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.

21. No Escaping Repercussions

A/N: And here we are ladies and gentlemen, the latest chapter! In all honesty, I'm just glad that I managed to finish this one off before we got any deeper into April, because this is going to a very busy month. I'll do my best to keep plodding away at the schedule, and hopefully I won't have to take too long a break from fanfic writing if the workload gets too heavy.

Ichibayashi, your reviews are, as always, exquisite: thank you so much for your interpretations and your analysis of the chapter, and I also thank you for alerting me to the mistake I accidentally left. I'm glad I can both surprise and intrigue with the twists and turns of the chapter, and yes - Alphaba really does like to keep everything on a tight leash, which (without saying too much) will become all the more evident and more disturbing as the story goes on. This chapter might not be quite as much of a war story as the last one, but hopefully it'll be up to standards.

Cloudbourne / Sleuth Guest: Your dissection of the chapter was wonderful, especially in examining all the clues I left; hopefully I'll eventually be able to put the pieces together in a way that makes sense, but you'll have to be the judge when I finally get round to it. I'm also glad you liked the gruesome edge to it - the grisly details were a joy to write. And yes, I did keep just the tiniest bit of humour: in a grim and dark story, a bit of comedy might be the only thing keeping the narrative from getting too depressing to read. Hope you enjoy this chapter as much as you did the last!

RadiantBeam: I'm glad you liked The Shattering of Oz, and I certainly know what you mean about getting immersed in fanfics - about a quarter of the sleepless nights I experience are as a result of finding a new and intriguing story... Or hunting through TVtropes! In regards to your analysis, I did intend for there to be a certain degree of similarity between the Mentor and the Empress, including their beliefs concerning their true identities: however, I also intended for there to be subtle differences - the Mentor believes that the Empress is not Elphaba due to grief and denial, because she can't believe that the real Elphaba would do such horrible things; the Empress believes that the Mentor is no longer deserving of Glinda's identity. In the Empress's own dogmatic philosophy, she believes that Glinda betrayed so much of her beauty and her old personality in rebelling against Unbridled Radiance that she can no longer be seen as the same person. Similar denials, but the Empress is much more purposeful and calculating in her actions. And while I don't want to give too much away, how much of Elphaba's old personality remains behind the remains of old enchantments is something that's going to be explored in later chapters, along with Glinda's character arc. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you for your wonderful review.

LaureaDaphne: I'm very happy to hear that you like the story so far - along with the many twists and my deranged attempts at worldbuilding! Rest assured, the identity of all the remaining major players will be revealed soon; I'll do my best not to keep you in suspense for too long.

So, without further ado, the chapter: Aftermaths, Attacks and Remedial Magic! Read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Wicked not mine in any sense or shape of the word.

24/6/14: Cleared up minor errors in spelling, sentence structure.

---

For perhaps the second time in as many hours, Fiyero found himself crouched behind an outcropping of jagged rocks, hoping that the figures below wouldn't notice him or the snarling dog at his side.

Not too long ago – less than half an hour after he'd escaped from the Hellion's lair and made his way into the high-speed transit passageway, in fact – Fiyero had emerged at the opposite end of the tunnel, bedraggled from the wind and blinking in the sunlight, Toto still clutched awkwardly in his burlap arms. Once he'd skidded to a halt and gotten his bearings, he'd found himself alone in the middle of a rough pathway cut into the face of a towering cliff and surrounded on all sides by the jagged peaks of a vast mountain range; and, despite the lack of a guardrail and the presence of a thousand-foot drop awaiting him if he strayed too close to the edge, the situation had looked surprisingly optimistic at the time: the road was just wide enough to be safe, the path through mountains didn't seem too dangerous from where he'd stood, and the Hellion didn't appear to be anywhere in sight. And if he fell, so what? It wasn't as if he could die. For good measure, Toto had chosen that moment to wake up and start yapping in surprise, taking a good deal of weight off Fiyero's arms.

Reassured by his apparent good fortune, he'd made his way down the path in the highest of spirits with Toto trotting obediently at his side: at the time, he hadn't been entirely sure where he'd been going, but as long as it was leading him as far away from the Hellion's lair as possible, he couldn't have cared less. Unfortunately, not too long afterwards, he'd caught a heart-stopping glimpse of Dolls scuttling along the road just a few hundred yards ahead; thankfully, the road had developed a craggy barrier of outcroppings along its left-hand side by that point, so Fiyero didn't have much difficulty with dropping out of sight before any of the Dolls could notice him. Less thankful was the very obvious fact that the life-sized toys were clearly heading in the same direction as him, which spoiled his good mood very quickly, needless to say.

And now, just a few short hours later, he'd ended up in almost exactly the same position as before – except this time, it was the Hellion herself who'd forced him into hiding. Worse still, she was heading in the opposite direction, forcing Fiyero to dive behind yet another pile of rocks as the skinless monster had soared overhead. For a time, he remained there as the army of Dolls followed their mistress along the path just a few feet from his hiding place, and tried to keep Toto from barking as he listened to the Hellion rage at nothing in particular.

"Does SHE care about nothING?" she snarled. "I told her I had her toys! Why did she IGNORE?"

"Perhaps she did not understand, mother," suggested a Doll. "Perhaps she did not hear you the first time."

"TRUE, yes. She never listens carefully enough, even if she is only LISTENING to her heart. But she does listen to her head from time to time: she tried to trick me, tried to trap me, tried to trap you…" Her voice grew louder, slowly building towards a scream. "She tried to turn the home of the cowards into my tomb! She tried to turn the Dead God's worshippers' wallinto a cage for you! SHE TRIED TO TAKE MY DOLLS AWAY FROM ME! SHE STOLE THE DOLL I WANTED AND NOW TRIES TO STEAL THEM ALL!"

"Mother, please don't shout…"

The Hellion's tone quietened instantly, but the anger showed no signs of dwindling. "And she still WANTS to takethem! She plots to take them even now!"

"Mother, we do not want to anger you-"

"YOU never anger me, sweet little doll," the monster soothed. "It is HER that angers me, always her! If she isn't stealing my Dolls, she's borrowing someone ELSE'S Dolls! Giving them new banners to fly and new costumes to wear!"

Had he still needed to breathe, Fiyero would have chosen that moment to take a very deep, exasperated breath. "Worshippers of Dead Gods?" "New banners?" Why do I get the feeling that even if I knew what she was talking about, I probably still wouldn't actually understand her?

"…and the dolls she BORROWS are not fit FOR anyone totake as toys: the shy doctor is a flesh-tinkerer who dreams of SHAPESHIFTING secrets, a mask-wearer who sits in THE Mentor's collection and yet longs for the kisses of so many mistresses – the green, the radiant, the blonde, the scarred, the tragic, the reflective, all of them kissing him in gratitude!" She let out a roar of disgust. "AND THE OTHER! The marksman, the proud blind WARRIOR; blind here, blind there, blind then and blind now! Destroyer of his HOMELAND, traitor to his captain, defector to deviancy! Murderer, torturer, maker of ragdolls, despoiler of farmlands!"

The hell? Fiyero wondered to himself.

As if reading Fiyero's mind, another Doll looked up and asked, "What do you mean by "despoiler of farmlands," mother?"

For a moment, the Hellion looked puzzled. "I don't know," she admitted softly; in that moment, the chaotic shifting of tones faded, leaving a curiously human quality to her voice. "I don't know what I'm saying; I don't know what I'm seeing and hearing and smelling and tasting. The sight doesn't always make sense and the words don't always fit together, but…"

She shook her head. "Never mind that," she grumbled, voice slowly shifting back to normal. "We HAVE work to do; we break through the MENTOR'S walls tonight and take back the lost little doll… or else we make the ragdoll scream loud enough for the green GIRL to hear. We make him scream and scream until she gives up my doll."

And suddenly I'm all the happier that I got out of there, Fiyero thought, lowering himself even further out of sight. Of course, that leaves Boq and the Lion behind to take the worst of her bad mood; poor bastards. Hopefully I can get back to civilization in time to get help.

Thankfully, the Hellion chose that moment to scoop one of the Dolls out of the crowd, gather it into her arms, and soar away into the sky; the horde of Dolls left behind on the ground hurried after her, scuttling along the path at an incredible pace – a vast millipede of warped porcelain figures snaking away towards the horizon. Fiyero watched them go, staying carefully hidden behind the outcropping until the last one finally vanished behind the bulk of the nearest mountain; then, once he was absolutely certain that the retreating army couldn't see him and that there weren't any stragglers trailing along the path, he wobbled to his feet and allowed Toto to scamper back onto the road – before hurrying away as quickly as his boneless legs could carry him.

From then on, the path was mercifully free of Dolls once again, and the mountains were silent except for the whistling of the breeze, eerily amplified by the canyons and valleys of the mountain range around him. All the same, it was pretty hard to escape the feeling that someone was following him – apart from Toto of course – or that his brief lucky streak had finally broken down. The sight of the route ahead didn't help much: after perhaps half a mile, the road spiralled down the length of another mountain and into the depths of yet another cave.

And unlike the gaping fissure in the mountainside that he'd first emerged from, however, this particular entrance was augmented with a heavy iron gate and padlock (the former hanging open and the latter snapped completely in half); and just beyond the rusted bars, he caught a faint glimpse of many dozens of crates, barrels, boxes and oil drums stacked atop one another. There was a worryingly familiar smell, too: fresh gunsmoke, mixed with the Hellion's foul odour of blood – a good deal of which had splattered upon the ground as she'd left.

But as he began the slow, apprehensive descent towards the gaping maw of the cave, Fiyero saw something just over the edge of a nearby cliff-face that made his tattered old heart leap: squatting right in the middle of a tiny road cutting through the mountain range and nestled between the colossal slopes of the jagged peaks, a small town lurked just a few short miles from where Fiyero now stood. And even with that distance, even with the rest of the mountain range and gods only knew how many cave networks between him and it, he still rejoiced, but only tentatively, just in case his luck took another nosedive.

Finally, he thought wearily. Civilization. Here's hoping I can find help there before the Hellion starts getting ideas…

So, with Toto at his heels, he slowly began the long march down the embankment towards the cave, and hopefully, the city that lay beyond…

---

Elphaba awoke to a curious tickling sensation running along the fingers of her left hand, accompanied by a thundering headache raging back and forth across her skull, and a slowly rising chorus of agonized moans from somewhere in the distance.

She was also vaguely aware of the softness of pillow beneath her head, a curiously bruised feeling to her legs and stomach, and a worryingly familiar scent hanging in the air not too far above her: blood, mixed with hospital-grade antiseptic.

Groaning, she reluctantly forced her eyelids open; she had just enough time to take in the sight of a very high ceiling shrouded with shadows and cobwebs, before the familiar shapeless face of the resident medic dipped into view. Then, the events of the previous few hours trickled back into her mind, and with a fresh jolt of adrenaline she all but launched herself upright – only for the medic to gently push her back down to the pillow. "Don't try to move just yet," he whispered. "I've still got a few minor injuries to heal before you get back on your feet again. How are you feeling?"

"Urrrgh. Like I've been smacked in the head with a marble plinth. Where the hell am I?"

"A field hospital in Loamlark's middle district."

Craning her neck from left to right, Elphaba looked dubiously around at the enormous room she'd awoken in; it didn't look like any kind of hospital she'd ever been to. It was equipped with the requisite bright lights and surgical instruments she'd expected, but instead of proper beds, the patients were obliged to lie on the floor with only a makeshift mattress between them and the concrete floor. Furthermore, beneath the smell of blood and methylated spirits, there was an equally potent smell of well-matured dust; she could see it coating the floorboards just outside the glowing surgical barrier that protected the beds from infection, rising to the air in vast clouds whenever someone walked along it, engulfing distant shapes in a thick unearthly fog of dust motes and rendering the figures of patrolling guards almost invisible. She could even see it collecting on the flanks of the barrier itself, dimming the overhead lights ever-so-slightly as drifts of thick grey dust shifted across its dome-like roof… but unfortunately, that didn't stop her from plainly seeing the butchered carcasses spayed out beneath the barrier.

