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.

22. Dusk Grows Ever Darker

A/N: April was hell for me, ladies and gentlemen, absolute hell. Work, work, work, and associated gloom and doom, coupled with the absolute bloody misery that was Burial At Sea Episode 2; for the sake of avoiding an even longer intro, I won't mention all the problems I had with the DLC (though god only knows I'm probably going to end up writing another fanfic because of it), but suffice to say it's one of the most soul-crushing attempts at a game I've ever played. Combined with the workload, it made getting this chapter done that much harder, if only because it just about obliterated my spirit from beginning to end. Quite apart from the fact that this chapter's arrived terribly late by my normal standards, I'm going to have to apologise if the depression starts filtering through at any point in this chapter, as I think it's already a bit more sombre and talkative than most of the others so far.

I'd also like to thank all of you who viewed, reviewed, favourited and followed: you people helped me get through April, and I can only hope I can reward you with a good chapter... though as always, you'll have to be the judge.

Nami Swann... uh, funny you should mention nervous breakdowns... (EVIL LAUGHTER)

RadiantBeam, I'm glad I can provide a pick-me-up in times of stress; reviews are a similar relief to me, and I'd like to thank you for helping my will to continue writing survive April intact. And without saying too much (and I think I might just be misusing that term by now), this chapter will have be concerned with a few subtler movements on the board and the growth of other potential weapons in the Deviant Nation's arsenal...

Penas e Pergaminhos, your review was short but sweet, and I'm glad you think I've managed to keep the multiple layers and multiple mysteries working. I hope you find this update and the next as entertaining as those before.

cloudbourne, I love your theories. I simply must say that, because in your latest review, they became absolutely amazing; at times, they're very accurate, and at times they're incredibly creative - and while I can't tell you what in them was accurate and which was creative, I love reading them. As for the mystery of Harker, that's going to be a matter for the later chapters, and I hope I can handle that entertainingly and interestingly. And yes, the search for Wi-Fi consumes us all!

So, without further ado, the latest chapter: feel free to correct any mistakes, typos or continuity errors you may find; constructive criticism is always welcome; and above all, read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Wicked is not mine. One of the few things I do own in this fic is the tardiness I've displayed in updating it.

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That night, beneath a ghastly yellow moon and a starless, smoke-clouded sky, Greenspectre took stock of its injuries.

Over three hundred and fifty buildings had been toppled, bisected, or simply vaporized; countless more had been horrifically damaged. An entire district had been reduced to an ocean of molten slag and toxic runoff. The Chapter Temple of the Irredeemables had survived intact except for some minor shrapnel damage, but it was hopelessly crowded with refugees from both the Irredeemables and the unaltered population, all fleeing the fires that emergency services were still extinguishing. Greenspectre palace had nearly been torn apart by the attack, and only the intervention of the Mentor and several other magicians had prevented it from collapsing in on itself. Half the current population of Smogeaters had been killed over the course of the attack, and the survivors were being redeployed in order to clear away the smoke and toxic fumes before they reached critical levels; at least twelve cruisers from Greenspectre's defence fleet had been wrecked, along with thirty-seven airships belonging to emergency services, and countless private vehicles. And the death toll…

At the most conservative estimates, the death toll stood at somewhere around eight thousand, with tens of thousands more wounded. Of course, very few of the wounded had actually been directly in the path of the Empress's attack: most of them had been half-crushed under ton after ton of rubble, or horribly burned in the ensuing inferno; and as for the few who'd had the misfortune to be directly exposed to the magical energies of the bombardment, they'd been reduced to ashen silhouettes on walls and floors – there weren't even skeletons left to bury.

Looking down at the city from the great windows of the palace conference chamber, the invited guests found that the entire city was clearly visible, from the simmering ruins of the industrial district to the untouched western reach. Illuminated by the spotlights of countless airships hovering overhead, the worst of the damage could be clearly seen, and by far the area hardest hit was the eastern region: it had been directly in the path of the magical assault, and without the barriers defending both the city and the border, the damage was nothing short of astounding.

It looked like a mountain range in miniature: huge piles of rubble and smashed masonry stood like hillocks, forming a grotesque series of Alps rendered in debris, occasionally broken by the odd skyscraper that had somehow managed to land relatively intact. More common were the twisted hulls of crashed airships that littered the valleys between the mountains like so many discarded toys, and the tiny, crumpled shapes of human bodies scattered about them. These prone shapes were the few that had been retrieved from the wreckage so far, and though it was somewhat comforting to know that not all of them were dead and that hospital airships were waiting overhead for those fortunate who'd survived their ordeals, the small fleet of black-painted mortuary barges hovering alongside them quickly drove any sense of reassurance away from the scene. For every recued victim airlifted to treatment and safety, three more were hastily wrapped up and hauled aboard the black-and-purple deathships for embalming, then locked away in stasis chambers until they could be given a proper burial – serving the dual purpose of respecting the bodies of the deceased and saving the residents of Greenspectre from decomposition-fuelled epidemics. More disturbing was the sight of the bodies being transferred away from the hospital ships and into the growing fleet of deathships, a painful reminder as to just how many victims tonight's attack had claimed.

Sharing the skies with the floating hospitals and airborne mortuaries were a whole host of other essential aircraft: military patrol boats supervising the evacuation, Fire & Rescue service tankers slowly extinguishing the few remaining blazes, heavy lifters clearing away the larger chunks of debris from the mountainous field of rubble or dredging fallen towers from the lake, colossal luxury liners repurposed as housing for refugees, and ferry after ferry after ferry of rescue workers – several of whom were in direct contact with the Great Mentor in that moment.

The Mentor herself was now seated at the head of the conference table, directly overlooking the carnage below, and surrounded by a colossal array of porthole-shaped magical viewscreens. Through these screens, dozens upon dozens of experts, officials, witnesses and other VIPs gave their statements, provided their advice and requested orders. And even with a mage-surgeon busily sealing a number of vicious-looking cuts on her remaining human arm, even with the exhaustion of blocking the Empress's attack still clear on her face, the Mentor didn't so much as hesitate in responding: "Yes!" she replied briskly, shifting onto the next caller at an astonishing pace. "No! We need a fresh shipment of regenerative salve for that district. Excellent! What is the status of the border defences? Mr Intrada, have you had time to redirect the forces on the southern front? Unacceptable, we need to ensure full cooperation with the smaller settlements! Yes! No! Yes! Thank you! Governor, I can't overemphasize the need for your assistance in these matters. Yes, I understand. No, no, no! Adjust, if you please, before sunrise!"

As soon as she was finished responding and certain that the caller had no meaningful objections, she dismissed the viewscreen with a wave of her hand, allowing another to take its place as the former dissolved into static; over the course of fifteen nerve-wracking minutes, she quickly but carefully whittled away at the cloud of screens surrounding her chair, delegating work details, providing reassurances, making inquiries, directing her forces, and above all, requesting aid. Eventually, the array had been reduced to four screens hovering to the Mentor's left, and her attention was slowly beginning to shift towards the only VIPs that were physically sharing the room with her.

