Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, Chapter #29: Council of Thirteen. This is it ladies and gentlemen, the 15k I had been forewarning about and now it is time to have it finally grace your computer and phone screens. I have been looking forward to this chapter the most out of all the ones in Arc 3, and then we're onto Chapter 30, the end of the 3rd leg out of four in this monstrous novel. Last chapter, Corrin had some issues, there used to be a child in her arms, and someone has awoken in the sewers of Detroit... mayhaps a character on a poll we haven't seen? Review replies!
Guest- Even though you now have a name, you're still Guest to me! Perhaps a bit of nostalgia... but I'm glad there are parts of the chapter you liked. I do realize that a lot of the time the characters are brooding or feeling upset about something or drinking, and we have not seen the end of it, unfortunately. Angst is something I seem to only be able to write and nothing more, but I'm getting better at it, I feel. I appreciate you calling the story 'genius', and I'll agree that this is my magnum opus, but I feel your praise extends its reach.
Metroid-Killer- Yeah... that section with our Detroit sewer-dweller may be my favorite section of anything I've ever written. Since it isn't a point of view, necessarily, it is me just honestly saying whatever I wanted. Your mind is strange... sometimes I think you're hitting the nail on the head and other times not at all. And no, the bartender was not Big Boss. I felt too lazy to actually assign him a character from the roster, because the title, Council of Thirteen, has me allocating thirteen Smashers as characters here. Enjoy the chapter!
Thank you all, my readers, for still bring here after all this time. A word of advice, perhaps would be to read this in increments, since just like Damaged Dinner, Chicago's Greeting, Itching to Play, and Backstabbed in the Back, this chapter is very long, it may be good to read in bits. We've got a long way to go, you guys! Enjoy Chapter #29: Council of Thirteen.
The Detroit air is salty. That is Corrin's first impression of the city when she steps off the airliner jet onto the runway at Detroit International Airport, as she lowers her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and assess the city, and now independent country for the first time in over three years. High rise buildings, like any cityscape, greet her, but there's an air of distinguishable difference to the buildings in Detroit than elsewhere in the United States. As the esteemed - in Corrin's drunk opinion, they're not that esteemed - Council of Thirteen states in their mission statement, 'To make the country of Detroit the greatest city-state that has ever existed.' Because of this missive, the skyscrapers of Detroit are spray-painted platinum, with open wide windows that see over the city, and it disgusts Corrin to the core.
She steps down onto the runway, Robin behind her wake, followed by Mac and Snake. Shulk, Roy, and Midna took the rest of the trip to Detroit by car, Ike and Marth already in one of Detroit's finest hospitals. Corrin is surprised to wake up that morning, with a massive hangover to boot, for a beautiful chrome jet to be 'parked' outside the motel in the parking lot, somehow landing without waking any of the motel's habitants up. The owner of the motel claims that he believes it to be one of the president's fangled sparkling toys, which actually angers her, as she'd lust for a piece of machinery as flawless and exquisite as the one that had flown her and her entourage to Detroit.
Corrin stands on the tarmac, removing her sunglasses from her face, emerald eyes flashing. A limousine is parked on the runway, with a suited chauffer standing patiently and obediently for the passengers to get in. Robin stands profile with the president, arms bundled up by her sides. "Well," Corrin starts first, "Can't believe I actually have forced myself to be back here again."
"It's like you said," the other silverette eases the pain of actually and physically being in a place as despicable as the new country. "We need their army, and they need us to recognize their independence. A two-way street."
Snake and Mac have joined the presidential duo, dressed finely and handsomely. Mac's left hand rests squarely on the butt of his pistol hidden away in his back pocket, the FBI director having opted to place a knife and firearm of his own on the inside of his jacket. Snake squints at the cityscape on the horizon, like a gleam of silver dancing on a sunlit scene. "This place has changed..."
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Corrin asks, her voice bitter. "Only perfumed pounces who think they're something special would actually make their city look like that."
Mac wrinkles his nose. "Perfumed pounces?"
"Don't mind her," Robin advises, coolly. For an odd reason, the secret service agent had been seemingly at odds with the president, though it is no fault of his own. She's an enigmatic creature who needs a leash to remind her where she is and what she may unfortunately do. "She'll have created fifteen new phrases to insult the Council by the end of this meeting. It's her diplomacy tactics."
"And they work every time," the woman in question proclaims with finality.
"No they do not," Snake cuts in, biting on his lower lip. "The last time you insulted an honoree leader, which you claimed to be diplomacy, caused us to have tense relations with half of Latin America."
"Well, perhaps not every time then..." Corrin grumbles.
She's finished with this discussion if all it is going to become is an insult at the way she presides the Oval Office and leads the nation. It is a constant reminder, one that sits like an itch on the small of her back, a place she cannot reach, that this Detroit mess happens under her term. Her first year in office is shrouded in separatist movements left and right, though she is having a hard time fathoming why. Only a few short weeks after Corrin Etch is inaugurated, the city of Detroit, Michigan, declares it to be an independent country. Syrenet, tasting fresh blood, is deployed to make short an end of the situation. A lump forms in Corrin's throat as she walks away from the trio left behind, thinking of those events. It's Fiora's mission, her very last, even when she's nearing the end of her pregnancy - had she been in her last trimester? - that ends up being her demise. Trying to return Detroit to the fold is a disaster with the threat of unleashing nuclear weapons, and Corrin relents, where now a city-state country is on the border between the U.S and Canada. Shulk's wife is gone forever, and Corrin has failed at keeping the union sanctified and together. A Civil War reminder; a remedy she needs.
Her greeting is less than savory to the chauffer, who ushers her into the back of the car. Robin piles in after her, with the boys taking their own respective seats. Corrin puts her shades back on, to obscure and darken the look of the limousine, already dark by the upholstery and leather seats and gloominess that pervades from the moist air hung in the metal, moving prison. Without another word, the limousine pulls away from the runway, the jet takes off again out into the azure sky, and Corrin is willingly stepping into her least favorite place on Earth because she is incapable of dealing with a few misplaced rabid rats.
With the addition of a new country to the world roster, there is the matter of who is to rule the found state of Detroit. Rising from the ashes of the insurgent groups that had formed the coalition to split comes a group of thirteen, thirteen strangers finding commonality in a shared goal; banded together this union is known as the Council of Thirteen, the leaders sworn in for life who are to lead Detroit out of its own created suffering. Corrin hears whispers on the wind that this band of thirteen are people ensnared by the unnatural world, having done freakish things to their bodies like adding animal whiskers or feathers to their body, drowning in a realm of fantasy. Since Corrin's refusal of acknowledging Detroit as its own official country, moreso an extension or territory like Puerto Rico, Guam, or the Virgin Islands, she has never actually met with these self-proclaimed thirteen; freaks are not something she associates her presidency with if she can ever help it.
The limousine is quiet as they travel, which Corrin is appreciative of. There's always something sour to discuss, but more than less she's learning to overcome it than rather wilt to suffer from it. A wound that is ripped open again and again, and Corrin has the gauze ready to stamp out the bleeding before blood loss turns into a loss of life. Noise is always surrounding her, a buzz that never seems to go away, an unrelenting tide of commotion and distraction, where the silverette clamps her hands over her ears, bends down, and screams for silence. At the very least, with her husband's death, there's a modicum of silence in her life now. A gray tombstone helps that measure in immeasurable amounts, she discovers.
Corrin realizes that she's been thinking of him a lot more than usual since his disappearance, Cloud's mysterious case that is. She wonders if she'll ever find out the truth, whether he's actually dead or on a patio in Monte Carlo eating grapes and drinking glasses of Chardon. If he's ever lucky, if Cloud has discovered solace, he'll break open a Cask of Amontillado and choke on the elixir of life that flows from its contents.
She rests her fist against the side of her head, staring out the window. What would he think of her now? It is Cloud's last wish, she hears it against her skull, a reverberating gong forever and ever and ever playing on a loop, that this Syrenet mess does become the end of her. As if he's a prophet who can tell the future, has this become what she's running from? An ironic loop of foreshadowing? Part of Corrin believes her husband would be proud that she hasn't completely collapsed yet. When they had been young and bright, when Corrin's hair hadn't turned completely gray from stress, she would scream and throw fits whenever something political would go south. That had been the way things were meant to be, she's the spoiled princess from the influential family who is meant to succeed at everything. The Syrenet roadblock is a challenge to this, she understands, and it is why the Detroit force is necessary to knock down the barrier of resistance between her and success.
A hand touches her knee, causing Corrin to jerk away from window, having never gotten to think what her husband would be like on the flipside, should Cloud Gladwell not be proud the way events have turned. It's Robin's touch - of course it is, Corrin thinks sardonically, she's too motherly for her own good - that brings her back to reality, and it is Robin that'll remind her of where she is and why.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
"Of course I am," Corrin scowls, her first knee-jerk response to anything anyone ever asks her. Why is the world so concerned on the emotional state of Corrin Etch?
