The Land of What-Might-Have-Been

by Straightjacketed

After spending so many years wishing that things had been different, what happens when, halfway through their final meeting, Elphaba and Glinda find themselves unexpectedly plunged into the worst of all possible worlds? AU.

19. Loamlark

A/N: Well, after the break I intended to have and the few tons of work that I didn't, I'm back. To all my readers, reviewers, favouriters and followers, I'm so sorry for the wait; it's going to be a very busy year, but I'll do my best to provide chapters at least once a month. As always, I'm immensely grateful for all the reviews (especially the ones that arrived on Christmas day, tee-hee!), and I hope that my work proves up to standards and worthy of the reviews.

To Ichibayashi, your review was wonderful; quite apart from encapsulating the chapter, "Alphaba" might just be one of the best alternate-universe-counterpart nicknames I've encountered since "Walternate" from Fringe. Thank you so much!

To OneDreamADay, I know what you mean; I've had many such moments when I've wanted to illustrate an amazing story that I've read or heard but could never quite get it right. I'm also glad you think my fanfic is worthy of fanart- many thanks!

To RandomGuest, I can but hope that I continue to prove deserving of these reviews. But in the meantime, I loved your examination of the Empress's true personality and the possibility of her just being a parasite. However, there's one idea to consider - without saying too much, as far as the whole memory-synchronization goes, the information can't be processed consciously, hence the reason why it ends up as dream-memories... but the whole process depends on being asleep to dream. If you aren't asleep and dreaming, no synchronization. So, does the Empress' immortality allow her the stamina to go without sleep for days... or has something inside her body been altering her metabolism to prevent her from sleeping? Just some food for thought.

To keylimelphie; hopefully the long hiatus hasn't been too much of a nuisance. By the way, I sadly haven't seen Avatar; I've heard much about it, but never actually sat down and watched an episode.

And to the Sleuth Guest, I'm glad that you enjoyed this chapter and I'm glad you have so many wonderful ideas to explore about it; yes, the kitten was the kindest transformation other-Elphaba could think of. Plus, making readers smile was as intended - I was hoping to provide a cute and funny moment of levity in an increasingly dark chapter. I will try to provide an update on Omber soon, and show he s/he's connected to the plot and the backstory, but for the moment s/he will have to remain dormant. And finally, I loved your theories on Jave; they're wonderfully creative and clever, but as to how close they are... well, the most I can say is that she does have a sadistic streak, and she does have a manipulative streak, and that, to a certain extent, the experiments weren't the only things that caused Elphaba's descent into madness.

So, without further ado, the latest chapter: feel free to provide constructive criticism and point out any errors I have made in my late-night editing sessions! Read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Wicked's not mine. Oz isn't mine. Sanity doesn't belong to me either.

PS: 14/02/14 - Had to adjust numbers for Loamlark's population; in hindsight, giving what's supposed to be a large-ish refugee settlement a population more suited to King's Landing was a bit much.

---

Dawn arrived far too soon for Elphaba's liking.

As promised, she was gently shaken awake at half past three and given about thirty minutes to shower, dress, and hurry off to the palace docking bay ("There'll be breakfast once we reach the front lines," she was told). Under the eyeless gaze of Harker, Elphaba set to work on getting as much done as humanly possible without waking up any of the apartment's other residents.

Thankfully, she didn't need to worry about packing anything, because that had taken up a good deal of the previous evening. Waiting by the door was her broomstick, her newly-printed ID, and a reinforced "specialist's satchel" containing all the equipment she couldn't carry in her hands: ration kit, water bottle, bandages, a change of clothes, a standard-issue combat knife, her dream-journal, a few dog-eared novels to occupy her spare time (just in case Loamlark didn't have any libraries or bookstores) and at least three combat-specific spellbooks. Unfortunately, the Grimmerrie wasn't one of them: that was now kept under lock and key by the Great Mentor, declared too valuable to throw away on front-line work. Instead, Elphaba had been given another notepad and, over the course of the previous evening, allowed to copy out the spells that would be most useful for warfare. Easier said than done, given the sheer variety of weird and unstable enchantments found within those curiously lengthy chapters. But somehow, she'd managed to record at least thirty spells with the time she'd been afforded, and now the notepad was tucked away in the satchel along with all the other spellbooks, waiting for Elphaba to finish her morning routine.

But while she managed to wash and dress without wasting too much time, her attempt to finish the checklist without waking anyone up failed: around the time she was draping her cloak over her shoulders, a mournful hooting sound alerted her to the fact that Chistery – who'd always been a light sleeper – had been woken by her preparations. Naturally, he wanted to follow her into danger yet again, claiming (in semi-comprehensible speech) that it wouldn't be right for Elphaba to go into battle without at least one of the Flying Monkeys there to help her; it took Elphaba's insistence that he had to stay and look after Glinda to get him to admit defeat, and no sooner had Chistery knuckled gloomily out of the room, Glinda herself was now sitting up in bed and looking almost heartbroken.

"Couldn't I at least come with you?" she whispered.

"In a word, no," said Elphaba flatly. "I'm not dragging you into what might just be a war zone, Glinda, especially not after what almost happened to you back in Unbridled Radiance."

"And its somehow okay for you to dice with death, is that it?"

It would have been better if she'd been shouting; Elphaba could handle shouting matches. After all, as heartrending as their arguments in Munchkinland and Kiamo Ko had been, they'd never strayed too far from the range of volume that the two of them were accustomed to. Glinda's quiet accusations seemed to cut deeper than any of the insults directed at her in the harshest moments of her life, worsened by the fact that this was starting to feel like an eerie replication of the moment when, back in the Wizard's palace, the two of them had first parted and gone their separate ways.

But it's not going to be like that! Elphaba told herself furiously. I'm coming back, and I'm not ending up as a fugitive this time.

Out loud, she replied, "No, it isn't. But the portal leading back to our Oz is still behind enemy lines, and the only way we can get there is by helping the Deviant Nations win." She offered a wry grin. "Who knows? With an army on my side, maybe I could actually save lives this time around; if I'm really lucky, I might even achieve something akin to success."

If anything, Elphaba's attempt at humour only made Glinda seem even more miserable than before. For almost thirty seconds, she sat in silence, eyes downcast and almost tearful; then, at last, she murmured, "Promise me you'll come back safely. I know I can't make you stay, but I need you to promise that you'll return alive."

"Glinda, I've spent the last three years of my life outfighting, outsmarting and outrunning trained soldiers. You know I'll be coming back."

"Elphaba…"

"Alright, alright... I promise – no, on second thought… I swear that I'll return from the front lines safely, and we'll see each other again. And," she added helpfully, "I also swear to keep my temper under control at all times, and that I will not take unnecessary risks in battle."

"… why do I not believe that last part?"

In spite of herself, Elphaba laughed. She leaned forward and kissed Glinda on the cheek – only to end up almost being toppled over as Glinda lunged forward and enveloped her in a hug. It took almost a minute for Elphaba to disentangle herself from the embrace, but eventually she managed to placate Glinda long enough to unravel herself from her arms, utter a final farewell and depart in as brisk a manner as possible.

Halfway out of the apartment, however, she almost walked into Dorothy, who'd apparently been roused by the commotion as well; this prompted another moment of silence as the two of them tried to think of an appropriate farewell. Needless to say, it wasn't easy, for even now that the initial hostility and fear in their relationship had cooled into something not unlike tolerance, they weren't exactly on comfortable speaking terms. After all, what could they possibly say to each other now that there were two versions of Glinda around to answer any questions she had about the Wicked Witch of the West?

In the end, the only thing Elphaba could think to say was, "Look after Glinda, would you?"

Dorothy nodded, and offered a somewhat hesitant salute. Somewhat bemusedly, Elphaba returned it. What the hell, she thought, I'm in the army now, aren't I?

After that, the departure went as smooth as it could have under the circumstances: Harker following closely, she swept out of the apartment, down the corridor and into one of the nearest elevators. Thankfully, the journey from the guest rooms to the dock took a lot less time than her attempted exit from the apartment itself had; quite apart from the fact that the elevators ran smoother and swifter than any of the crude gear-and-pulley models she'd encountered back in Oz, there weren't any conversations hindering her progress now. If anything, Harker was even quieter than usual; Elphaba would have been happy to think that this was only because Vara wasn't among the Irredeemables assigned to this mission – after all, the blue-scaled girl was one of the few people able to get a conversation out of him – had it not been for the fact that Harker didn't seem to be able to meet Elphaba's gaze. This wasn't just because he didn't have eyes: every time she glanced in his direction, the old man would quickly turn away; if he had to say something, he'd do so with his head bowed or his face to the wall. Was he trying to hide something in his expression, or was he afraid of her?

She pondered this as the elevator doors opened and disgorged the two of them back into the labyrinth of corridors; what could possibly have a dedicated member of the Irredeemables frightened of her? For once, Elphaba could easily rule out her appearance, for Harker's alteration was leaps and bounds above her own deformity. For a time, she couldn't help wondering if she should ask questions. Eventually, she gave in and decided not to delay the journey any further; she'd have plenty of time to ask once they were in Loamlark.

After many twists and turns, they finally emerged into the cavernous space that served as the palace docking bay, now considerably different from the bustling lattice of gantries and landing platforms that had welcomed her to Greenspectre a few short days ago. Quite apart from the fact that the vast doors were still closed for the night, most of the area was silent and deserted, with most of the overhead lights left unlit and the colossal chamber left shrouded in darkness, almost all of the stately airships in residence now sitting dormant on their platforms. Most of the guards, technicians, pilots and other flight personnel were otherwise invisible, except for a small gaggle of figures massed around the only launch-pad currently active.

As it happened, that launch-pad now housed the troop transports that Elphaba was to report to: clearly military-class airships, each one was almost as large as the bogus cargo ship she'd arrived on, each one a heavily-armoured beetle rendered in iron and steel. Past the technicians and dock-workers were the two groups she was to be joining for this trip, most of them already half-boarded: as promised, there was a platoon of ordinary soldiers, instantly recognizable by their muddied green uniforms, soup-bowl like helmets, and plain, business-like rifles; Elphaba didn't recognize the officer in charge, though Harker tentatively informed her that the haggard-looking face under the peaked hat belonged to Captain R. Wolton, one of the treasured "Mr Dependable"s of the Deviant Nations' military. The Irredeemables, meanwhile, were naturally much more distinctive than their regular army counterparts; even now that they were wearing proper green and black uniforms instead of the tattered "shock-and-awe" outfits she'd first seen them in, there was no ignoring their alterations. It was also clear that quite a few of them had been brought over from the band that had first brought Elphaba into Greenspectre, right down to the commanding officer.

Captain Marl greeted her with both a salute and a metallic handshake that could have casually shattered walnuts, before hurriedly escorting her up the ramp and into the crowded depths of the Irredeemables' troop transport. Immediately she noticed that, unlike the cargo ship, there were no extensive crew quarters, galley or brig; this ship was meant for delivering troops and little else, and outside of the cockpit, the interior was little more than an oversized tin can lined with battered metal seats and corroded luggage racks. By now, roughly half of the Irredeemables were seated and passing the remaining minutes until takeoff with raucous conversation and improvised card games; others were streaming in, picking seats next to their friends or next to particularly interesting tournaments. However, two rows of seats up the back remained carefully untouched.

"That's reserved for our resident magicians," Marl explained, as he escorted her into the first of the two rows. "Old military tradition: artillerymen always take the back seat. I'd advise making yourself comfortable before we get moving; we might not be moving at magically-enhanced speed, but I guarantee you it'll still be rough."

