Okay so it's not my best, and maybe a little garbage, but I'm sick so that's my excuse. >_>
"Not exactly experienced in the art o' subtlety are ye? Folks might turn up missin', sneakin' 'round like that, askin' those questions. I wanna say, 'you some kinda agent or somethin'?'" Several clicks from all directions as the group shifted in place, re-training their guns as though triggered by the word. Valentina held perfectly still. She hadn't made a move since dropping the bag and raising her hands to the sky.
"But an agent ain't that stupid to throw away ther life like that," the Irishman continued. "What even are ye, like 16? Some kinda tourist? Or mebe been paid off, eh? Well go on then. Honest answers only. I'll know if yer lyin'."
Subtle, no. Risky, extremely. But Valentina saw no surer way to get everything she needed. The response, she thought, suggested she was right on the lead. And by getting herself caught early on she'd save herself countless hours of wandering the Alcazar. That is, assuming she had the right group of criminals, and assuming they didn't kill her.
"Not anything like that. I represent the interests of a group in the same business as you all are. My associates and I are dealing with a particular kind of threat and require a particular kind of edge. We are, of course, willing to exchange payment. But first, I'll need proof you are who you say you are, and have what we need."
Through the militant counter cultural crowd of adolescent killers, the teenage techno-tiger stepped forward. Her stylish attire, complete with self-graffiti'd Jordans, colorfully matched the entirety of her eccentric wardrobe
Sequitur carried an obnoxious anchor of defiant angst and it was portrayed through her pretension posture. Leaning against a member of the Den of Thieves, flipping the cotton ears of his Winnie the Pooh scully, her focus was seemingly everywhere but on the Black Market Machiavelli.
But the World is crazy you see. Random events culminating in unbelievable coincidences which shape the very nature of the here and now. Sequitur's nose twitched. Almost as if catching a familiar scent which immediately arrested her attention with firm and sobering intensity.
Subtle swag alluringly rocked her hips as she slowly approached the unexpected outsider. Her mutant technopathy, perhaps through residual ether surrounding the redheaded assassin, promoted an unlikely opening exchange of dialog.
"De market...you...yes?" her transitioning accent faded in and out of normalcy but through her mirco-expressions, the meaning of her content could be extracted. Crix had seemingly gleamed an attachment, an affiliation between the assassin and the very same dark web she herself expertly surfed.
Yet the unseen digital residue implied an almost...custodial like level of authority. Something she herself did not have. Sure, the incubation was a pyramid of digital criminal hierarchy, but this...this was something else.
The newly named, 'Child of Cybertron' whispered to a Thief behind the self-constructed wall of her hand. Nodding her chin upwards in Rosso's direction. Causing the armed Den members to coordinate a tight circle, fanning out and around the potential threat. Or potential ally...
"Come with us please. Someone would like to meet you."
And with that, they escorted their 'guest' to the great Alcazar of the Beast of No Nation.
There was a break in the crowd and Valentina's eyes smiled. She'd seen the scene before; in hindsight it all came together. "Irish" over there was a decoy. This one was the real leader of the pack. A step up the hierarchy, at least. Valentina took in her features, growing more certain of herself by the moment. The casual mien, the so-so passive dismissiveness so often used to communicate power by those in a comfortable position of privilege, especially considering Valentina seemed to be the reason they'd all converged in the first place.
She gave no immediate response to indicate the validity of Crix's supposition. Although she questioned, Valentina gathered that was mostly a formality. She'd come with her mind made up. And she was vague. A one-word question was open to many interpretations, which to the Scarlet Shadowrunner meant only one thing: She's laying a trap and wants me to set it off.
Which also means I'm that much closer.
Still, no time to relax yet. Whatever their perception of her, she couldn't yet be sure if it bode well for her, or signified danger. So she snatched up her bag and followed, in silence.
flipping the cotton ears of his Winnie the Pooh scully
I understood that reference.
(sorry so long but needed to get alot of connectors in place :P)
His bare arms cut through the air like sheers through construction paper. Legs, bending one at a time at the knee before explosively extending out in front of his arching gait. While on either side, the sacred black panthers of the Bay galloped with him in an unbelievable scene of natural harmony. Naked, free, untethered.
Warm illuminating lights from the African sun cast its energizing rays down upon the cradle of civilization. Its odd purple hue arising no suspicion that this was in fact, a dream. Or perhaps it was something else entirely?