"You admitted some heavy stuff last night," Robin continues, making a frown. "I've never seen you so vulnerable and-"
"I'm fine," the president cuts her off. It is a decisive motion with her hand, a slice, a swipe, a beheading. "Whenever I start to feel more than that, I'll let you know."
She resumes going back to the window, frustrated with herself. Corrin has no business talking to her closest comrade like she does anymore, but when she thinks about it, she's never had any business ever speaking to Robin in such a sharp tongue. Her best friend has been by her side for years, way too many years to count, hand in hand the silverette queens taking on the United States and world one step at a time. It is Robin that picks up the pieces, the broken pieces, the shattered pieces and messily glues them back together. They may look like a preschooler's sloppily thrown about art project right after a sugar rush from lunch, but it is the thought that counts, and Robin's never abandoned hope; stalwart, strengthening, and although the two have had their intellectual spars and their immature spats, the vice president's stance has been unwavering.
A pang of dread hits the president, causing sweat to bead down her forehead. It's the damn limousine; it must be. Presidents don't sweat out of discontent and discomposure. Another resounding blow to the gut causes Corrin to wince, eyes glued back to the blue sky of Detroit. She can't look at Robin and continue thinking those thoughts, but they continue to hit her one after the other. They dance, like haphazard skeletons barely kept together, under a searchlight, a dance of fear and despair. If Corrin ever had to, truly had to, could she kill her best friend?
Corrin steals a glance back at the other woman, for better or worse. It's Robin's hair color that matches her own, with gentle diamond eyes, and a softness not even replicated by the largest bed of roses. Yet, as the president stares harder, she can see it. She can imagine the scarlet that drips down Robin's perfect, porcelain face. A crater where a bit of her head should be is imploded on the upper right of the woman's skull. Brain bits everywhere, and Corrin can picture herself having been the one swinging the weapon, bringing the blunt object down again and again and again and again onto her skull, laughing, crying, screaming... a picture so gory that Corrin will vomit if she thinks on it one more single moment.
She closes her eyes, pressing her fingers down on her eyelids to ward off light. Light means color. Color means pictures. Pictures means they turn into Robin Wyndel. Robin Wyndel is her vice president, her closest companion, and a person Corrin can see murdering in cold blood if she has to ever overtake those in a rise for power. "But," Corrin thinks to herself, in the air of the moment, "If you're already at the top, where else is there to go except down? Her murder would definitely bring that on me, wouldn't it? I'd deserve a fate like that, though..."
Her mind wanders back to Cloud, too troubled to continue down the thought of who'd be on a potential kill list. Corrin Etch takes pride in saying her mind is like an anomaly, unable to be read precisely, a maze with high rise walls that trap and confuse and terrorize, but beyond that, she's struggling with it all in one. She can picture her husband, with his wave of lemonade hair frowning down upon her. One of their least finery parts of their marriage would be his constant bringing up of Detroit, like a stain she couldn't wash off from a priceless piece of china. She'd cry into the pillows at night while they made love, all because he's a vicious cunt who's only purpose in life is to make fun and harass her. Now, wherever Cloud might be whether it is in a state as a corpse in the ground, or relaxing on some sandy white beach, he'd not approve of this diplomatic mission.
"A phone call is enough, Corrin," he'd say, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand.
"You must be face to face."
"You must be face to face..." Corrin whispers to herself, aloud.
"What?" Robin asks, reaching out once more.
Corrin shakes her head, grimacing. "Nothing," she says quickly, shutting her eyes once more, warding off the light. Blood; too much blood. Blood everywhere, blood on her hands, on her hair, on her heart. "I was just speaking to myself. Reassuring myself why we're in this cesspool of a city."
"Careful now," Snake warns, jerking his head in the direction of the driver, who had been separated by a wall of leather. "In case he hears you insulting this place, we may crash and end up all dying. Not something you'd want, I figure."
"Well..." Corrin draws out the word, causing Robin to laugh. It is a noise that brings joy to her heart, hearing a laugh as free and beautiful as that. At one point, the silverette president dreams she's in love with her vice president, a feeling at a distance as she'd never in a million years actually fall in love with a co-worker - Shulk's face flies by her own momentarily, color leaving the silverette's cheeks - so it is nothing but a childish muse pocketed away forever.
The limousine begins to slow down now, and the band of four looks out the windows. The limousine stops in front of a marbled set of stairs, weathered and cracked, looking like rain and snow and fire and sulfur had tainted the ground for a long time. The driver, who must've been acting as their chauffer as well, gets out from his seat and opens Corrin's door for her first. She speaks to him more softly now, which he accepts tenfold.
Corrin shields her eyes as she steps out of the vehicle and into the Detroit sunlight.
There's no turning back.
Time to meet the Council of Thirteen.
Robin takes in the outside appearance of the Council of Thirteen's headquarters: a massive structure built spherical in shape, glass rings orbiting around the globe. Iron barbs stick out like spider legs around the surrounding topiary, gardens springing up in little pockets hidden behind wrung iron black gates, petals trapped underneath the trample of industry and strength and brutality. The steps up to the structure are cracked, marbled gray and filthy, which is a juxtaposition to the refined building that is the hall. She can practically see Corrin's nostrils flare at the grandeur of the building, as even Syrenet's own headquarters in D.C - although a nerd's paradise - does not compare to the plain ingenuity that is displayed in front of the foursome.
She understands it all in a second. Everything here, the grandeur, is meant to be a disillusionment. You see the beauty, and then that's all you see because one is enchanted. Robin can hear it on the wind, a people crying for help, but all of the money is shoveled into first looks and impressions. A modern-day Omelas, a modern day dystopia, but that may just be the silverette grasping for straws here. The chauffer drives away after Mac and Snake get out of the limousine, and it seems up to whenever Corrin has the initiative to step officially onto the Council's stomping grounds.
Although she has to squint, Robin can see a man waiting - or what appears to be waiting, she is unsure exactly as to what he's doing - at the very top. The set of stairs is not near enough as many as the Capitol building, which Robin tirelessly walks up and down some mornings when bills and missives are being passed and given everywhere like hotcakes, but a height and distance to where she is not able to see a clear picture.
Thus, the climb begins, and up the steps they go. Robin looks back behind her, having the whole open view of the outside to now examine her surroundings. Being packed inside the limousine is cramped and dark, but here she can let herself be swept away by the lies. It is a biased feeling, being in a 'foreign' place that is still actually within their own walls. Almost like a child walking into their parents' room, though forbidden do by some rule, or unspoken law and then given free willy to go and do as they please. The city is definitely impressive, Robin's thoughts were not askew in any slight. The look of the neighborhoods off in the distance are aesthetically pleasing, with parks that are in full bloom: stunning cardinal flowers, luscious violets and cheerful carnation pinks that decorate grayscale sidewalks. Near Model T homes, with the same window structure and ceiling design, and it looks like an ethereal paradise only a select few can get the key to get into.
Elsewhere is a pond, with sailboats and pedestrians, a lush and vibrant place with a sea of emerald green grass. It all smells welcoming, but Robin can take a bet with Snake that there is something sinister. After all, since she's heard the stories, not having been entirely involved with Syrenet back in Corrin's first few weeks of office, that this is the home to nefariousness and debauchery. Shulk lost his wife to this war-torn place, a place that has seemingly resurrected itself back to normalcy and gloriousness and delight. Always a catch, she thinks, there's always a loophole.
By this point, the group has reached the top of the stairs, and Robin can see the gentleman that had been indeed waiting for them. What she sees near causes her heart to stop.
It is as if her heart is an erected statue, made of easily chipped away stone, and someone has taken a mallet and crushed down every cubic inch of her homage. The man who had just bowed to the party is the same man she saw on the morning of the Chicago attack, in her visions, in her dreams. The man is alarmingly tall, at least six and a half feet, which makes Snake, who's already tall, pale in comparison. There's not too many people in the world that the FBI director ever looks up to in that sense; this stranger is a paragon. Robin's heard of interesting appearances, as has Corrin, of the city's inhabitants, but it does not make this any less strange. A gemstone is placed in the middle of the man's forehead, perhaps having been glued on, or stitched on, she is unable to tell. At a certain glance, if Robin moves her head in any particular way, it seems like the gem glows, the color ever changing. The man's hair is a tinge darker than Midna's, and way more subdued than Roy's wave of lava hair, but auburn still. It is short on the top, and grows underneath as a beard. His eyes are an ever so deep shade of brown, a luscious caramel with hints of toffee running through, and Robin is now stuck unsure whether she should feel alarmed or mystified. Why is this man here? The same man who had held Fiora in his arms, when the entire world had exploded.