They'd clearly been the source of the whimpering and sobbing she'd been hearing over the past few minutes, and for good reason: not all of them had received medical attention yet, and while surgeons had done their best to preserve them through stasis bandages and other temporary remedies, some patients were little more than shredded meat. Even those more likely to survive were earmarked by hideous injuries: charred flesh, lacerated torsos, punctured eyes, flensed skin and tattered limbs. Needless to say, blood inundated the warehouse - seeping into bedsheets, covering the surgeons' clothes, flowing along the aisles and turning them into flooding gutters of metallic-smelling carnelian; in the more serious regions of the hospital those gutters flowed with much worse things, and while some of the nurses were doing their best to mop up the mess, the smell of excrement still polluted the antiseptic-scoured air. But worst of all were the buckets of severed limbs, too damaged and too infected for the mage-surgeons to treat except through amputation: some of them had tipped over, spilling their grisly contents into the aisle and tripping up unsuspecting nurses.

"The place used to be a warehouse up until a few hours ago," said the medic, "but the local hospitals can't handle all the wounded being brought back, so they had to send a few dozen of them back here for us medics to deal with."

Or they just didn't want the Irredeemables rubbing elbows with their pure and decent militiamen, Elphaba thought dryly. Out loud, she remarked, "I thought we only brought four or five medics with us."

"True, but the mercenaries have medics of their own, too – all mage-surgeons, thankfully. Plus, the militia have been able to spare a few doctors of their own: none of them are trained magicians, but they're still very effective at treating the injured. Just don't expect them to have broken bones repaired anywhere near as quickly."

"Fair enough." An awful question occurred to her, and she tentatively voiced it: "How many of us are dead?"

Beneath several layers of amorphous flesh, the medic's expression turned grave. "A little over five hundred at last count: two hundred and eighty civilian militia, two hundred police officers, twenty Irredeemables, twenty-three regulars, twelve mercenaries... and three of your squad members. Hob bled out before their medic could get to him; Gasket and Vale were both burned alive when the Eyes attacked their tower."

"And Marl's dead, too," Elphaba whispered despairingly – barely suppressing a shudder at the memory of the unlucky captain's final moments, his last bemused gasp of "Didn't think it would be over so soon." What had he meant by that? Had the intended meaning been that he'd known the Hellion was going to go on torturing, that he knew that simply tearing off his limbs would be too short and simple for the Hellion's tastes? Or had he just meant that he didn't think that his life would be over so soon? Had he been expecting a much longer life, or at the very least a more peaceful conclusion to it all? And why had he been laughing?

But no sooner had she processed all the memories of her commanding officer's dismemberment and all the grisly questions attached to it, another equally nightmarish detail fluttered into her brain: the sights she'd seen during the Hellion's attack, the heart-stopping glimpses of Dolls scurrying down the walls of houses, somersaulting through their windows, driving terrified families into the streets and cutting a swathe through those who tried to resist. "What about the townsfolk?" she asked. "How many were killed when the Hellion attacked?"

"We still haven't accounted for all the civilian casualties, but…" The medic shook his head. "We've got a death toll of about twenty so far, plus eight additional deaths from the riot. I don't think those'll be the last entries either."

Elphaba's stomach lurched. "How many wounded in total?"

"Hard to say. Just about everyone who survived the attack ended up wounded to a certain extent: the Stranglers got lucky, probably because they arrived late to the battle, so they're protecting the gates along with the rest of the local police. As for specifics, Marchfly's legs were shattered falling off the wall, Wolton was badly burned by the Eyes, Drendetter and Hedger are still concussed, Harker broke a leg and cracked several ribs during the fight with the Hellion, and you ended up with quite a few bumps and bruises of your own; I'm only just finishing up your course of treatment."

"Really? I don't remember getting hurt during the battle."

"What about when the Hellion was bashing you against that rooftop?"

"Well, I remember that part, but I don't actually remember feeling any pain; if I'd been struck in the head, it might make some sense, but I don't think any of the impacts were headfirst."

"You were under the influence of a substantial dose of adrenaline," the medic pointed out.

"True enough. But how badly was I hurt?"

Awkwardly shifting Elphaba's left arm from where it was slumped, the medic very carefully drew her hand into view: most of the fingers were slick with blood and dotted with livid white blisters, and the very centre of her palm had been seared a mottled dark grey. The hand itself was completely numb except for a vague tickling sensation coursing along the fingertips, and looking at the state of the burn, she was very thankful for it.

"You got that when you drove off the Eyes," the medic explained, as he slowly went about sealing the burn. "You had your hand resting on a burning guardrail for about fifteen seconds and didn't even notice it. Also, you suffered extensive bruising to most of your body, along with three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and two broken fingers on your right hand. I've reconnected the bones and relocated the shoulder, and applied regenerative salve to any of the bruises that threatened to become life-threatening. I also checked for possible reasons why you passed out, but according to the diagnostic spells, it's nothing serious – just a minor case of physical and thaumaturgical overexertion, combined with a disrupted sleep schedule-"

"And being slammed against a rooftop four or five times," Elphaba finished. "Speaking of disrupted sleep schedules, how long was I unconscious?"

"Just under an hour."

Meaning that we've still got another five until reinforcements show up. Here's hoping that Unbridled Radiance doesn't decide to attack again in the meantime.

"Oh, that reminds me: the Mayor's scheduled a town meeting at Foundation Plaza in about half an hour from now; he's been assuring people too scared to leave their homes that he'll bulletin all the decisions by loudspeaker, but unfortunately I don't think that applies to y -"

"Don't tell me. I've been invited."

"I'm so sorry, Elphaba."

Elphaba only sighed, lowered herself wearily back into the depths of her mattress, closed her eyes, and tried to ignore the screams.

---

Foundation Plaza was almost exactly what Elphaba had been expecting – a vast, handsomely-paved space bordered with finely-built houses (by Loamlark standards, anyway), and dotted with fountains, statues and other minor monuments. Like most planned town centres, it had likely been designed to look stately and triumphal, but in reality it looked more like the architect had lost the will to live halfway through the job and had started adding in as many ridiculous details as possible in the hope of being fired, assassinated, or both. On top of the weirdly-shaped houses common to every other street in the town, the stormwater drains were wide enough to constitute a traffic hazard, the streetlamps on the east side were placed so close together they looked like an abortive attempt at a guard rail, the lamps on the west were bending in the wind, the trees on the grand lawns had grown corkscrew-shaped, the fountains were broken or just plain silly, and the memorial statuary was so incomprehensible that Elphaba could only guess as to how three lobsters fighting over a pineapple had played such an important role in Loamlark's history.

But it was in front of the beehive-shaped town hall where the meeting was to be held; on a small stage built at the foot of the town hall steps, the ringleaders of Loamlark's defence force were gathering: Mayor Wilder, Chief Marchfly, Colonel Gloss, and Captain Wolton were all there on the stage, accompanied by the rest of the mayor's council and the surviving members of the Irredeemable and regular platoons.

Unsurprisingly, a small army of militia guards barred unwelcome visitors from the stage, and to be fair, the crowd that had arrived for the meeting numbered almost a thousand. What did surprise Elphaba was that several of the militiamen actually stood to attention as she approached, shouldering their rifles as if she was their commanding officer.

A few of them even saluted her.

This clearly wasn't worshipful reverence, nor was it wholehearted respect; after so much time spent either in the company of the Mentor and the Wizard or delving into the memories of her other self, Elphaba had learned how to recognize both on sight. No, what these militiamen displayed was nothing more or less than awe: they'd seen the magic she'd flung at the enemy during the first attack, and while they clearly didn't trust her entirely just yet, she'd obviously managed to impress them. Driving off the Vigilant Eyes probably hadn't hurt either.

As for Harker, he'd decided not to join the representatives on stage; instead, he was now squatting on a rooftop at the opposite end of the plaza, scanning the growing audience for potential threats through the scope of his rifle.

But other than those unique details, for the first forty-five minutes, the meeting was almost as tedious and predictable as Elphaba feared it would be: the Mayor (now smelling conspicuously of garlic) made speech after speech congratulating both the militia and the Irredeemables for their defence of the city, a smile brightening his other contagiously gloomy face; the councilmen reassured the people that supplies of food and water were plentiful; Gloss swore a solemn oath that the Strangling Coils would help defend the city free of charge, his own pleasant smile almost genuine; even Marchfly (who'd been confined to a chair while his broken legs healed) had some positive news – that the police were ready to repel the Hellion if she chose to attack again.

Then, the bad news arrived: first of all, the radio tower had been damaged during the attack, and there was no way of contacting Greenspectre even if it was only to determine if the reinforcements were on their way or not. For all the victories they'd enjoyed (or so the Mayor claimed), trying to defend the wall with only the mercenaries and the few surviving militia was not an attractive prospect.

Even less pleasant was the fact that Loamlark's northern district was littered with corpses, all of them carrying a significant risk of disease for every hour they were allowed to decay. On the face of things, there was a fairly simple process for dealing with the problem: the bodies of the fallen militiamen were to be brought back into the city for formal burial, whilst the casualties among the "visiting heroes" were to be shipped home to their families (nobody was entirely sure what the mercenaries did with their dead). Unfortunately, the corpses of the Penitents complicated the issue: there were simply too many of them to bury or even burn.

Fortunately, as he went about knitting the bones of Marchfly's column-like legs back together, the medic managed to conjure a solution.

"Not all of the healing techniques known to my profession are as basic as magical gestures and stasis bandages," he said. "Well, the gestures are the easiest methods of sealing flesh wounds and repairing broken bones, but for more important procedures – replacing amputated limbs, transplanting healthy organs, grafting new skin – more complicated techniques are required, and for them I need raw materials to work with: skin, sinew, muscle, fat, cartilage, bone, blood, the fresher the better. Once the other medics have finished attending to the wounded around town, gathering the corpses of the Penitents for harvesting shouldn't be too difficult."

"But how will you keep the…" The Mayor grimaced and paled slightly. "… harvested materials fresh? Where do you keep them?"

"Well, once we've extracted the raw materials and disposed of anything too deteriorated to be of use, we preserve our supplies through simple enchantments to keep them from decaying further. As for where we keep them... while in the field, we keep the materials fresh and ready for use in the only place we're guaranteed not to misplace it: our own bodies."

"You mean-"

"Yes. Direct physical assimilation. That way, we can also use it to modify ourselves in the event of a crisis." The medic smiled. "Hence the tentacles I manifested during the battle."

Once the audience had finished shuddering their disgust, the Mayor chose that moment to move onto less disturbing topics; unfortunately, that direction ended up in the hands of the audience when someone finally asked the question that had clearly been aimlessly surging across their minds ever since the two platoons had been allowed into Loamlark:

"How can we trust the Irredeemables?"

The Mayor took a deep breath, hastily donning an expression that was clearly intended to convey his understanding of the sombre political realities that they would no doubt have to face, but – like most politicians attempting to be serious – ended up being more reminiscent of constipation than anything else.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said firmly, "I understand that many of you are angry that we've chosen to renege on our decision to secede from the Deviant Nations; like you, I was angry at what was perceived to be an open and revolting act of betrayal, and eager to see this town thrive as an independent city-state. But new evidence has emerged since then that proves the abandonment was nothing more than a ruse by Unbridled Radiance, meant to keep us divided and unwilling to accept help even with the enemy battering down our gates. Furthermore, as you can see, the Deviant Nations has provided aid – which my council and I have decided to accept."

"How do we know this won't all end with us being forced into the Irredeemables?" someone shouted.

"We've told you already," Wolton yelled back, "The Irredeemables do not work like the Purified; this is a different system –"

"Where's your proof?"

"You aren't even a member of the Irredeemables! How do you know?"

"How can we trust you? How do we know that the Mentor didn't stage this?"

"What if this is all a hoax?"

Under the bandages layering the upper half of his skull, Wolton's normally placid face contorted with incredulity. "A hoax?!" he thundered into the microphone. "You think that this has all been staged? You think we somehow faked the Penitents, the Hellion, the Vigilant Eyes and everything else that's happened to this town over the last few days? You think we invaded ourselves? You think we murdered three quarters of the visiting platoon – that we killed Captain Marl – all for the sake of dragging you, you of all peopleinto the Irredeemables – I… Gfffrn. Frnngr. Grrrr." His face twitched dangerously. "Staged!"he exploded. "Staged! How does… Staged!How does that make any sense? Is there something wrong with the water in this town? How could we… why would we bother with… STAGED! Grrrrrble. Rggh. Fffffffff…."