"Captain, I'm used to flying a broom; there's a limit on how rough travel can be when there's actually proper seats available."

"Point taken. In any event, the magicians travelling with our ship will be along in a minute or two – you'll meet the rest when we land. Now, if you'll excuse me…" He turned to the surrounding personnel. "Harker, you take the seat in front of her and don't look so gloomy. Truv, hurry up and clear the aisle so the magicians can plant asses in seats. Gluzebat, shift two seats down. Azzil, stop cheating and use the regulation deck. Pilot, are we still on schedule? Good. Hey, you two down the front! I'd tone it down a bit: I've seen just how airsick your boyfriend can get, and believe me, the last thing you want is a puking episode in mid-kiss. Or worse…" Ribald laughter followed. "Captain Wolton, are your boys almost ready?"

"Ready when you are, Captain."

As the regular captain offered a salute, Elphaba reflected absently on the attitude between the Irredeemables and their unaltered counterparts: while there'd been plenty of mutual respect and even a few signs of open friendliness here and there, it was pretty obvious that the DN regulars were deeply awestruck by the Irredeemables, perhaps even a little intimidated by them. Outside, she'd seen entire crowds of regulars part, salute and even bow for just one Irredeemable; it might not have been quite as bad as the terrified adulation that the citizens of Unbridled Radiance had held for the Purified, as Glinda had told her, but even Elphaba couldn't deny that the Deviant Nations' elite inspired more than their fair share of awe.

Before long, the Irredeemables occupied every single seat in the ship, with Captain Marl and his officers bunched towards the front near the pilot, the majority occupying the middle, and the magicians identified as "artillery" joining Elphaba at the very back row of seats. Though the ship only accommodated four out of the eight magicians that she was supposed to be leading into, they were pretty much exactly what she'd imagined military-class witches and wizards to be: they were quiet, serious-looking men and women with just as many alterations as the other Irredeemables, except that they were dressed in black and green uniform robes instead of greatcoats, and all four of them greeted her with overly-formal salutes, never speaking to her without addressing her as "ma'am" – likely playing it safe around their newly-assigned commander.

In other words, no chance of a conversation. Damn it.

From outside, there was a loud whirring of complicated mechanisms in motion, and then a thunderous grinding noise filled the air as the docking bay doors slowly rumbled open for the morning. Then, almost inaudible over the cacophony outside, the airship's engines shuddered to life, awkwardly hauling the transport's inelegant bulk into the sky. For perhaps a minute, they hovered in mid-air, rocking back and forth like a boat in a choppy sea; then, forward thrust kicked in, sending Troop Transport #8446 hurtling through the air towards the open doors. Not too far behind them, the second transport took to the air as well and rocketed after them.

Somewhere eight rows ahead of her, someone was singing a raucous army song; closer at hand, others joined in, gleefully shouting the more obscene lyrics and prompting gales of laughter from the newer recruits; those that weren't singing contented themselves by excitedly drumming their hands on the seats in front of them, chanting "to war, to war, to war"; even the stoic magicians couldn't help but look excited. As much as Elphaba wanted to join in, Glinda's farewell was still too fresh in her mind for her to share in the festivities; worse still, the initial surge of adrenaline that had carried her this far was beginning to wear off. Instead, she leant against the window and watched as Greenspectre unfolded beneath them.

Slowly but surely, the spires of the city dwindled away as the transport rocketed across the wildly-varying districts, with polished-glass skyscrapers and gleaming marble cathedrals giving way to towering brick chimneys and blazing furnaces. It was almost as if the city was moving backwards through time, regressing from the dizzying megalopolis to an industrial manufacturing hub, then from a thriving country town to a long stretch of farmland. Of course, Greenspectre hadn't started like that, but it at least kept Elphaba's mind off less pleasant thoughts, as the houses slowly dissolved into lush green pastures and ploughed fields and the city itself vanished behind them.

Now they were headed north, soaring above the motionless waters of the lake and across the plains, accelerating ever faster towards the distant mountains. For her part, Elphaba kept one eye fixed on the thickening wilderness between the city-states and other trained on her dream journal: even with military duties assigned to her, she still had to provide the reports on the dream-memories.

As the minutes dragged and note-taking wore thin and sleep became more and more attractive, Elphaba's thoughts wandered in unwanted directions – and instead of focussing on their destination, or the next few hours of their journey, or even how Glinda was coping with her departure, but of the previous evening's dream. Of the asylum and its inmates, of the hidden think-tank that her other self had added Morrible to, of Nessa's growing anxiety and Father finally having to face reality, of Glinda's transformation – and of the other Elphaba's apparent descent into madness. What could it have meant? Was the breakdown meant to be proof of the parasite that the Great Mentor so fervently believed in, or was it something else entirely? And more importantly, how much of this grisly story did the Great Mentor already know off by heart? What, if anything, was she hoping to learn from the dream-memories?

Groaning, she leant her head against the window and yawned. There was a gentle rocking motion to the airship's flight now, just subtle enough to lull her to sleep.

To hell with it, she thought, eyes fluttering. It's not as if I've got anything to do until we reach Loamlark, or at least, nothing I can properly focus on. I might as well get some rest as long as there's still time… and hopefully, that dream pill I took last night will have worn off by now. The last thing I want is to wake up with even more to report on…

---

Glinda watched the two ships retreating into the distance, wondering which one was carrying Elphaba and trying valiantly not to imagine where either of them might be going.

She'd taken the time to ask both Vara and Harker where Elphaba was being taken and if the worst of her guesses were correct; she knew that she wasn't going to get an answer from either of them, but given that Vara was their official liaison with the Mentor and Harker was acting as a bodyguard to Elphaba, she was almost obliged to ask. True to form, the former had assured her that Elphaba would be safe no matter where she was taken, and the latter had just remarked "I can neither confirm nor deny."

Truth be told, Glinda wasn't sure what was worse: knowing where Elphaba was going and thus knowing exactly what kind of nightmare was waiting for her to arrive, or not knowing and having a lot more possibilities to imagine.

And all the more rankling was the simple fact that, whatever she was being dragged into – bribed, charmed, bullied or threatened – Elphaba didn't want her around for it. Of course, the main reason for this wasn't what got under her skin: she knew nobody wanted her harmed, for she'd been told over and over and over that nobody wanted to throw her right back into the lion's den; more to the point, anyone with half a brain could tell that Elphaba was at her most protective at this point in time. But it was the other reason that really got under Glinda's skin: it was that she simply wasn't strong enough to help anyone or anything, the Mentor's war effort least of all.

Nobody had every voiced this particular reason to her at any point in her life – except perhaps Morrible at her most ill-tempered – but she could tell that just about everyone in this world could see her for what she was: a dim-witted coward who'd cruised through life on good looks, shallow charm and the reputation of being a good witch, while in reality being neither. And even if she did have the will, the intelligence or the courage to be of any use to anyone, it still wouldn't have done any good in the current situation because her magical knowledge could comfortably fit in a thimble right next to what little power she could muster.

But there was another fact that was slowly swimming into focus: she'd been feeling sorry for herself for the last few days, stewing in her own guilt and getting nowhere – if not actually going backwards. Maybe, just maybe, it was time she actually did something for a change; something magical, something important, something that benefitted something more important than her bank account or immediate survival. Admittedly, she was missing one major component of this particular plan for self-improvement…

She glanced over her shoulder at Dorothy, who'd been watching her for the last few minutes. "I was going to tell you more about me and Elphaba," she said hesitantly. "Would you mind if we talked about it over another shopping trip?"

Dorothy shrugged. "I don't mind. Where were you thinking of going this time?"

"I'm not sure, really. At the moment, I'll just be happy if I can find a shop that sells wands…"

---

Fiyero had spent most of the night lying on his front, hoping against hope that the Hellion or her pint-sized soldiers wouldn't notice that he'd woken up. Of course, what they'd actually do to him if they did realize that one of their prisoners was up and about probably didn't bear thinking about, but Fiyero was willing to bet that it wouldn't be anything good, especially given the Hellion's recent temper-tantrum.

Fortunately, having no need to breathe and no sense of pain meant that lying face-down on limestone crags for twelve solid hours wasn't such a trial for Fiyero; all he needed to do was stay calm, try to plan out what he was to do next, and avoid thoughts of being ripped to bits by six-armed madwomen. Sure enough, his patience had been rewarded.

By now, almost every single doll in this room and the corridor outside had long since unhooked themselves from the wall and followed their skinless "mother" to the surface; there were still a few left in the area, either still dormant on their hooks or wandering the cavern halls, and while Fiyero couldn't see any of the latter type, he could hear them trotting across the rocky floor on their little porcelain feet. The question was, were they on patrol and keeping watch until the Hellion returned, or were they just stragglers that hadn't caught up with the rest of the army? If the former was the case, escaping the lair would be considerably trickier… but on the other hand, lying around and waiting to be put back to sleep (or worse) didn't sound like much of solution.

So, craning his neck to check the room for doll patrols, he lunged upright and with great difficulty forced himself into an awkward sitting position. Then, shuffling across the ground at a snail's pace and constantly watching the door for unwanted visitors, he made his way towards the sleeping figures of Boq, the Lion and Toto. So far, none of his travelling companions seemed any closer to recovering from the enchantment, but thankfully they didn't appear to have been harmed in the hours since he'd last seen them – from what little he could see of them in the candlelit gloom, anyway. But studying them for injuries could wait for a minute or two; if he wanted to help any of them, he'd have to get past the first major hurdle.

Though Boq was no longer armed, his axe was lying just a few feet away from him – just out of arm's reach; it was as if the Hellion had intended to properly confiscate or destroy the Tin Man's weapon of choice, only to throw it aside in a fit of pique and forget all about it. Even so, it still took a great deal of time and effort for Fiyero to manoeuvre himself and the axe into position, before starting the slow, clumsy process of slicing through the ropes around his arms.

It took even longer to cut away the other restraints. Along with having to keep eye on the door, he also needed to keep an eye on his own limbs: with no sense of pain, there was no way of knowing if he'd slipped and accidentally sliced into his own body. In the case of the trickier bonds, he ran the risk of shearing an arm off by mistake if he wasn't careful, and the fact that this axe hadn't been built for precision only made it all the more difficult. But eventually, after half an hour, the last of the ropes fell away and Fiyero was able to shakily clamber to his feet, a tad wobbly but otherwise unscathed.

The next step was to see if he could wake up any of the others. Unfortunately, none of them could be roused: he tried just about every technique he could think of, stopping just short of yelling into their ears, and nothing worked. Fiyero's backup plan of simply carrying his unconscious friends out of the lair didn't work any better; Boq and the Lion would have been too heavy to carry even if Fiyero was still human, and his attempts at dragging them across the floor almost tore his burlap arms open. In the end, the most he could do was untie them and hope that they'd wake up before the Hellion returned

Toto, being the only one of the three that he could lift, was hastily scooped into Fiyero's arms and – following another cautious glance down the hall just in case the dolls were still patrolling – carried unceremoniously away.