Much to her surprise, Glinda had found herself among those VIPs; she, Dorothy and Omber were now seated in the enormous leather-cushioned chairs that bordered the conference table, waiting for their turn in the spotlight – ostensibly anyway. In reality, everyone was lost in their own thoughts: Omber, who'd noticed the similarities between Glinda and the Mentor, was visibly trying to puzzle through the clues as best as s/he could without actually asking either of them. Dorothy, meanwhile, had arrived later than the others on account of having to wash all the blood off, change into clean pyjamas, and try steady her nerves before joining the conference. Understandably, it hadn't worked: for the last ten minutes, she'd kept her eyes fixed upon the severed arm of the practice dummy still clutched in her hands like a life preserver, her shoulders huddled in a blanket, her legs dangling almost three feet off the ground. And as for Glinda, she could only sit and wonder what the hell she could possibly contribute to this emergency meeting. So far, there didn't seem to be terribly much.

"… how long will this reconstruction take, based on current estimates?" the Mentor was asking.

The harried-looking man on the closest screen peered down on his notes, and murmured, "With the ships and professionals we have assigned to the task at present, I estimate that it will take twelve days for us to complete a total reconstruction of the damaged sectors; a month at the very longest."

What? Glinda thought incredulously. Are we talking about the same damage? These people can repair all that damage in under two weeks?

"Unfortunately," said the man on the screen, "The industrial district won't be so easily rebuilt. So far, there's almost nothing that can be recovered from the wreckage, so we'll have to decontaminate the area and put in fresh structures; that could take anywhere from five to eight weeks, unless you alter the reconstruction priorities."

"That may have to be the case, Mr Turnwise. With war intensity once again building towards extremes, we need as much of our manufacturing facilities ready for the challenge as possible; for the time being, we shall continue civilian reconstruction, but lessened in favour of industrial repair."

"It will be done, My Lady."

"Thank you for your time, Mr Turnwise." She waved away the screen, and allowed two of the remaining screens to take its place. "Governor Mortissant, Governor Arcanos, your assistance will be the most important to Greenspectre at present. You've both been listening to previous comments, so I trust you understand the roles you'll have to play?"

Governor Arcanos nodded stoically, his great brass-plated forehead gleaming beneath the harsh overhead lights of his own conference chamber. "Ironmongery Peak stands ready to provide aid," he rumbled, the tiny gears and tubes that layered his neck whirring with every word he spoke. "Our Master Engineers will help reconstruct the fallen industrial district, and our airship fleet shall augment yours until such time as it can freely replenish itself." He bowed respectfully, glass eyes flashing as he did so.

Governor Mortissant also bowed, but far more gravely than her counterpart – appropriate, given that the elegant gown she wore was decorated along the back with an entire human spinal column and a ruff made of fingerbones. "The eastern border defences will be augmented with as many husks as you require, Great Mentor; whether you require them as labourers, soldiers or amplifiers for magical power, they will serve and they will endure."

"And the magicians?"

"We will, of course, provide a contingent of practitioners to aid in bolstering the enchantments. Rest assured, Polyandrium remembers the loyalty it owes to its fellow Nations."

"Good. Keep me informed of your progress, Governors, and remain vigilant; this war is only going to get bloodier at dawn. Good evening…"

Dismissing the viewscreens with another wave of her hand, the Mentor was immediately left with the remaining one circling impatiently around her head like a wasp; pausing only to take a deep breath, she turned to the three visitors sitting apprehensively at the table before her. "Now then," she announced. "I felt it best that you attended this conference call partly because you can be trusted to keep this information confidential…"

"And because none of us could actually leak any of the information to the enemy even if we wanted to," Omber whispered into Glinda's ear.

"Due to my guards and a distinct lack of shapeshifting abilities on your part, Adept Landless," the Mentor finished dryly. "But on the other hand, I feel that you all have something to contribute to this meeting… and I'm well aware that you will all have some stake in this final conversation." She waved her hand in the general direction of the tiny screen orbiting her mangled scalp; instantly, the porthole-shaped scope expanded to cover the entire bank of windows, allowing everyone in the room a perfect view of the newest members of the conference call.

Huddled together around a hastily-repaired set of radio equipment were six ragtag figures: the apparent leader of this group seemed relatively ordinary enough – a gloomy-looking man in his forties with thinning, over-combed hair, a thickset build barely disguised by the fine clothes he wore, and an impressive set of jowls that only added to the look of depression stamped on his face. Everyone else in the room looked as though they'd tumbled out of a very strange dream: a red-faced little man made only slightly taller by the antique plumed helmet he wore, an officer in a distinctly non-Deviant Nations uniform complete with a permanent smile and a missing left ear, a medic who looked as though he'd walked through a threshing machine and still had both the face and clothes to match, the ever-suspicious face of the eyeless Harker, and standing at the edge of the huddle…

"Elphaba!" Glinda shouted, leaping out of her chair.

Shoving her way to the front of the group, Elphaba staggered to a halt directly in front of the screen. "Are you alright?" she asked breathlessly. "I heard about the attack and thought you might have been-"

"I'm fine," Glinda reassured her. "We've had a rough time, though: the Hellion attacked us around the same time the Empress did."

"What, you too?"

The Mentor cleared her throat, and Glinda belatedly realized that everyone in the room (viewscreen included) was staring at her; cheeks burning, she sank back into her seat, whilst Elphaba sheepishly edged towards the back of the room.

Thirty-five extremely crowded minutes went by: the Mentor introduced the various delegates to one another; the Loamlark delegates were warned that they might not receive any additional reinforcements with so much airship traffic being diverted towards rebuilding; the resident military officers gave their reports on the situation – including Elphaba, much to Glinda's surprise; finally, Harker rattled off a long list of airships and munitions that had arrived safely, before lapsing into yet another ominous silence.

"So you're the one who helped Glinda escape from Exemplar?" Elphaba asked, eyeing Omber with undisguised interest.

"Ahaha," chuckled Omber, who'd clearly seen just enough of the Empress in the green-skinned woman's face to make him/her nervous. "I was largely acting on behalf of the Mistress of Mirrors without knowing it at the time, but there you go."

"The Mistress of Mirrors?" Mayor Wilder echoed. "What's her part in all this?"

"It so happens," said the Mentor pointedly (as if annoyed at having the meeting waylaid again), "That the Mistress of Mirrors has decided to show a certain degree of favour to our side by providing us with all-important information through young Omber here, including both a last-minute warning as to the incoming attack, and the same information on the enemy's movements that she provided to you a few hours ago, Mayor."

"Oh," said the Mayor, not looking at all reassured.

"She also relayed the information regarding the defence of Loamlark you were struggling to transmit. I trust that the reinforcements are settling in adequately?"