The man rights himself after having just bowed, eyes bright, and as the look of Detroit has so far been, welcoming. "My lords," he says to Mac and Snake, and then to the women, "My lady Robin. Your Grace, Madam Corrin," which elicits a guffaw from Snake, the FBI director running a hand over his mouth to keep the sudden burst of noise quiet. The stranger furrows his eyebrows together. "I seem to have confused you."
"Usually we're not greeted that formally. Sir and ma'am, certainly, but not lords or ladies. However, I imagine they must do things differently here in Detroit. Nice to meet you," Snake explains, outstretching his hand, which the stranger takes heartily. "I'm Snake Karlo, the FBI director for the United States."
Robin is still stuck in the thaw of uncertainty. This... this aardvark fellow has appeared in her own head, and although he is bizarre to take into style wise, nothing seems extraordinary that she could think of. She steals a glance at Corrin, and is confused even moreso than she already is; the president hasn't moved from her last stop which is a good foot behind all the others. Her eyes are wide, mouth parted open, and the expression that crosses her face is a mix of confusion and fear. It seems the vice president is not alone in her sentimentality.
"A pleasure," the stranger heartily accepts the handshake. "You may call me by Ganondorf, Mr. Karlo. I am one of the members of the Council of Thirteen. We have been expecting your arrival."
"Ganondorf?" Mac furrows his eyebrows together. "Not Gerry? Anything simpler?"
"Us here in Detroit have odd names, I know," the man, Ganondorf, nods as acceptance to the peculiarity of his namesake. "The other members are even odder than I am, if that's even possible."
Robin hopes it isn't just her that Ganondorf's way of speaking is eloquent, far more eloquent than anyone she's heard in quite some time. An almost archaic form of speech, with odd placements of nouns and verbs... all said with a twinkling gleam in the man's eye that she is unable to read. She shakes his hand next. "Robin Wyndel, the current vice president," the silverette turns to her partner in crime, "I imagine you must-"
"Oh, yes, I do know who she is!" Ganondorf cuts her off, stepping out of the mesh that three had created, arms widening out as if he is preparing for a hug. The air lifts, and it seems the day becomes brighter simply by the outward expression of recognition and joy. "President Corrin of the United States of America. Might I say you look absolutely lovely today! It's been a long time, dear friend."
This causes Corrin to laugh nervously, eyes flashing one of panic. She shakes the council member's hand in earnest despite that, placing a fake smile on her lips. Robin can tell that it is fake and forced by the curling of the lip, the stretch of her grin that is too far than normal. "I'm sorry. We've met?"
"A long time ago. You don't recall?" Ganondorf sounds nearly hurt.
Corrin's cheeks flush a tint of embarrassed red. "I can't say I have. I figure I would remember someone as interesting as you, Mr..." she trails off, not having a last name.
"Perish, Madam President."
The vice president raises an eyebrow. The council member's name is Ganondorf Perish; she can't say she's heard stranger or anything more outlandish than that. It is also the first time she notices his dress. Like his speech, it is something she wouldn't even see the Amish wear. It's a doublet, dark brown in color, that goes down to a long pair of pants similar in design. A cape is attached to the back, almost like a king's - perhaps an indication of an ego, perchance? - that is touching the ground. Ganondorf is wearing gloves, leathered and hiding his wrists. She can see his neck and face, which is a more subdued olive tone, as if his skin is a pasty fishy green. Robin believes that this day is getting stranger and stranger by the moment.
Corrin sucks on her bottom lip. "Well, Mr. Perish, I am unfortunately not able to remember if we've ever met. This is my first time in Detroit, actually."
Ganondorf chuckles lowly, which causes Mac to tense. Aggression, a secret darkness hidden in the tone and the vibration of the throat. "I have never once stepped outside of this city, so I must be mistaking you for someone else," as he turns, Robin catches that his eyes subdue to a lower shade than usual warmness. Goosebumps erupt all over her exposed arms, and she's longing to have worn a jacket instead. "Thank you for getting here on such short notice, Madam President. The Council has been eager to meet you."
"And I have not been eager to meet any of them..." the silverette in question says lowly so only Robin can hear it. If she has any better sense, Robin would swat her comrade on the arm for even daring to be so openly disrespectful in such a close proximity, but that'd be an immediate clue to discontent among their ranks. It is one of Corrin's mottos as she's five glasses deep in Merlot - we arrive as a unit, Corrin slurs sluggishly, syllables rolling over each other like waves, and we're solid as stone statues. If they can't smell disturbances, we're the best at fooling them into trusting us - that comes to Robin's mind.
"How long do you think this may take?" Mac asks, folding his arms similar to Snake's.
Ganondorf purses his lips. "That is hard to say. Us Council Members can be fickle; I'm not used to their patterns of discussion and decision making yet. I've been a recent member, Mr. Sarasota, only a few months, and it is not all the time we convene for important matters such as the president of the United States requesting our audience."
Robin wants to point out that the secret service agent never had a chance to get his name out, so how Ganondorf knows it brings a stab of cold ice fear to her heart, a dagger sinking in which precision akin to that of an assassin. It goes unnoticed by Mac, who simply shrugs, looking at Corrin for guidance. The atmosphere is starting to be heavier by the minute, a tension building on Robin's shoulders threatening to push her down any further.
"Then we might as well start, shall we?" Snake nods.
"Mr. Sarasota," Ganondorf's hand eclipses the doorknob which would lead the party into the glass sphere, having paused his actions. "What is your position with this group?"
The brunette's neck floods with a tinge of pink. "I'm their bodyguard."
Ganondorf weighs this information, closing his eyes, a gleam of tom-foolery Robin notices as if the council member could trick her. "I'm afraid that is not an esteemed enough position for the Council. While they discuss, you're more than welcome to peruse the hall. Is that alright with you?"
Mac locks his jaw, perhaps to argue back, but Robin can sense the atmosphere start to turn, and they're not prepared to fight off strange adversaries in a foreign country. "That is more than fine," she overrides the comment that the secret service agent is sure to say that could cause World War III. "We'll make sure to be thorough..." Robin is bothered by how Corrin is not saying anything; she's always got something to say.
A smile returns to Ganondorf's face, and he swings the door open to the Council's hall. "Perfect! Well, my lords, my ladies, if you may follow me."
As he passes, a gust of wind lifts his cloak up, and it is a flash fast enough for Robin to discern out details. Something odd catches her eye. Half of Ganondorf's back is a mess of chrome plating and wires, grooves for screws and nuts and bolts. She extends her gaze to look down his arm, as the doublet and cape obstructs most of his actual body. His right arm is all metallic, more wires, nearly synthetic. It's then that she realizes.
Ganondorf Perish must be some half human, half cyborg like creature. Detroit sure is strange.
However, for his - Ganondorf's, that is - credit, the foursome remains standing as the council member strolls into the building all alone, caught up in a world of his own. Corrin takes the first steps to the door, but before she can think of reaching for the knob, Robin grabs her wrist, stopping her. The president locks eyes with her, and the emotion is mirrored: fear, peculiarity, uncertainty, and distrust.
"Something feels wrong..." Corrin says first, biting on her lower lip.
"I recognize him!" Robin urges, pressing her thumb into the other silverette's skin, leaving a mark.
If the president hadn't looked entirely shell-shocked by the first revelation of meeting the caped stranger, this brings her to her knees. "What?"
"I had a dream a few days ago," Robin lowers her voice to a whisper in case cameras could pick up on the conversation. Her strange behavior rouses Snake's attention, who leans in as well. "I'll spare the details, but he was in my dream. Holding someone in his arms, though I couldn't quite tell," and that's that. She leaves out the detail of the president herself being in the dream and acting like a devil, which is another gauntlet to tackle at another time, or Fiora, which would put the entire world in a spin. "I've been stuck on it for days, but it's him..."
"Ganondorf? You've dreamed of Ganondorf?" Snake repeats, and then makes a scoffing noise. "Robin, do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?"
"No, it isn't," Corrin cuts the director off, and the wild look returns in her eyes. "I've seen him too, but not in dreams..." the president's brow furrows together, as she's trying to recollect her memories in the right manner. "Visions, almost. Passing glimpses while at my desk, or sleeping," her eyes widen. "His gemstone," she says, voice a ghost of whisper. "That's what I've been seeing. The gemstone sewn into his forehead."
"Does it mean something, then?" Mac joins the discussion, hand going back to his gun. "I don't like the idea of not being in the room; I should stay with my gun and-"
"No," Corrin rejects the idea. "We're lucky that the Council even agreed to let us speak to them. It is the least we can do to at the very least follow their rules, the seldom ones they have. If we need you, we'll let you know."
"And if they try to murder you?" the brunette argues back.
"They'd be stupid to." The tone in the president's voice seems to suggest feelings that lie elsewhere; a seed of doubt that plants itself into the soil and leaves its roots to spread all across the body. Boils, a fever, cancer cells, and Corrin's confidence crumbles. "We're the most important dignitaries of a country that is near the most powerful in the world."