Fortunately, the stragglers that he'd heard making their way through the corridors were gone by now, either having caught up with the rest of the army or having returned to their hooks. As he left the Hellion's bedroom behind and crept onwards through the winding passageways, Fiyero's eyes were constantly drawn to the hooks that studded the walls; he'd never had much of a gift for maths, but he was pretty sure that he'd seen at least two hundred hooks in the corridors alone – a worrying thought if these creatures really could be used as soldiers. More worrying was the fact that while the dolls weren't conducting patrols, his route did bring him uncomfortable close to them; every thirty feet or so, he'd find one of them dangling from a hook, apparently asleep. None of them awoke as he passed, but that didn't stop him from slowing his pace to a tiptoe and praying that Toto wouldn't bark in his sleep. Worse still, the flickering candles provided just enough light for him to get a good look at them as he crept by:

Whatever these "dolls" were, they didn't seem to have been mass-produced: though each face was essentially that of a porcelain doll, they were all different in a very clear and human way, as if they'd been modelled from real people – or real children, Fiyero realized with a shudder. Most of the masklike faces were painted with eerie designs in red and black, though a select few were distinguished by clown-like smirks rendered in lipstick and greasepaint; however, all were dressed in tattered silk garments that looked as though they'd been made for a shopfront mannequin rather than anything that could move under its own power, only adding to the unnerving impression that these creatures really were just oversized toys.

Fiyero did his best to focus on other things; thankfully, navigating the hallways proved complicated enough to draw his attention, for it took quite a bit wandering and backtracking until he found a ramp leading upwards. From there, the corridor led him on for another two hundred and fifty feet before it finally widened into a large chamber curiously unadorned with hooks; instead, the room was cluttered from end to end with junk of almost every kind. In fact, if Fiyero let his mind wander, he could almost imagine that he wasn't wandering through the lair of a skinless, rabid monster, but back in his childhood, boldly exploring the attic of a condemned house on a dare, searching for suitably eye-catching treasures amongst the packrat's collection to bring back as evidence.

And in many ways, this was almost exactly like those rose-tinted days, for Fiyero had once again found himself in the den of a chronic hoarder. Apparently, when she wasn't layering the corridors of the lair below with dolls, the Hellion was collecting just about every useless scrap of flotsam she could find and storing them in this room: empty wine bottles, stack after stack of dusty books, defunct machinery in vast corroding heaps, termite-gnawed furniture, cutlery bent and tarnished, skyscrapers of briefcases and other cobwebbed luggage, weapons either broken or rusted beyond any semblance of usefulness, vast rows of half-soled shoes and well-worn boots, and clothing stained wi-

Not for the first time that day, Fiyero wondered if it was possible for him to suffer a heart attack.

Every single shirt in the room, whether it was hanging from the cave wall or heaped upon the floor, was marked with handprints tinted the rusty-red of dried blood – handprints identical to the ones left on Fiyero's burlap; these clothes had belonged to the Hellion's victims, kept as grisly souvenirs of past crimes. How much of this junk had been looted from the bodies of the dead.

Shuddering, he made for the distant exit, and almost tripped over a tiny leather-bound book lying on the floor in front of him; just small enough to be a pocket journal, it had clearly fallen from one of the larger book piles some time ago. And in spite of every single impulse in his head demanding that he ignore it and move on, Fiyero's curiosity somehow managed to shout louder than any of them: it's going to be okay, it insisted. You've seen that the dolls aren't on patrol and the Hellion won't be back for hours; for all you know, there might be information on how to wake up Boq and the Lion in this book, or a map to the surface. Can you really afford to ignore something like that?

So it was that he found himself sitting down on the floor – gently setting Toto down beside him as he did so – and opening the book. Much to his surprise, a compass tumbled out from between the mouldy pages and landed squarely in his lap. That'll come in handy, he thought. Maybe there's a map in the book too…

As expected, the book was indeed a pocket diary, probably several years old by the looks of it, and while most of the pages had been torn out or discoloured beyond readability, there were a few still readable:

... how far these tunnels go on for, or more importantly how far I am from the rest of the expedition, but it's pretty obvious that I'm not going to be getting back to them anytime soon. My captor, despite clear evidence of both catastrophic Distortion and open insanity, was very thorough in keeping me contained, having magically warded all the passageways leading out of this chamber, and smashed most of my equipment too. Quite a few items can be salvaged and my compass doesn't appear to have been damaged at all, but my carbine, radio, demolition charges and emergency flares are all beyond repair. For the moment, I see no chance of escape or rescue, but as per her Radiance's orders, I will continue recording my observations until a solution emerges.

Entry 48: Spent most of the day attempt to find a weak spot in the walls of this room, or something that I could use to disrupt the wards. No luck, unfortunately. My captor (who calls herself "The Hellion") is watching me at all times. Whoever she is, she's evidently no ordinary Distorted fugitive attempting to escape the Judgement of the Empress, otherwise she would have just killed me. She is clearly not one of the Irredeemables, because I doubt even the depraved mage-surgeons of the Deviant Nations would not be able to keep a creature without skin alive indefinitely. I am tempted to believe that she might be a survivor of the cataclysmic exchange of sorcerous firepower that created No-Man's Land, given that corpses and still-living creatures with similar magical Distortions have been found throughout these caverns by other members of my team. However, given that she has yet to show any sign of allegiance to either side, I shudder to imagine how she ended up caught in the crossfire – or how old she was at the time, given her current build.

Entry 49: Feeling very unusual now; stomach-ache, itching skin, cold sweat. Hellion now entering my cell every seven hours or so, apparently just to watch me; Empress forgive me, but as I have no weapons, I am forced to remain still and tolerate this monster's intrusion. It is possible that the creature is aware of the perfection that the Empress could grant if she would only surrender, and only captured me in a confused attempt to find someone who would vouch for her. This would perhaps explain why she took such pains to keep me alive and healthy, even comfortable. I can't be sure of this, but if this is indeed the truth, I am content to wait for rescue in the knowledge that I am spreading the Empress's message of redemption through beauty to even the most wayward of beings.

Entry 50: Skin itching even worse today; it took all my self-control not to scratch at my skin – even without the aid of a mirror I can tell that my skin is clearly inflamed. Good news, however: the Hellion visited my cell today, and while she didn't say anything to me, she actually hugged me. While I admit to being disgusted by being in close proximity to such an abomination (as would any good citizen of Unbridled Radiance) I found the act only affirmed my belief that this Distorted being is trying to earn the acceptance of those who can grant her perfection. But why does she not say anything?

Entry 51: Something is very wrong; my skin is still itching, but now I see that it's actually hardening. And the worst of it is on my face – where, less than a week ago, the Hellion touched my face with hands burning with chthonic magic! Empress help me, forgive me and grant me your mercy, but through my foolishness the Hellion has Distorted me!

Entry 52: Further evidence that I have been duped; Forshald and Dreymud were brought in today, captured from a rescue party the expedition sent to look for me. Both of them now sport 1st degree burns on their faces, much like I did when I first arrived in the Hellion's den; I suspect that they've been subjected to the same Distorting effect that I was. More upsettingly, neither of them recognize me and I can't convince them that I'm anything other than a Distortion because I haven't been able to speak since this morning. Unusually, I don't remember breathing since this morning either.

Just noticed something weird: last time we were civil enough to notice height differences, I was 6 foot 3 and Forshald was 5 foot 8… and yet for some reason, he's now taller than I am.

What is happening to me?

Entry 53: There's no doubt about it anymore. I'm getting smaller; every few hours I look at myself and find myself just a little bit shorter. The itching has stopped… but my skin is now so distorted I will never be welcome in Unbridled Radiance again. Empress forgive me, but from what little I can tell from my withering sense of touch, my face is little more than a blasphemous parody of the Purified, the countenance of a warped doll.

Empress, if you are listening, please have mercy on me. I cannot bear another moment of this.

My former friends have finally noticed my uniform and pocket watch, but instead of recognizing me as their expedition scout, they think that I murdered ES Griff and stole his clothes. Even with the progress my voice is making, I'm not capable of complete sentences yet, so when they attacked me I couldn't say anything in my own defence. I would have died if mother hadn't saved m-

No, theHellion saved me. Don't know why I just wrote that. Anyway, she teleported the other two into separate cells and (for some reason) hugged me again. Perverse though it is, I felt better for it. Empress forgive me, I was relieved to see the Distortion again.

Entry 54: I feel very strange today. I should be horrified at everything that has happened in the last few days, and yet I feel so happy. Looking back on my body before its Distortion, I can only think of it as clumsy and stupid, and my clothes as drab and unsuited to me. And as for mother, she hugs me and tells me that I am beautiful-

No no no no no! She is not my mother. She's the Hellion; she is a Distortion. She is the antithesis of everything I stand for as a citizen of Unbridled Radiance and as a servant of the Empress, and as mother's property.

Sweet Empress, what the hell am I writing?! Whatever she did to me, it didn't stop at Distortion; it's now affecting my mind.

I'm not listening to her anymore. She can say what she likes, but I'm not listening, because I am a faithful servant of Unbridled Radiance. I know she's reading this when I sleep, so I can guarantee that the Hellion will know that in spite everything that she's done to me, I will not submit and she is not my mother or my owner or whatever else she thinks she is.

I trust the Empress as I trust Radiance and Beauty, for she is the guide on the path to Perfection. I trust the Empress as I trust Radiance and Beauty, for she is the guide on the path to Perfection. I trust the Empress as I trust Radiance and Beauty, for she is the guide on the path to Perfection. I love mother because she made me pretty and made me better and loves me like she likes all her little dolls. I love mother because she made me pretty and made me better and loves me like she likes all her little dolls. I love mother because she made me pretty and made me better and loves me like she likes all her

NO!

I can't stop thinking about her. I want to stop writing, but she tells me that she likes my journal-writing, so I can't. I want to kill myself as the Radiant Laws demand, but she loves me and tells me wants to keep me forever, so I can't. I want to serve of the Empress, but mother tells me that I'm one of her dolls now, so I can't. I want to be with my family, with my wife and children, but mother says I don't have a family, so I can't be. I want to remember things from before, but mother says I won't.

Please. If anyone is coming to rescue me, please kill me while I can still remember who I am. I'm losing it all. It's falling to pieces. I don't know when I was born. I don't know who my parents were. I'm only holding onto the name of the Empress because I've written it down already. I need to remember the Empress loves me and forgives me because I'm forgetting everything else and Mother loves me Mother loves me Mother loves me I am Mother's property and she can do what she wants with me because she loves me MOTHER LOVES ME MOTHER LOVES ME MOTHER LOVES ME MOTHER LOVES ME

And that was the way it went for five of the remaining six pages: the word "MOTHER" scrawled over and over again in increasingly distorted handwriting, occasionally followed by the more coherent, "MOTHER LOVES ME, SHE LOVES ALL HER LITTLE DOLLS" before dissolving into illegible scribbling.

Then, on the very last page in the book, an awkward, childish scrawl proclaimed, Mother likes it when I write. She laughs and cuddles me and calls me her little writing-doll. But there's no space left in this book for me to write in. Who is Griff, and why was he so upset when he wrote in my book? Maybe mother will get me a new book to write in if I ask.

Fiyero very carefully shut the book and fought an almost overpowering urge to fling it aside and run for his life without looking back; thankfully, every other concern in his head smothered it before it overtook him altogether. Before he went anywhere, he needed to pick up Toto again, and before he made a break for the exit, he needed to check the waste pile for anything that might help him find a way out of here, and better still, back to civilization. But one thing he and his instincts agreed wholeheartedly on was the need to get the hell out of here before the Hellion returned; he didn't know if he was in line to be subjected to whatever had been done to Expedition Scout Griff, and he didn't know if this "Distorting" magic could even affect him, but he knew for a fact that he didn't want to stick around and find out.

So, gently scooping the slumbering dog into his arms, he gently tottered to his feet, and turned around to face the pile of books stacked next to then – and promptly found himself face-to-face with something that looked as though it had escaped from a nightmare.