There was a shift in the atmosphere. Peace and tranquility had been unexpectedly kidnapped. Replaced with violent storms and a putrid smell that pierced the veil of the Beast's rapid firing sub-conscious.
"Shshshshshshsh", Ezra echoed, his soul here and there, possessing doors, walls - the corridor - through the soul lavaliere. "Where is he? Musa. My sweet boy", his voice stopped, the hand breaking it's grip before folding back into a door knob.
At first any and every attempt to wake himself failed. Even the cradled hand of Kali Ka could not wake the King from his nightmarish slumber. "AHHHH NOOO!" Musa fired up from the bed automatically on full defensive alert. "Tis ottah my Ki..." without hesitation or even cognitive thought the Beast of the Bay's hand partially covered itself with his Aethrium habit, before plunging his quickswitch claws into his therapist's throat.
Only after the streams of blood began to run did the leader of the Rogue Nation snap back. Locking eyes with the dying servant but still, the claws remained deeply plunged into her flesh. He squinted. A brief yet fleeting moment of regret? Unlikely. He scuffed and looked away as his hand was removed, leaving Kali with her throat tore out. Lifelessly she fell. Partially draping over the edge of the enormous royal bed.
Moments later and the chamber was filled with guards as well as the Coda 4. Silent, they dare not remark on the body; or their 'fearless' leader's obvious mental ailment. Covering himself with a regal robe Musa began to leave. Void of eye-contact as they did not deserve his attention. Offering a single command as he oddly swept out of the chambers.
"When Crix arrives with our guest, send her to de City of de Dead. I will meet dhem dhere."
☠𝕮𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉☠
Perched atop a throne of sacred bones deep in the ceremonial catacombs surrounded and even draped with venomous serpents, Musa tightly clutched a 'black book bound in the flesh of wanderers gone missing in the forests of the Strix Pomest'ye.'
Wearing the signs of sleepless nights, his head jerked about with peculiar frequencies. He could hear the whispers...he could hear them all....
By the time the escorting entourage arrived the entire scene looked like a theatrical retelling of a Shakespearean madness. Addressing present company with the smile of a Mad Hatter, leaning forward, he bore his canines with an exaggerated smile "Are you real? Dee whispers, dhey will tell me de truth." he confusingly spoke.
Voices - some foul and others kind - rolled to Musa's ears as he sat on his throne of bones. Like a dense fog, they settled into the air, shifting between a conspiring chorus of malevolence and words sweet and pure. And as the atmosphere grew more maddening, so did the voices it held, promising to peel and twist the flesh from Musa's bones, pluck the eyes from his sockets, and wear his bleeding skin and steal his throne. But as the voices climbed in pitch, cackling and claiming to hold dominion over his mind and the souls of his ancestors, they suddenly fell silent. The nightmarish sounds wrapped in obscenities and promises to devour him - had vanished.
There was only a deafening and ravenous silence. An omen before the click clack of leather shoes echoed in the air. Yet no one had walked into the City of the Dead to meet eyes with Musa as he sat still with his arm wrapped desperately round the Mad Strix's black book. Instead, a shadow hung by the bones of Musa's throne. Abnormally tall, fingers bony and it's face longer still, it was the silhouette of Ezra's twisted illusion of the corpse of Nia Bahati; Musa's late mother. "She's coming for that book...", the Mad Strix whispered, his voice soft like Nia's, "And perhaps another. Someone who knows it's secrets. It is not safe here, my child. Give. It. To. Me. I can protect it... or... you can kill them. Make this place their grave".
In the under belly of the underground, in an alley behind a building with no name on the doors, two men share a table, a bottle of whiskey, and a revolver.
"Quan, I need that information more than you need another hole in your head. Are you sure you wouldn't rather I pay you?" Thomas says as the quiet man standing over them twirls the spindle and puts in one bullet then spins it again and bangs the gun on the table.
"That is the problem with men like you, Mr.Newcastle. You think you can merely buy what you need when you need. When you shut down the Bangkok factory, who do you think suffered? Me or you?" Quan picks up the pistol and points it at Thomas. "Now I have something your money can't buy." Quan turns the gun on himself and screams and pulls the trigger--
"And the only way you're getting it is by prying it from my cold dead hands." He slams it back down on the table and spins it towards Thomas. The man out of time grabs the pistol and points it at his head with liquid calm. He pulls the trigger.
"Excuse me, my finger slipped. Your turn." Thomas folds his hands and waits diligently.