"Erm, yes, yes, of course. We've found them all suitable quarters, and the commanders are already reorganizing our defences-"

"- in ways that I'm quite sure you won't need to elaborate upon; once local command's technicians have finished setting up a secondary transmitter, they'll be able to give me a full report."

"Of course, of course. Um, thank you once again for being so forgiving of our mistaken attempt at secession."

"Forgiving wouldn't be the word I'd use to describe it," said the Mentor coldly. "At this point, your city is the only remaining defence on our northern border, and we can't afford to waste precious time with criminal charges. Under other circumstances, your activities over the last few days would be grounds for both personal prosecution and extreme sanctions against Loamlark… but because you were under the influence of the enemy's trickery at the time, and because you weren't actually stupid enough to kill any of the operatives I sent in, I am prepared to grant you leniency."

"I understand, and allow me to apologise from the-"

"That can wait. For the moment, I'm also prepared to repair this railroad of yours once the invasion has been brought to an end– but only in return for your unquestioning cooperation. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly."

"Good. Now, are you still in contact with those smugglers?"

Wilder's jowly face paled with shock, his eyes bulging and jaw flapping open. "Wh… you know?" he gasped. He wasn't alone in his surprise, either: around the room, most the other delegates were looking just as taken aback, though all in different ways – Elphaba and Wolton angry as well as shocked, Marchfly alarmed, and Gloss almost amused, and Harker frowning deeper than usual. The only one of them not to look startled in some way was the Medic, who remained silent, near-faceless and inscrutable.

"The Mistress of Mirrors isn't the only spymaster in this country, Mayor Wilder; I might not have eyes and ears literally everywhere, but I do have a few people with a gift for not being seen. You've been adding to the local treasury by making deals with smugglers, haven't you?"

"Mentor, I can explain-"

"-If you're still in contact with them or not? By all means, continue: I'd like to make use of their services, if possible."

"You… what?"

"I'm quite I don't need to mention that tonight served as a dramatic escalation in the violence of this war: as we move away from lulls in the action and the danger to civilians increases, suppliers avoid the conflicted areas, trade declines, and certain commodities become difficult to acquire. Hence the rationing that's due to start again soon. My point is that I will need the services of your friends among the smugglers in order to acquire items impossible to purchase through the normal channels, so tell me, are you still in contact with the smugglers?"

"I… b…" The Mayor took a deep breath to steady himself, and then quickly replied, "Yes, Mentor. I can't be sure when they'll reply, but now that the radio tower's repaired, I should be able to get the word to them before sunrise."

"Excellent. Once they've responded, signal me and I'll provide a list of supplies. While we're on the subject of allies, I'd like to ask Colonel Gloss if he'd like to elaborate on the Strangling Coils' sudden principled stance. Why is your boss siding with us free of charge, and when can we expect him to arrive in Loamlark?"

Gloss only smirked. "I'm in the same boat as you, Mentor; Old Leviathan hasn't explained himself to me either. All I know is that he seems to be willing to accept any work you offer free of charge, provided that Elphaba stays here with us until he arrives tomorrow morning."

"Very well then. Nonetheless, I should expect an explanation from your paymaster as soon as he disembarks. In the meantime, my generals will direct you to your targets as soon as the fighting resumes; serve loyally, and you may be entitled to rewards in addition to the fees the Leviathan pays you with. Now, I'm afraid I must ask you to attend to your troops now, Colonel: we have a long night of preparations ahead of us."

"As you wish, my lady," purred Gloss, bowing low and striding confidently from the room.

"Meanwhile, we need to talk about the Hellion: I've been informed that she arrived in Loamlark via the same cave network that the smugglers use to transport their goods across the border; these tunnels will have to be searched in detail to make sure that she didn't leave any surprises there, and we'll also have to post guards to prevent any further attacks. Mayor Wilder, are there any citizens in your town who know these tunnels well?"

"Oh, several – most of them were helping the smugglers offload their goods."

"Excellent. Captain Wolton, once Loamlark command's been properly briefed on the situation, they are to provide you with a specially-equipped platoon of soldiers to clear out those tunnels as soon as possible – all of them experienced subterranean operatives. Once you're finished, have guards stationed at every gateway and ensure they remain in contact via radio."

"It will be done, My Lady," Wolton yapped.

"With due respect," grumbled Marchfly, "Why are we bothering with the guards? If the Hellion is such a problem, then why aren't we just hunting the damn thing down?"

"To clarify, this is mainly to keep other unwanted visitors out of the tunnels, Chief Marchfly; the Hellion isn't likely to be very interested in attacking Loamlark anymore, especially since she now knows that her intended target is within this very palace."

There was an awkward pause, as all eyes turned in Dorothy's direction. If anything, the girl looked even more miserable than before.

"Nonetheless, you have a point," the Mentor admitted. "Now that the Hellion's moved on from kidnapping lone victims to attacking settlements en mass, I think it's safe to say that the threat she represents can no longer be tolerated. However, we still have to actually locate her nest first, and determine if she has any weaknesses we can exploit; to that end, my research groups will be assigned to gathering as much information on the Hellion as possible… and I'm afraid that I must ask that you allow them to interview as many witnesses to the attack as you can spare – ideally those that fought either the Hellion or her Dolls."

"Fair enough. Er, it will be done, Mentor."

"The same also goes for you, Miss Gale. As the Hellion's intended victim, you will also have to be interviewed and tested."

Dorothy's eyes very gently slid shut. "Must I?" she asked quietly.

"I'm afraid so: you might very well be the key to learning the Hellion's secrets – how she selects her victims, why she wants them turned into Dolls, why she's become so fixated upon you compared to her other Dolls, everything; it all has to be unearthed if we ever hope to stop the Hellion. You understand, don't you?"

"… yes, Mentor."

"Relax: it's not going to be as nearly as demanding as it sounds. In the meantime, you – like Mayor Wilder here – have my personal assurances that through your assistance, we will be able to stop the Hellion once and for all."

"Speaking of assistance," said Marchfly, "There was one idea being bandied around during the last town meeting that everyone seems in favour of: we were thinking that the civilian militia should go on contributing towards the war effort, aiding your forces and those of the mercenaries by joining them on the front lines-"

"And I was saying it really wasn't advisable," Elphaba cut in. "We lost half the militia defending Loamlark today, Mentor, and most of them were the few Marchfly had trained up to semi-military standards. We don't have the time or the equipment to train new ones, and even if we did, we'd just be flinging them right back into the meat grinder."

The Mayor coughed meaningfully. "There was another idea that might have some merit: we could possibly use the militia as a police force rather than auxiliary defenders; with most of our old police wiped out by the Hellion, we need the additional numbers to keep order on Loamlark's streets and prevent my constituents from panicking under the –"

"With due respect," Wolton interrupted, "I think the best course of action would be to have the civilian population of Loamlark evacuated to a safe area until the end of hostilities."