It was at least two feet shorter than him and dressed in clothes so baggy and oversized that at first, it looked nothing more than a kid dressed up in his dad's clothes and pretending to be a grown-up. But there was nothing funny about the face peeking out from behind the collar, and nothing remotely human either: from the forehead to the left side of its jaw, the figure's face was stark white and unyielding as porcelain; the rest was flushed-pink skin, damp with sweat and twitching spasmodically. The hair above it was a solid shape affixed to the scalp, a few vague tufts of real hair protruding from the mass and all of them slowly melting back into the skull. However, whether they were real or porcelain, the features were almost identical to those of a Doll: a small, upturned nose; a vaguely-smiling mouth with tiny, sculpted lips; and behind the half-open eyelids, two huge eyes the colour of obsidian stared back at him. There was no colour to those eyes, no whites, not even blood vessels, just two lustreless black marbles that seemed more and more like empty sockets the more Fiyero looked at them.

But it wasn't until Fiyero saw the oversized uniform draped over its tiny frame that he realized that he'd met this apparition before: it was the soldier he'd seen abducted by the Hellion just a few short nights earlier. The rank insignia, the badges, the residual shape of the face, and even the colour of his sculptured hair were all the same; other than that, there was no indication that this mutilated figure had ever been anything other than one of the Hellion's Dolls.

There was a deathly pause as the half-finished Doll regarded him with eyes pitch-black and devoid of life. Then, without waiting to see if the Doll would recognize him as an intruder or even understand anything other than the identity of his new owner and "mother," Fiyero put his head down and ran, ducking past the Doll's outstretched arms and charging up the ramp, into the tunnel beyond.

And then, just as Fiyero was starting to lose momentum and beginning to wonder where the hell he was supposed to go now, he felt the familiar spark of magic in the air – and suddenly he was in motion again. Enchantments layering the walls hoisted him into the air and launched him through the air, sending him hurtling down the tunnel like a bullet from the barrel of a gun: soon, the grey rock walls and guttering candles around him blurred into a haze of dark and light as he accelerated faster and faster. Had he been human, Fiyero might have worried about the likelihood of him breaking his legs or his neck when the magic finally brought him to a halt; but now, for the first time in a while, he found himself very thankful for his burlap body – which now also served as a cushion for Toto to eventually land on.

Admittedly, he still didn't know exactly where they were going, but he had a good idea: after all, he still had the compass clutched in his free hand, and though the glass cover was almost opaque with scratches and cracks, the needle was still pointing north…

… Which, unless the compass itself was broken, was exactly where they were headed.

---

"Miss Thropp? Miss Thropp, you need to wake up, now; we're almost there. Miss Thropp?"

"Rmmrgrgk." Elphaba reluctantly forced her eyes upon, took in her surroundings, and even more reluctantly remembered where she was and what she was doing here. Yawning gloomily, she slowly went through the arduous process of smoothing out the crick in her neck acquired from leaning side-on against a window for the past few hours; then, she finally noticed the figure who'd shaken her awake.

Though he was dressed in most of the familiar uniform of the Irredeemables, the sleeves of his coat were augmented with bright red armbands, and instead of a rifle, a large backpack visibly marked with red patches was slung over his shoulder. Almost as an afterthought, the features of the man's face were completely obscured by a thick skein of pulsating, vein-studded flesh; occasionally, something akin to a mouth would emerge from the twitching blubber – usually when he spoke – but otherwise, there was no indication that he had any kind of face at all.

"Who are you?" she groaned wearily.

"Just the medic, Miss Thropp. Are you feeling any better for the sleep-in?"

"… ask me later, please."

"I have a pick-me-up here, if you need it." He held out a military-issue flask, audibly sloshing with liquid; Elphaba accepted it with a mumbled thank-you and took an experimental sip. The kick was almost immediate – a sharp, citric taste accompanied by a powerful hit of something not unlike caffeine, only much, much stronger. She briefly considered asking about what either the medic or the Irredeemable's mess sergeant had added to this drink, because she was comfortably certain that it wasn't anything remotely like sugar; then, more important questions occurred to her.

"How far are we from Loamlark?" she asked, once she'd finished draining the flask.

"Oh, just a few miles, I'd imagine. The pilot reported first sightings on the horizon just a couple of minutes ago, so it can't be long before we start asking permission to land."

"And then the real trouble starts," Harker grunted from the seat in front of them (without bothering to turn around).

Elphaba was torn on what to say next: on the one hand, she wanted more information on Loamlark – when it had been built, how it had ended up as a haven for UR refugees, what the citizens had done to earn the suspicion of being enemy sympathizers, what the town had been like in more prosperous times, and if had ever been known for anything apart from its propensity for sheltering fugitives from Unbridled Radiance. On the other hand, it was about time that she'd asked why Harker was behaving so oddly around her today, and for that matter, why he was always being so damnably elusive about his past. It was bad enough putting up with this sort of act from the Great Mentor and Doctor Kiln; being served the same routine by her apparent bodyguard was just plain ridiculous. And there were other things that she wanted ask about, issues that had nagging at the back of her head ever since her introduction to this strange universe - perhaps most pressing of all, what was that distant rumbling noise?

And as if answering, the entire ship chose that moment to lurch suddenly to the left, almost flinging Elphaba out of her harness and into the aisle; a split-second later, a deafening explosion ripped through the air, the accompanying shockwave rolling the troop transport almost completely upside-down. Suddenly, the medic was no longer standing in the aisle but pinned to the ceiling, and Elphaba was struggling to keep her hat from joining him; all of the Irredeemables were shouting and swearing and trying not to let their rifles go the same way as the medic, except of course for Harker, who'd returned to his bodyguard duties with commendable speed and was now swivelling in his seat the check if Elphaba was unharmed. Somewhere up the front, Marl shouting for order, and beyond him, the pilot was screaming into the intercom with a voice like a microphone being cleaned with an angle grinder.

And then the thunder-like rumble sounded again, and as the transport spun and swerved to avoid the next explosion, the ceiling suddenly became the floor once again and the medic fell eight feet to the deck with a meaty thud.

"What was that?" Elphaba yelled, over the bellowing of the other Irredeemables.

"Best guess, anti-aircraft fire," Harker said loudly. "Not good. Not good at all."

"What, so Loamlark's already under UR control?" one of the other magicians asked incredulously.

"They were collaborating with them from the beginning –!" someone else started.

"Or they just killed the militiamen, forced the rest to surrender," said another.

"-anyone radio it in?"

"What happened to all the watchers? I've got a friend in the intelligence department, and we're supposed to have a few spy balloons up here keeping an eye on the-"

"What are we supposed to do now? We can't land in the city-"

"-they've got a forward base now, and with the railroad, they can go just about anywhere. Maybe they're already heading towards Greenspectre…"

Elphaba absently listened to the arguments skidding back and forth around her, not entirely sure what she was supposed to make of the current situation or if there was anything she could do to help. Then, a realization struck her: since the last explosion, there'd been a great many noises around them, not least of which was the shouted orders and confused yells. But amidst all the chaos, the one thing she hadn't heard was the thunderous rumble that she now knew to be the sound of the anti-aircraft guns firing.

Warning shots, she realized. If it really is Unbridled Radiance's invasion force down there, why would they bother with warning shots? Why wouldn't they just blast us out the sky?

The intercom screeched, and the voice of the pilot echoed through the transport: "ALL COMMAND STAFF TO THE COCKPIT ON THE DOUBLE! REPEAT…"

It took about four and a half seconds for Elphaba to remember that, as the de facto captain of the resident magicians, she qualified as command staff. Unbuckling her harness, she lurched to her feet, gathered up her equipment and began a swift but cautious march across the swaying floor towards the cockpit with Harker in hot pursuit. She found Marl in a furious conversation with the pilot, who seemed to be having trouble dividing his attention between steering the transport, answering questions and pointing through the canopy at distant shapes on the landscape far below. Admittedly, most of the landscape was invisible through a thick haze of clouds - the pilot's latest attempt to hide from any further attacks.

"Those were warning shots, weren't they?" Elphaba asked loudly. "If it's warning shots then it can't be Unbridled Radiance occupying the city."

Marl barely looked up. "Could be, could be. You don't need to tell us the implications at the moment; Captain Wolton's sending in much the same report."

From the dashboard in front of them, the radio crackled obligingly. "It's confirmed," a tinny voice announced. "They didn't miss us by accident; even if we hadn't moved, we wouldn't have sustained much damage. Your artillery-witch is right; the Empress's hounds would have gone for our throats ages ago if they were here."

"Even if it's not Unbridled Radiance down there, we still can't land," the pilot grumbled irritably.

"And if we want to get anywhere close to trying, it all depends on us being able to persuade whoever's in charge down there to stand down," Marl added. "If it all goes sour, we'll still be forced to retreat. Hopefully, they'll respond to our hails soon; in the meantime, we're almost out of the clouds, so…" Marl turned to Elphaba. "If you want to get a really impressive first look at Loamlark, keep those eyes open and warn us if you see any signs of cannon-fire or incoming magic from below. Oh, and you might want to hold onto something."

Sure enough, as Elphaba carefully wrapped one arm around the safety webbing fixed to the cockpit wall and peered anxiously through the parting wisps of cloud, the stark grey peaks of the Jagged Hills finally loomed into view: a colossal mountain range stretching from east to west for hundreds of miles, if not thousands, and each one of the so-called hills a vicious daggerlike point stabbing upwards into the sky; once past the foothills, there was no flat ground for easy travel, no plateaus or roads or bridges, just an abundance of cliffs, valleys and canyons as treacherous as the needle-sharp summits of the mountains themselves. The only convenient way past the range was a lone road slicing neatly through the mountains from north to south; wide, straight and patterned with a varied mixture of footprints, wheel tracks and old rail, it had clearly seen a lot of transit in the past few months.

And right in the middle of that safe passage was Loamlark, a huge, rambling metropolis of squat grey wedges and cubes – many of them half-blended with the rock of the mountains on the city's eastern and westernmost sides – and bordered on the north and south by two immense walls. Unless Elphaba was surely mistaken, it had to be at least two hundred feet high if not taller, and so thick and thoroughly buttressed that from the outside it looked more like the wall of a dam than anything meant to be inhabited. And on both sides, the wall itself was dotted here and there with several solidly-built towers, along with a number of hunched steel oblongs; it took all of five seconds for Elphaba to recognize the long gun barrels protruding from those ugly metal shapes and realize exactly what they were.

"Gun turrets," the pilot hissed. "Military-class anti-aircraft turrets. I'm pretty damn sure that they weren't on the original blueprints. Now, if UR hasn't made it inside the city, then why would they have those there?!"

"Good question," said Elphaba grimly. "Any ideas, Marl?"

Marl didn't answer: his expression had frozen in shock, his eyes now fixed on something just above the nearest tower. "The flags," he whispered. "Look at the flags!"

As it happened, the flag of the Deviant Nations was nowhere in sight. Instead, two new banners now fluttered above each tower on the wall: one was emerald green and bore an emblem of a silver shield marked with a gold "L" (presumably for Loamlark); the other was much more elaborate, a pitch-black flag emblazoned with a ghastly white noose – wrapped around the throat of a condemned man rendered in blood red. As they drew closer, Elphaba couldn't help but wonder if the noose looked more like the coils of a snake or an octopus tentacle than any kind of rope, but her musings were quickly drowned out by the chorus of expletives from Marl, Harker, the pilot, the other transport's pilot, and Captain Wolton.