The Book was all that mattered. His anonymity was irrelevant in this place and he had no real concern for if his being alive, at least as the younger version of the Animus these people know, but if he were to obtain the old text that gave him full command over the knowledge circumferencing the lavaliere of time?
Traitors to the state were thrown to the lions.
Traitors to the crown were thrown to the Tiger.
Though not an official capital punishment by any stretch of the imagination, it was not uncommon for Warisi to visit prisons throughout South Africa - mostly to death row inmates moments away from being put down for good. He had admired the shadow of the Bashirs, never straying too close for his own reasons. But he ventured to the outskirts of their hunting grounds. Prisoners who claimed to be part of the Rogue Nation, betrayed by king and country, were his favorite to pick apart.
One such man stood in front of him now, in the center of the impromptu fighting arena made to satisfy gambling debts. Warisi had somewhat accumulated ownership through strict, almost indoctrinated, dominance of his peers. His opponent spouted pseudo-patriotic phrases to hype himself up. To hide the fear in his stomach. But Warisi saw the crippling anxiety heaving in his chest, the wavering nervousness in his eyes. They were not a killer's eyes, not those of someone who would die for their nation.
He smiled as the man approached, furious and loud. A few sidesteps, rolling of the shoulder and neck. Punches that had plenty of power, arms that could strangle monstrous beasts. All worthless with the lack of training. All for show. Warisi muffled a sigh and warped the playing field in an instant. He had been acting on instinct alone, operating through the purely defensive Turtle Style. Defending until an opportunity presented itself.
This man did not deserve a swift death, but his blood also did not deserve to stain the hallowed ground they fought upon.
Warisi caught an incoming punch, swiftly pulling it around the torso. A foot at back of the knee and his opponent couldn't turn around with him, instead being forced to the ground in an act of uncompromising agility. The arm-lock faded. The latest traitor to feel the bite of the Tiger instead suffered the coils of the Burmese Python. A simple rear naked choke, but adapted. Changed to fit the needs of the Apex Predator.
He tightened the triangular lock, bringing the trachea to the point of snapping. Breathing couldn't be managed, and the man started to panic when forced to choose between unlocking his throat and his lungs. The diaphragm was being obstructed by a tight hold from the trunk-like legs of the Warsman. His ankles acted as a brace for it, pulling the hold tighter. But this wasn't satisfactory.
A sharp twist, awkward angle for the jawline and neck. He was beginning to wrench the vertebrae out of place. Bone and sinew erupted in wet pops all along the man's head and upper spine. Screams fell into hoarse muffled breaths. His hands couldn't be moving to surrender fast enough. They soon turned into fists, and then clawing at the arms and legs that strangled him. Desperation.
Pure desperation, trying to get out.
His spine was being split apart ligament by ligament, his torso steadily building up pressure. With a loud crack, his legs stopped moving. They never would again. Something burst in his thoracic cavity. The sound of a blown-out tire, muffled by layers of skin. Once the rest of him fell limp, Warisi broke the hold.
The Python relented. If he were in the wild, he would have consumed his prey here and now. But the visions of combat soon faded away. He squatted, leaning in close to his defeated adversary as blood oozed from his nose and consumed his tear ducts. More than likely, he had caused a massive rupture in the lungs. As was common in pulmonary traumas. Would explain the sound, and the sudden crimson flood to the upper respiratory system. A shear stress laceration.
He just had one thing left to say.
"False Bay forevah, bruddah."
Valentina's general feelings about the job worsened upon arrival at the city. As they crossed the threshold, for one brief moment a chill ran outward from her core. It was as though some ephemeral talon grazed across her spine as she entered the city, and Valentina halted in her place. The pause was only about as brief as the chill itself, though, for she felt herself being shoved by a solid object pressed to the small of her back and kept moving. She looked around. None of the others seemed to feel what she felt, or at least they hadn't reacted in any kind of acknowledgement.
Flanked on all sides by her armed escort and aware that any movement could be her last, following this minor incident she was warily precise with every movement, careful not to stumble for even a step.
She felt her stress levels actively rising toward a nauseating peak as she set eyes on the Orphan King. Transfixed by his eyes, she felt in the grim atmosphere that she'd been trapped and seized by some kind of cult, this was their leader, and that she'd soon have to fight for her life to avoid a ritual cannibalism or some other gruesome death...and that she'd more than likely meet her fate no matter what she did.
"Are you real? Dee whispers, dhey will tell me de truth."