"If we're so powerful, we wouldn't be coming to them to ask for military help..." Snake adds, musing. He looks away when Corrin flashes him a glare.
Robin is stumped on what to do. Is it a situation to cry wolf at? Ganondorf, on the exterior, seems to be relaxed and calm, and just for the most part, different. Then... "Did you notice his back and right arm?" she says, picking her head up.
"What about his back and right arm?"
"Metallic," she answers. "Like... not prosthetics, but covered in metal. Like a-"
"Cyborg..." Mac whispers.
"Does that mean something, you think?"
Corrin frowns, placing a finger on her jaw, her nail digging into the flesh, drawing scarlet. Scarlet that causes Robin to wince. "I can't tell..." she bites on her lower lip like Snake had done earlier. "For all we know, it is just an odd stylistic choice... or a tattoo. After all, we hear that these Detroit people are strange..."
"Not that strange!" Mac gestures wildly at the globe.
The conversation ends there, as Corrin is unable to take it anymore. Robin sees it in the way she throws her hands up so carelessly, hair blowing in the breeze. "It doesn't matter. We're leaving them waiting; by now they must suspect something is up. You heard Ganondorf... we've got to go and follow him." With that, the president wrenches open the hall door to the council chamber, immersing herself into the fake grandeur of Detroit's glass sphere.
Robin exchanges glances with the two men, Snake sighing, Mac wiping his brow with a thumb. A sickening feeling builds deep in Robin's stomach, but there's no turning back; not anymore, not anymore. Taking a deep breath - there's only so much a day can go from bad to worse to awful - she follows the president, opening the door.
Judgment day.
"Announcing President Corrin Etch of the United States of America. Announcing Vice President Robin Wyndel of the United States of America. Announcing Federal Bureau of Investigation director Snake Karlo of the United States of America," Ganondorf says immediately following the creaking sound of heavy doors being pushed open, his voice thunderous and booming.
Corrin is blasted in the face with a rush of cold air, chills nipping at her arms and legs. The hair on the back of her neck stands straight up as she steps into the council chamber. The hall is spacious, built like the lobby of the Capitol building, she realizes, with a domed ceiling, nothing extravagant than rather sordid white paint to decorate it. There is an expanse of tiled floor sprawled on the bottom, wounding carpeted pairs of stairs set on the sides of the chamber. The stairs, carpeted a dark green, a shade darker than Corrin's eyes, lead to a large singular piece of furniture: a desk. The desk is thirteen seats long, twelve occupants already sat, a vacant seat at the end which ends up being Ganondorf's. Robin and Snake, with Mac obediently waiting outside, follow suit, standing behind her in profile as the doors shut.
The echo is ghastly across the curved walls.
"So, this is the esteemed Council of Thirteen," Corrin thinks to herself, her shades in her pocket, now with open eyes and no obscurity to assess the area around her. "They seem to be nothing much."
"Welcome, Madam Corrin!" greets a voice, hardened and stout. Her gaze follows up from the floor - a good distance of at least ten feet, intimidation purposes perhaps - to the speaker, the person sitting in the center of the thirteen, most likely the leader of the council. "We are all honored to meet your acquaintance, honored to have you here in our abode."
"You are not a good liar, Fox," snaps a woman on the man's left, her hair a vivacious, curly blonde. Her eyes remind Corrin of Cloud's. "You hate this council meeting nearly as much as I am for having to endure it."
It seems the trend of Detroit council members being outlandish in name and appearance has not stopped, rather kicking off to new heights. Looking at the person who spoke to her, this Fox fellow, Corrin can see that her mind cannot discern whether or not the man has truly turned himself into the forest animal. Fox's eyes are an auburn color, hair, or in this case, fur, a similar shade. His ears are pointed, nose elongated to a snout, and it all must be a matter of freakish makeup, she can figure.
"Please, Samus, not right away. We haven't even spoken!" Fox argues back. Corrin raises an eyebrow. Ah... Samus. That name already sounds like trouble. Samus belongs to the curly haired blonde woman who's already made her opinion quite known.
"Let her be," advises someone on Samus' immediate left, and this appearance makes Corrin try to halt her laughter from ever being uttered. "Samus will be as brash as always. You can trust me, Fox, that I, Falco will be partial." A bird. That is this council member's shtick; hair made to be plumage, high and grand, a stunning navy in color, rather his entire body is swathed and dunked into a navy color.
Corrin sees that Fox actually has a gavel, in case to call the council to order. He slams the gavel down, down, CRACK, down, CRACK, and it is the hail of gunfire all over again. The president winces at each hit. Fox relents after a few smacks, sighing. "Councilors, leave your petty grievances at the door. Since they've hardly had a chance to speak, we might as well introduce ourselves... instead of this shambled mess," he grumbles.
Robin matches her partner evenly now, side-by-side. "Too late to abort?" she whispers.
"Oh, very late," Corrin laughs.
With Fox's permission, the councilors begin introducing themselves. Starting at the far end is a man of Asian looking descent, perhaps one of the normal denizens of the freakish council, jet black hair matching an ever darker complexion, a blood red headband tied around his head, by the name of Ryu. To Ryu's left are a pair of twins, Corrin can deduce easily enough, Willard and Winnie, both in their mid-thirties, with brunette hair, bright oceanic eyes, and a politeness that even Robin could learn from. Next to the twins is someone that causes Corrin's eyebrows to raise up a few inches higher than normal. A... figure, though Fox swears to be a talking anthromorphic animal, lupine completely from head-to-toe covered in azure fur, called Lucario. Lucario sits in his chair crisscrossed, eyes closed, hands together, as if he is meditating.
Following Robin is a woman of tall stature, wings on her back. Corrin chuckles to herself; if only Pit could see these people now for the freaks they were, wouldn't it be something? The woman introduces herself as Palutena, a goddess of some sort - perhaps with enough drug overdosing, the goddess could keel over from a mortal weakness - with iridescent hair, a caduceus leaning up against her chair which she'd ever so often grip. After Palutena, a man who causes Robin to do a double take, looking at the council member, her reflection in one of the windows, and then the man again. The man, going by Rob, is the exact replica of the vice president, with silverette hair combed nicely back in a general wave. The eye color is the same, mannerisms the same, and even a voice that matches her tone. Perhaps a fan from far away who decided to take their obsession a step too far?
Fox takes the middle, as Corrin had deduced before, and although his mannerism is calm, she can tell that this leader is used to authoritative positions, given the strength in his voice, and the muscled arm that bangs the gavel down, down, down.
On his immediate right is the fattest human being Corrin has ever set her gaze on, and even stranger. The stranger's voice is pompous from the very first word - "I am King Dedede, king of the world Pop Star, President Corrin," the councilor introduces himself - as his words fill the room with an air of egotistical narcissism. Corrin reckons she should teach this avarice fool about the story of Narcissus; it'd end on a good story. King Dedede is indeed fat, a round yellow face, with a large pair of duck lips put on his mouth, sky blue in color, and he lifts a massive hammer.
Perhaps the other normal looking council member besides Ryu and the twins is Rosalina, which Corrin is immediately drawn to. The woman has flaxen hair that rests gently against the small of her back, a teal dress hugging a slim and nearly paper thin figure. Her eyes sparkle and gleam with the beauties of the star ways, a twinkle that hooks the president in and never lets go. Next to her is Samus, which Corrin already dislikes, seeing the stare of defiance in the back of her skull. Then there is Falco, which who has made his voice known. On Falco's right, is Wolf O'Donnell, and like the other two named after animals, Corrin sees that he's covered head-to-toe in amaranthine fur, a snout with the charcoal black nose, and snarling eyes that are burning like coals in a dwindling fire. Rounding out the beautiful - Corrin uses that term as loosely as she can possibly give herself - council is Ganondorf, and it is near funny in hindsight to Corrin that she thought the eloquent speaking man is the oddest one of them all.
The introductions feel like they drag on, to where Snake yawns, ducks under Corrin's glare, and dodges Samus's more vicious stare. Fox claps the gavel on the desk once more, after Ganondorf relinquishes his title and backstory, and it seems the meeting can rise to a beginning.
"Now that we are all under way, this meeting can begin," Fox's shoulders visibly relax, which causes Corrin to smirk to herself. First mistake. "For the record, it is April 9th, 2094, nearing 10AM, with the heads of state for the United States of America. Madam Corrin, the floor is yours to speak."
Thirteen pairs of eyes flash to her all at once, as if they were a moving autonomous unit. Corrin jumps slightly, at the sudden push of attention. It isn't her to not be prepared, and definitely feeling captured underneath a vicious gaze. She begins to sweat, not expecting to be put out into the spotlight like that so quickly, so suddenly, the air getting hotter. A few seconds pass, in which the mood of the council members begins to change. Samus, already not on board, clearly by her outbursts, rests a hand against the side of her face and yawns. Corrin's right eye begins to twitch - how dare she, she snarls to herself, doesn't she realize how lucky she is? - but Corrin stops it before it gets out of hand.