"What is it?" she asked.

"That second flag," Marl growled. "It's a mercenary logo. They're defending their city with hired muscle and rented turrets – assuming all that talk about local militia was just delaying tactics. What the hell are these people thinking?"

As if in answering, the radio crackled again, and a clipped, official-sounding voice barked, "Attention incoming craft: we informed your leaders that we had the situation under control and that we needed no further assistance; this still applies. Our city's proud militia and our new allies among the Strangling Coils have pledged to repel any who threaten the safety of Loamlark, be they of Unbridled Radiance or the Deviant Nations. If you approach any closer or attempt to enter this city by air or land, you will be fired upon. This will be your only warning."

There was a long pause, as the two ships slowly ground to a halt in mid-air. Then, Marl very slowly lowered himself to his haunches and began gently banging his head against the dashboard. "How – could they – be – so – fucking – stupid?" he demanded between headbutts.

"In regards to what?" Elphaba asked mildly. "Seceding from the Deviant Nations, or just hiring mercenaries?"

"Both! Either! Actually, let's just start with the latter! I mean, I've seen the files on this desolate hole – they don't have the money to pay for a half-decent marching band, let alone an entire mercenary company! Haven't these people heard what mercenaries do when they don't get paid?" He took a deep breath, and got to his feet. "Are there any other entrances into the city we could access without getting shot down?" he asked the pilot.

"None."

"What about the mountain pass leading up to the gates? We could trying flying along it –" Wolton began.

"Not while the gates are still in the way, and this ship's guns weren't meant to punch through anything like that."

"Well, what about the Jagged Hills?"

"What about them? Unless you're planning on free soloing your way over about twenty or thirty miles of uncrossed mountain range, the only way you could possibly get close enough to climb from the nearest Hills into the city is if I drop you off fifty feet away from the eastern border – which will result in us being shot down."

"We could try parachuting in," suggested Marl. "We're too small for the anti-aircraft guns to hit, especially if we don't clump together."

"No," said Harker, with typical laconicism. "They'll have snipers for that."

Marl sighed deeply. "And then, assuming there's enough of us surviving that, there's the problem of rendezvousing in an enemy city when everyone saw us landing," he wearily conceded. "Pilot, is there any chance of outflying those turrets until we can land?"

"If we were faster and more manoeuvrable, and if there were more of us, maybe; but right now, there's only two of us, and these transports aren't meant for aerial acrobatics. Plus, we're the biggest target in the skies right now and why are you snickering, Miss Elphaba?"

Without saying a word, Elphaba held out her broomstick and let the grin that had been threatening to show itself finally edge gleefully across her face.

Marl understood immediately. "You're certain?" he asked.

"You need someone too small, too fast and too agile for their guns – and you need someone capable of getting the doors open once they've landed."

A ghastly smirk appeared on the captain's scarred face. "Manually or forcibly?"

"Either. I take it you'd prefer the former?"

"Wouldn't mind the latter, though."

"You see? Here I am, ready to put myself to the fullest possible use."

"There's one other thing, Elphaba; see if you can negotiate with them once you land, get them to back down before we come charging in. Thirty trained soldiers and thirty Irredeemables all armed with the latest hardware might frighten a civilian militia, but it won't frighten hardened mercenaries, and I don't want to guess at how motivated these "Strangling Coils" people are. Can you do that?"

"I'll try; I can't guarantee I'll be successful, but there you go."

"Word of advice: try to keep your temper down; the locals jump fifty feet in the air if an Irredeemable so much as sneezes around them, and they're not used to your style."

Elphaba rolled her eyes. "I'll be at my most diplomatic."

"I'm goin' with you," grunted Harker.

"What?"

"The broomstick can carry two, can't it?"

"Well, yes, but have you ever flown before? It's not going to be an easy journey."

Harker shrugged. "Nothin's ever easy out here. Besides, I'm your bodyguard; I can cover you while you get the doors open and keep you safe from the snipers. That's all there is to it."

"Very well then. Marl, if the doors aren't open within the hour and we haven't reported back via radio, then it's time to call in the reinforcements. Actually, as a matter of fact, you might want to start calling them right now…"

There was a rather crowded pause, as Marl gave both Elphaba and Harker radio headsets to use when the gates were finally open, solemnly escorted them to the ship's main door, and took time to harness himself to the safety webbing before bidding them a respectful farewell. Then, once Elphaba and Harker had gone about the awkward business of mounting the broomstick, the door swung open, filling the transport with billow gale-force wind.

Then, with a shouted goodbye that nobody could have possibly heard over the roar of the wind, Elphaba put her head down and launched herself into the sky. For a second or so, there was only the roar of the wind and the blue of the sky overhead; then, as she spun through the air, she heard the howl of accelerating engines and saw the troop transports end their hover and rocket towards the nearby mountains… and not too far away, the distinctive thunder of the anti-aircraft guns echoed. Then, barely noticing Harker's skinny arms around her middle or the whiz of shells flying past her head, Elphaba swung the broomstick down towards the city and launched herself at it with all the force she could possibly muster.

And for the first time in this dimension's history, the skies above Loamlark echoed with the laughter of the Wicked Witch of the West.

---

Back in the troop transport, Dr Kiln was staggering awkwardly towards the very same door that Elphaba and Harker had just departed through, and desperately hoping that nobody would ask why one of the team's medics was attempting to jump out of the ship – or better still, that none of the witnesses would mention this incident to Elphaba.

All things considered, letting go of the safety webbing and getting knocked senseless against the transport's ceiling hadn't been a good start to his assignment. It was bad enough that the Mentor had decided to play roulette with her already-compromised health by sending him off to Loamlark, but his idiotic mistake and his failure to follow Elphaba out of the ship had just about pushed the incident into the realms of borderline-calamity; he had a duty to protect her just as Harker did, and leaving the two of them to face the dangers of the city below without medical assistance was most assuredly not on the agenda.

On the upside, at least he'd been able to deliver the morning dose of stimulant to Elphaba without her suspecting anything. The trick was, of course, to ensure that she remained alive to take advantage of its effects.

Thankfully, Marl was closest to the exit at that point, and he'd been briefed about Kiln's presence aboard (or more accurately, he'd been briefed about the fact that Elphaba had been assigned a personal physician; the fact that Kiln was currently abroad was not intended to become common knowledge), so made no effort to stop him as he went about unlocking the door. He simply harnessed himself to the safety webbing and offered Kiln a wry salute – which largely amounted to resting one mechanical hand against his heavily-scarred forehead and noncommittally flicking it in Kiln's direction.

Kiln returned the salute almost as informally, reflecting absent-mindedly that this might very well be his last moment of human interaction if he screwed up what was going to happen next. Then, without a word, he swung the door open and flung himself into the dazzling blue sky beyond.

For minutes on end, he tumbled aimlessly through the air, hastily dismantling all unnecessary modifications as he fell: the shift in his height, his false gut, his fleshmask, all were reabsorbed into his inventory of raw materials. His freshly-undisguised eyes watered as the howling gale mercilessly battered and lacerated them, and he found himself once again envying Elphaba, this for the spells that protected her broomstick and its passengers from the rushing wind. Then, with Loamlark growing steadily larger beneath him, Kiln drew upon all his reserves of flesh and sent them surging out of their hidden compartments and across his body:

His shirt sleeves and trouser legs tore open as flesh rippled along his limbs, pooling briefly in his extremities before bursting outwards and unfurling into two enormous flaps of skin joining leg to arm and arm to leg, both right and left. Kiln hurriedly refined it as he fell further, thickening it against air currents that threatened to tear it open, restructuring it so that the air flowing beneath them buoyed his body and arrested his fall – while at the same time allowing him enough speed and horizontal motion to evade the incoming fire of the defenders. Within a matter of seconds, his body was equipped with an organic set of glider wings and descending at a much gentler rate towards Loamlark.

Brilliant. Now to find Elphaba… and hopefully land safely, while I'm about it.

Once again he drew on his reserves of flesh, this time siphoning just a few ounces into his eyes: for a few seconds, Kiln's vision blurred as he went about the awkward process of remodelling his eyeballs; then, he blinked and found himself looking out at the world through a much sharper pair of eyes, now protected from the rushing air by nictitating membranes. Focussing his hawklike gaze on the city below, he finally saw Elphaba and Harker speeding across the sky just a few hundred feet below him. The question was, how was he to catch up with them? He knew they were planning on landing near the city gates, but actually catching up with the two of them once they'd landed was a different matter: unlike the broomstick, his glider wings couldn't easily accelerate and they didn't have the same range of manoeuvrability, so there was a very good chance that he'd either overshoot their landing site or arrive too late to be of any help.

Just another reason why we need to seek out the Amorphous League, he reflected detachedly, or at the very least acquire the formula for their potion. In a situation like this, having true shapeshifting would be invaluable: the League members don't have to carry around additional flesh or waste time shifting the mass around their bodies; they don't have to contend with retaining a human body alongside their transformations, and they can actually transform into other life-forms, not merely mimic them. Oz only knows I would be a bird now, if I'd only joined the League members before they left the Empress's think-tank.

Far below, Elphaba was finally swooping towards the city gates for a landing; unfortunately, it seemed that the defenders on the walls had abandoned their attempt to shoot them down and were now leaving their posts en mass to intercept the new arrivals at the gate. And unless Kiln's enhanced eyes were mistaken, none of them – from the neatly-uniformed mercenaries to the militiamen weighed down by improvised armour-plating and corroding museum exhibits – looked in the mood to take prisoners.

Muttering an expletive, he tried to shift the angle of his descent further, hoping to reach the ground before the militia started getting ideas. But as he did so, the cacophony of voices from below was interrupted by a single gunshot – a sniper rifle, if Kiln was not mistaken. For a moment, he wondered why anyone would have used it now, given that most lines of sight between Elphaba and the defenders had been cut off by the roofs of houses.

Then, he noticed the dinner plate-sized hole in his left wing.

For a second or two, the mage-surgeon seemed to hover in mid-air as the implications clicked swiftly into place. Almost immediately, he realized that he didn't have enough reserves of flesh to repair the damage, and even if he did, he was too close to the ground to stabilize his glide before he landed. On the other hand, he now had only sixty feet to fall instead of the original nine hundred.

Then time returned to normal, the glider wings failed, and Dr Kiln dropped out of the sky.

---

Moments later, the reassuring midday calm that had briefly descended on the eastern side of the town was broken by yet another loud noise. However, this time it wasn't the sound of airship engines, exploding artillery shells or gunfire, much to the surprise of the townsfolk – who'd heard so much of the latter in the last two days that many of them felt a bit unnerved by the lack of shooting. This time, the air above Crooked Boulevard echoed with a different noise altogether:

"….fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUUUUUUUU-"

The yelling ended quite abruptly in a crash of dry twigs and tree branches. In the silence that followed, the Boulevard's residents peered through their windows and wondered who'd been injured this time – and how badly. Then, from a large oak tree on the boulevard's left-hand side there was a series of loud wooden crunching noises, and after several minutes of disordered cacophony, the tree finally disgorged a bedraggled-looking figure.

Whoever this character was, he wasn't a pleasant sight: limping, crooked-backed, covered in gashes, porcupined with twigs and soaked from head to toe with blood, he looked barely capable of walking without assistance.