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you," Marchfly snarled, "To take away all our freedoms and have us forced into-"

"Oh come on, you have to admit he has a point; by having Loamlark evacuated, we'll at least be sure that know that the citizens will be safe from further attacks."

"And we won't have to worry about having untrained civilians running around with guns and pretending to be police."

"No, what you'll have is an entire city's worth of homes and businesses for off-duty soldiers to loot when you're not looking!" Marchfly shouted, lurching towards the screen as if finally remembering that they weren't alone in this particular argument. "Mentor, you can guarantee that we'll be given safe haven once you've evacuated us from our homes – and I might even believe you on that count – but you can't guarantee that we'll have a home to return to at the end of this war; maybe it'll be UR, maybe it'll be the Hellion, maybe it'll be the mercenaries or your own troops, I don't know or care. One way or the other, Loamlark isn't getting through this unscathed, and I very much doubt that any decent man or woman in this town will ever willingly abandon their homes and their livelihoods without a fight. You need all the help you can get, whether it's internal security or front-line defence, and who better to defend this city than its own citizens? So…" Marchfly's face warped dramatically as he struggled with the effort of saying something he clearly didn't want to say. "I entreat you," he said at last, "As Loamlark's chief of police, to-"

"Granted," the Mentor interrupted.

"I… what?"

"What?"

"What?"

"You heard me. I grant you full dispensation to begin training the next militia battalion for use as both internal security and front-line defence."

"What?" Elphaba almost shouted.

"Granted, it's still too soon for them to be deployed on the front line, but for the time being, a makeshift police force would be quite useful. Of course, once your recruitment rates have hit quadruple digits, I'm quite sure we can find a place for them on the front lines. Auxiliary forces are always welcome."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing…"

"You really think there'll be that many new recruits?" the Mayor asked, seemingly oblivious to Elphaba's incredulous shouts.

"Why not? Their homes and families are on the line, aren't they? Now, Chief Marchfly, I suggest you begin the training immediately; in the event that you do have to join the fighting tomorrow, I will also be sending you a consignment of rifles and other military-class equipment, enough for at least two thousand soldiers. It should arrive by midnight, so by then I expect your recruits to be at least somewhat familiar with loading and firing."

"They will be, I assure you. Er, shall I get to it, then?"

"By all means… on one condition."

"Mentor?"

"Get rid of that idiotic helmet, ideally before sunrise. Now that you're going to be enjoying the benefits of modern equipment, there's really no excuse for looking like a refugee from some prehistoric costume drama."

Marchfly blushed deeply, hastily removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm. "As you wish, Mentor," he chuckled, shuffling absently towards the door. "If you'll excuse you, I'll just be checking on our current recruits; um, thank you once again for your generosity."

He turned and waddled out the door, all but skipping with excitement; as he did so, a uniformed figure leaned into the room just long enough to whisper something into Mayor Wilder's ear, before hurrying away. "If there's nothing more we need to discuss," said Mayor, raising his voice over the slam of the door, "I think it might be time that I left as well; apparently, command wants to talk to me about defensible positions on the walls."

"Very well then, Mayor; you may go. I wish you and Mr Marchfly all success with tonight's work."

The Mayor nodded, bowed, and scurried away.

"Now, onto the remaining topics of discussion-"

"Including what the hell you just did, I hope," Elphaba snapped.

"I take it that you don't approve of my decision."

"You-" Elphaba's face twitched with the effort of suppressing a violent outburst. "With due respect, Mentor," she said, audibly forcing herself to remain calm, "The last time these people ended up having to defend the town on a front-line basis, they ended up getting slaughtered; now, unless you actually want to use them as cannon fodder, then I really don't see why you want to use them as soldiers when there's so little time for quality training."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Elphaba: at any given time we may have to withdraw our troops from Loamlark in order to ward off another invasion, and with only the mercenaries to defend them, these people need to be prepared to defend their city. For the time being, they'll be safe to recruit and train while our troops and the Strangling Coils defend their walls, and they'll have access to much more reliable weaponry. Who knows? Provided they remain properly drilled for the duration of our stay, the militia may prove an effective defence force if we're forced to leave."

"And what if that's not the case? Using the militia as police could work, but having them actually fight on the front lines all over again?"

The Mentor shrugged. "As I said, there's always a place for auxiliary defenders on the battlefield."

"As what, cannon fodder?"

"Or bait, if you prefer."

"… what?!"

"I'm just providing examples, Elphaba. Besides, we need to be dispassionate in protecting the Deviant Nations: sometimes, that means ensuring that the most capable soldiers remain alive long enough to deliver the killing blow, and sometimes that require having someone to shoulder the burden of casualties."

For a moment, Elphaba could only gape incredulously; eventually, she managed to choke out the words, "I… I know I've already said this once before, but I honestly don't believe what I'm hearing."

"Of course," the Mentor continued heedlessly, "that needn't be the only case: perhaps the militia can be trained into an effective fighting force, in which case they may very well be the ones to spearhead the charge into enemy territory when the time comes to go on the offensive. It all depends on how Marchfly decides to command them when the time comes; I'm not only one making the decisions here, Elphaba."

"Oh really? Then you didn't just make the executive decision to leave the entire civilian population of Loamlark in the firing line? Last I looked, you were the one who had the power of veto back there: you were the one who decided to hand out rifles to every man on the street and say "go out there and die for your country!" That was your decision, Mentor, and I'm really not seeing the reasoning behind it."

"And what would be your solution, Elphaba? Were you in my position, would you really have a few thousand angry townsfolk with a reputation for troublemaking evacuated against their will and leave them waiting for us to finish using Loamlark as fort? Putting aside the time and resources we'd waste on actually moving them – resources that could be spent moving troops - how long do you think it would take for them to lose patience and grow discontented with a life in exile? How long would you imagine it would take for the refugees to become rebels… or revolutionaries? Even if we divide and separate them, we can't guarantee unrest being stopped in its tracks. Believe me, internal conflicts are the last thing we want at a time like this: in case you forgot, we almost lost Loamlark to one a few scant hours ago. So, if they're willing to aid in the defence of the Deviant Nations, accept orders from the chain of command, even train themselves into proper soldiers, why not give them what they want?"

"In other words, some kid wants to play with matches, so you give him a flamethrower."

"I'm quite sure that your newfound comrades-in-arms would find the comparison insulting, Elphaba. Why should we turn down such an unprecedented offer? I mean, if any of the Animals you'd rescued from captivity back in Oz had offered to fight at your side, would you really turn them down?"

"Maybe not. I don't know, I never got the chance. But I know for a fact that I wouldn't have done it just because I needed meat shields between me and the enemy."

"Which we aren't," said the Mentor coldly. "This is more than just a matter of temporary defence for our forces in Loamlark. We're doing this because we need every single advantage we can scavenge under the circumstances; in this war, we need all the help we can get: the smugglers, the mercenaries, the militia… and the League."