King Dedede is more fascinated with a buzzing fly than the silverette, and it snaps in the president's mind that she'll bring the roof in down on this place. Disliking her, she can take. Disrespect? Corrin would rather be shot at pointe blank range than take on more insolence and complete refusal to her authority. She gives one look back at Snake and Robin, who's lack of reassurance does wonders for her self-confidence. Her mouth goes dry, her throat closes up, and it seems as if she's never publicly spoken in front of a group before. Peculiar, and odd, she figures.
"Good morning, Council of Thirteen," she begins, wincing, as Corrin has never in all of her years of politics sounded this so fake yet genuine at the same time. "As you are honored, we are honored, humbled, and most thankful for seeing us on such short notice. Though tensions were high only a few years ago, I have come to realize with my administration that alienation is not a good strategy for America on a global scheme..." her eyes dart around the room, trying to catch who's interested, but no one seems to be biting except Fox and Ganondorf. "I imagine you have heard of America's newest form of government, Syrenet, which had been involved in your revolution only a short while ago."
"To terminate us," the councilor, Wolf, snarls, leaning forward out of his seat. "I remember! They killed my best friend-"
"Enough!" Fox bangs his gavel on the counter again, glaring at the other animal-man. "Your opinions will be kept silent, unless you wish to remove yourself from the chamber."
Corrin's glare sinks Wolf back into his seat more than Fox's warning, and the president closes her eyes. Not to ward off light this time, but to force the negativity out of her head, to keep the thoughts of burning everyone and every person in the room with a death fitting to those who'd dare go against her. "Relationships between Detroit and Syrenet have not been excellent as of yet, and I'm hoping to change that. On the news, I and the units of Syrenet are trying to create cells for the governmental branch in the country. Syrenet is a militaristic task force, like a division of the army, focused on covert missions similar to the FBI, but also as a form of economic sustenance in properties like technological advancements. Militarized suits of armor that have AI Units in them, mini computers that are figments of digital worlds implemented in the suit," she holds for gravitas, which appeals to the twins', Rosalina's, and Falco's attention. Lucario still hadn't broken his meditation. "However, our efforts to get these branches off the ground, which would help our nation rather than hurt it, have been squandered-"
"Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. Chicago, Illinois. And now you want to do Detroit, Michigan, don't you?" interrupts Samus, the blonde flashing the president a contemptuous look filled to the brim with venom. She had been counting on her fingers the names of both failures, and correctly assuming, a third endeavor.
The silverette wants to rip the real-life Barbie doll's head off the rest of her body and let the council deal with the mess, but she swallows her rage, forging ahead. "Yes. Two attempts so far in Oklahoma City and Chicago that have been rejected, by three bands of rebels broken into sectors of our country. The East, the West, and the Midwest, a single alliance that we believe to be the destruction of Syrenet. Just yesterday, our Chicago missive had been invaded by the Midwestern force, with the deaths of citizens and Chicago police force, and the near-death experience of one of our Syrenetic captains," Corrin swallows, her throat becoming heavy as she thinks of Marth's cold, lifeless body in the hospital, dressed in a light, see-through gown, broken and stuck in a coma, unable to come to terms with this impeding doom. "Now, our gaze goes up north, to here, to Detroit..." This is it. The sales pitch. Now or never, and Corrin Etch is shit sure to perform. "Syrenet, and then as an extension, the U.S government, wants to create a branch here in your country, in your city-state, to get things off the ground. As an add-on, I'd like the enlistment of your armed forces to help us squash the rebel forces plaguing my country and my attempts at bettering the establishment as a whole."
"And what if we're attacked instead," prompts Ryu, and although not aggressive by his tone, he does pound a fist onto the desk. "By joining as an alliance?"
"A chance we take?" Corrin shrugs lamely.
"And what is in it for us, Madam President?" Fox raises his voice a bit higher than his usual commands, but her respect rises as Fox keeps his tone civil, and his question harmless. Corrin darts her eyes over to Ganondorf, surprised to see that the councilor hadn't shifted in his seat but once to scratch his back, arms held tightly to his sides, gaze directed just to right of the silverette, on the floor.
It is Robin's turn to speak, as her eloquence is more than necessary. "Economists have trajectories on what Syrenet will do for the American economy. Since you follow a capitalistic system, it is said that the benefits will be the same. Under much discussion, Corrin agreed, as it has not been done before, that the city-state of Detroit, like the Vatican City in Italy, will be a fully recognized country of the world by the United States, and furthermore, our allies."
Electricity seizes the council, hushed whispers rising and falling, and even those who had been begrudging in their efforts to accept even a notion of alliance, perk their heads up at the idea. Fox's eyes glow with the possibility of success that reaches the stars. "And what would those extensions be?"
"A recognized currency, language, a flag, a country named Detroit, economic success, a defined border and laws and rules. Global recognition..." Robin counts off the perks with her fingers, eyes occasionally going to look up at the ceiling in marking sure her position.
"All if we allow Syrenet a position here in the country and if we offer our military to fight insurgences?" the female twin, Winnie, reiterates. Corrin wants to hit the woman on the head with a baseball bat. It is as if the lady decided to sit there in her chair and just regurgitate everything that had been said over the past few minutes. The people of other countries ample around like long lost ducks and idiots, she deduces.
"That's all," Corrin nods her head.
"No more?"
"Nothing more," the silverette agrees, and then holding a finger up. "More can always be added should these first few steps prove to be exemplary beyond measure."
Fox leans back in his chair, banging the gavel. Corrin locks eyes with Ganondorf, having passed her gaze. This time his own seizes her, a fire gripping hold. Corrin's body heats up, but this is an unnatural heat, a heat that causes her to scald and burn and thrash. She stirs uncomfortably, as Ganondorf lifts his head up, the gears in his head turning, shifting, thinking, contemplating, dreaming, believing... and Corrin is enraptured in the soulfulness of his pensive state.
However, as she brings her attention, albeit painfully, to the congregation, a swamp of voices overshadow each other. Samus is yelling belligerently across the room at Ryu who is screaming back. Fox is constantly banging on his gavel, trying to sustain order, but it may very well be the cycle of how the group operates that this happens. Rosalina is acting as the mediator between Ryu and Samus, which elicits Wolf's snarl to be shouted as apparently the flaxen haired woman is too soft, which gets King Dedede to fight for her, and soon everyone besides Lucario and Ganondorf are in a yelling fight.
Snake joins Robin and Corrin, who are merely watching with their eyes dancing across the events taking place. "So, shall we consider this a success?"
"Well, given no one has killed each other yet..." Corrin says absentmindedly, head still turned at Ganondorf's expression, "I'd say it may very well be." The councilor not meditating, and the one not involved in the ruckus, is observing, chin tucked to his chest, hands resting on the sides of his chair, even going so far back as to lean. Corrin wonders what would happen if he leaned just a bit too far over. Should he fall down the flight of carpeted stairs, would he be injured? Since it's carpet, do people get cut and bruised and injured by it? Would his skin catch fire like paper mache? She is uncertain. She wonders if he bleeds scarlet like all other men. All men bleed, the president knows that well enough, but can a man bleed the same way another may. That remains a mystery.
"I think they'll take a while." Robin chomps on the inside of her cheek as she says this, hands fidgeting with themselves in front of her.
"Oh? And what gave you that idea?" Snake guffaws.
"Given the situation, this humor is not appreciative..."
"Just look at them!" the director exclaims, throwing his hands out to encompass the chaos. "They're going to rip each other to shreds, and by all means let them!"
Corrin drifts her mind away from Snake and Robin's heated discussion, which could never rise to the level of the supposed orderly individuals risen above them. Ganondorf turns his head back to her way, eyes lock again, and their dance continues. A flamenco, with spicy heels and a hot pink dress, and it is his first move, until the heat pools so loud. A clock begins ticking in the back of the president's head, an estranged divide from it all. A tick, a tock, and a boom. Over and over again it repeats, while Corrin's face searches the elusive council member.
She knows him from somewhere, elsewhere in her dreams. Thinking of Robin's connection, via a dream, how would they be interlinked? She can't think of it right now, with the numbing shaw of noise that is erupting over the hall. Ganondorf's glean in his eye represents mischief, a smile playing on his lips, and the gentleman demeanor fades, revealing a core of trouble and greed and amusement. All an act, Corrin realizes; how right she had been, how right she always is. The ticking gets louder.
Tick.
Tock.
The room rises to a fever pitch, the noise swelling, the walls expanding, and soon the hall would turn into a burst balloon. A heart attack on steroids.
Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick, tock.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Tick tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Boom.