But as he finally steadied himself on the edge of the road, he stretched luxuriantly with a loud crack of bones, and many spectators swore that one broken-looking arm dramatically straightened in that moment. Then, suddenly missing his hunched back and limp, he began to swiftly remove the branches from his flesh, his expression eerily calm and not showing the slightest hint of pain; he didn't even seem to notice the blood fountaining from the reopened wounds. Then, rolling up his tattered sleeves and ragged trousers as far as they would go, he slowly ran his hands across his lacerated limbs, tracing each wound with a long, snakelike finger; those close enough to see those wounds later claimed that every single injury he touched instantly closed and vanished. Then once he was finished with his arms and legs, he moved on to his face, sealing the cuts and gashes in much the same way that he'd done for the ones on his limbs.

Then, before the shocked eyes of the onlookers, he took to his heels at a brisk jog as if nothing had happened.

---

At long last, the south entrance of the city loomed ahead, and Elphaba brought the broomstick to a rolling halt in the middle of the square less than twenty feet from the towering iron gates. She took a moment to assess the area, quickly taking in the high outer walls, the walkways that lined them, the high staircases leading deeper into the city, the wedge-shaped buildings and cubical houses, the bizarre-looking fountain, and the thick-walled control booth to the left of the gates.

"Alright then," she said briskly. "That looks like the most likely place to get the doors open. Harker, cover me while I get to… oh."

Long before the first militiamen were in sight, Elphaba clearly heard the sound of booted feet thundering across the paving stones – and a great many feet by the sound of things. Seconds later, the army poured into the square from every single possible angle, some blocking the stairs and clustering on the roofs of houses, others taking cover behind weird-looking statuary and under badly-trimmed hedges; militiamen dressed in a mixture of anti-riot armour and scrap metal clattered awkwardly into position in front of the gate, shouldering antique bolt-actions rifles as they did so, whilst the walkways above them crowded with mercenaries uniformed in crimson and black, armed with a vicious-looking arsenal of automatic weaponry and handheld artillery pieces. Within a matter of minutes, the two of them were completely surrounded and the square was echoing with the sound of hundreds of firearms being cocked at once. Elphaba briefly considered seeing just how many of them she could incapacitate before they could open fire, but then common sense trickled back into her thoughts; with a great deal more calm that she'd expected, she allowed the glow of magic that had surrounded her to fade at last and raised her hands in surrender, while Harker placed his rifle on the ground in front of him and followed suit.

Silence fell as the two sides regarded each other with a mixture of defiance, fear and utter bewilderment. Unless Elphaba was seeing things, she was pretty certain that many of the defenders were anxiously glancing up the sky; eventually, after a lot of whispered conversation, a hastily-elected spokesperson asked, "Did they only send you two?"

"Pretty much," said Elphaba flatly.

"You're not guiding some kind of aerial bombardment?"

"We're not that suicidal, if you must know."

"What about armoured vehicles? Tanks? Do you have any of them hiding outside?"

"If there are, I wasn't told about them."

"You don't have anyone tunnelling into the sewers?"

"No."

"Your ships don't have any other infiltrators on broomsticks?"

"Not to my knowledge," said Elphaba, trying valiantly not to smile.

There was an embarrassed pause: militiamen frantically whispered amongst themselves, terrified citizens peered anxiously from the windows of their houses, and children hiding behind wrought-iron fences squabbled furiously for the right to stand on each other's shoulders and get a good look at the drama unfolding nearby. Only the mercenaries remained silent, either remaining stone-facedly professional or contemptuously amused at the antics of their employers. Then, at last, the spokesperson mumbled, "Then what are you doing here?"

Improvisation time.

Elphaba offered her best winning smile, and (over the sound of terrified civilians slamming windows and falling off each other's shoulders) said cheerfully, "Isn't it obvious? I've been sent to negotiate!"

The familiar chorus of "rhubarb-rhubarb-rhubarb" began again.

"The Deviant Nations wants to know exactly what's going on up here," she continued. "They also want to know why Loamlark's decided it doesn't need assistance against a possible invasion from Unbridled Radiance."

Suddenly, the militiamen were shouting "Because-!" "We don't need-!" and most commonly, "Both sides are against us!" This time, it took the combined efforts of the mercenaries and the militia captain to restore order just long enough for Elphaba to continue, "I'd also like to know why nobody here thought these vitally important reasons were worth communicating to anyone in Greenspectre, but that's just me. So, if you could direct me to whoever's in charge here – your mayor, you commander, whichever may be the case – I would be grateful for your assistance."

There was a pause, as the townsfolk considered this.

"Your assistance would mean that I'd be getting out of your hair a good deal faster," Elphaba clarified. She eyed the stoic mercenaries, and added, "And that you'll be payed sooner."

More grumbling followed, but eventually a small detachment of mercenaries and militiamen stepped forward and – after conducting a hasty pat-down and confiscating their weapons, belongings and broomstick – began hurriedly escorting them out of the square and into a hovering ground transport.

After perhaps half an hour of traversing the narrow streets and being tailed by curious citizens, they finally arrived at the mayor's house: unlike most of the other buildings in the city, this one wasn't made of concrete or built in the shape of a cube; befitting the mayor's status, it was an elegant wooden-walled mansion that wouldn't have looked out of place in the wealthier regions of Munchkinland, surrounded as it was by lush gardens and an imposing wrought-iron fence. For good measure, it was also surrounded by guards borrowed from both the city's militia and the visiting mercenaries, either patrolling the grounds or stationed beside the doors and gates. With so much security about the place, actually getting into the building was a different matter altogether: it seemed as though just about every single guard from the rosebushes to the magnolias wanted to search Elphaba and Harker for arms, and every single one of them had to be told that they'd already been searched.

But eventually, the two of them were ushered into the gloomy interior of the mansion, the quartet of accompanying guards warning them that their meeting might be slightly delayed: the mayor was currently in a meeting with the militia chief and the mercenaries' spokesman, and couldn't afford to be interrupted. "Literally," one of the guards added cheekily, as they padded across the thick carpet towards the living room.

Sure enough, as they drew closer, Elphaba heard the sound of voices raised in anger and frustration, accompanied by the distinctive thud of one of the disputants hammering a desk for emphasis. "You don't understand," one of them was yelling. "We can't pay this."

"Is that so?" said another, calmly. "Exactly what were you paying us with beforehand? I've seen your finances: you've got more than enough wealth in the city treasury to pay us for the supplies you've requested, and still have enough left over to pay us for staying and defending your city."

"You aren't receiving anything!" snarled a third voice. "We've paid you more than enough already!"

"Then we'll be happy to wait until we receive payment. But in the meantime, we'll also be happy to remain at leisure – enjoy a few drinks, a bit of the local cuisine, perhaps even some of the gambling dens if there's time. Do tell us how your attempts at combat go when you find the time."

"Look, if you're not interested in doing your job, you can go to hell and take your army with you. I'm serious: if you're not prepared to keep to the contract, we'll just throw you out. We've got all the artillery we need to defend Loamlark -"

"- which belongs to us. And, if you'll look at the contract, you'll see that we are within our rights to remove our property from areas which we no longer occupy; if you no longer desire our services, you obviously don't need our equipment or the technicians we've provided to help you operate them, do you?"

"And if we stopped you from taking the turrets back?"

"Then you'd be in breach of contract –"

"Oh, as if it matters! You're not exactly offering a legal service, you know; you can't sue us or have us arrested!"

"No. Because our services are only grey-market at best, the Strangling Coils prefer to settle matter out of court. If you attempt to steal our property, you will be in breach of contract and we will be – once again – within our rights to forcibly confiscate them. And while you might have the advantage of numbers, we have the advantage of better training, better equipment, and best of all, reinforcements."

"Sir," the first voice pleaded, "I know you've seen my finances, but when I told you we couldn't afford any more of this, I meant it. As you say, there's still enough bullion in the treasury to pay for the next few services, but soon it'll all be worn out. This wasn't in our original contract-"

"With due respect, Mr Mayor, our staying this long wasn't in the contract either. We were supposed to be here for a day at the most; it has now been five days since you hired us and we're now operating on overtime fees."

"But we didn't know this going to be a full-blown invasion: we thought it was just a border skirmish!"

Five days? Elphaba thought. The briefing said that this invasion only started a day ago at the most.

"So did we, as it happens. However, you seem to be under the impression that we can only be paid in official currency; you see, travelling so widely does tend to loosen our standards of payment. We'll be happy to accept items of equivalent value: weaponry, vehicles, medical supplies, recreational drugs… and of course, our pick of the spoils when Unbridled Radiance finally send in larger vehicles. I can think of quite a few items around this very mansion that could pay for the next round of services you've requested."

"I'm sorry, but there has to be a better way to pay for all this, preferably something that doesn't require bartering off my heirlooms."

"Well, I'm pretty sure you and the other members of the town council have accounts outside your local bank."

"Well, yes; we did have accounts in the Greenspectre National Bank, but-"

"There you are, then."

"And do you really think that we're welcome in Greenspectre now?" the third voice screamed. "The Deviant Nations have abandoned us, left us at the mercy of the invaders until we're willing to accept their way of life! The only way we're getting any help from them is by surrendering our humanity and letting the Irredeemables turn us into monsters!"

"My heart bleeds for you, Mr Marchfly, it really does. It bleeds for you all over this cheap carpet, which, by the way, looks like it belongs in an overpriced whorehouse."

"I suppose you'd know exactly what a whorehouse looks like, wouldn't you?"

"As I recall, I met your wife in one two nights ago. She's almost as clumsy with finances as you are."

"You little shit-"

Elphaba had heard enough; pushing past the guards, she stormed into the living room at a brisk stride, pausing only to conjure a noise just loud enough to break up the argument without perforating any eardrums. As the noise – a screeching combination between microphone feedback and nails on a chalkboard - subsided, Elphaba calmly halted in the doorway, taking in the scene beyond: as with most of the manor, the living room was comfortable and well-decorated – but as implied, a touch overdone and a touch thrifty in places. Apart from the shocked-looking guards, there were three prominent-looking figures recovering from the noise:

The first was clearly the Mayor, judging by the chain of office draped around his silk-collared neck. A stocky middle-aged man with heavy jowls and a permanent frown, he looked more or less like most of the politicians Elphaba had met over her short but colourful life, with the possible exception of the unfortunate comb-over and the badly-chewed necktie.

The second was a short, heavily-muscled gentlemen with a thick neck and a flushed-scarlet face; he was obviously the militia chief, for unlike his spottily-equipped underlings, he wore a complete set of antique armour complete with a plumed helmet and was armed with a rifle that looked as though it had been built to kill elephants. Judging by the furious mutterings he emitted as he rose to his feet, he was evidently the loud-voiced man who'd been screaming about how the Deviant Nations had abandoned Loamlark.

The third man was a different sort altogether. Judging by the immaculate crimson-black uniform with the familiar insignia sewn to the breast-pocket, he was obviously the mercenary spokesperson, and if the impressive epaulettes and the cluster of medals pinned to his shirt were any evidence, he was also a high-ranking officer. He was also absent-mindedly passing a long-bladed dagger from one hand to the next as if he intended to use it on someone, the ornately-carved silver handle and the curled-tentacle motif on the pommel flashing in the dim light.

For a moment, all three of them regarded Elphaba with varying emotions: the mayor with shock and confusion, the militia chief with open hostility, and the mercenary with something akin to interest.

"Who the hell are you?" the Mayor demanded. "I gave strict orders that we weren't to be disturbed!"

One of the escorts coughed uncomfortably. "I'm sorry for the interruption, sir, but she managed to bypass our defences a few minutes ago; she said she wanted to negotiate with you."