Omber sat up in his/her chair. "I take it that it's my turn in the spotlight?"

"In a moment. Elphaba, if you want to push this argument any further, I'll be happy to continue this avenue of conversation tomorrow afternoon – ideally when Loamlark isn't in danger of being claimed by Unbridled Radiance."

Elphaba sighed. "Was there any point to me being included in this meeting?"

"As a matter of fact, yes: among the reinforcements I've sent to Loamlark, there should be at least five sections of magicians among them; by virtue of highest experience and power, you're going to be one of the commanding officers. Once you're finished here, you're to report to Section Leader Olkam and get to work on coordinating Loamlark's magical defences; then, if you can find the time, you might want to hurry up on that memorandum of your dream-memories – the intel you're providing is proving more useful than expected. Any problems with that?"

"Only an exasperation-induced migraine."

A ghastly smile brightened the Mentor's face. "I've missed your aggravated sarcasm, Elphaba. In the meantime, if you really are that worried about militia casualties, as chief among magical specialists in the city you do have the means of limiting deaths in tomorrow's battle, in case you'd forgotten."

"That isn't very reassuring."

"Nothing is." The Mentor cleared her throat, and turned to Omber. "Now, Adept Landless... on the subject of allies, have you remained in contact with your allies among the Amorphous League in the years since you were separated from them?"

Omber looked somewhat abashed. "In a word, no," s/he said simply. "Once the League disbanded back in Exemplar, we pretty much didn't have much of a prayer for getting back together again. At the time, we were under too much scrutiny to try and arrange for any kind of rendezvous point or anything like that: even if they weren't actively spying on us, we were still risking capture and interrogation, so we couldn't afford to make any concrete plan in case someone ended up confessing. In the end, the only plan we had was to transform into whatever bodies could escape notice easily enough, scatter in all directions and make a break for the borders. And that was it."

"Then there's no way of contacting the League?"

"…. Well, there is one option still on the table; mind you, I'm not sure if it'll work. Long story short, before Unbridled Radiance started clamping down hard on the League, we actually developed a code for emergency transmissions between cities. Last I looked, UR still hadn't been able to crack it or take advantage of it; it's possible that League members might still be using it."

"And you think you can contact the League using this code?"

"It's chancy, I know, but it's worth a try: whatever's become of the League, they'll hopefully still have the old radio equipment about. If you can provide me with a transmitter of my own, I should be able to start broadcasting the code right now."

The Mentor considered this. "You will be granted access to the palace's external broadcasting station," she said at last, "But under strict supervision of course; you are not to broadcast into UR territory or on UR frequencies, and once contact has been made, you are not to leave the building until the League has arrived in Greenspectre. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mentor. Um, if anyone does respond, what should I tell them?"

"Tell them that I wish to acquire the services of the Amorphous League for the purposes of the war effort, matters of which I am not prepared to discuss any further over the radio. In return, I will offer them political amnesty, monetary compensation for their time… and the chance for revenge against Unbridled Radiance. I suggest you begin broadcasting immediately, Adept Landless: we all have a very long night ahead of us. In the meantime, the servants will provide you with food and drink, and a bunk will be set up in the broadcasting station in the event that you need time to rest and recuperate."

"Thank you, Mentor. I'll get to it right away and-"

A burst of static from the Mentor's array of viewscreen drowned out what little else Omber had to say; suddenly, all eyes in the room were fixed on the tiny porthole-shaped screen that had materialized just above the conference room table, all of them trying to work out was appearing on the static-fogged display. None of them had to wait or guess for very long: with a wave of her prosthetic hand, the Mentor expanded the screen to more or less the same size as the Loamlark viewing portal and magically scrubbed away the static, allowing everyone an uninterrupted view of what was being broadcast at them.

Collapsed on top of his transmitter, a bloodied vaguely-human shape peered into the audio-visual receiver, coughing raggedly as he struggled to operate the machinery he was slumped across. Behind him, fire licked greedily at ruined buildings and reduced trees to oversized torches; wherever the man was broadcasting from, it was in even worse condition than Greenspectre. Even the building around him appeared to have collapsed in on itself, with most of the roof having been torn off and the remaining walls cratered with holes.

The man finally managed to clear his lungs long enough to gasp out a few words, but even they were almost drowned out by the roar of the fires and almost incomprehensible through the signal interference. In the end, only a few words out of every sentence was audible: "… thi… Guardsman Roches… tra…. mitting from the Gollowick Settlement… ve been attacked b… n forces. Repeat… attacked by un…"

"Who is this?" the Mentor demanded. "How did you managed to reach this frequency?"

"Gollowick Settlement… emergency signal alt… unable to reach any other… you were… other option… transmitter was badly damaged in the attack… Can I ask who I'm speaking to?"

"Never mind that - Attacked by who? Gollowick shouldn't have been within reach of any of the contested areas in the west or the north."

"Some kind of… I'm not sure… recognized who was leading the… didn't recognize the others… ever they are, they just attacked en… killed almost everybody. They wiped us out. The security forces couldn't… it's horrible. I'll show you…"

Reaching out with blood-smeared fingers, the man gently moved the receiver until it was pointing out one of the smashed windows, and Glinda realized that first impressions had been woefully lacking: the village outside hadn't just been set aflame; it had been almost completely obliterated. The wooden houses that had once formed the bulk of the settlement had either been smashed into matchsticks or reduced to kindling in the fire creeping across the hillside; the few brick buildings had been smashed apart, the walls crumbling into rubble even as the receiver shifted in their direction. Whoever had attacked this place, they'd also gone to the trouble of breaking every single window they could find and scattering the shattered glass from one end of the road to the next – which might actually explain the broadcaster's unsteady walk.

And among the charred beams and the heaps of smashed bricks lay other, more horrific forms of carnage: a cart lay on its side to the immediate left of the broadcaster's window, its wooden panelling in flames and its horse slashed to bloodied gristle; a small airship embedded in the ground like a discarded toy, its chassis reduced to a skeleton of warped metal by the heat; dozens of craters left in the walls of buildings and the nearby hillside, each one splattered with blood and mulched flesh. But worst of all were instances where the victims had been left intact enough to identify as human beings: severed heads impaled upon fenceposts and the charred ribs of wooden houses; bodies pinioned against still-standing walls, limbs fused to the brickwork either by intense heat or grotesque magic; shredded figures lying prone in the street, their bodies pincushioned with shards of broken glass; half a dozen twitching, semi-human shapes dangling from nooses that seemed attached to nothing; and across one length of road, a small ocean of severed hands.

Somewhere nearby, a low groan was heard above the roar of the flames; startled, the receiver panned downwards to show a tiny cluster of figures huddled at the foot of the window. Perhaps twelve people in total, most of them were injured in some way but none of them seemed in any immediate danger.

"Are these the only survivors?" The Mentor asked.

"I'm afraid so… few prisoners were taken."