Mac has never appreciated being told he is not allowed to do something. It is not in his nature, to sit idly by and let things be. That is a part of his soul that will never identify with rules. As he sits outside the closed, locked doors of the chamber, he can hear the swell of noise rise and fall like that of the waves of the ocean crashing on a sandy, white shore. A cleanse, washing away the grime, dirt, and filth of the world before it; leaving things better than how they had been found out to be.
His talents are much better used than simply sitting on his hands - a commonality he does when bored - on a rough bench. He can hear it all, every sound byte. Corrin's wavering confidence that ebbs a strength only a woman can pervade, where despite weakness, there is strength in here. A feeling of pride swells in the man's heart; he's proud of their commander in chief, dealing with what only sounds like a pile of rubbish. A smart fool, a gallant fool, and a unwise fool are all the same; they share the concept of being fools, and in that they cannot contest with the silver viper queen with preying eyes.
The secret service agent shakes his leg back and forth, up and down, his dress shoed foot making tap noises that echo along the walls. The hall is indeed pretty on the inside, he can give the place that much credit. It's a problem that everyone inside the building, however, seems to have been rolled over with plastic and left to melt out in the blazing sun. Rotten, spoilt milk must be thrown out, and Mac is sure that the council members are like that as well.
He's bored sitting in the same spot, so Mac stands up, stretching, running a hand through his hair. Looking back at the door, he can hear that the sounds of excitement have lowered themselves back to a more... calm state, hearing someone by the name of Fox speak in authoritative tones. All seems to be good, so it can afford Mac a quick run to the bathroom. After asking an attendant - most likely another worker of the Council and its many branches: education, environment, finance, housing, food, emergency services and so on and so forth - his stroll lands him in front of another chromed door, with a plaque in the middle of the frame. Restrooms for the Male Gender.
It causes the brunette to roll his eyes. Even in naming something, these pretentious leaders have to pour their eloquences all over it; a drop of honey splattering onto a crème calling card, soothing outwards and rising up in luxury. He pushes the 'Restrooms for the Male Gender' door open, stepping inside. The bathroom on the inside is no different than any other bathroom he's seen, with blizzard white tiled walls, blizzard white tiled floors, blizzard white stalls and urinals, and the platinum build of the sinks. A blur, a blur that Mac cannot figure out where he's going until he bumps into the sink counter, the obtuse piece of granite nearly invisible due to its coat of paint.
He turns one of the faucets on, splashing his face with water. There's been a noticeable lack of amount of sleep passing around the Syrenet party, and its claws are starting to sink in to Mac's façade; he's used to running marathons at four in the morning, working on half an hour sleep, drinking coffee like its water, throwing back Aleve and Tylenol and antidepressants to keep the blood flowing. Eating chicken breasts so hardly cooked that his stomach churns in protest for hours on end, but he keeps on pushing.
His phone in his pocket vibrates, signifying a text message. Water drips off of his nose into the sink, not reaching for a paper towel from the dispenser. He swipes the lock screen off from his phone, reading the text message. It's from Midna, her name displayed in an italic-like font, the font similar to a word processor's step drenched in a scarlet coating.
Midna
~ Arrived at the base in Detroit. How are things going?
Mac
~ Alright. These people are weird.
Midna
~ Weird in what way?
Mac
~ If you ever meet them, you'll find out.
He sends the message, setting his phone down and looking back in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot red, from the evident lack of sleep. After the meeting, whenever it adjourns, he fancies himself a nap with silk satin sheets and decadent chocolate strawberries to help pass the time. There's been talk of going back to the hospital and waiting for Marth to wake up, but Mac's heart is telling him to stay behind so he can reset his natural nocturne clock. Mac pulls back a few haphazard strands of his gelled hair, setting it nice and neatly back into its usual fold. Prim and proper is the way to go, his father always used to say. His father then changed to saying that a bottle of whiskey had been the way to go, when he turned senile and lost his mind.
It's why Mac picked up the bottle; a strange intuition that he has to follow in his father's footsteps. Like father, like son, in every essence of the word. Mac does not follow that rule to the T, he notes, though. He's not an air conditioner salesman. He's the head of the secret service personnel team for the president of the United States; a much better gig. Mac Sarasota is the early to bed, early to rise kind of guy, where his bird wins the worm every time, and his work ethic is infallible.
Mac splashes more water in his face, fingers drumming against the countertop.
It's late, after Robin and Corrin had both gone to bed after yesterday's drunk game of billiards, and both men remain in the bar. Mac's now drinking water, wanting to play one last round before passing out too... it's nearing three in the morning and the signs are all exterior, saying he and Snake need to leave. It's a conversation that the two have, the last they had really spoken to one another had been back at the FBI agency on the night of Cloud's disappearance, when Mac foolishly brings the pair of Victoria Secret's lingerie with him as a gift for Midna after a single one-night stand.
He chuckles. "If there's one thing from my father besides drinking I inherited, it's his bad game with women..."
The FBI director snags another ball in one of the top pockets, now down to a singular shot, where Mac still has five scattered across the pool table. Snake is drinking Bud Light, on his fourth of the entire evening, but now it is starting to slow him down just a tad. He isn't drunk, but the sobriety is being to wean off the edge some.
Mac polishes the tip of his pool stick. "Sir?" he asks, voice gentle.
Snake rights himself after making his shot. Another score, another tally on his board, another failure Mac can cough up. "Yes, Mac?"
"Do you have faith in Syrenet? In this mission?"
A pause from the director, who had gone for his beer. "And why do you ask me that?"
"I'm just... curious," Mac's cheeks burn bright red, as he aims for a shot, misses the cue ball, and nearly launches the pool stick out of his hand. He really needs some sleep, but something other worldly is compelling him to not go and satisfy his needs in a dose of heavy slumber. He is to stay up and continue this conversation, a genuine conversation. A real conversation. "After today, I mean-"
"You had asked Marth the same question, didn't you?" Snake leans up against the table.
"How would you know about that?"
"I overheard you in the kitchen."
Again the secret service agent's face flushes out of embarrassment. His mind always jumps to the worst conclusions; of course he does, it's a Sarasota gene. Like father, like son. Like father, like son. Likefatherlikeson, likefatherlikeson, likefatherlikeson... Mac realizes he's gripping the pool stick so hard his knuckles are turning white. "I mean it, Mr. Karlo," he feels compelled to use the respectfulness of a Mr. and Mrs. "Here we are trying to do something good for the country and we're shot down like it's poison. Those rebels murdered people today. We all nearly died!"
"War is messy, Mac," Snake says, with a sigh.
"This isn't warfare. It shouldn't be," he urges.
"If I had an answer for you, I'd tell you."
Mac juts his head away from the mirror, looking elsewhere. "If I had an answer for you, I'd tell you..." he whispers to himself. He flicks water off of his hands into the sink, drying off his face, and stepping back into the hallway. The restroom door closes behind him with a lock. He is standing in the circular hallway, in the glass dome with the spider-like legs and the Saturn-like rings that decorate the council hall.
Sunlight is streaming in due to the walls being entirely made of glass, and it hits his skin. However, despite being bathed in warmth and kindness, Mac rubs his arms together like a breeze has passed over him. If he's doused in sunlight, why is he feeling so cold? The hair on the back of his neck stands up again, goosebumps crawling up and down his arms like spiders, spiders with pincers, spiders with fangs, spiders with emerald green eyes, spiders with auburn hair... he shudders at the thought.
He walks back over to the bench, sitting down. Looking at his phone, he sees that Midna has not messaged him back. Mac furrows his eyebrows together, in confusion. She normally responds right away, but there's always another reason, he has to tell himself lest Mac gets carried away. Thoughts that move with wild, reckless abandon. A free horse, with an elegant mane of onyx hair, hooves stampeding down on matted dirt. Why must she toy with him like so? He can feel her lips on his, her lips pressing into his shoulder blades, down the small of his back as ghostly whispers float amidst every rivet of his spine. Tingles start at his scalp and slowly rise, and her hushed sweet nothings fill his ear.
Soon, however, they morph into Snake's rugged voice, as Mac's mind lapses back to the conversation.
"I think this is weighing too much on your mind, Mac," the director says, shaking his head after getting his last ball in, making the other brunette the loser of that round. "I gave Roy the same conversation, actually."
That alerts Mac, who sits up straighter over at his seat by the bar. His glass of water is empty, having finished drinking it ages ago. Any time someone mentions that redhead, his blood sears. He can see the way Roy Arcadia looks at him - he thinks the name sharply, venomously, a diluted poison that stops the heart - with dark eyes that are burning in jealousy. Everyone gives Roy Arcadia the benefit of the doubt for being the new kid, when in actuality, Mac Sarasota is the last person to join the rungs on the totem pole; he's the one everyone should be flocking to. "What about Roy?"