"Gods almighty, I thought the ambassador wasn't supposed to arrive for another half hour! Actually, to hell with that – how did Unbridled Radiance get someone past the walls? I thought we had something in place to negate teleportation magic!"

"I'm not from Unbridled Radiance, Mr Mayor," said Elphaba calmly. By way of explanation, she removed her hat so that the three of them could see her face clearly. "As you can see," she continued, "I represent the Deviant Nations."

If anything, the militia chief looked even angrier. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here. Do you think we're ready to just roll over and join the Irredeemables after just a few days without your so-called help? Well, we're not interested. We survived the loss of our railway and we survived U.R.'s attacks on our city; we're not budging for either them or you, no matter what bodily perversion you try and force on us!"

There was an embarrassed pause.

"I'm not here to force perversions on anyone," Elphaba soothed.

You've got perversions of your own, I'm sure, she added silently.

"I'm just here to request that you allow our troops into the city: we're not trying to force you to join the Irredeemables, we're not trying to take over, we're just trying to figure out what's happening and if it's possible to stop the invasion before it gets any worse." She thought for a moment, trying to think of something diplomatic to say. "Look, my name's Elphaba Thropp; it may or may not help you see me as something other than a faceless mouthpiece for an oppressive government, but there it is. Okay?"

There was another embarrassed pause, and then the Mayor tentatively announced, "I'm Mayor Jon Wilder; the man to my left is Billiam Marchfly, he's the chief of police and currently in charge of the city's militia; um, and the gentleman in the corner is, aha…"

"Colonel Gloss," said the mercenary. "Acting commander of the Strangling Coils stationed within Loamlark. Pleasure to meet you." He shook her hand warmly – the silver-handled dagger still in his free hand – and Elphaba couldn't help but look closer at him as she accepted the handshake: oddly enough, other than his officer's regalia and medals there didn't seem to be much that made him distinctive; there was something remarkably unremarkable about him, something blandly average about his height, build, and even the most basic features of his face. She could see that he had dark hair, pale eyes, and a kindly, oddly clerkish smile, but other than that, it was almost impossible to nail down the specifics: he had the kind of face that actively resisted memorization, the kind of face you'd see behind a bookstore counter, exchange a few pleasantries with and never think of again.

Eyeing the dagger cautiously, she took a very careful step back from Gloss and announced, "So, to begin with, why exactly have you decided to try and face off an invasion force alone?" She eyed the militia chief and added, "And I'd like to hear it from the mayor, if you please."

Wilder sighed. "You've probably heard this story already, but the Deviant Nations and Loamlark don't have the most… trusting of relationships. My constituents think that the Mentor wants them all forcibly recruited into the Irredeemables and this city converted into an armaments factory; from what I've heard in my ventures abroad, your Great Mentor and the other governors think that my constituents want to go back to life in Unbridled Radiance."

"And do they?"

"No! It's just that two thirds of them were born there, myself included. But the problem is, none of the representatives we sent off to Greenspectre have been able to adequately confirm or deny that the Irredeemables aren't just a more, er, inclusive version of the Purified. And back in U.R., brainwashing is an essential part of Purification, meaning that none of the citizens who've gone away and joined the Irredeemables are considered trustworthy witnesses. It goes without saying that my constituents ended up a little…"

"Xenophobic?"

"Insular."

"As if you could blame us," Marchfly snarled. "I mean, you can say that you joined the Irredeemables voluntarily and had yourself turned into a freak voluntarily, but you can't make us believe it-"

Elphaba only just managed to suppress the explosion: as enjoyable as it would have been to give full vent to her spleen and send the militia chief scurrying for cover, Harker's eyeless stare in her direction reminded her that she still had to play the part of a diplomat for the time being. "I wasn't altered," she said coldly.

"Well, you would say that, wouldn't y- wait, what?"

"I wasn't altered in any way," she repeated, voice resolutely calm. "I was born like this. I lived with this skin for over twenty years before I was invited to become an honorary member of the Irredeemables by the Great Mentor, and I wasn't brainwashed or subjected to any unwilling alteration before, during or after my initiation. And of course, I can't prove any of that either because I wasn't allowed in the family photographs until I was seventeen years old, and more importantly, you don't trust any records held by the Deviant Nations. But," she continued, voice echoing in unnatural silence that had descended on the room, "you're entitled to your beliefs and your delusions, I suppose, so let's just leave it at that. So, just tell me, how did this situation get so far out of control? What happened to start this… secession?"

"You know damn well enough," Marchfly barked, his invective only slightly smothered by Elphaba's counterattack. "Your Mentor ignored the destruction of our railway! She left us to face the convict armies for the last five days, while she sat around eating peeled grapes, waiting for us to surrender to the Deviant Nations! Everything bad that happened to us can be traced back to her-"

"Hold on a second! First of all, we didn't hear anything about the invasion until yesterday when we lost contact with the border defences-"

"We saw your airships burning on the horizon almost week ago! Do you really think that only happened a day ago?"

"No," said Harker bluntly. "More likely, the invaders were broadcastin' falsified radio reports, tryin' to keep word of the invasion from gettin' to us. It's been done before, using magic to mimic voices and machines to replicate accepted radio signatures. Best bet is that they couldn't keep it up indefinitely and only lost control the other day; simple as that."

"What about the prisoner's confession?" Elphaba wondered aloud. "The officers said they had machines that could detect lies during interrogations."

"True enough. But it's not perfect; there's loopholes to the detectin' business. All our squealer had to do was admit that he'd been part of an invasion effort, and then provide directions to a different one altogether without actually saying he'd been going there. I've seen it happen before."

"Meaning that we've got another invasion attempt going on in another part of the country? Brilliant."

"A likely story," Marchfly snapped. "And as if the radio technique really exists-"

"Shut up," said Gloss smoothly. "I've seen it in action myself and can easily confirm that it really does exist. In fact, I'd be happy to provide a demonstration – but I doubt you can afford it."

And as Gloss turned his head in the militia chief's direction, Elphaba saw that the mercenary colonel's left ear was almost completely missing from the lobe upwards; what remained was little more than a ragged flap of cartilage. And as she edged closer, she had the most peculiar feeling that this injury hadn't been caused by a stray bullet or a knife, but by teeth. The more Elphaba thought about it, the more she found her mind drifting into something not unlike one of her occasional prophetic visions – except this wasn't of the future, but of some unlucky past victim half dead from blood-loss lunging forward with his last atom of strength and biting down hard on the colonel's ear. And with the same polite salesman-like smile on his face, Gloss had yanked his silver-handled blade free of his victim's belly and driven it into his throat… then, with the corpse gently cooling in his arms, he'd reached down and deftly plucked a medal from the dead man's shirt – a medal which now sat among the others on Gloss's uniform.

Elphaba swallowed hard, and hastily continued the questioning. "And while we're on the subject of what really happened… you were saying something about the destruction of a railway…"

"We're a trade city, Miss Thropp," the Mayor groaned exasperatedly. "We buy goods from visiting merchants who can't or won't go any further into the Deviant Nations, send the goods down to places like Greenspectre along with assorted products made here in Loamlark, and our merchants sell them. Up until eight months ago, we'd send them by our private railroad; we also made a great deal of additional funds selling train tickets to sightseers and tourists while we were about it. But – and forgive me for asking why you don't know this –"

"Eight months ago, I wasn't aware that the Deviant Nations existed at all; I didn't even hear about Loamlark before yesterday, Mr Mayor."

"Alright, fair enough. Long story short, during one of Unbridled Radiance's last invasion attempts down south, an airship crash-landed into the railroad and burned about a third of it to molten slag; the next round of magical bombardment took out what little was left. Without the railroad, we've had to hire airships to transport the goods, so more often than not, we spend a lot more than we earn. We requested that the Deviant Nations help, but…" At last, a note of anger could be heard in the gloomy politician's voice. "But they said they were too busy rebuilding following the last stretch of active warfare. They've said the same thing every time we've requested their assistance – assuming they responded at all!"

"No offence, but I'd blame that on bureaucracy and incompetence rather than deliberate abandonment." There was a rumble of disputing voices, some of them agreeing with Elphaba's conclusions, others arguing against them. "But there's just one thing I don't understand," she continued. "With Unbridled Radiance disrupting local communications, how did you manage to contact the Strangling Coils?"

"We didn't," the Mayor said wearily, the outburst having apparently drained him of what little fire he'd possessed. "They were already here when the first wave attacked the walls; Colonel Gloss and a detachment of about three hundred and fifty men had stopped in Loamlark on the way to Warren. Once it became clear that the attacks weren't going to stop, they offered us an official contract of services – though god only knows who wrote the damn thing and how he did it without going blind. I mean, listen to this... "The client is to be considered directly and indirectly responsible for the actions of the service provider as long as the abovementioned fees are paid, said actions including murder, mass-murder, rape, assault, burglary, grave-robbery, embezzlement, fraud, criminal negligence, indecent exposure and littering; if the client does not wish to be found liable for these actions, then orders and guidelines for proper behaviour must be established, with additional fees required for each guideline established. See figures 1 to 833." And this is just one line."

"What can I say?" said Gloss mildly. "Our paymaster has a good eye for contracts."

"And where's he, then?"

"The Leviathan doesn't show his face except on truly extraordinary occasions; at present, he's safeguarding the rest of the Strangling Coils, waiting for me to confirm that you'll be paying for the next round of services."

There was a pause as Elphaba, Marchfly and the Mayor exchanged glances. In spite of everything that had divided them up until now – Elphaba's tentative sense of diplomacy, the militia commander's foul temper, Wilder's brow-beaten politics – all three of them were clearly thinking the same thing in that moment: had the Strangling Coils really been in this city by accident? Had the mercenaries been in just the right place at the right time, or had they been on the prowl for customers? Gloss mentioned he knew a thing or two about blocking communications – could he tap into them as well?

"I see," said Elphaba, careful to keep the suspicion out of her voice. "While we're on the subject of reinforcements, Mr Marchfly, now that you're down three hundred and fifty defenders, what do you have left?"

"What makes you think you've got the right to know?"

"Because I'm here to help you, you ass!" Elphaba burst out. "I thought I made that sparkling clear a few minutes ago. Now, I've got two transports full of troops circling this town, waiting for the all-clear to land; if you really want this place to hold out against the invaders without going bankrupt, those troops can help guard the walls until the Deviant Nations can send reinforcements-"

"- and mage-surgeons to turn us all into Irredeemables. Well, let me tell you something; the people of Loamlark will not hesitate to defend our way of life-"

"- I've told you, we're not here to destroy that-"

"- no, you're just here to destroy us from beginning to end-"

"That's enough," said the Mayor. The nervous quaver had suddenly left his voice, and though Elphaba couldn't be certain, something not unlike hope glinted in his eyes. "Answer her, Marchfly."

Marchfly grumbled loudly, clearly disgruntled at not having anything to be truly uncivil about, but he nonetheless managed to force out a response: "If this were an ideal situation, I'd draft just about every single adult citizen in Loamlark capable of holding a gun. But this isn't ideal, and we can't recruit almost forty-three thousand people and we certainly can't train them all; in total, there are only four hundred militiamen that we've managed to get close enough to military standards. I called out the police to bolster the ranks, but we can only spare about four hundred for the wall - the rest have to keep the remainder of the city from spiralling out of control in the meantime. So, eight hundred soldiers in total."

"And how many do you need to effectively defend the northern wall?"

"Oh, anywhere from nine hundred to fifteen hundred soldiers; it's hard to say - we never intended to use these walls to fend off a military attack. We also need technicians to work the gun turrets and artillery, but we've only managed to teach about twenty-eight people how to properly work them, enough to operate three out of the fifteen heavy guns."