"And you don't know who attacked you?"

"I say again… not until I saw who was leading them… I…" There was a long, static-clouded pause. "Just look," the broadcaster said at last.

The receiver shifted towards one of the few intact buildings, this time focussing on a stretch of graffiti daubed upon the battered wall in what looked suspiciously like blood:

"WHAT THE HELLION WANTS, THE HELLION TAKES. WHAT THE HELLION TAKES, THE HELLION KEEPS. AND WHAT THE HELLION KEEPS, THE HELLIONS BLEEDS."

And on the house next to it: "GIVE HER BACK OR ALL YOUR LITTLE PLAYTHINGS DROWN IN BLOOD."

The Mentor took a deep breath, and began pressing several buttons on the console built into the table in front of her. "Gollowick, stand by. Rescue services are on their way to your location; they should be there within the hour."

"Thank you… please… hurry…"

The transmission finally dissolved, and the viewscreen went blank before flicking out of existence, leaving Loamlark's viewscreen (and the shocked figures of Elphaba and Wolton) to once again take centre stage.

Then, the Mentor hissed, "Ladies and gentlemen, this meeting is now adjourned. You have your assignments for the time being, and you have my assurances that finding and eliminating the Hellion is now first priority. You may go."

It was about the most uninspiring exit that Glinda had ever seen: apart from the viewscreen vanishing in a perfunctory burst of static without even offering Elphaba a chance to say goodbye, everyone in the room seemed either terrified, depressed, or both; Omber shuffled out the door, face downcast an uncertain; Dorothy looked outright fearful, almost sprinting for the exit when she realized that the Mentor's gaze had turned in her direction; even the palace guards flanking the door seemed a little gloomy.

Quite frankly, Glinda couldn't blame any of them. Between the assault on Greenspectre and that prolonged look at the remains of the Hellion's temper-tantrum, she doubted she'd be able to sleep anyway.

But as she turned to leave, the Mentor whispered, "Not you."

This was new. In most of the conferences she'd attended back in Oz, most of them had ended with her being gently patted on the head and shooed away – and that during the first few years; towards the end, as Morrible's tolerance with her "protégé" had dwindled, they usually concluded with Glinda being told to leave unless she wanted to wake up in the middle of the night with a pillowcase full of live tarantulas. Being told to stay behind after a meeting was simply unprecedented.

So, it was with a certain degree of surprise and confusion that she sat down at the conference table once again.

There was a long silence as the Mentor scrutinized the bedraggled-looking figure sitting beside her, mismatched eyes scanning her much younger self with something almost akin to interest; not for the first time, Glinda had difficulty meeting that gaze.

Eventually, the Mentor murmured, "I would imagine that, by now, you might be inclined to see me as cold and uncaring, yes? Perhaps to you, I seem harsh, calculating, manipulative, maybe even ruthless."

Glinda wasn't sure what she could say to this; so far, the Mentor hadn't exactly made the kindliest impression of herself, and the word "cold-hearted" had flickered across Glinda's mind over the last twenty minutes… but she'd never actually thought of voicing the sentiment.

"And you'd be right," the Mentor continued. "You wouldn't be telling me anything I haven't already heard in the last thirty years, anyway. But I imagine that you're also thinking about something a bit more personal: you're wondering how I ended up this way – or more accurately, how you could have ended up like this."

"Pretty much," Glinda admitted. "I mean, I've never really thought about what I'd look like by age seventy. I never gave much thought to aging at all."

"Neither did I when I was your age." An amused smirk crossed her face. "And I never thought I'd be old enough to use those words, "when I was your age," but most of that was due to the assassination attempts. I never thought I'd see such scars, or live through the shock of this –" she indicated the scarring around the non-cursed half of her face, "- but how times strips away vanity. It's still strange looking at you, seeing old mannerisms playing out on a face I haven't seen in a mirror for decades; the way you avoid eye-contact when you're nervous, the way your eyelashes flutter when you're surprised… and of course, the way you blush."

Glinda, trying to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks, stammered, "I-It's still pretty weird for me, too. Seeing you – I mean me, I mean…"

"I know; seeing the scars, seeing the curse at work, seeing robes that you'd never be caught dead in…" She ran a mechanized hand along the sleeve of her tattered grey robes, absently adjusting her collar. "But that wasn't what I meant I said you were wondering about how I ended up like this: you were wondering how you could become so cold and ruthless, weren't you?"

"I suppose so. I mean, from what Elphaba's told me and from what I've seen, well, it just happened."

"It just 'happened'?" The Mentor's voice was colder than ever, now.

"Well, because of all this," said Glinda quickly. "The Empress, Unbridled Radiance, the War – you had to change. I mean, it just had to happen."

"Did it? Did it really just have to happen? I could have stepped down from command at any point in the last four decades of my life, and handed over the reins of command to someone willing to make the agonizing decisions. I could have delegated the harsher duties to others and made myself a figurehead. I could have taken the offer to resign in grief when I saw the atrocities of Unbridled Radiance. I could have decided that the people of Oz need never settle anywhere, and spend my life as the leader of a race of migrants, pouring over maps and charts and never dreaming of war. I could have avoided the position from the very beginning, remained a follower of the great uprising, a spectator among disgruntled civilians. I could have ignored the rebellion altogether. I could have stayed quiet and remained a citizen of Unbridled Radiance; I could have accepted the offer of Purification and let the Empress mould me into whatever she thought I deserved to be – her prize, her trophy, her pet. I could have opted out at any time I desired. But I didn't; I made the decision to do otherwise. It didn't "just happen": I chose to be the Mentor.

"And I chose to be cold and ruthless because that was the price I had to pay to preserve the lives of my citizens, because I learned my most important lesson of command early on: if you want to survive and ensure the survival of those you've sworn to protect, the words "too far" lose all meaning. In a war of this magnitude, against opponents like Unbridled Radiance, some lines must be crossed. You might never have imagined crossing them, and you might hate yourself for it, but it must be done. No advantage can be ignored. No weakness can be left unexploited. If you have to use dishonourable tactics, if you have to mislead and manipulate, if you have to aim for the medics, if you have to sacrifice your own troops in order to hold a vital position, if you have to trade in abhorrent materials, if you have to make allies of all manner of madmen and miscreants – the smugglers, the Strangling Coils, the Amorphous League – if you have to do the unforgiveable to stop the enemy from obliterating everything you hold dear, it must be done."

"If that's so, then why haven't you just handed Dorothy over to the Hellion?" Glinda instinctively clapped a hand to her mouth, but too late – it had already been said.