"I had to cut the hard truths about working for Syrenet, and working for Corrin. It sounds like you need the same talk," Snake sets the pool stick back in its usual position on the wall, his having been the largest, it looms over the rest. A reminder, a painful reminder that Snake Karlo, the director of the prestigious FBI, will always be better than him, always better than the new kid, the new guy on the block, the last rung of the ladder, the last block on the totem pole. A vicious stabbing feeling builds in Mac's stomach, a twist of his intestines, a pain that will not go away.
He crosses his legs to try and forget about the unusual feeling. "Like what, then?"
"Corrin will ask us to do things we don't want to do. I will ask you to do things you don't want to do, but sometimes we must just... do them," Snake says, somewhat resignedly.
"Even if it becomes something completely moral robbing?"
Snake's eyes cloud over. "Yes. Even then..."
A burst of noise from the other side of the door rouses Mac's attention, a jut from the day-to-day cycle of usual thought. He looks up, staring at the door. He is unsure of what the sudden unleash of sound had been. A scream? A yell out of anger? A laugh? Mac leans into the door, hand resting squarely on the butt of his pistol.
Then, a scream.
"Corrin!" Mac shouts, hands going for the gilded knob on the doorframe. He twists the knob left and right, but the door won't budge. It's locked! "Corrin!" he yells again, and the screaming continues. Robin? Snake? The secret service agent lets go of the knob, breathing heavily in and out. Alrighty, now or never.
Mac throws his body weight at the door, which buckles once under the brunt force. He cracks his neck, tilting his head left and right. Again, he throws himself at the locked barrier. His left arm is screaming in protest at the contest clashing of momentums, his muscle on fire, the ache a burn that slashes through his entire body. He takes a deep breath, lunges once more, and the door gives way. His body slams into it, a loud cracking noise meaning the door gives way, and sawdust showers the secret service agent.
As he rights himself, with his eyes assessing the scene, it takes everything in his body to not vomit at the sight.
"Corrin! Get away from her!" he screams again, lunging forward.
Fox bangs the gavel once more on the partition of his desk. It jolts Corrin awake, having leaned up against Robin while the councilors discussed. It had been a good twenty minutes while the congregation spoke and discussed, all the while where Ganondorf sits in his spot, yawns, and grins at the display of inadequacy in front of him. The president straightens herself, smoothing out the furl of her dress.
The councilor looks down at the president - again, how dare he! - with a peering look. "Well, Madam President, it seems we're ready to come to a decision-"
"A decision?" Corrin can't help herself, her mind runs wild, and her snappy tone gives it away. "What decision is there to make? We need your help!"
"Our help?" Wolf leans in, bearing a sneer, the ever present sneer he has for the silverette. "Just a few years ago you have been trying to destroy us."
"And things can change... can't they?" the councilor, Rosalina, the one Corrin is most drawn to, says. Her face is calm, lips pressed together in a smile. However, she - Corrin - sees right through the plasticity. Even the most genuine person is the one who is the fakest out of a body. "I am all for it, Lady Corrin!"
"Of course you are," Samus snips, her blonde curls bouncing in anger as she scolds the other woman. "You're always for change. Change brought the destruction of your last name!"
The slam of the gavel happens once more, and Corrin is thankful that the councilor from heaven, Fox, exists, as he's been the most partial to their situation, their dire situation. "Councilors! Either you leave your spats and childish moments to the streets of Detroit, or I remove you personally from the premises. We need to take a vote on whether or not Detroit will or will not partake in this Syrenet movement."
"I have a question," interrupts Rob, the Robin lookalike. He sits up in his chair, admiring Corrin from behind spectacles, wire-framed glasses with dark lenses. "Do you have an auxiliary plan should our vote prove to be a nay? Anywhere else you can go to for help?"
It is a provoking question that actually causes Corrin to stop and think. Do they have another plan if things go south? She looks over at Robin, who shrugs her shoulders. There isn't a plan, at least nothing discussed up front. Corrin turns back to the councilor who asked the question. "To be honest, no sir, we do not. You are the only hope we have."
"Interesting..." the man muses.
A second passes over the chamber hall, and Fox waits for it to pass. He uses the gavel to signify an announcement. "Now, it is time for us to discuss if we will be a part of this operation. A vote of seven shall decide, yay, or nay, if the city-state country of Detroit will help the United States of America in establishing a Syrenet branch here in our city and to stop rebel insurgencies from making their dream not true. We'll start down at Ryu, and then-"
Corrin examines the other council members, in different states of awakening, like her. One of the members, sitting on the left of Fox, the blue vulpine, Lucario opens his eyes. Corrin's blood freezes as the councilor matches her gaze, Lucario's eyes flashing a liquid gold briefly for a moment. "She's nervous..." he says.
Fox locks his jaw. "You'll have to forgive Lucario. He likes to meditate and feel the aura of everyone in the room. It's why he hasn't been speaking, Madam President. He's been surveying the room."
"She is," Lucario insists, a paw resting against his left cheek. "You can feel it in the way her chest rises and falls. Madam President, are you nervous? Are you afraid that we will really not accept you? I agree change must happen, but not perhaps in such a way that you want it. Forgive me if I am intruding."
She is unsure what to say, instead swallowing the uncertainty and pain of getting told off in front of a group of strangers. Fox leans back, hand resting on the end of the gavel, but his arm does not lift the object. "If there are to be no more interruptions, I'd like the vote to go underway now."
Corrin notices that Robin is by her side again, while Snake is sitting up against the wall. The vice president grabs onto the president's hand, her thumb pressing into the front side of Corrin's knuckles, like braille, or perhaps Morse code, but it is all a message. A warm message, that Robin Wyndel is still feeling motherly and will never transgress that. Starting with Ryu, it is a nay. The twins, Willard and Winnie both say 'yay' with a resounding flourish. Rob agrees with a nod of his head. Down the line it goes, the only other agreement being Fox. As Wolf is the last one to speak, which sounds like it'll cross the border of there being another 'no', Corrin's heart sinks.
That is, until Ganondorf lets out a hearty laugh, a hand on his stomach as he chuckles heavily, scooting backwards in his chair. The noise is effective, an interruption to the stream of order, given it may have been the only long period of time since Corrin has stepped into Detroit that the council has not stilled from its course. Obviously, Corrin deduces to herself, that it would be their first person to greet them officially into the country that'd also be the biggest thorn in her side.
The air stills, and now every pair of eyes glosses over to the very last council member on the far right. Falco crosses his arms over his chest. "Oh, now the eloquent monster speaks."
Corrin raises an eyebrow, noting the word usage. Eloquent monster? Why a monster?
Ganondorf lets the comment slide off of his back, like water off a wing, having pushed his chair away. He is standing again, giving the world a view of his massive height once more. He claps his hands together in a clap, a slow clap. The cliché, the clichéd asshole clap that Corrin is used to happening with Congress meetings - a congressman who thinks they're better than they actually are, with their perfumed socks and candy cane lacings in their hair - but here, the sarcasm actually is directed towards his fellow comrades in government.
Instead of remaining by his chair, Ganondorf walks down the steps, the carpeted emerald green staircase that separates her from them. She begins to back up, Robin's hand still gripping hers. Snake stirs from his spot on the wall, hands going to the inside of his jacket. Corrin remembers what's there, a knife and pistol, in case something goes wrong. He resumes his slow clap, now standing in the middle of the floor, arms outstretched like he had been when he greeted the foursome earlier before.
"Ladies and gentlemen, councilors!" his voice echoes against the domed ceiling. "This has been a sad display of ignorance. Only three of you agreed to help these poor Americans out with their situation. How can we expect Detroit, an upstart country, to ever be recognized if we don't ally ourselves and put our petty differences aside with those that are our neighbors?"
"Now is the not the time, Mr. Perish, for your lectures," Fox sighs, running a hand over his snout.
"There's always time for education, Fox," Ganondorf corrects, wagging a finger. He looks back at Corrin, eyes wide, soulfulness radiating in them. "This world leader, who we must admit runs a country far better than ours, which we were a part of in just recent times, has asked for our help. She's humbled herself to go to those that she can very well bomb off the face of the Earth, and we're too pretentious and vain to even help her. It'll be a much needed proposition!"
Corrin wants to speak, but the syllables stop in her throat. She's got something obstructing it, a birdsong, perhaps a stretch of gratitude for the stranger who is oddly helping her. The president can very well put her on initiative forward, but there's always a time to let a helping hand extend itself. The other council members, besides the twins who had said yes, and Fox who remains partial, are not buying his own sales pitch either.
"You've only been on the council a few months," Palutena, the green-haired lady points out. "Your opinion is the least valued on the council, Ganondorf."
"All our opinions should be weighed on an equal playing field," he says. "It's why we have an uneven number of councilors, so there's an equal level playing field."
"It's a ten to three vote, Ganondorf!" Samus shouts.
"Rather, a nine to four vote, Samus, if you couldn't deduce that I support them myself," Ganondorf smiles, giving another glance back at the president.