"Well I've got sixty people in the transports, with eight magicians for additional artillery, and all the reinforcements you could possibly ask for."

Marchfly's brow furrowed, but the ghost of a smile was creeping towards the Mayor's face. Inspiration suddenly surging through her mind, Elphaba continued breathlessly "In the interests of putting an end to any future misunderstandings, it's possible that the Deviant Nations might be able to provide further aid: if we can spare the time and materials, we'll gladly repair the railroad; if not, we'll help pay the fees for airship hire. And," she added, "We'll be able to pay off your debt to the Strangling Coils. Does that sound acceptable?"

The smile that had been threatening to expand across the Mayor's face finally did so, but only tentatively. "I'm… I'm actually inclined to agree. You'll really do all this for us?"

"Well, bearing in mind that I don't have any political authority, the most I can offer is to bring these suggestions to the Great Mentor. Until then, I think the most we can do is survive the next attack."

"I suppose that's all we can ask for under the circumstances. But, um… thank you."

"You're too easily convinced, Mr Mayor," said Marchfly coldly. "We declared ourselves an independent city-state three days ago, and we're already giving up just because of a few setbacks and some self-appointed Irredeemable ambassador?"

"No, you're giving up because at this point the alternative is forcing aside your only source of reinforcements! I'm sorry if you're unhappy with the way this city's been treated in the past, but the disagreements will have to wait until the invasion has been repelled and we're no longer facing death. Okay?" Elphaba took a deep, steadying breath. "If it's any help, I promise to bring your grievances to the Great Mentor once the city's safe."

"So you give your word, then, is that it?"

"I swear on my mother's grave," said Elphaba solemnly.

"Why?" Marchfly sneered. "Did you put her there yourself, or something?"

The expression on Elphaba's face froze. "I beg your pardon?"

"Ohshit," Harker muttered, hastily diving behind the nearest couch.

---

A moment later, the crowd peering over the perimeter fence ducked for cover as a massive shockwave rocked the Mayor's house with a deafening boom, shattering every last window in the building and completely defoliating the fruit tree in the back garden. For the next ten seconds, dislodged shingles and chunks of broken glass rained down on the cowering spectators like hailstones, whilst ornaments left too close to the windows were catapulted across the property and into neighbouring vegetable gardens; ornamental fountains swept themselves clean, birds fell out of the sky, and on the opposite side of town, unsuspecting citizens wondered if the city was being bombed.

Then, as soon as it had started, the shockwave ended; the air settled, the noise died away and a ringing silence descended on the house – broken only by the long, drawn-out "Noooooooo!" of a man unable to pay for new windows (glaziers were prohibitively expensive in Loamlark). For a time, no-one was sure what to do, or what had actually happened: quite a few of the spectators wondered if the meeting had ended in some kind of brawl or assassination, and placed bets on which of the five had struck first; half of the bets were on the mysterious green-skinned representative of the Deviant Nations, while the rest were on the mercenary colonel.

But to everyone's surprise, the five of them emerged from the house relatively unscathed – except of course for the faint sign of blood trickling from Chief Marchfly's ears. Furthermore, the green-skinned visitor, who'd seemed so grim when she'd first arrived in the city, was now smiling.

"The dispute has been settled amicably," said the Mayor, slightly louder than necessary. "The Deviant Nations has agreed to support us, while guaranteeing our continued independence. We will receive our first reinforcements within the hour, and there will be more to come. Thank you…"

Just as the mood was settling, however, a figure suddenly hurried through the crowd towards the four of them, shoving the militia guards aside and bending nimbly away from the mercenaries' bayonets. And then, just as more heavily-armed guards were taking aim, the woman shouted, "Wait, he's with us! He's our medic!"

It took a while for the guards to calm down enough to allow the medic past the protective cordon, and when they did, the first words out of the man's distorted lips were a very audible gasp of, "Sorry I'm late. Getting across town was a bit trickier than expected… but I had to find you – and not just to provide medical attention."

"Why, what's going on?"

"Well, I happened to pass by the northern gates on the way here, and it's just as well, because as long as he's left unattended, he's a danger to everyone in this city."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's Unbridled Radiance, Elphaba; their ambassador's just arrived… and he's got an army waiting outside."

---

They found him standing at the very edge of the northern plaza, surrounded by a small cluster of heavily-armoured bodyguards. He wore a magnificently-tailored suit of white silk, its gold buttons gleaming brilliantly in the midday sun, the open coat looking more like a pair of enormous wings than anything else. Under the expanse of that coat, the ambassador's body was tall and slender, the limbs long and articulate, the build almost that of a dancer; and as they drew closer, they saw that his face was by far the most extraordinary thing about him: high, aristocratic cheekbones, an enticing smile that only enhanced his handsome features, dark hair slicked back against the skull, vivid sapphire-blue eyes that glowed even in the daylight… and skin far too smooth to belong to any ordinary human.

"Mayor Wilder," he said, voice smooth and melodious, almost honeyed. "So good to meet you face-to-face at last; I feared you might never find the time for this interview, that your first interaction with Unbridled Radiance would end in tragedy – and you would miss your chance at Purification after demonstrating so much potential. But, my fears have been allayed and I am gratified to be met by a generous host as well as a promising candidate!"

He bowed elegantly. "Lord Paxton Hayfelt, at your service."

Behind the small entourage of guards and town councilmen that had accompanied the Mayor to the gate, Elphaba seethed with rage. She knew who this was; she'd heard this man described in Glinda's horror-stricken testimony enough to realize that this Purified ambassador was the man who'd captured her on the train and dragged her into the traumatizing encounter with the Empress.

"Now, I hope you have given some thought to the Empress's offer," Hayfelt continued. "As much as I enjoy our conversations, I take no pleasure in seeing our troops attack your fair city every time you doubt my sincerity."

"Well," the Mayor began nervously, "You've put me in something of, uh, a difficult position-"

"And I fear it may be for the last time. Your citizens have wanted to cast off Deviancy and Distortion for many years now; they regret leaving Unbridled Radiance now that they have seen the true face of ugliness. The Empress wants to see her citizens return to her willingly, Mayor Wilder, and she wants them to embrace the truth they once abandoned just as they want to cast off the nightmares that the Mentor has unleashed upon them. Would you really be so cruel as to deny them, to deny the Empress?"

"I don't know about him," said Elphaba loudly. "But I'm in favour of it."

There was a pause, as the crowd of entourage that had been shielding Elphaba from view parted.

"So, you have refused my offer, Mayor Wilder," Hayfelt said at last. "And you have sided with that which is Irredeemable in the eyes of our beloved Empress. You disappoint me, Mr Mayor; I wish you had seen reason but…" He shook his head in a way that probably would have seemed grave or even sorrowful had Hayfelt not kept the smile on his face. As it was, it just made him look amusedly disapproving. Then, he turned his attention to Elphaba: "Who are you, exactly?" he inquired. "I am certain that you one of the Mentor's Irredeemables, but I must admit that I do not recall your name and identity on our register of Wilful Distortions."

"You know who I am."

"I'm afraid I do not; I would remember meeting you, I am quite sure of it."

"Really? Don't you think I look the tiniest bit familiar?" Elphaba smiled broadly. "Look past the skin, Ambassador. You know who I am."

Hayfelt's eyes swept her face obediently… and then, for one glorious moment, the smile on the Purified's face was gone. "Your… your alteration is a clever blasphemy," he said, a tad uncertainly. "You mimic the face and natural beauty of the Empress while… besmirching it with that unnatural pigmentation. Clever. Very clever."

It took all of Elphaba's self-control to keep herself from laughing. "You really think it's just as simple as that, do you?" she teased gleefully. "What if I'm the natural one and I haven't been altered at all? What if the Empress was the one who was altered? What if your Radiant Goddess didn't start out perfect at all… but as a Distortion?"

"That is not so." Hayfelt's voice was low and harsh, now, and all the more incongruous coming from the wildly-flickering smile. "That is not so. Your desecration shall not be ignored. Your offences will not go unpunished."

"That's okay: neither will yours. As I recall, you were the one who kidnapped Glinda; you left her half-conscious in a steel coffin for the better part of an afternoon; you ensured that she met the Empress, that she was almost subjected to your so-called "blessing"… and thanks to your capture, she almost died of blood loss. Even now, she's still having nightmares of what was done to her back in that hellhole – all thanks to you, Lord Hayfelt. Compared to desecrating your tin goddess's ego, I think you have a lot more to be punished for than me."

"You see how it is, Mayor Wilder. The Irredeemable is a bloodthirsty and relentless creature at heart, but she is also a sanctimonious one. Now that she believes that she has justified herself through the mention of some limited creature I might have thought deserving of Purification, she will kill me."

Elphaba's smile grew; underneath it, the joking had long since ground to a halt, and now she was feeling angrier than ever. "No, Paxton. I'm not going to kill you at all," she assured him, her voice so deliberately cheerful it hurt. "What I'm going to do to you will be entirely nonlethal. Why, once it's all over and done with, there's no reason why you shouldn't live for another sixty to seventy years. However, you may have to face the very real possibility that you'll be spending most of that time bleeding from every single orifice you currently possess… and a few that you currently don't."

"Not before my voice is heard," Hayfelt intoned defiantly. His fingers twitched rapidly in an unmistakeably magical gesture, and the only thing that stopped Elphaba from attacking that instant was the hard-learned knowledge that whatever the ambassador was casting, it wasn't an attack spell.

A moment later, Hayfelt's thaumaturgically-amplified voice echoed across the city: "CITIZENS OF LOAMLARK; YOUR LEADERS HAVE BETRAYED YOU. THEY NOW SERVE THE DEVIANT NATIONS, AND HAVE SURRENDERED YOU TO UGLINESS AND ETERNAL HORROR; DO NOT BELIEVE THE MENTOR'S LIES – ONLY SLAVERY AND MONSTROSITY AWAITS YOU AND YOUR LOVED ONES, YOUR FAMILIES, YOUR CHILDREN. BUT FEAR NOT! THE ARMIES OF THE RADIANT EMPRESS ARE HERE TO CLEANSE THE TAINT OF IMPERFECTION FROM THIS LAND. NOW HELP US - RISE AGAINST YOUR LEADERS! FIGHT TO SAVE THOSE YOU LOVE! DESTROY THE IRREDEEMABLES WHO-"

Elphaba didn't give Hayfelt a chance to finish that sentence: hissing an incantation, she sent a crackling tendril of electricity into the Purified ambassador's body, putting an end to the diatribe; then, with Hayfelt still twitching as he tried to overcome the effects of the current, she drew her hand back in a gesture of her own, summoning up all her intrinsic magical energy for one blast – and sent it hammering into his chest with all her might. The effect was instantaneous: the blast exploded against Hayfelt's sternum, igniting his clothing, setting fire to his hair and launching him into the sky, the chaotic surge of magic catapulting him higher and higher until he cleared the wall altogether and gravity sent him plunging out of sight.

For a moment, Elphaba couldn't help but wonder about the strength she'd just demonstrated: she was pretty sure she hadn't meant to use that much power… and yet for some reason, exerting herself magically felt so much easier than before.

She shook her head, and slowly repeated the voice-amplification spell: "ALL MILITIAMEN TO THE NORTH WALL IMMEDIATELY!" she boomed. "IT'S TIME TO DEFEND YOUR WAY OF LIFE!"

---

A/N: Next up - To Battle!