There was an awkward pause as two militiamen gently escorted the spluttering captain into a chair; in the silence that followed, the Mayor put his hand over the microphone again and asked, "Is he alright?"

"You mean apart from facing down three different armies of bloodthirsty monsters on the same day and seeing almost his entire platoon slaughtered?" Elphaba remarked. "In all honesty, I think he just hasn't had much experience in dealing with concentrated stupidity."

"And you have?"

"I like to think so."

"I'm pretty sure the glaziers at work on my windows would disagree."

"Well, I never said I'd developed a tolerance to it," said Elphaba defensively. "But I've moved away from the "gibbering disbelief" stage and into the "decisive action" phase, that's the important thing."

"Decisive action? Is that what they're calling it now?"

"While we're on the subject, I think this might be your cue to reason with your constituents."

"Good point." He took his hand away from the microphone and coughed loudly. "I understand your fear, ladies and gentlemen, I do… but at this point, all we have is a choice between Unbridled Radiance and the Deviant Nations: the side that will definitely have us altered against our will, and the side that might have us altered against our will. I understand that some of you may think that Purification was a tradeoff for living in relative safety under the Empress' rule-"

Perhaps a quarter of the crowd erupted in an ear-splitting chorus of disapproval. "The Empress did not create Purification!" some of them hollered. "It's all the work of corrupt advisors! If they were removed, everything would be-"

"We would be much safer if we were still in Unbridled Radiance!" an older contingent of the crowd bawled.

For their part, the rest of their audience did their best to shout the dissenters down, only being silenced when – at the Mayor's frantic indication – Elphaba conjured a nerve-jangling blast of sound.

"… but for our own safety, we have to side with the Deviant Nations," the Mayor finished weakly. "In the meantime, however, we have another problem: ammunition."

"And working weapons," added Marchfly. "Preferably ones up to military standard; something top-of-the-line if the Mentor's prepared to take defence of this city seriously."

Elphaba almost laughed. A few days ago, she would have thought that – corrosion aside – the bolt-action rifles and revolvers used by the militia really were top-of-the-line weaponry; back in Oz, they'd have been the best thing the gunsmiths could have provided to the Wizard's troops. But in this dimension, alongside automatic firearms and handheld artillery, they were nothing more than antiques.

At that point, Wolton, having apparently recovered from his brief loss of focus, stood and announced, "I thought both surviving platoon members and the Strangling Coils were well-equipped enough already."

"True enough, but the militia aren't. Unless you count the police armoury, most of the guns we managed to acquire were antique models; a lot of them broke when we tried to use them at close-quarters. Plus, the ammo's not exactly easy to buy or manufacture, so unless you want us fighting with slings and clubs the next time Unbridled Radiance attacks, I suggest you supply us with some new guns."

"But why would you need to continue defending the city? Once reinforcements arrive, they can take over the defence of the wall and allow you to evacuate in an orderly-"

Suddenly the crowd was yelling again.

"This is our city!" Marchfly boomed, accompanied by cheers and roars of approval from the audience. "We can defend it just as well as you can if we have the numbers and the guns!"

"But-"

"Isn't the defence of this city just as much our responsibility as yours? Don't we have the right to defend our home? Or aren't we good enough for the Great Mentor? Is it her policy to have us replaced at a moment's notice simply because the brave men and women of Loamlark AREN'T GOOD ENOUGH FOR HER?!" In spite of himself, Marchfly was actually starting to rise from his chair now. "Do you really think the people of this fine city will just let you replace them with soldiers and Irredeemables, with people who don't care about their homes and property, and then aaaargh!"

"Chief, you need to hold still. This is only going to hurt more if you insist on trying to stand up while I'm putting your kneecaps back together."

Slowly, the shouting of the crowd dwindled away, allowing Wolton to finally make himself heard. "This has nothing to do with replacing you," he said firmly. "This is a matter of keeping the people of this city safe."

"From what?" someone shouted.

Now it was Elphaba's turn to erupt: "Are you kidding me?" she roared. "You honestly haven't seen the death toll for the last attack? Between the Penitents, the Hellion and the Vigilant Eyes, we lost well over half the militia… and now you want to start recruiting again?! You want to throw more civilians at the enemy after the massacre we had last time?" She glared furiously at Marchfly, and added,"You said that you didn't have the time to train all the other militiamen you needed to defend the wall, remember? Do you think we have the time to train them now?"

"I'm not an idiot, Miss Thropp," Marchfly snarled. "The Deviant Nations and the mercenaries can defend Loamlark for the time being, but once we've received the training and equipment we need, I expect to see our men joining you on the front line."

The mayor coughed loudly. "We can also use them to help deal with internal threats," he pointed out. "With almost a third of our old police force wiped out, we're going to need more men to keep order on the streets, especially if the Hellion decides to attack us again. I don't know about you, but I'd feel infinitely safer knowing that there was some kind of internal defence force prepared in case the enemy managed to bypass the walls." Mutters of agreement and "hear-hear," rippled across the crowd.

Elphaba sighed deeply, and then hastily covered her microphone with a hand before whispering into the mayor's ear, "You too? I thought you'd be opposed to this sort of thing!"

"You don't think having the militia help you would be a good idea?"

"I admit that the additional police would help, but do you really want to just fling your own citizens right back onto the front lines?"

"Of course not. But given public opinion, I may not have a choice: I've only got as much power as my constituents allow me, and these people are already afraid of being press-ganged into the Irredeemables; telling them that they no longer have any say in the defence of their home might just push them over the edge. And telling them they're going to be evacuated – by force if necessary – would be tantamount to suicide. We've already had one riot, Miss Thropp, and I for one don't want to deal with the casualties of a second."

"That's as maybe, but dealing with the casualties of sending another five hundred badly-trained civilians to their deaths isn't exactly an improvement. I mean, it's pretty hard to say we're defending the people of the Deviant Nations while we're marching a small battalion of them into an early grave."

"At the risk of splitting even more hairs than usual, you wouldn't be marching them anywhere: they're volunteering for this, remember? We're not conscripting anyone into military service; I've seen how many people ended up volunteering for militia duties before we ran out of guns – we had a line of takers stretching halfway around the block for ten straight hours; we've got almost the same number of people here in full support of the idea. More to the point, I think the Mentor would be in full support as well given how much fuss she kicked up over us not supporting the Deviant Nations."

"Well, she might appreciate the police idea, but using inexperienced locals as cannon fodder-"

"- using a civilian militia as auxiliary forces," the Mayor corrected. "More to the point, I very much doubt they'd actually be used as cannon fodder-"

"Mr Mayor, could we be blunt about this? Without adequate training, experience, or equipment, they're cannon fodder. Human shields. Ambulatory sandbags. Or, if I'm not illustrating the point colourfully enough, barricades that scream. Now, unless you all somehow gain magical powers over the next few hours, I don't think that using your constituents as an army is going to sound like a good idea to anyone."

"Except of course for my constituents. Besides, we won't know what the Mentor thinks of this until we repair the tower and contact her." And with that, Mayor Wilder deftly plucked Elphaba's hand away from the microphone, bringing an abrupt end to the conversation. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he announced, "I'm afraid the matter will have to wait until we have received the necessary reinforcements and supplies; then, we will inform the Mentor of our decision and allow the training of the new militiamen to commence. Until then, we are happy to accept new volunteers for the militia…"

A storm of cheering drowned out the next thirty seconds of the speech; it was so loud that even with the aid of speakers, Elphaba only caught the tail-end of it:

"… and prevent threats such as the Hellion from taking our fair city by surprise again. And on that note, ladies and gentlemen, I think we've covered all that needs to be discussed…"

---

The Loamlark town hall was not often frequented by visitors, unless it was for absolutely essential business: much like the rest of the town centre, it had been designed in an attempt to evoke grandeur and dignity, emulating the proud government hives of both Greenspectre and Exemplar; and like the town centre, it had failed miserably. Not only was it a hopelessly overcomplicated maze of narrow, winding hallways and rooms too small or too large to be used as intended, but it also seemed to be perpetually on the verge of collapsing. Most of the usual parade of visitors consisted of locals petitioning to have the building torn down before it fell down and took the city's plumbing with it; the rest were either search parties looking for missing relatives who'd failed to emerge from the labyrinthine corridors. Even the unlucky men and women who actually worked here did so only reluctantly, and only after making sure that their offices still had floors, and that all the filing cabinets were stored in a room not likely to collapse in on itself. Even the Mayor preferred to conduct business at home rather than brave the depths of town hall.

But if there was one positive thing that could be said about the building, it was the one place in the entire settlement where conversations were guaranteed to remain private. And it was for this very reason that just a few short minutes after the awkward town meeting had puttered to a halt that the Mayor and the Police Chief rendezvoused in a long-forgotten corner of the town hall for a secret meeting.

"This is not a good idea," Mayor Wilder muttered, trying not to look too closely at the huge mirror that dominated the room; perhaps twenty feet in length and ten feet high, it had obviously once been intended for the planned ballroom – before the partial collapse of the roof had put paid to all ideas of masquerade balls. Now it simply sat here, gathering dust and looking all the more unsettling as the years went by: many visitors unlucky enough to stumble into this room had shuddered and averted their eyes from its tarnished expanse, wondering if someone other their reflections had been looking back at them. And no matter how many times Wilder told himself it was just an optical illusion and there weren't actually slender figures creeping across the room towards him, he couldn't help but shiver every time he looked into the mirror's silvery depths.

"With due respect, Mr Mayor, it might be the only one that works," said Marchfly. "As tough as she is, Thropp wouldn't be the kind of person I'd send on a scouting detail, broomstick or no broomstick."

"I think I got that around the time I was shovelling bits of shattered glass out of my lap."

"…And as for sending one of my men into the forest to look, even if the poor bastard did find the enemy camp, he'd probably never make it back alive. If we don't take this option, if we go without that information, we're as good as dead."

"You don't think the reinforcements can defend Loamlark adequately?"

"Oh, I think they'll do their job perfectly; it's just that we've got another four hours until they arrive, and if the enemy decides to attack again today, I really don't think we'll stand a chance. No offence to Colonel Flash Bastard, but I'm a little hesitant to put my trust in the underhanded little shits that were intent on swindling us down to our last penny just a few hours ago – even if they're supposedly willing to waive the fees in the case of the green girl."

"And that's exactly where the problem lies, Chief: we're already critically short on cash, and hiring the Mistress of Mirrors for a surveillance job will probably bankrupt us. I know it sounds untenably stupid, but I'd at least like to have some money left in the treasury by the end of the war."

"If you're worried about expenses, there's always the smugglers."

"Sssshhhh!"

"What? It's not as if the rest of the town council haven't already lined their pockets thanks to Old Rockburd's deal; they'll be in full support."

"We've still got visitors around, Marchfly, visitors that don't know to avoid this goddamn building. If the captains get a whiff of something suspicious, they'll follow the trail – probably the reason why they sent captains instead of lieutenants to lead the platoons."

"Actually," said a voice from the doorway, "Captain Marl – god rest his soul - told me it was because dealing with a potential invasion threat merited officers with greater experience than-"

"Really not the time to interrupt, Mr Grantee," snapped Marchfly.

"My point is," the Mayor continued breathlessly, "They've already been sniffing around: Wolton's been asking questions about something Marl – god rest his soul – mentioned, something to do with our finances if I recall correctly; as for Thropp, the damn woman won't stop asking questions, and now that she's recuperating she's got even more time to ask them. If either of those two hear that we've been accomplices to smugglers, they'll almost certainly tell the Mentor. We're already in enough hot water thanks to this attempted secession: if she finds out, we'll be in for a bevy of life sentences, fines, property confiscations, and maybe even economic sanctions against Loamlark itself. We'll be driving the whole town into the gutter."

"Would you relax? You saw the guards in the hallway: nobody's getting in without my permission. Besides, my boys confirmed that none of the Deviant soldiers – Thropp included – are anywhere near the town centre, and more to the point, nobody's going to say a thing to them: say what you will about them at any other time, but our friends and neighbours know what's at stake."

"If you say so. But still-"

"Look, the smugglers are still in business, yeah? You got the bullets for these antiques from them, so they'd have to be in business, right?"

"To the best of my knowledge. God only knows what they're going to think when they find out that the Hellion's been using their secret tunnel as a thoroughfare, though."