But the Mentor didn't even seem vaguely perturbed. "Because I'm not stupid," she said bluntly. "Doing what must be done requires careful judgement of necessity and risk: the Hellion is a mad dog – a rabid beast that's just as likely to savage us as it is to accept our offering. No, handing over Dorothy won't change anything. The Hellion dies for what happened tonight. It's the same reason why the offers of armistice from Unbridled Radiance are never truly accepted: we've seen what happens to those who capitulate in the face of madness and unreasoning destruction. We've seen them flayed and screaming on the operating tables, Purified and rendered down into the Empress's twisted parody of life – just like you saw Walter Luddestone Purified back in Exemplar. And that's what keeps all these wildly-differing nations and city-states from collapsing back into self-absorbed fiefdoms; that's what keeps necromancers, machine-worshippers, mortifiers of the flesh, and disciples of the Time Dragon Clock from forgetting their oaths of cooperation: the fear of what the enemy will do to them."

A ringing silence followed. To Glinda's embarrassment, she found that this time she couldn't even look the Mentor in the face; she could only stare at the floor as the Mentor glared down at her.

"I'd forgotten what it was like to be you," The Mentor continued softly. Reaching out with a gnarled hand – the only flesh-and-blood hand she had left – she tilted Glinda's chin towards the light, forcing her to meet those mismatched eyes. "So innocent. So carefree. So childlike…. until something tears through all the happy illusions and you see the world as it really is; and you feel the most agonizing sense of guilt and shame that you could have been so selfish, so small-minded, so blind. That was the way we felt on that night at the Ozdust, when we understood Elphaba's feelings for the first time; the way you felt when you saw Fiyero dragged to his death; the way I felt when I realized that I'd been the one who'd condemned Elphaba to her own death allowed the Empress to take her place." She sighed, and withdrew her hand.

"And one day, you stopped being carefree altogether?"

"Hardly. You've seen the dream-memories of my past just as I've seen those of yours: it didn't happen overnight; it took years for the old childishness to erode away. You've seen the beginnings of it, from what I've heard: the threat towards the hospital guard, the direct attack on Madam Morrible… "

"Maybe so. But I still can't imagine how it could have actually: I'm sorry, but even with what I've seen in the dream-memories, I can't imagine how I'd end up like… like…"

"Like me?" The Mentor smiled with something almost akin to cheekiness. "Like Morrible?"

In spite of herself, Glinda laughed. "I don't think so. You're better at running things than she was: you don't have to hide behind a Wizard. Plus, I saw you during the attack on Greenspectre: I don't think Morrible would have actually tried to face down the Empress's spell. She'd have just stood at the back and let someone else take the fall."

"You do realize you're technically complimenting yourself, don't you?"

"I doubt it: I don't think I could ever do the things you've done."

"What? The magic, the leadership, the fighting, or the scheming?"

"Any of them!" Glinda burst out. "I can't imagine myself doing anything like that. I'm not smart, I'm not powerful, and I'm certainly not brave. I barely even know anything about magic, and what I do know only works every other month."

"Things change," said the Mentor cryptically. "As a matter of fact, things already have changed."

"What do you mean?"

"Can you really think of yourself as the girl you've described anymore? Can you really imagine the girl dragged about as Morrible's mouthpiece doing the things that you've done in the last few days? You've escaped from the depths of one of Unbridled Radiance's most secure installations; you worked true magic with a broken wand; you bluffed your way past armed guards and stood up to the Empress herself; you even killed two of the most infamous mage-surgeons in the enemy camp."

"But I didn't do any of that without help! Omber was there, and even he – or she – was guided by the Mistress of Mirrors, so she was technically helping me too."

"And do you think I've been working alone for the last thirty years, Glinda?"

"Maybe not, but I'm not you, and I certainly don't have your magical skills either."

"That's not what Vara tells me: you managed quite an impressive flex against the invading Dolls this evening."

"What do you mean?"

"Quite simply, what you witnessed was the first stirrings of your true potential, overlooked until now by yourself and your tutors… in much the same that it was overlooked by myself and my tutors. Oh, maybe if someone had bothered to properly teach us magic, we might have had a chance to get to grips with magic early on… but Morrible never was a very good teacher. She wasn't interested in teaching anyone other than the star pupil she was grooming for vicarious greatness; all other students were dead weight, worthy only to be ignored and neglected."

"And she only allowed me into the class because Elphaba forced her to," Glinda recalled aloud.

"Quite so. But you know how it went from there: Morrible might have been coerced into tutoring you, but she hadn't been coerced into making any kind of effort. She never answered questions, never bothered to explain herself a second time, and she scarcely even bothered to check if your work was completed."

"Elphaba tried to help-"

"-And when Morrible found out, she upped the workload until Elphaba simply didn't have the time to help us. But as I said, things change: tutors improve, attitudes shift, and sensations become more rewarding. Tonight, you actually felt the positive stimuli of working magic for the first time in your entire life, didn't you?"

Glinda nodded silently, remembering the sense of euphoria she'd felt at successfully casting a spell.

"I remember the first time I felt it, too. It's strange, the sense of accomplishment and joy that accompanies magic when you truly want to practise it – not just for the sake of fashion or status, for the sake of motives forced upon you by others, but for the desire to actually control the power. You'll no doubt experience that exact moment through the dream-memories. And you might, if you so desired, learn the same skills that I've mastered."

This time, Glinda could only gape. "Are you serious?"

"When am I not? Do you really believe what happened this evening was a fluke?"

"Maybe not, but even if I could learn proper magic, it'd take years to get anywhere near your level. And in the meantime, what good would I be? I told you before, I'm not smart, I'm not brave, I-"

"In other words, you're not Elphaba."

It took almost half a minute of stunned silence before Glinda finally managed to choke out, "How did you know I thought -"

"We're the same person, remember? We've felt the same way in the past: we've felt the same self-loathing, the same envy. The only difference is that your Elphaba still exists, and is still your dearest friend; my Elphaba died and was reborn as the deadliest opponent of the Deviant Nations... and believe me, one of the most powerful forces for self-improvement in this world is an enemy vastly more capable than you. I had to force myself to be brave, emulating my long-dead friend's courageousness – enough to gain admiration for leading from the front. I had to twist everything I'd learned from Morrible into the art of manipulation. Since I knew I'd never be anywhere near as powerful as Elphaba, let alone the Empress, I studied at every single opportunity to expand my magical knowledge. And yes, I had to force myself to be truly callous."

"And you started calling yourself the Mentor."

"Well, that happened more or less by accident. Besides, you and I have acquired so many names in the time since we entered university: Galinda Upland, Glinda Upland, Glinda the Good, The Voice of the Wizard, Morrible's Substitute, The Empress's Handmaiden, The Face of Rebellion, the Mother of Deviancy, The Most Irredeemable, The Whore, The Harlot, the Hag, the Harridan… and finally, the Mentor. But it wasn't until after I earned my sixth name that I truly began to harden myself, to truly learn: every day of my life from the moment I became the Empress's enemy was a learning experience… and if you wish, it can be the same for as well."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb, Glinda. I know you; the question's been on the tip of your tongue from the moment you've realized that you might actually have some potential for magic. You want to know if I can teach you to be a proper witch; you want to ask for my tutelage."