"How sweet," Wolf snarks, rolling his eyes. "Do you want us to sing you a song while you dance in circles around her? As a matter of fact, why are you so attached to her? You wouldn't be feeling this way about any other problem, would you?"
Instead of speaking, Ganondorf closes his eyes, head going down to the floor. His fingers hook at the top edge of his cape, lifting the piece of fabric up, before letting it fall to the floor. Corrin's eyes widen in alarm, and the other council members give various signs of shock, either by gasping or similar motions to the president herself. She knows Robin mentioned something, perhaps about seeing a technological merge of human and machine, but physically seeing it is a different story.
His entire back is chrome plated, like individual shoulder pads plaited together across the entirety of his flesh. Different electrical wires swipe in and out of the plates: halcyon, cerulean, scarlet, sunburst orange... some are serrated at the tips, with copper strands shooting everywhere. Sparks of electricity flow from a few of them. His right arm is covered in the same exact manner, but it resembles more of a glove with platinum fingers and a sleek coat of blue paint. Ganondorf's eyes shine a bright gold, the gemstone on his head changing hues to the same color. He's a freak, a monster indeed, but a monster of what?
Corrin removes the hand from her mouth after a period of quiet. Everything slows down like an insect in amber. Ganondorf lets out an exulting sigh, shaking his head back as if he has long locks of hair to do this with. "I know that Corrin does not remember, as she has said as much," the councilor says, his tone sounding somewhat dejected. "Long ago, in the very first few days of her administration, before the mess in our great country came to heel, there was a volunteer program."
"A program to do what, Ganondorf?" Fox asks.
"To join Syrenet, of course," he answers. "In more ways than you can think. Though I feel like she doesn't know, Madam President that is, it was an opportunity to transform yourself with Syrenetic technology. Half man, half machine."
"Human testing with their material..." Rosalina realizes this, a hand going to cover her mouth, diamond eyes wide, a crystalline tear starting to slide down her cheek.
This is all news to Corrin. She's never heard of this leg of Syrenet before... unauthorized human experimentations with mortal volunteers? How come this is all now information that she's heard for the first time? Ganondorf makes a slight smile with his lips. "I like to call myself Syrenet's first mortal creation. It has helped me more than anyone can ever imagine," and he looks back at her. "I must say thank you, Madam President, for letting me become a part of this operation, before you even realized it."
"That's all wonderful and all," Ryu interjects, hands still coiled into fists. "Ganondorf, just because you are part of their material is not enough reason for us to support them in what could be our destruction."
Ganondorf shakes his head again, chuckling lowly. "You simpletons will never know. Detroit cannot jump the levels of importance if we're unwilling to budge. I know none of you like me, I know this, don't worry. You all make it very clear, even you Fox, no matter how neutral you try to be. I am the outsider, not just because I am the youngest in terms of duration, but because I am also what you all fear," he lifts his head up to survey the rest of the council. "I am the change you are scared to embrace. As if one revolution is enough, that we've spilled enough blood to get to where we are! But, not nearly enough."
"Maybe you should write this all down in a book..." Wolf sneers.
"I am on the margins," Ganondorf continues, not interrupting his flow despite the brash and snarky interruptions. "Often those on the margins eventually merge their way to the center. Those on the center have to make room for us, willingly or otherwise. There's no middle ground, my fellow councilors, and it is a shame you cannot see it."
He turns to Corrin, advancing on her. Snake ruts forward some, but Robin stills him back at bay. Nothing about Ganondorf's movements have felt threatening, which may be their vilest sin if she thinks about it. It's one of Corrin's weaknesses, the constant underestimating of other people and their motives. For all her credit, she does not flinch, as he gets close to her, where she can smell his breath. It is the fragrance of roses, delicate, warm, and full of life. He lifts his right arm up, the metallic hand, to press it against the side of her face. Corrin shudders under his touch, the metal cold and chilling, precious, but tender all the same.
Corrin's heart starts to beat, and her gaze passes past Ganondorf to the council members, now all alert. Her blood freezes. When did all those strangers get there? She squints, and her thoughts are proven correct, that there are twelve people standing in the shadows, heads bowed down, hooded figures. Servants perhaps, one for each council member of the thirteen. She sees that there isn't one behind his, Ganondorf's, chair.
Ganondorf lowers his hand, eyes falling to the floor momentarily, and then back to the council. "President Corrin Etch and the retinue following her for Syrenet will have grounds here in Detroit. The branch will thrive, and it shall grow by her side," and then all the strangers behind the other twelve chairs stepped forward so their hands were stilled on the backs of the chair. "Forever!"
With that exclamation, Ganondorf lifts his hands up, and then a shower of scarlet floods the council hall.
Corrin lets out a scream as the other members all lean forward and slump in their chairs. Behind them, each council member, the strangers all look up. She backs up, bumping into Robin and Snake who are jumbled as well. The strangers all look like Ganondorf, with the same exact facial structure, ginger beard, and gemstone into his head.
Ganondorf turns around, eyes triumphant. He murdered them all! Corrin's heart begins to pace faster, faster, faster. He steps forward again. "The city of Detroit is yours, Madam President!"
The doors on the other end bust open, and Corrin whirls around to see Mac standing in a storm of sawdust. His face is a wild mess of expressions, taking in the murdered council members, Ganondorf, and the rest of the collection. "Corrin!" the secret service agent screams, lunging forward. "Get away from her!" Mac bounds towards them.
As Mac goes to slam into Ganondorf, the half-Syrenet, half human councilor dissipates. It's the only word Corrin can think of as his body breaks into smaller cybernetic bits, cubes of code and digitalization that create elsewhere. Ganondorf now appears behind her and Robin, which elicits a scream from the vice president.
"Where will you run to Corrin?" Ganondorf taunts. "Your glory awaits here in the city!"
Thinking fast, Snake reaches inside his jacket pocket, revealing the knife. He lunges forward and drives the blade through Ganondorf's chest. It causes the council member to sputter, choking on his words, yet no blood appears from the mouth or the wound. Ganondorf looks down at the silver horn bursting through his chest, back at Corrin, and smiles.
Once again, he dissipates, this time back to the center, which Mac scrambles away from on all fours. This time, the other twelve copies of himself which he must've replicated appear by his side, one army, an entire council of thirteen Ganondorf Perishes. The blood from the murdered members starts to spill down the wall that had been the separation from the floor and them, pooling down to the tile.
When Ganondorf speaks, his voice is warped to be thirteen times stronger. "Your dynasty can begin, Corrin Etch!" he extends his hand out.
It is no question, for Corrin. With Robin, Snake, and Mac on her heels, she turns and runs away out of the council hall faster than anything in her entire life. As they run away, she sees Ganondorf frown, before tilting his head back and laughing, clutching his metallic hand to his face, which then all other twelve then mirror his exact movements.
Corrin cannot stop thinking about what she's just witnessed. One member, a Syrenet creation with a sinister past, killing the Council of Thirteen.
Has she caused the doom of everyone else by taking them to this forsaken place?
Well, there we are ladies and gentlemen! That was Chapter #29: Council of Thirteen, of Syrenet. I cannot believe I reached the end of it, in just three short days, at least eight to ten hours of typing, and fifteen thousand words later we are done, with a whole lot to discuss. Though the next chapter, the end of Arc III, will be momentous, this chapter here is to be the crucial one of the arc with the last main game player being presented, but we'll address it soon.
I've taken some inspirations from the design of the Capitol from the Hunger Games and a few other modernistic cities when describing the newness that is Detroit, and its dark past. I must say that Corrin is my favorite character of the story, and perhaps my favorite character I've ever written thus far to this point in my writing life due to all of her strangeness. Though her and Robin have a complicated relationship, what is to happen in Arc 4 shall make this chapter and the relationships that have developed look like child's play, as this is the beginning of the end, my readers.
Our last main character to be introduced is Ganondorf Perish, a council member of the thirteen in Detroit, who has actually been met before as you can tell via Robin's dreams, and if you have been paying attention, you'll know his relation to three other characters in this story. Any clues on who they are and their connection? What is Ganondorf's connection to the entirety of the story, as obviously he has had his hands in multiple bowls, and clearly remembers Corrin from some other past. Speculation more than welcome!
Designing the council sections were also fun, as was scrounging the rosters of Smash characters where turning them into humans with even more outlandish traits was a particular joy. Their banter is meant to be insignificant, and they're all red herrings as I invested a bit of character into them to make you all think they matter, but they're all just stepping stones to a greater picture.
The next chapter, the end of Arc III, is Chapter #30: His Greatest Error. Given the vast number of male characters we have, this could be anyone, but I'm interested in reading what you all think. Above all else, this is a chapter I would love to get a review from, to hear your thoughts. I'd mean the world to me if you were to review. I'll see you all again for the closing chapter of this arc, with only the final arc to go. Thank you for reading and making it to the end of this monstrous piece. I love you all so much! Have a great day! Bye!
~ Paradigm