She started to respond but her mouth just hung, slightly open, not yet sure what to say. Some sort of riddle or something? "Whispers?" That sealed it. They were a cult (albeit an extremely well-rounded and savvy one), and their leader was literally a psychotic mutant. Maybe they all were. Then maybe she could still...beat 'em in a game of wits.
When she spoke for herself, it was in a semi-loud whisper, reasoning that in some warped psychosis-induced alternative perception of reality, he might believe the voice belonged to whoever or whatever it was he'd attached himself to. "She is real. And you will aid her as she requests."
@rosso: (you dont have to respond, its been ages. I just personally didnt wanna start anew before addressing this)
Plagued by a series of visually peculiar micro-mannerisms, as well as the occasional wandering eye, Musa never the less sharply drew his attention towards the direct, yet soft spoken voice.
"She is real. And you will aid her as she requests."
He rose from his throne, but slowly, observantly. Still saturated with an aura of madness. Even Crix was hesitant in her demeanor though she did her best to hide it. Her growing talents as thee, official right-hand were evident as she sought to secure the situation before it truly turned dark. Before the Beast of No Nation could cause irreparable damage to himself, the Bay, or even their guest.
Stepping between and disrupting Musa's direct line of sight, advertently breaking the moment of obsessive concentration, she placed her hand on the disturbed terrorist's shoulder to relax his posturing. Stylishly dancing her fingers along the flesh bound book with her free hand, relieving it from his now loosening grasp.
As she did the unheard whispers began to dissipate. The temporary arrest of Musa's mental faculties seemingly alleviated by the young techno-titans quick action. However the small ordeal had taken a physical toll. Crix could see it. Nodding towards the Coda to come and escort the King to his chambers, her prompt leadership showcased a moderate level of secret respect from those who proclaimed themselves loyalist to the Bay. And the King.
The stress of the situation was released with an exaggerated sigh before Sequitur casually slumped down along the steps leading up to the throne.
"Ag, shame. Well dhen sistah, jus u an I it seems. Shall we talk?"
#$%&! Valentina bristled as the mad king advanced, immediately recognising her mistake as one that was about to cost her her life, but ready to fight nonetheless. As short a fight as it'd likely be, she'd make 'em work for it.
But it was not to be, thanks to the quick thinking of his apparent second in command. Valentina felt the easing tension on a metaphysical level, though she didn't fully comprehend. The book? Hardly an afterthought; for as far as she understood, Musa was still batshit crazy but this girl had some sentimental attachment, or maybe soothing him was a part of her mutation and that's why she was around.
Valentina bowed in thanks and made herself as close to "at home" as she could, given the circumstances. When in Rome...Maybe returning the girl's flippant manner would make them all more amenable. "That's what I've come to do, and it seems for now you're the de facto leader of...this operation. My sources indicate you're in possession of something I really badly need, and I've come to make a bargain with the Dark Lord...or his apprentice, whichever suits you all."
The fullness of her checks slightly inflated as she held back a potential outburst of laughter before it infectiously spilled out. She'd never considered herself a leader; defacto or otherwise, however the Black Market Mamba may have had a point. What with Musa's increasingly alarming mental handicaps forcing him into seclusion in an among the tombs of the Great Panthers, perhaps the Bay was indeed temporarily under her stewardship.
"Come wit me." casually walking out of the rather dismal throne room, and out into the infamous dry heat of the Nation. Away from Musa'd madness, away from his personal Guards; the Coda. Away from it all. For thats where Crix could freely think. Freely be herself. "So...dis, possession...what tis it?"multiple micro-expressions visually conveyed a level of 'cute' curiosity.
The audience, with the exception of the Den's more radical members, instinctively moved back in awe as the revolver clicked. Twice. A truly unbelievable sight, a sure fire story to be told for generations to come. For the Bay had sadly become a den of vice and debauchery. A modern day confederacy of new age pirates governed by authoritarian might. And theatrical moments such as the one they had all just experienced were rapidly becoming the highest form of commerce.
"Did u see dat bruddah? He took his turn an diddn evahn flinch." a heavily tattooed recruit excitably stated. "What is dis book dhey speak of?"
"I dont know but we should inform dee King. Strange tings happening in dee Bay. Strange tings indeed..."
Though feeling considerably more secure in the absence of her armed escort, Valentina remained ever watchful of both her companion and her surroundings. Crix's perpetual frivolity made her want to be at ease...which of course put her even more on guard as had become habit.