"Well, so long as we actually have the means of contacting them, we should be able to recoup our losses once this malarkey's over and done with."

"Oh yes, I'm sure we'll be able to do that with the Mentor peering over our shoulders at every opportunity for the next decade, or however long it takes for her to trust us again."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Besides, I never thought I'd say this, but a few years of having the city under the Mentor's thumb –"

"- or a few decades in Greenspectre state prison –"

"-is a whole lot better than spending the rest of our lives under the control of the Empress."

"Are you sure about that? I don't think convicts like police commissioners all that much."

"With due respect, Mr Mayor, go to hell. Now can we get on with this? You're the one who knows the procedure."

"Well, I know it, but don't know if it'll actually work: I've never seen it used before; I just found the notes on it among my predecessor's things. Long story short, we're supposed to be in front of a mirror, ideally this wretched old thing; then, we have to consecrate the air with incense-"

"- I thought I smelled something –"

"-anoint the surface of the mirror with the blood of whoever's meant to take part in the conversation, and recite the magical incantation."

"How much blood?"

"Oh, just a few drops, enough to cover the tip of the index finger; all we have to do is leave a fingerprint each. And once we've finished chanting, we're supposed to ask our questions."

"You can ask right now, if you like."

To their credit, neither of them hesitated: by the time the voice had uttered the word "ask," they were armed and ready – Wilder drawing a battered revolver from the pocket of his jacket, Marchfly levelling his elephant gun. But as impressive as the quickdraw had been, when they actually scanned the room for intruders, they found themselves alone except for the guards – who were just as confused as they were.

But then the two of them turned to face the mirror, and saw that their reflections were behaving very oddly: instead of following their armed owners around the room in their frantic search for unwanted visitors, they were now positioned right in front of the mirror, side by side, their weapons holstered and expressions blank. Their shadows were also acting very strangely: instead of stretching towards the wall behind them, the two shadows now flowed swiftly and shapelessly in the opposite direction – against the light of the candelabrum – until they stood right next to the reflections, just as seemingly independent as they were.

And just behind both reflections and shadows, a hazy figure was slowly taking shape in the darkness at the back of the room; but when Wilder glanced over his shoulder, he saw only dust-clogged filing cabinets. Whatever was materializing in behind their reflections existed only in the depths of the mirror itself.

And just as Wilder thought that the situation couldn't get any stranger, the two reflections spoke with a single voice – brisk, businesslike, and quite distinctly female. "Greetings to you both," they said, the shadows next to them pantomiming their speech. "I apologise for the shock, but I thought it would be best if we cut through the usual preliminaries."

By now, the shape in the mirror was distinct enough for Wilder to recognize it as an enormous throne of what appeared to be solid obsidian, built with a cushioned circular back, curving wave-shaped armrests, and long, thick legs coursing into the distant floor like the roots of a tree. Because the image was still coalescing and thoroughly layered with shadows anyway, the throne's occupant was almost invisible, but after all the descriptions whispered by his predecessors and the many former clients who he'd been fortunate enough to encounter, Mayor Wilder didn't need to wait another moment to recognize the cowled figure seated before them.

"The Mistress of Mirrors," he whispered.

The reflections flanking the throne smiled, and the shadows beside them bowed dramatically. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mayor Jonatim Wilder."

"Wha- how do you… I thought that you could only know about us if we told you our names first – it was part of the magic. Actually, we hadn't finished the summoning ritual either-"

"The summoning ritual isn't necessary, Mr Mayor; I invented it many years ago to add a bit of mystique to my persona, and in all honesty, neither of us had the time to bother with it. And I don't need a name to know my clients, either. The things I see through the reflections of the world give me all the information I need."

"Um, right. Listen, we wanted to know-"

"If Unbridled Radiance will attack you this evening, I know; I've been listening to you for quite a while. To answer your question, no: they won't attack until tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, and it'll begin with a gas bombardment. I'd advise your militia to equip themselves with ventilator masks, ideally of the kind that the reinforcements will be carrying in bulk."

Marchfly cleared his throat loudly. "How do we know you're telling the truth? You said yourself that you made up all that stuff about the summoning ritual, so how can we trust your word on this? Or anything you've said so far?"

The Mistress of Mirrors held up a large folder crammed to the brim with papers and small clattering objects; a second later, it vanished from her hand and promptly reappeared at Wilder's feet, shivering as it made the transition from a reflection to a physical object. "The evidence is all there: photographs, requisition orders for gas canisters, strategic diagrams, recordings of key conversations, and a map to the encampment if you feel inclined to launch an attack at some point in the future."

There was a long pause as Wilder quickly leafed through the pile of documents. "This seems legitimate," he admitted, "But-"

"But you could have easily faked it," Marchfly finished.

"I'm afraid you'll just have to take it on faith for the moment… for if you can't trust me, how can you trust your own face in a mirror? How can you trust your shadow on a wall? How can you even trust the lingering echo of your voice? I can see and travel anywhere touched by reflection, shade or resonance: if you consider me an enemy, there is nowhere you can hide." She laughed quietly, and the shadows clasped their hands to their mouths as if giggling. "But you needn't worry about that: it's in my best interests that Loamlark and its defenders survive the trials that are to follow, and I'm not going to jeopardise your chances by providing false information."

Wilder sighed. "Very well; you've made it clear we don't any choice but to trust you. What do you want for this information?" This had been the part he really hadn't been looking forward to. After twenty years in Loamlark's bureaucracy and five years as Mayor, he'd heard more than enough horror stories about what the Mistress of Mirrors was prepared to accept as payment if cash wasn't available: samplings of the customer's blood, teeth, flayed skin, bones, and firstborn sons were among the most conservative guesses.

"Only one thing."

"Name it," he whispered, bracing himself for the worst.

"I want you to do anything and everything in your power to ensure that Elphaba Thropp survives her time in Loamlark. Keep her safe from potential assassins, provide her with bodyguards while in battle – competent, experienced bodyguards – and prevent her from doing anything reckless."

Wilder's brow furrowed in confusion. "I'd have thought there were enough people protecting her already: she's got the support of every single member of the Irredeemables sent here as reinforcements, she's got Harker as her personal bodyguard, and that medic seems determined to act as her personal physician."

"True, but I'd like your assistance in this respect; Elphaba has always been headstrong and stubborn, and even with the protection of Mr Harker and the good doctor, she will not hesitate to endanger herself if it means success. And while you're about it, I'm sure you can provide her with a few luxuries for the duration of her stay: good food and drink, comfortable furnishings, entertainment if she so desires… that wouldn't be too much to ask for one of your most capable defenders, would it?"

"… No. No, it wouldn't. Uh, thank you for your time, Mistress." He turned to leave; Wilder wasn't sure what the woman was playing at, but the deal was frankly better than what he'd been expecting, so he'd play along for now.

"One more thing, Mr Mayor: if Elphaba dies in your care, I will be most displeased. You may find interesting the fact that it's quite possible for a human being to be sliced into twenty-seven extremely thin segments and survive for almost a week. Or, if I find that said human being had a direct role in Elphaba's death, to prolong their suffering further by extracting the offender's soul and allowing them to live on as a disembodied reflection for more than fifty years of silent, intangible loneliness… at the end of which they'll be allowed to savour the horror of their identity fading away into nothingness and the very core of their self being rendered down into an undying, semi-mindless echo. Do I make myself clear?"

"Mmmm," Wilder squeaked.

"Excellent. See you soon."

And with that, the throne vanished, leaving both the shadows and reflections to shift back into their normal positions.

In the ringing silence that followed, Mayor Wilder took a deep breath and muttered, "I'm still blaming you for this, Marchfly."

"Me? Why me?!"

"This was your idea, in case you forgot!"

"You really think it would have made a difference whether we'd asked or not? Plus, it's not as if we're paying anything extra."

"We're still in debt, Marchfly! And we've got yet another death threat to deal with…"

They were still arguing when they left the room a moment or so later, slamming the door behind them with a crash, both of them too upset to remember that they'd left the candles lit and that the guards would be too afraid to creep back into the room to douse the lights for them. For perhaps ten seconds or more, the room remained empty and silent except for the echoes of the two squabbling officials retreating into the distance.

Then Doctor Kiln dropped from the ceiling.

Landing smoothly in the middle of the room, he went about a swift process of discarding as many of his temporary modifications as possible – his light-sensitive pupils, his suction-cup palms, his backwards-facing skull, and even the medic's facemask – until he stood undisguised before the mirror and the figure now rematerializing within it.

"Good to see you again," the Mistress of Mirrors purred. "I trust your patient's enjoying the best possible care?"

"She's as well as she can be expected, given that she's even more reckless than you remember. Thankfully, she doesn't appear to have noticed that I'm drugging her food yet, so at least the Mentor won't have to provide too many embarrassing explanations when we finally get that radio tower fixed. But then again, you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Oh, I've heard almost everything there is to know about this other Elphaba; very interesting… and very troubling as well. Her story of this other dimension raises a great many questions… questions I'm sure you and the other distinguished researchers are keen to answer, I'm sure."

"If you're prepared to loan us some of your receiving mirrors, I'll be happy to share the information - among other things - with you on my next visit."

"Something to look forward to, then." The Mistress laughed echoingly. "But it may have to wait until another lull in the conflict; as long as the war effort is still waxing, I doubt we'll have much time to ourselves."

"I know, I've already had to put a few of my more promising experiments on hold."

"Except of course for the ones concerning our Beautifully Tragic friend. Tell me, do you really think that she'll be the one to tip the fulcrum?"

"Are you sure she hasn't already? You're beginning to favour our side, unless I'm surely mistaken."

"Only in your wildest dreams, my dear doctor. At this point in time, I remain neutral and open to any client that seeks my services. But tell me, do you think Elphaba can turn the tide?"

"With time and delicate use of the Stimulant, it may well be the case. The Mentor certainly seems to think so, but I would prefer to wait until the drug regimen bears fruit."

"And you'll keep her safe until then, yes?"

"Of course," said Kiln, dryly. "I'm not some small-town mayor who has to be threatened into protecting a guest. I remember my obligations - to you, to the Mentor, to my patients, and to Elphaba."

"Good."

"But in the meantime, have you thought of what you're going to say to her when the two of you meet again?"

The Mistress thought for a moment, and then continued in much softer tone of voice. "I can't imagine what I'd have to say to her after all this time, you know: I'm well aware that she isn't the Elphaba that now rules Unbridled Radiance, but from what I've seen of her through the mirrors, she's almost exactly as she was before the surgery… and from what I heard of her story, I'm dead in her reality. Do you really think we'll have that much in common after so much divergence?" She sighed. "Just… say hello to her for me, would you?"

"I will. Believe me, she'll be happy to see you. Oh, and one more thing: I think it's time Omber Landless came out of his – or her – coma, and you might be the best candidate to perform the awakening."

"Ah, so you noticed the imprint on the League-member's brain. At the time, it was the only way I could set the other Glinda free without revealing myself, but you know how it is. I trust you're not ordering this awakening just so you can bombard the poor shapeshifter with questions about the serum."

"Well, I'd be lying if that wasn't at least part of it. But with the radio tower down and most of the mirrors carefully warded, Omber may be the most efficient way of sending a report to the Mentor. It would save time on dispelling the enchantments, I'm sure you'd agree."

Beneath the cowl, the Mistress of Mirrors' face turned grave. "There's something else the Mentor needs to know; I think Elphaba – the Empress – might just be gathering her strength for a magical assault on your capital…"

---

Somewhere deep beneath the glittering streets of Exemplar, a sterile room is abuzz with activity.

By and large, it's a nondescript sort of place: with its bare walls, tiled floors and mirrored sinks, it can easily be mistaken for a meticulously-cleaned public restroom – if not for the cluster of sarcophagi that huddled in a corner, and the machinery slowly hauling them into its depths and the adjoining chamber beyond.

The men and women (and other entities) that work here have been hand-picked for their loyalty and efficiency above all else: when the order arrived to begin processing the "guests," they hadn't questioned who these people were, what they'd done to deserve it, or even if there'd been a mistake in sending these people in this direction. They'd simply read the orders, memorised the questions, and got to work, trusting that their faith in the Empress would make all things right. So, as commanded, the sarcophagi are opened and their contents processed as thoroughly as the synthesis of human and mechanical interrogators would allow. This isn't the workmanlike beating that common interrogations usually entailed, nor is it the brisk mixing of esoteric lie-detecting techniques and the carrot-and-stick approach that the Deviant Nations preferred; this requires much more effort to truly divine the answers that had been requested.