Still, she saw little to no progress without at least being mostly honest, so she told the truth. "I'd like to call it the missing component for a project of mine, but that depends on you. I had an idea, stricken with inspiration. But for my toy to work I need batteries, sold separately of course. Some of the other players on my block have come into possession of a...particular kind of metal, and the sources led back here. So here I am."
Sequitur confidently peeled her shirt off revealing an all black sports bra as the Bay's relentless heat cast a suffocating umbrella around the unlikely pairing. "Ah yes, Aethrium." Her eyes sharpened and her lips formed to create a smile. "Well you've come to dee right place. Jus at dee wrong time." Briefly thinking about the mental instability of her mentor. "But why come directly to dee Nati'on? Do you not know how dangerous it tis heah? Surely you have dee connections to establish a black market pipeline, like everywhan else."
Stopping for a moment to step in front of the red viper of the black net. Folding her arms and raising a hand to her suspicious chin, "Are you sure dhere is no other reason for dis trip? Perhaps you spy for those who wish to see dee Nation fall, yes?" There was little conviction in her voice however. She was merely channeling the paranoia exhibited by Musa himself. Playing the role, or pretending to. Hoping her lack of experience would remain cloaked behind her fabricated mannerisms of authority and confidence.
Valentina opened her mouth to respond, but said nothing. She tried, but nothing came out. A "short circuit" of the brain caused by the very simple hole poked in her entire operation in about three seconds flat, punctuated by a serious accusation.
She was never under any illusions but it marked the first time in a long time that Valentina actually felt her age. Felt young. Inexperienced. Perhaps mildly stupid. Despite the allegation, she took her time formulating a response, simply shaking her head at first. All the while beating herself inside at the thought of so much time and so many resources wasted. And truly, she had nothing. Nothing that could preserve her pride as a player in this game, because the truth was she simply...hadn't thought of it. Maybe because she didn't have many connections.
A truth unsuitable for anyone trying to garner respect. So she defaulted to the next playbook tactic--truth with exclusionary detailing. Something would stick. "If I wanted to see the nation fall, do you really think this is how I'd be going about it? If I worked for those who wish your downfall, I wouldn't be a lone girl stowing away and asking the locals about Aetherium. I'd be a task force, a carrier filled with agents, or maybe even a warhead. I've said I'm working for a group, which may or may not be true. You don't know but you'll accept whatever is convenient and seems most beneficial to you. You know I know something about what's going on here--enough to bank on as it is if I wanted 'incriminating evidence.' You know I have resources, and I can sneak aboard a freighter and head straight to your shores.
"But you're right. There is something more that I want." She took two steps forward, encroaching just slightly on the prodigy's personal space. "I want the connection. Not just a connection. I don't want a middleman leaving a trail back to me—or you—or cutting into the cash flow. Let's say...this all goes well. We become friends. I pay less overall, and you're still sinking more of the profit for yourselves. Not to mention the other skills I bring to bear. And maybe the other way around as well, vice versa."
"If I wanted to see the nation fall, do you really think this is how I'd be going about it?"
....Yes? she instantly guessed inside her sub-conscious. She wanted to crinkle her nose and unburden herself, show her true colors and inexperience. Just throw her arms up and surrender to the pressure of the moment. Anything was better; she thought, then fraudulently portraying a counterfeit sense of confidence.
Steady girl, you can do dis. For Dee Bay. For dee Nation
And indeed she could. After all, beneath the surface of any initial meeting regardless of any hovering tension or fears, was a simple matter of commerce. Supply and demand.
But what would Musa say? What would he do should things go south? Something should happen and the Nation were compromised...?
"He's already compromised." An inadvertent slip of the tongue. However the cybernetic artisan didnt shy away from her involuntary misstep. Valentina had already seen the erratic state of the radical Bashir, there was no need to mince words.
"I want the connection. Not just a connection. I don't want a middleman leaving a trail back to me—or you—or cutting into the cash flow. "
She grinned. Not as a disarming expression. No. Her micro-expression was one of vision, understanding. Playing it theatrical, but cool, Sequitur turned her wrist over gently guiding a finger across her Aethrium bracelet, bringing up the projected analytics of the market with a holographic live-stream. "No middlemahn dhen. What are you lookin for exactly? Refined, raw? Weaponized? You say dhere are odder playahs, so you mus already know dat customizations are also an option."
"He's already compromised."
It took nearly everything in her to keep the Cheshire grin she felt from making its way to her face. Instead, Valentina nodded in a show of somewhat solemn understanding--careful not to overdo it since they weren't exactly close. But a well-wishing gesture nonetheless. Crix's recovery from the slip went over well enough that it didn't even register as such. But Valentina savored it nonetheless. The statement...unnecessary. She was only saying something they both already knew, and which she knew Valentina had already gleaned.
But, as they say, words have power. To say it aloud, admit it to a stranger, is to acknowledge vulnerability—and is to call for help. Even if one isn't entirely conscious that she's calling.
That's good. It's a start.
Considering the metal, she paused, pretending to process and comprehend the holographic projection. Truthfully she hadn't considered various states of Aetherium herself. Only what Franklin could suggest based on his own projections. But she recalled his words clearly.
"I can take it raw, if you've got notes on how to refine and work it. I'll need it processed in pieces to fit a particular schematic." Her show, however, was far lower tech. Valentina pulled from her jacket pocket a single large sheet of folded paper, 18x24 laid out. Drawn in black pen near the center was the overall design with several smaller drawings surrounding it, and various red lines and circles indicating that the smaller images were intended as magnifications of particular parts. Sloppy writing was scrawled in various places on front and back of the parchment - mostly design notes, with a few references to individuals, names coded.
Sequitur's eyebrows shot up with amusement. Paper & Pen, the added corrections in corresponding red ink were simply too cute. "You're jus full of dee surprises yes?" The off handed comment was harmlessly fun. Again her fingers returned to her bracelet, this time removing a bead before extending it towards the BMBIC (black market bitch in charge). "Every'ting you need to know is in here." Offering what was essentially now a unique flashdrive before returning her thoughts to the future of Musa, and his Nation.
|𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℕ𝕖𝕠-𝔸𝕘𝕖 𝕠𝕗 ℕ𝕖𝕩𝕘𝕖𝕟 𝔸𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕘𝕒𝕚|
The Crown had endured. The Crown had survived. Championed by his radical loyalist. All of whom now promoted the defeated plague as a sign of their leader's undeniable superiority. The Crown, had remained undefeated.
Musa's stylish walk to the throne inherently promoted an aura of pulsating strength, neo-afro'futurism, and undeniable fear. At worst, a panther among gazelles. At best, a force of nature blessed by the genetic baptism of the Bashir blood-line.
Only feet behind, their rank and station amplified in the wake of their warlord, the panther themed soldiers known as the Coda 4 diligently marched in militarized stereo. Exotic looking weapons ceremonially shouldered with synchronized pride, displaying the technological advancements of the Nation's neo-age of nexgen assegai.
News of Gothic, news of the Khan. News of India. Musa had measured it all. Chaos was a beautiful gift for beings brave enough to exploit it. With help it could cleanse the old and naturally element the weak, and the strong. Leaving only the superior to settle in to the new epoc of sovereignty.
Musa was now on a mission to usher in a nexgen era for the False Bay. For the Rogue Nation. He needed to transcend the Bay beyond the modern conventional means of warfare. Many others, as individuals, already had. Yet none on the scale in which his envisioned for the Bay. The heavy and undeniable exchanges between Earth and otherworldly powers had been a warning. And had been for longer then most had wanted to admit. As a collective the Earth had grown galactically stagnant in-spite of the fact that many battles had been brought down from beyond the stars. There were great and unknown threats lurking in the galaxy's cold sea of silence.
It was only a matter of time before another invasion, another attack, another dimensional incursion that would leave a city, or worse, in utter ruin. Not the Nation. Not the Bay.
For months some of the World's, with...convincing, top nuclear physicists had visited Sequiter Crix and the Nation's infamous dictator. Their brains socially combed for unconventional theories too radical for professional dialog. Each one threatened with a physiological cocktail specific to said individual. An effective and mostly non-violent means to an end.
They would come and go in secret. Musa would remain silent, never speaking or showing any sign of emotion or stress. To the King of Kings their specific intelligence was an instrument and nothing more. They, were nothing more. And will intriguing and thought provoking, they were theories and nothing more. Verbal hypothetical theater for the radical mind. For the dreamer.
However one of the men, nervous and prone to repeated adjustments of his glasses, had more then just a theory. He had story;
"Its called aHexahedron. I was asked to examining it...well, try to any way. I never saw the man's face he wore a mask the whole time I was there. They put a bag over my head. But...but I knew I was in Gothic. The smell. I could tell by the smell. Its the chemicals. Lasting remnants of all the corrosive agents used in all those attacks years ago. They say the harbor burned for weeks. Anyway, to achieve the type of...expanse you're theorizing about, you would need to get your hands on that..."
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