One by one, automated machines unlock the sarcophagi and unceremoniously empty their still-groggy occupants onto a conveyer belt, where the arms of the Assessor go about softening the captives up for the torture that is to follow: all of them are subjected to disorienting lights, injections of drugs, loud noises, and the occasional jab of a dull blade into sensitive organs; for good measure, every single noise and whimper is carefully recorded – just in case the prisoner confesses a little early. Then, freshly stripped of clothing and suitably rattled by the preliminaries, they are deposited in a soundproof cell and left to the tender mercies of the real interrogators; it might take hours or even days for the subject to crack, and even longer for the mechanisms analysing their recorded statements to detect an honest answer, but they'll get their answers one way or another. Whatever the case, the prisoner will be removed (lethally or otherwise), the cell will be cleaned and the next subject will be tipped out of his sarcophagus and onto the waiting conveyer belt.

Omber Landless knows this procedure all too well: he (or possibly she; even Omber wasn't certain anymore) had seen this happen on the last two dreadful visits to the Sepulchre; nobody ever forgot encounters with the Studious Interviewers, even if you'd never actually been subjected to their polite inquiries, even if you'd only been forced to watch what happened to their unfortunate guests. Besides, it had been almost immediately after the first of those terrible sojourns that the young Landless had first made contact with the Amorphous League.

With such a momentous event following such a visit, how could you forget what had been seen and heard in these quiet little rooms? And knowing what happened to the members of the Amorphous League, how could you not feel dread at the sight of the automated forklift slowly ferrying sarcophagi towards the conveyer belt? And how – with perhaps four or five more caskets between you and a slow, agonizing death, can you not close your eyes and wish that you could once again become mist and simply float away? Or that you had the tools to unlock this damned sarcophagus from the inside?

Thankfully, Omber's sarcophagus is the very last in line to be processed, the Interviewers having declared him/her a low-priority information source and of little interest except perhaps in tying up loose ends. But there's precious little to do in the meantime except to avoid looking at the conveyer belt and try to think of something else; waiting here is almost as torturous as the interrogation itself.

Then out of the corner of an eye, the nervous shapeshifter notices something that not even the Studious Interviewers would permit in their offices"

Even though it's usually a given that the captives are too bewildered to fight back, security is still top priority: the sarcophagi are corralled inside a thick metal cage until it was time for them to be retrieved by the arms of the machinery, with the door remaining locked as soon as the casket-like booths were caged. Furthermore, the entrance to the room itself was alarmed in case anyone made the mistake of trying to enter without submitting a correct code.

But unbeknownst to the security technicians who'd armed the system, their apparently invasion-proof security system has one glaring flaw: all the room's defences are geared towards preventing anyone from entering through the door, ceiling, floor or walls.

None of them had planned on repelling an entrance from the mirrors.

Something vague and shadowy is pressing itself against one of the washbasin mirrors – from the other side of the glass. Slowly, and quite impossibly, the figure begins to slowly pour itself through the solid surface of the mirror with all the fluidity of water through a sieve, creeping over the basin and landing in a more-or-less corporeal form on the floor. The figure pauses a moment to straighten its clothing, then swiftly crosses the tiles with the curious grace of a shadow, moving directly towards the sarcophagi - towards Omber.

Stopping right in front of the offending sarcophagus, the figure examines it with something not unlike interest; then, to the occupant's shock, it peers directly into the casket's gilded face, making heart-stopping eye contact with Omber in the process. For twelve seconds, they study each other: Omber, thin, shivering, clothes ragged, body soaked with sweat, expression almost painfully nervous, and overall still far too many years away from attaining the state of perpetual transformation s/he aspires to; the intruder tall, slender and dressed in a gown made from something that looks eerily like smoke woven into silk – or perhaps this is what a shadow looks like when made corporeal.

And above its high collar, Omber can just about discern the face of his/her apparent rescuer: she's beautiful – almost unsettlingly so - with high cheekbones framing enormous silvery eyes, her features distinguished from the shadows around her by hauntingly pale skin and garnet-red lips; but perhaps the most distinctive feature is her long dark hair, which almost seems to blend with the shadow-spun gown at times. At first, Omber's almost inclined to think that she's one of the Purified; but looking closer, none of the usual earmarks of flesh-porcelain are visible. This is something very different indeed.

"Omber Landless?" she asks.

Omber mumbles in the affirmative, even though logic dictates that the woman shouldn't be able to hear anything said beneath the lid of the soundproof casket.

"Sorry to disturb you in this rather pivotal moment, but I'm here to make you an offer of sorts: I'm prepared to free you from this sarcophagus-"

Omber's eyes widen, his/her body flooding with something s/he hasn't felt in days: hope.

"-on one condition: you go directly to the morgue, rescue Glinda Upland, and ensure that she escapes with you alive. After that, I'm afraid I can't help you any further beyond a few misdirected cameras and delayed security sensors, so you'll have to get out under your own steam. Nonetheless, I'm told you have experience with the Sepulchre's layout and significant knowledge of modifying security systems, so I'm hoping that you'll be able to escape without too much difficulty. Do you-"

Omber nods fiercely, all but shouting in agreement: if it means getting out of this overdesigned coffin and out of the capital, it's a deal as far as s/he's concerned. Even having to stop and rescue another prisoner doesn't sound like such a trial: after all, wandering the corridors of the Sepulchre would be much more endurable with the company of a fellow captive, especially one that Omber's been wondering about ever since that first garbled conversation. Who is she? What had she been imprisoned for? Why hadn't she been sent directly to the interrogations chambers along with the rest of the Sarcophagi? And what does this mysterious intruder want with her?

"Wonderful. Glad to see you so enthusiastic. There is one thing I must warn you of before we begin, though: there's a significant chance that you might end up being captured in the process of getting Glinda to safety, and because I can't afford to let anyone know I was here, I'm going to have to erase your memory of this little encounter – all except for the request to save Glinda, of course. As such, you might find yourself a tad disoriented upon leaving the Sarcophagus, but it shouldn't detract from your ability. Now, let's get down to business…"

With a wave of its pale fingers, the figure sends the locking mechanisms of the sarcophagus and the cage that protect it whirring; moments later, the doors of both creak open, and Omber spills out onto the concrete floor. S/he has just enough time to notice the floor rushing up to introduce itself before Omber crashes facedown into the anti-fungal tiles-

"Omber?"

Very slowly, Omber's eyes creaked open.

Perhaps a minute passed as the bewildered ex-shapeshifter realized that s/he was no longer dreaming. Blearily, Omber studied the room that s/he'd awakened in: white walls, white floors, white ceilings, white sheets, a strong smell of hospital-grade disinfectant, and a refreshing number of windows; obviously s/he wasn't back in the interrogation room – the sepulchre didn't have this much natural light. And, unless the memories he'd had of escaping from captivity with Glinda were hopelessly garbled, it was probably safe to assume that the cargo ship had made it through the portal and they'd been rescued. The question was, by whom?

And then the voice echoed once again:

"Omber? I know this might be a bit much to ask of you at this point, but I'm going to need you to follow my directions."

"Oh no, not again…"

---

Something was wrong.

He could hear it in the tone of the music: it was muted, quiet, almost inaudible… and yet there was a tension to it that only emerged in those brief moments of tranquillity before the storm broke. The Champion knew these moments all too well: sometimes it had been the enemy who'd broke the storm and let the music soar to new heights; more often, it had been him that had struck first and brought the song to crescendo.

Out here, on the topmost balcony of the highest spire of the palace, with Exemplar and its surrounding landscapes laid out beneath them like toys on a child's quilt, there were no visible threats to his life or that of the Empress. There were no enemy airships massing on the horizon, the proximity alarm hadn't detected any incoming missiles, the balcony hadn't suffered any structural damage, and nobody appeared to be in danger of falling from it – for as well as being wide enough to support a quartet of patrol tanks, the balcony's marble balustrades were tall enough to prevent anyone from toppling over the edge.

And for possible assassins, there didn't appear to be anyone dangerous in sight: the only other visitor that the Empress had allowed up here was Calbry, a thin, fine-featured young man barely tall enough to look Her Radiance in the eye – if he would have dared to do so. And though all known facts insisted that the assistant had been in the service of the Empress for almost four years, the Champion kept one eye trained on Calbry at all times; every conditioned instinct in his body told him this might just be the source of the apprehension, and he obeyed them, for the Empress had always told him to trust in his instincts – and the Empress was never wrong.

The Empress herself was standing at the very edge of the balcony, where platform and balustrades tapered into a single outstretched point "like an accusing finger" as she herself had described it. There, with her white robes dyed phoenix-flame red by the setting sun, she slowly chanted the arcane words of a spell from the Grimmerie now hovering in the air beside her.

To his credit, the assistant waited until the Empress finished chanting before hurrying forward with his report. "Your Radiance," he murmured, "I've received word from the technicians at work on Paragon's systems."

"What are their findings?"

Calbry held out a clipboard of papers for her to examine; from what little the Champion could see, most of them were fiendishly technical, incorporating designs and terminology far too complex for anyone but the engineers and the Empress herself to understand. "It is as you suspected for the most part, Your Radiance," Calbry murmured, as the Empress flipped through the papers. 'The Thinking Engine's initial programming did not take into account that someone might commit the blasphemy of impersonating you, allowing several of Paragon's gestalt minds to rebel."

"You say "several" and not just the three initial subjects: do the technicians have a list of minds that supported this rebellion?"

"At least ten out of the thirty-seven, Your Radiance: however, the three you initially suspected are the ringleaders for lack of a better term, apparently due to the fact that all of them were alive at the time of their installation, especially compared with the other minds. According to the specialists, a good deal of these others had undergone several seconds of post-mortem neural degeneration by the time they were connected to Paragon's archives-"

"Allowing them to be more easily led by minds who'd retained their individuality; yes, it makes sense. But have the specialists made any progress in correcting the error that allowed them to rebel in the first place?"

"According to the technicians, it will be easily rectified: they've rerouted the punishment circuits to visual data on the imposter; if Paragon attempts to stop the Vigilant Eyes from attacking a subject matching her description, the circuits will encourage it to deactivate the override and allow the Eyes to continue firing. They've also fixed the stutter, by the way."

"Excellent. I'll be sure to congratulate the technicians once my work up here is complete."

"If it pleases you, Your Radiance, I'd be happy to pass on your congratulations to them on my way back to the offices."

"Yes, I'm sure you would be… if you weren't here to assassinate me first."

Inwardly, the Champion rejoiced in the knowledge that his instincts had been deemed correct in the eyes of the Empress; outwardly, he drew long-barrelled Justice from the holster at his waist with one fluid sweep of his arm and took careful aim at "Calbry's" skull. Blinking in shock, the supposed assistant looked from Justice's muzzle to the Empress's amused face, and stammered, "Your Radiance, I-I-I don't-"

"You needn't look so disheartened: your disguise was flawless up until a few minutes ago."

"My disguise? What do you mean-"

"You know very well, my friend. Credit where credit is due, you're completely identical to the real Calbry, but then I very much doubt that any shapeshifter would ever be content to leave physical errors in such a meticulously-detailed form – especially a shapeshifter experienced enough to be entrusted with a mission such as this. Getting past the security sensors would have much more difficult, though; unless your brethren have found a way to mask their Distortion, you should have been detected long before you reached the palace. And your performance was first-rate: I almost believed that you really were Calbry for a moment… up until you started delivering the technobabble just a little too easily; the real Calbry tends to forget at least half the words unless he's taken the time to summarise it on a piece of paper – hence the reason why he usually has someone else deliver the technical details. I suppose you didn't have the time to identify that particular quirk before you made your move, am I right?"

"Empress, you must be-"

"Please, let's not prolong this charade any longer: I know what you are; once your mistake got my attention, I could smell the Deviant sorcery on you like the scent of the grave. What have you done with the real Calbry? Did you kill him, or did you merely knock him out in the hopes that he wouldn't awaken before you'd finished your mission?"

Suddenly, the look of innocent surprise was gone from the imposter's face. "As if you care."

My love, the Empress whispered mentally, alert the palace guards. Ensure that all exits are blocked, including the perimeter barrier: I don't want this Distortion getting away. In the meantime, I'll keep him occupied.

The Champion nodded, and – with one eye still on the cornered assassin – reached for the emergency transmitter at his waist, and quickly keyed in a short message before sending it directly to the barracks.

"Oh, but I do," the Empress continued out loud. "Contrary to the propaganda of the Deviant Nations, I care about a great many things. For example, the fate of your masters: tell me, since when did the Amorphous League give up on cowardice? Last I looked, you were still scattered and fleeing for your lives in the hope that you could continue your repulsive existences and blasphemous practises in lands yet untouched by Unbridled Radiance."

"You're not nearly as well-informed as you think, Your Radiance," he spat, the traditional honorific clearly voiced as an insult. "We've gathered as a League once again, and had time to take stock of how many of us you've killed over the years: it's not just freedom we want-"

"Its revenge," the Empress finished. There was a disappointed, almost sorrowful note to her voice now; as far as the Champion could recall, this was a tone that she only used in her encounters with those Deviants and Distortions who had fallen so far as to be pathetic. "I've had such sentiments expressed to me before, and I'm sorry to say that this has to be one of the least impressive instances. The Amorphous League hasn't been considered a physical threat for all the years of its existence – only an insult. You're not soldiers, you're not magicians, and you're not visionaries in any sense of the word: you are children playing at war, thinking that their toys can be turned into weapons."

"You think so?" the assassin snarled, one eye still fixed upon the gun pointed at his head. "You think we're children? After all the years we've been able to escape and resist your control? I've gotten closer to you than any of the other assassins your enemies have sent here, and you think we're just children?"

"And would you suppose that a loose-knit cabal of frustrated hedonists could be called anything else? You have always been children at heart: you chose Deviancy simply because it was fun, because you embraced a child's fantasy of being something you weren't, of flying as a bird or wearing the body of the opposite sex. You rejected even the blasphemies of the Irredeemables and the rogue Mage-Surgeons simply because permanent alteration and magical self-modification were simply too demanding; you wanted easy transformation, and you accepted it even when your bodies began to Distort. Even with your leaders reduced to a meaningless state of perpetual change, you still want it. After all, what was the Amorphous League's initial protest but the wailing of a petulant child demanding that he be allowed to play with fire?"

She laughed. "And like children, you always find yourself outmatched when adults stand against them, and you always resort to cowardice. Especially your master."

The assassin's features warped with rage, horns and porcupine quills ripping across his skin. "What?!"

"Little shapshifter, I knew your master – the creature you call the First of the Shapeless - long before he founded the League. If you think his resistance to my rule is the pinnacle of a life lived courageously, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed: the First of the Shapeless has always been a coward. I should know: I've heard him cry out in terror and seen him jump at his shadow… and I've made him scream so very easily."

With a roar of outrage, the assassin lunged at the Empress; at the same time, his body began to change, slipping free of Calbry's uniform and shifting into a new form. In a matter of seconds, the shapeshifter had unravelled from the extremities inwards, his skin forming dark green scales and his human form slowly dividing itself into dozens of lengthy tendrils, until a huge interlinked cluster of vivid green snakes writhed and hissed before them - each constricting body more than fifteen feet long, each diamond-shaped head equipped with a set of needle-like teeth dripping with poison.

Then, the Champion's first bullet struck it right in its knotted centre, sending it tumbling away; roaring in pain, the monster lashed out at the Empress with no less than fifteen sets of jaws – only for each snake to bounce harmlessly off empty air. The Champion fired again, decapitating one of the serpents and sending the severed bodies of two others flopping bonelessly to the floor; three more shots, and the creature had to coil itself around the balustrades to keep itself from toppling over the edge. Hissing, it lashed out once more, this time managing to dislodge Justice from the Champion's grip; manoeuvring one of its tails into the trigger with impressive dexterity, it opened fire on the Empress – again and again and again until the clip was empty and the assassin furiously threw the gun aside.

"You'll have to excuse me," said the Empress, still unharmed behind her web of defensive spells. "As much as I'd like to extinguish your life here and now, there are matters awaiting my attention that cannot be postponed; if you like, you're more than welcome to discuss your grievances with my Champion… unless, of course, you're determined to carry on your master's reputation for cowardice."

The assassin paused, its many heads flicking from side to side as it considered this; then it charged headlong at the Champion. And as it did so, it began to change: the snakes comprising its lower half began to intertwine and merge into four thick elephantine legs, whilst those of its upper half clustered together into a huge grotesquely muscled torso, augmented with a pair of crustacean pincers large enough to grabble with construction equipment, and one enormous fang-studded mouth in the very centre of its misshapen chest.

"For shapelessness!" it roared.

Hearing the music crescendo at last into its familiar joyous strains, the Champion drew his blade and flung himself towards the oncoming monster; at the last second before the two of them were due to collide, he leapt to the right with all the agility his augmented muscles could afford him. And as the assassin's mottled bulk rushed past him, he swung around, lashing out at a blurring speed, his blade easily parting the hide and leaving deep scars in the shapeshifter's flank. Above him, the sharklike mouth roared; two powerful arms launched themselves at him, pincers snapping open and shut in a fury; but by the time they got within striking distance, the Champion was already gone – somersaulting gracefully towards the discarded shape of Justice.

The song echoed onwards, following lyrics that the Champion had long since forgotten and filling the world with a euphoria that he could only feel in battle; and as the song grew more energetic, so did the duel: with its body now cratered with bullet wounds and scored with lacerations, the assassin was forced to change again, it's oversized form swiftly shedding its bulk and sprouting thick fur across its leathery hide, its fanged maw protruding outwards on a canine snout. In seconds, the Distortion had slimmed down into the much leaner form of a wolf – but larger than any true wolf and twice as ravenous. With a howl, it dove at the Champion with all the swiftness and agility its previous form had lacked, nipping at his heels and savaging anything within reach of its jaws; this time, the Champion met the charge head-on, warding off the wolf's lunging attacks with lightning-fast swings of his blade and elegantly sidestepping any attacks that slipped past his defence, matching the animal's impressive speed with his own Purified grace.

Howling its disbelief, the wolf leaped backwards into another transformation: curling itself into a ball, its fur split open and the flesh beneath it hardened, its body growing and sprouting into what looked like a human-sized snail shell mounted on at least a dozen spidery legs, covered with several chimney-like protrusions. For a split second, it crouched down: then with a loud succession of bangs and pops, the chimneys discharged a huge cloud of bony pellets into the air- each one firing almost exactly like a shotgun; twelve times, the shell-like creature fired upon him, but however accurately it had aimed and regardless of how quickly it had fired, the Champion simply wasn't there.

Excited with range and panic, the assassin changed again, this time melting away into a huge puddle of blubbery, cloying protoplasm that spread across the balcony like spilled tar; sprouting rudimentary limbs, it reached out towards the Champion again and again, trying to drag him into its own suffocating depths or simply crush him to a bloody pulp beneath the weight of its primitive fists. But once again, the Champion was too fast: ducking away from a pseudopod that would have torn his head off had he been a moment slower, then leaping over the quicksand-like expanse of the blob's flesh, he drew a cluster of incendiary grenade from his belt and began pelting the advancing quagmire with fire - the only guaranteed weakness of the Amorphous League.

Startled at being so countered with something that could actually hurt the liquid form, it changed once more, dividing and yet solidifying until the newly-feathered mass erupted into the air as a flock of crows; pecked and scratched by the angry birds, the Champion simply held his ground and waited for the attack to subside, trusting in his mask to protect him from the one serious injury that his assailants could inflict.

Quickly realizing that its opponent couldn't be deterred by pain, the crows turned in mid-air and flew away, attempting to flee the balcony once and for all; but by now the security barrier had been activated, stopping the assassin's path in mid-air and leaving it trapped within the palace grounds. With no option but to fight, the flock coalesced into a single body once again – humanoid, skin plated with an armour-like exoskeleton, arms tapering into sharp blades and spines; now the two of them truly duelled, feinting and dodging, ducking and weaving, mixing elegant fencing moves with brutal piston-kicks, the honed steel blades and chitinous forearms clashing, parrying, slicing and stabbing.

Just as it seemed that the two of them were at stalemate, the Empress finally finished her preparations on the edge of the balcony. Out of the corner of his eye, the Champion saw her hovering perhaps ten feet off the ground, her body awash with magical energies and surrounded by a dazzling corona of light. She'd stopped chanting from the Grimmerie several minutes ago; this magic was her own, as pure and as devastating as a tidal wave. And then, as the Champion ducked beneath his opponent's next swing, he saw her stretch out her hand…

… And then, the light surged outwards…

… The assassin tumbled back, compound eyes dazzled by the light….

… The Champion's blade arced through the air towards the shapshifter's unarmoured throat, an incendiary grenade in his free hand….

… And an obliterating barrage of energy rocketed out across the evening sky towards Greenspectre.

---

"Try it again."

Glinda took a deep breath, and raised her wand: bought less than five short hours ago from one of the more reputable thaumaturgical supply shops, it was nowhere near as impressive as the old wand; about half the length of its predecessor and made from a gleaming silvery metal so polished it looked almost like platinum, it was unadorned except for a simple wooden grip around its middle, apparently to prevent it from slipping out of the user's hand in emergencies. It didn't seem like much – just a tapering piece of metal, really – but it was better than nothing.

Pausing only to check the instructions in the Beginner's Book of Wand Techniques open on the desk beside her, she took careful aim at the practice dummy, and focussing every last atom of her attention upon it, waved her wand through the air in one fluid movement.

Once again, the dummy did not fall over.

"Are you sure you're doing that right?" Vara asked.

"It's what it says in the book."

"I think you're meant to move a little faster than that; this is meant for combat, after all."

Sighing deeply, Glinda repeated the wand-wave again, turning the fluid swing into much more violent swish: the dummy didn't so much as wobble.

"What else does it say in the book?"

"Let me see… "Sometimes, the use of spoken words may assist you in focussing your willpower: remember, these are not true incantations and the effects may not match the words, but with their potential to sharpen concentration they may help troubled learners to grasp the basics of harnessing magical power with a wand. EDITOR'S WARNING: focussing techniques are intended for beginners only, and going into battle against a trained magician or attempting to perform advanced wand techniques (ie: transmutation) is not recommended." Oh, so that's what Morrible meant; no wonder I could never get that ballgown spell right. At least I've got a way of translating her dusty old lectures into proper Ozian now."

"Are you going to give this a try?"

"Maybe. What should I say though?"

"Anything! You said it yourself: the effects won't match the words. Just try whatever sounds best to you; remember, it's your willpower it's focussing."

Glinda took a deep breath, turned back towards the dummy, raised her wand again, and with another violent swish of movement, shouted, "Fall over!"

The dummy refused to do so.

"Try and make it actually sound like a spell."

"Faaaaaaall Oooooveeeeerrrrr," Glinda intoned dramatically, in her best imitation of Elphaba reading from the Grimmerie. Almost as an afterthought, she waved her wand in the direction of the dummy – to no avail.

Gritting her teeth, she tried again: "Faaaall Oooveeer!" she proclaimed, this time remembering to perform the wand-movement as she did so. However, the target remained as motionless as ever; if an inanimate object could ever look smug without possessing a face, the training dummy had just managed it.

"Fall over!" she insisted angrily, swishing her wand back and forth in a furious arc. "Fall over! Fall over! Fall over, you f- I mean, you sh- you bas- you… ah."

Dorothy, who'd been sitting on the couch for the last twenty minutes and struggling not to laugh, blinked confusedly. "Why did you stop?" she asked. "Using those words might have worked."

"Do you actually know what I was going to say just then, Dorothy?"

"No. Why? Were the words really magical or something?"

"Let's leave that discussion for another day," said Vara hastily. "Now, let's try again."

They'd been at this for almost an hour. Having spent most of the morning buying magical supplies and textbooks (along with a few books that had caught Dorothy's interest), the three of them had enjoyed a sumptuous lunch at one of the quieter restaurants in the financial district; in between a main course of fresh chicken sandwiches and a dessert of cream pastries, Glinda had told Dorothy the truth behind Oz - of how she and Elphaba had first met, how they'd gradually become friends, of the Wizard's true nature, and how Elphaba had opposed him and been branded "The Wicked Witch of the West" as a result. For her part, Dorothy had been astonished throughout this confession, but had been glad to know the true story at last; in turn, Glinda had been relieved to finally admit what had happened, and as such, the two of them returned to the palace in a pretty good mood.

As the afternoon had carried on, the good mood had faded a little as Glinda's more ambitious attempts at magic had failed. Admittedly, this wasn't entirely unexpected: she had no illusions about her abilities, having had plenty of time to realize her own mediocrity as a witch during her service to the Wizard's government; during that time, the most she'd been able to do was perform a few illusions and enchantments that Morrible had to spend weeks forcing her to learn before she was able to use them, and in the end she forgot most of them except for the Bubble. All the same, she thought that it might be possible to at least reinvent herself as a vaguely competent witch this time; after all, the social life she'd once possessed was virtually gone, along with Morrible's refusal to repeat lessons except in emergencies, so most of the problems that had gotten in the way of her studies was gone (Except of course for my own stupidity, she thought). Of course, she knew she'd never even approach Elphaba's power or expertise, but at least she wouldn't be totally useless.

So here she was, back to basics: waving a wand in the hope that she might be able to move an object by magic, and trying desperately not to lose heart.

"Try anything," Vara urged. "Just say the first thing that pops into your head, the first thing that just clicks with you. Preferably something that doesn't directly reference knocking the dummy over. Remember, you have to mean it for the casting to work; that's what the words are about – getting yourself to mean it."

Glinda took a deep breath, pointed her wand at the target, closed her eyes, and let her mind wander for perhaps half a second: like a hermit crab retreating into its shell, she drew back into herself, thinking ever inwards… until she found herself back in her room at Shiz, presiding over Elphaba's makeover and waving a wand without a care or a clue in the world. And she was saying-

"Ballgooooooooown," she intoned, every last drop of concentration suddenly focussed on the dummy as she swept her wand from left to right. She felt an almost-imperceptible flickering of energy in the air… but the dummy itself didn't move.

"Glinda, I'm not sure if that's going to-"

"BALLGOOOOOOOOOWN!" Glinda shouted, as she had the second time on that night at Shiz – except this time she wasn't expecting it to work simply because she'd said it: this time, she willed it to work with every last thought in her brain. This time, her wand followed the directions exactly, and this time magic sparked through the air towards her target; a moment later, the dummy burst into flame, its dry sackcloth skin igniting with a whoosh and a loud crackle of burning hay.

Dorothy applauded wildly, Vara hurried to the kitchen for a bucket of water, and Glinda collapsed into a chair to marvel at the charred remains of the dummy.

"Once again, not exactly the effect we'd intended," said Vara, as she went about dousing the flames. "But at least we've got some reaction this time. You do realize that it's not going to work forever, you know? I've read ahead, and according to the book, you're eventually going to have to eventually give up on using focus words if you ever expect to start working proper magic and cast real spells."

Glinda, who was giggling with euphoria by now, could only smile. In all her years as a witch, she'd never managed anything close to what she'd just accomplished; magic had always been a stuck door to her, something she could only really make use of if she was either extremely lucky or under the watchful eyes of Morrible. And when she had managed it, there'd never been any real wonder to any of it except perhaps for the Bubble; she'd felt no joy or excitement at any of its effects and no intrigue at the possibilities it had offered. Magic had simply been what had been expected of her, first as a wealthy girl from the Upper Uplands with a prestigious future ahead of her, then as a student of the notoriously perfectionist Madam Morrible, then as Glinda the Good. True, there'd been a certain degree of fascination stirred up when she'd seen it correctly performed – especially by Elphaba – but after years of Morrible's dreary practice routines, all her interest in it had dried up and crumbled away. At times she'd even found herself wondering why Elphaba had ever been able to study it in such detail when it was so boring. Now she understood: now magic felt truly magical.

Now, first the first time in all her years of practising magic she felt…

Well…

… Wicked.

Dorothy was staring at the charred remains of the dummy. "I bet you're glad that didn't work when you tried it on Elphaba, aren't you?" she said, half-amused and half-alarmed.

"It's not the words, Dorothy," Vara explained, as she swept away the mess. "It's what was attached to the words, what Glinda felt about them."

"Frustratiation," said Glinda brightly. "Probably frustratiation connected with magic. That's probably why I used the second version instead of the first. Probably why I didn't use anything else I've said when I was angry or upset."

Just as well, she thought. "I didn't get my way" would be the most pathetic-sounding war cry ever.

"Do you think Elphaba ever used focus words?" Dorothy asked.

Glinda all but burst out laughing. "I doubt it; these words were only ever meant for people who couldn't even get the hang of using a wand. Elphaba was dragging things around with her thoughts before she was even enrolled in Morrible's magic class!"

"Oh." Dorothy thought for a moment. "Do you think I could borrow one of your textbooks? I think I'd like to know just how many ways to use magic there are…"

On the other side of the room, Vara was opening a window to clear away the smoke; as she did so, she happened to glance out the window. "That's funny," she muttered. "I didn't think we were enhancing the shields again so soon."

"What's wrong?" Dorothy asked, padding over.

"You see that flickering light on the horizon? That's usually a sign that the magical defences set up at the border are being boosted; normally we only do that if there's a possibility of us being attacked, but so far we haven't received any-"

Vara's eyes widened. "Oh my god," she whispered, her scales turning pale turquoise.

"It's not flickering anymore," said Dorothy, oblivious to the change in their guardian's demeanour. "Actually the air over there looks a lot clearer. Do you think that means that-"

"GET DOWN!" Vara yelled, grabbing her by the shoulder and dragging her to the floor.

A split second later, the entire palace was rocked by a colossal explosion that sent Glinda tumbling out of her chair; windows shattered, paintings fell from the walls, furniture rumbled out of position, and the tower itself began to bend and tilt as the tremors wrenched the palace out of shape, until the floor itself was in danger of becoming the wall. Vara had somehow adhered herself to the edge of the windowsill, Dorothy dangled from Vara's left leg, and ten feet beneath them Glinda clung helplessly to the carpet like a mountain climber in danger, struggling desperately not to fall, drop her wand or collide with anything that happened to drop past her. There was almost no way of telling what was going on outside: in her current position, Glinda could only glimpse the blinding light pouring through the broken window, and hear the thunderous roaring of the ongoing explosion. Just beneath that, she could also hear the chaos it was causing: the crash of shattering glass, the terrified screams from unsuspecting citizens, the wooden thud of loose objects slamming into walls, and the nerve-shredding sound of very foundations of the palace shaking apart.

The entire ordeal couldn't have lasted any longer than half a minute, but it felt like twenty years: the thought that tower might collapse with them still it was so pervasive that Glinda honestly considered trying to conjure the Bubble, even after all her previous attempts to do so with her new wand had ended in failure. But eventually, with a sonorous groan, the floor gradually returned to its proper angle as the tower seemingly righted itself. Even so, it took a long while before any of them felt safe enough to rise… and by then, another explosion had started.

Staggering over to the window, Glinda looked out upon utter chaos: Greenspectre was on fire, hundreds of buildings and countless districts blazing with vivid white flames, and the air was thick with the smell of smoke and the screams of panicked citizens. The industrial district was a multi-coloured haze of ignited chemicals, its melting chimneys and disintegrating factories masked by a disturbingly beautiful display of lights that reminded Glinda of the kaleidoscopes she'd looked through when she was a child. Smogeaters dropped from the sky by the dozen, their gelatinous bulks punctured and their tendrils ripped away long before they burst against the ground. Airships crowded the sky – some of them clearly trying to escape the carnage, others trying to put out the fires or rescue trapped citizens; countless more had been wrecked in mid-flight and were making the long plunge towards the ground, often colliding with buildings or even other airships as they fell. And in the streets directly below, terrified figures fled in their hundreds, away from the fires, towards the safety of the palace grounds, in any direction that might distance them from the terror.

Then, light poured across the burning city, identical to the blinding glow she'd seen from the window: a vast beam of energy sweeping in from the distant horizon, tearing through buildings and slicing them clean in half, obliterating smaller buildings outright and simply vaporizing any airships that happened to get in the way. From left to right it cut a swathe through the city, scything the towers of Greenspectre into rubble. In its wake, a deadly barrage of lightning followed, rippling through the streets and igniting almost anything it touched: another district erupted into flame.

And though the magician behind this spell had to be hundreds of miles away, Glinda knew without a shadow of doubt that it had to be the Empress; the light was so much like Elphaba's own wild talent it hurt to look at, but whereas Elphie's power was a haunting green glow that was almost beautiful to witness in action, the Empress' power was blinding, searing, and unceasing in its fury – in its punishment.

Behind her, Vara was shouting, "…. She must have disabled our defences at the barrier; God only knows she's been trying for months on end… we've… we've got to do something…"

"I think someone already is," said Dorothy, pointing to the west.

Sure enough, sailing towards the beam of light was another airship: larger than most of the ships that Glinda had seen so far, it was built in the style of an old-fashioned galleon, except with glowing plates of metal in place of sails, and with what looked like a solid metal hull. Coloured in magnificent shades of black and gold, with a figurehead in shape of a howling wolf, it was an extraordinary sight – especially with the city aflame beneath it. But that the ship itself was nothing compared with the figure atop the crow's-nest.

Standing atop the mast, clearly visible as the ship rumbled past the window, was the Great Mentor; haggard, only held upright by the prostheses she wore, she nonetheless held her ground, facing down the oncoming blast of energy without so much as flinching. And as the light tore through the air towards her, she made no attempt to run.

And when the light struck her, it stopped with an explosion that seemed to leave ripples in the air itself but nonetheless left the ship unharmed. Even from this distance, Glinda could still see the Mentor standing on the crow's-nest, arms outstretched and alight with magic, holding back the supposedly unstoppable blast with power earned and mastered over decades of war, wrestling it off course and pushing it back.

She wasn't alone either: as Glinda watched, she saw another ship drift in from the east, carrying a small army of strangely-dressed figures; as they passed close to the window, she saw many of them chanting from spellbooks, waving their hands and brandishing ornate sceptres. Two more shiploads of magicians followed, all three of them lending their strength to the Mentor's battle with every technique they had at hand. And from somewhere nearby, she heard voices from nearby balconies chanting as well, either helping their leader force the onslaught back, or simply extinguishing fires and steading buildings.

"For the Deviant Nations!" someone roared in the distance. "For the Great Mentor!"

But just as Glinda thought that the day might be saved a little easier than expected, she heard the door crash open, and turned around just in time to see one of the palace guards slump to the floor, his throat torn open from ear to ear.

Standing behind him was a gaggle of short, garishly-dressed figures; almost clownlike in appearance, their masklike faces were daubed with warpaint in deranged patterns, only augmented by their tattered silken clothes. But there was nothing silly or funny about these things, whatever they were, for even Glinda couldn't fail to recognize the blood on their dagger-tipped fingers.

Not too far behind them, something was slowly tearing open a portal in the wall of the corridor, wrenching it open wider and wider and allowing more of the clownlike figures into the room. And gripping the edges of portal, holding it open with a magical power that even Glinda couldn't fail to notice, were four skinless hands.

"Hello, little DOLL," said a distorted voice. "Meet your FUTURE brothers and sisters!"

---

"Somebody's screaming!"

"Pardon me, Mr… Ms… oh goddamn it. Landless, the enemy is blasting our defences to pieces! Everybody's screaming at this-"

"It's coming from Glinda's room, in case you hadn't noticed. Last I looked, I was on the way to visit her, you were on the way to evacuate her – you should be more concerned than me."

"Well, that's true… but the Mentor told us all about you: you're a valuable witness, and that means you have to be evacuated first. So, you can clearly see the exits haven't been blocked by rubble, so you just run along and I'll take care of things."

"And if you need help?"

"No offence, sir - or madam - but I think I'm more than capable of rescuing a couple of women from… oh gods above."

"… Well, I didn't expect to see that. Or those, whatever they are. You still willing to tackle this alone?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"I just need to pick up something from that cart over there: it looks like the builders have been at work on the decorations here… and unless I'm surely mistaken, this is a blowtorch."

---

Dorothy's mind went blank.

For twelve nightmarish seconds she was frozen where she stood, as if the Hellion had managed to paralyse her again. Then, as the Dolls (They're her dolls, she thought deliriously, she wants to turn me into one of them!) slowly advanced on her, she turned and saw that Glinda and Vara were now armed – the former with her new wand, the latter with a long, curved knife.

"When I give the order," Vara was whispering, "take Dorothy and run for the bathroom; there's a ledge outside the bathroom window – you should be able to climb to the next floor if you're both careful. Don't look back, make sure to lock the door behind you, and do not try to rescue me."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Damn it, Glinda, this is no time to play hero-"

"No. I'm not hiding again, I'm not running again, and I'm not letting someone else take the fall for me again. Dorothy, when I give the order-"

"Give up our little sister," one of the dolls hissed. "Our mother misses her terribly. We'll let you keep your blood in your veins and your flesh on your bones if you return her to us."

If Vara was afraid, she was doing a remarkable job of hiding it. "In case none of you have noticed," she snapped, "you're not in your own lair or some backwater village: you're in Greenspectre palace, and only reason you got past the defences was because the Empress tore them down and the Mentor's too busy fending her off to stop you. As soon as that's over and done with, you're dead, and in the meantime there's still dozens of security guards around; they'll be searching the palace for wounded guests and servants even as we speak, and the moment they see you, they'll be here in force. So if there's even the slightest bit of sanity between the eight of you, leave now while you still have the chance."

The Hellion laughed. "Poor silly LITTLE Varalinda."

"What?"

The Dolls laughed along with the Hellion, and in between giggles, one of them began to titter the words of nursery rhyme in a mocking sing-song voice: "Poor little Vara, they took her child away! Poor little Vara, she's mourning 'til this day!"

"Poor little baby, she tried to keep from harm! Poor little baby, they tore it from her arms!" screeched another.

"Good mothers don't breed Distortions!" cackled another, gleefully clapping its hands. "Good mothers don't breed Distortions!"

"Where's your little one now, blue scales? Did they send it to an orphanage? Is it full grown now? Is it one of the Purified? Or is it dead? Did it die when they tried to give it a proper face, or did they just throw it in the furnace like all unwanted children? Did the Mentor take you in because she knew you'd hate the Radiance with all your heart, or was it because she'd felt the same pain? Our mother knows, Little Vara, and she's happy to share: do you want to know what the Empress's men did with your baby? Do you want to hear how it screamed?"

Vara went white, along with most of her scales. For a moment or two, it looked as if she simply couldn't believe what she was hearing; then, her expression turned hard and cold. "I'm going to enjoy this," she snarled, raising her knife.

And with that, she threw herself at the nearest Doll.

The next five minutes were a bit of a blur: at some point in the chaos, Dorothy was vaguely aware of being pursued around the living room sofa by two of the Dolls in what had started out as a harrowing chase but had ended up being treated by the Dolls as little more than a game of tag – if their crazed giggling was any evidence. Meanwhile, Glinda and Vara were busily trying to fight off the other Dolls with varying levels of success; Vara hacking away at her assailants with enough savagery to tear through their silk-sleeved arms, Glinda occasionally blasting them across the room with what little magic she could summon. More often than not, she simply grabbed a chair and hammered away at the oncoming Dolls with it as best as she could. But nothing seemed to hurt them: every single arm hacked off simply reattached itself a few moments later; and no matter how hard the Dolls were thrown, whether it was against walls, ceiling, and floor, they always leaped back into the fray. Even those lucky enough to be blasted out the windows simply crawled back up the wall and scampered over the windowsill.

At several points, she saw a few guards bursting in to help, but for the most part the Dolls struck too quickly for them to defend themselves: more than once, Dorothy saw one of them sweep a hand along a guard's belly and tear it open – shirt and flesh – sending everything inside it tumbling out onto the floor; more than once, she saw a Doll leapfrog over an unprepared guard and slice his head from his shoulders in mid-jump. In between these moments, she was also distantly aware of blood spraying across her face from a body that had just landed in front of her.

Blood, blood, I always get covered in it when the Hellion tries to take me, she thought frantically, as she hastily scurried under the table. Oh god, it's on me, it's everywhere, oh god someone help me…

A porcelain hand fastened around her ankle, and even as Dorothy kicked out at it, the Doll tightened its grip and slowly dragged her out from under the table – and towards the portal. Desperately, she scrabbled for a handhold on the legs of the table, or the chairs, or the carpet, or anything that might keep her away from the Hellion for a minute longer. And when that didn't work and another Doll seized her other leg anyway, she instead reached out for anything she could use as a weapon: a brick, a piece of broken glass, a gun from one of the dead guards, she wasn't choosy – but nothing was within reach.

Then, her hand happened to brush something rough and club-shaped, and she immediately grabbed it: for a moment she despaired; it was only one of the training dummy's arms, torn off during the first explosion. But then she noticed the candle-like flame on the edge of its crude hand – the one part of the dummy that Vara hadn't doused.

The world stood still as she considered the flames. Now that she was actually holding a weapon, she briefly floundered at the thought of actually using it: she'd never deliberately hurt anyone in her entire life; she'd never ended up in any of the rougher games between the other kids back in Kansas, and back in Oz she hadn't even dreamed that she'd ever have to physically attack someone. After all, she was just a little girl when all was said and done, and at the time, she'd had the Tin Man and the Lion to protect her when she was on the road and the Wizard to protect her when she was sheltering in the Emerald City. What could she have possibly done against the Wicked Witch, anyway? But looking back, she realized that this attitude was one of the reasons why Elphaba had hated her so much before they'd been forced into their uneasy truce (along with the fact that you murdered her sister, Dorothy's conscience sneered); and looking back, it was easy to see why it had infuriated her. She'd never taken steps to defend herself; she'd never seriously worried about anyone trying to hurt her or lie to her; she'd simply drifted through Oz without a care in the world as if it were a fairytale come to life, trusting that the Wizard and those loyal to him would never lie to her, trusting that her friends would always be there to keep her from harm and never imagining that she'd have to defend herself one day.

And today is that day, Dorothy, she told herself. Nobody else can help you.

Sitting bolt upright, she swung the burning limb at the nearest Doll, and was immediately rewarded with a yelp of shock as the makeshift torch made contact; it's shirt now aflame, the Doll let go of her leg and ran for its life, frantically trying to put out the flames spreading across its body. As for the other, it immediately released her leg and backed away, clearly trying to figure out how to grab her without getting ignited as well; as Dorothy clambered to her feet, it tried, lunging forward to grab her arms before she could counterattack, but almost on reflex she lashed out and turned the creature's belly into a crackling bonfire.

Suddenly, from one end of the room to the next, the Dolls were frozen where they stood. From the moment they'd heard one of their own cry out in fear, they'd been transfixed by the sight of fire in their enemy's hands; Glinda, Vara and the two surviving guards had also looked up at the noise, and now watched in amazement as the blazing Dolls sprinted past them, hurrying desperately towards the portal as they tried to extinguish their own flames.

There was a tense pause, as everyone stared at the burning limb In Dorothy's hand, silent except for the sound of ten people thinking very quickly.

And then a metallic clattering sound shattered the silence, and a scream of "For the Amorphous League!" split the air; another explosion surged through the tower – this time from the inside: fire licked greedily at the crowd of Dolls, turning them into human-shaped torches that followed their fleeing brothers towards the portals. As they did so, their apparent rescuer chose that moment to charge into the room:

A dark-skinned figure dressed only in the grubby remains of a set of hospital pyjamas staggered to a halt next to Glinda, eyes wide and yelling like a madman (or possibly a madwoman). Clutched in one hand was what appeared to be… well, to Dorothy it looked like an oilcan attached to a pistol, but with a tapering nozzle instead of the barrel; and when the stranger pulled the trigger, what emerged wasn't the bang of a gunshot, but a jet of pale blue flame. One Doll that had been attempting to attack him from the side yelled and staggered away, its sleeves ablaze.

Suddenly it seemed as if the tide of battle had turned: realizing that the enemy now knew their only weakness and had managed to weaponize without meaning to, they began to slowly retreat towards the portal. Almost on reflex, Dorothy, Glinda, Vara and the stranger followed, warding off any Dolls still aggressive enough to fight back with a jab of the torch or a blast of the gas-burner; more Dolls fled in flames. Several of them tried to re-manoeuvre, ducking, diving and leaping acrobatically in an attempt to bypass the defenders; but there was simply not enough room for them to move freely, and too many other Dolls trying to do the same thing and pushing back their fellows to do so. Bit by bit, the Dolls were pushed back towards the corridor.

From somewhere outside, there was a thunderous explosion, and the light of the Empress' attack began to fade. "They're returning the BARRIERS to full strength!" the Hellion roared. "Back through THE PORTAL before it COLLAPSES, my Dolls! We will mend the FIRE-fouled and seize her the other way!"

With a hiss of agreement, most of the Dolls immediately turned tail and scurried back through the portal. But three were still reluctant to leave without first taking the prize for the Hellion: with one last colossal leap through the air they launched themselves over the furniture, over the reach of the blowtorch, and towards Dorothy, arms outstretched to envelop her.

And then a strident voice proclaimed, "BALLGOOOOOOOOWN!"

The focus word had to be the silliest-sounding warcry in history, but all the same it worked: the stuffed bodies of the Dolls ignited with a magnificent flash of light and heat, wreathing them in flame from head to toe. Howling in rage and frustration, the blazing Dolls turned and staggered blindly towards the portal, only just managing to dive through it before the Hellion lost her grip on the fabric of reality altogether and finally allowed the doorway to slam shut.

A ringing silence followed, as the echoes of the shutting portal briefly mingled with the echoes of the battle outside and both faded away.

Eventually, Glinda managed a breathless whisper of, "Thanks, Omber."

"As much as I'd like to take credit, it'd probably better if you thanked the Mistress of Mirrors: I'd probably still be comatose if it wasn't for her." The dark-skinned figure smiled mirthlessly. "But looking out the window, I really have to wonder to wonder if her message made that much difference."

"We're still alive, aren't we? And the city's still intact, isn't it?"

"For the moment anyway. Magic seems to have held this stubborn old lump of a palace together for the worst of the attack; I just hope the magicians here know how to rebuild the rest of those buildings as quickly as this tower, for all our sakes. Otherwise, this war effort might just be on its last legs."

"Believe me," said Vara, "We've recovered from worse assaults, and we've rebuilt the city so many times that the builders and magicians in the construction trade can probably do in their sleep. But still, the death toll out there's got to be in the thousands."

"If not worse."

"Excuse me…"

There was a security guard standing in the doorway, his face pale and studded with beads of sweat. "The Mentor would like to speak with you," he said urgently.

"Who, me?"

"All of you. She's convening an emergency conference with several key officials and other specialists across the Deviant Nations, along with key witnesses and bearers of vital information. I've got a formal invitation for…" He checked the list. "Glinda Upland, Omber Landless, Dorothy Gale, Varal-"

"We get the picture. How long until the conference?"

"It'll be ready in about ten minute, I'm afraid. So if you'll all just follow me…"

Dorothy sighed deeply. When will it end? She wondered silently.

---

At long last, the Empress stepped back from the railing; as she closed the Grimmerie and tucked it under her arm, the Champion couldn't help noticing that her fingertips were ever-so-subtly steaming in the cool evening air.

She glanced idly at the smouldering corpse of the assassin, which was still splayed out at the Champion's feet. "Well done," she purred, running a hand along the Champion's spine in congratulations. "As always, your combat conditioning never ceases to amaze. Of course, the Amorphous League will probably send another operative, but I doubt he'll be any less a child than the last. In the meantime, why don't we adjourn to our chambers?"

The Champion nodded.

"Excellent! I'll ready some music and get back to sculpting, and you can continue your exercises… and while I'm about it, maybe we can discuss what we'll do with the fraud when you finally capture her…"

Once again, the Champion nodded, bowed, and slowly retreated towards the doors; but even as he left, he still heard her whispering to herself of things he could only dream of understanding.

"It's getting easier," the Empress mused to nobody in particular. "It's getting so much easier to unleash its destruction. True, I might have to cut back on the usual works of the nation because of that; anti-drought measures might have to suffer a little, and perhaps the mass healings later this month too… but it'll be worth it. Yes, every sacrifice will be worth it…"