Glinda hesitated. It was true that she'd been wondering if the Mentor might be able or willing to teach her magic, and after all that she'd been told, it seemed almost plausible that she might one day be as skilled as the Mentor herself. But one question still nagged at her mind.

"Why?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Why bother? What could you possibly have to gain from teaching me magic? You've already got Elphaba, and you've establified that it took years for you to learn everything you know now, so why would you bother carrying around an inferiorate witch?"

"Because I know for a fact that you can be surprisingly capable when under pressure… and because I know that you and I want the same thing – to protect Elphaba."

Glinda almost laughed. "I really don't think Elphaba needs my help. Or anyone else's."

"Oh, but she does. She's brilliant, no doubt; a magical prodigy of unlimited potential and great bravery… but that same brilliance makes her vulnerable; you've seen the negative traits her personality has to offer – the bad temper, the obstinacy, the recklessness; she needs someone to rein her in and watch her back. Harker's good at his job, but even he has limits – especially against other magicians – and given his background, he's not exactly inclined to assert himself."

Glinda thought back to the sense of paranoia she'd felt about Harker, and wondered if she should mention it; after all, other than the medic that seemed to be shadowing her, Elphaba would almost certainly be alone except for the assigned bodyguard – the man who'd always seemed to be on the verge of stabbing her in the back. But then common sense gently trickled back into her head, and she thought better of it: after all, if the report on the battle had been correct, Harker had saved Elphaba's life several times; if he'd really been out to kill her, all he'd have had to do was simply walk away.

"Doubtless she'll have other bodyguards," the Mentor continued, "Perhaps even one from the alumni of the Thaumaturgical Colleges, but the same problem applies: for the most part, bodyguards trained and conditioned to protect their target from attackers; protecting their charge from themselves is another matter entirely. No, Elphaba needs a bodyguard who knows her, who wouldn't be afraid to speak their mind around her, who knows and trusts her as her oldest friend would."

"But I've tried to stop her from putting herself at risk before, and that didn't work at all! Back in the palace attic, I tried to get her to calm down and-"

"You couldn't have expected her to defy her deepest beliefs, especially when she was so impassioned. But when you're of one purpose, you can get through to her, ensure that she doesn't throw her life away; you understand how she thinks and know when to step in. Best of all, you can work alongside her as a fellow witch: I know for a fact that you have the tiniest spark of magical potential waiting to be unearthed, and though I know from experience that it's nowhere near as great as Elphaba's-"

"Or anyone else's."

"-but with a little time and a considerable amount of effort, I think we can shape you into a fair to decent battle-magician. Besides, who better to protect the most instrumental figure in this war than her best friend? With the two of you working together as a single cohesive unit, you'd be practically unlimited… just as you wanted to be when Elphaba first suggested rebellion."

"Do you really think…" Glinda's breath caught in her throat. "Do you really think that I could be capable enough to fight alongside her? You think that's possible?"

"Glinda, in my experience, there is precious little in this world that can honestly be termed "impossible." Now, do you want my tutelage in magic or not?"

"Of course I do."

"Excellent. Your lessons will begin tomorrow morning at 6:30 AM, and continue throughout the rest of the day for as long as my duties will allow. Don't be late, and don't take these lessons lightly – I'm a much harsher taskmaster than Morrible ever could be, and you have an awfully long way to go…"

---

Freshly relocated to her hastily-repaired guest room, Dorothy Gale sat on the bed in barely-subdued panic and tried not to think of what might happen if she took her eyes off the door.

She wasn't safe here anymore.

The doors and windows were still unlocked, nobody had tried to drag her off to a holding cell just yet, and the guards escorting her back to this room hadn't decided to put her in a cage… but she knew it was only a matter of time before the hammer fell; she'd seen the looks on their faces when the report had popped up, when they'd seen the writing on the wall.

GIVE HER BACK OR ALL YOUR LITTLE PLAYTHINGS DROWN IN BLOOD, it had said. How likely was it that the Mentor was going to choose Dorothy over god only knew how many thousands of people? How long would it take before someone decided it would be better for everyone if they just gave Dorothy to the Hellion?

From what she'd seen of her at the meeting, the Mentor would probably do it in a heartbeat; everyone in Loamlark would probably back her up on that decision, too. Omber she wasn't too sure of, but then he – or she – was spending this evening glued to a chair in front of a radio, so it wouldn't be likely that s/he'd be the one to make the decision. Glinda? No; she wouldn't even dream of it, so at least she had that on her side. And as for Elphaba? Dorothy almost laughed. Elphaba might have softened a bit since their first meeting, but she wouldn't think twice about surrendering Dorothy – her sister's murderer – to the Hellion, would she?

Dorothy, you're not thinking clearly, a patient little voice in the back of Dorothy's head insisted. If Elphaba was going to hand you over to the Hellion, she'd have done so a long while ago; she rescued you the first time you met the Hellion, remember? She could have told the Irredeemables that she was travelling alone, and they might have never found you. And the only reason that thing backed off was because it didn't want to fight a witch. Besides, she doesn't really hate you anymore, and even if she does, she told you herself that she wouldn't cross that line.

And how long would that last? She shook her head, all but snarling to herself in nervousness and rage. Elphaba mightn't hate Dorothy anymore but she certainly didn't like her either, and that was after being trapped in the same room as her for over a day. When the Hellion attacked again – and she would attack again - and Elphaba started seeing the bodies pile up, she'd hate Dorothy all over again worse than ever.

Oh but it wasn't as simple as the people she knew about, was it? Even if Elphaba wouldn't be the one to hand Dorothy over to the Hellion, there'd always be someone else willing to do it: even if the Mentor didn't order it, people in the palace might take things into their own hands if they knew that Dorothy was the one the Hellion wanted. Vara, Dr Kiln, one of the guards, a maid, a butler, anyone. No matter how nice these people were, they'd want a way to stop the killings, wouldn't they? Even if they only wanted revenge against the monster, they'd still want some kind of bait to draw her in.

All they'd have to do – once they'd finish binding her, gagging her, stuffing her in a sack or whatever – was take Dorothy to the edge of the nearest forest and call the Hellion's name. And then it'd all be over.

She'd be made a Doll.

The prize of the Hellion's collection.

Not for the first time that day, she wished she had one of her friends close by – the Scarecrow, the Lion, the Tin Man, Toto, anybody. More than that, she wished she was still in Oz: back in the Emerald City, nobody had wanted to hand her over to the Witch, even when she'd scrawled "SURRENDER DOROTHY" across the sky. They'd kept her safe behind their walls, they'd…

Oh, who was she kidding? She'd heard Elphaba's disgust at the Wizard, and at how easily Dorothy had believed him. She'd heard Glinda tell the true story of what had been happening before she'd arrived and behind the scenes. In a way, she had been handed over: she'd been used from beginning to end, sent out as bait for the Witch and an idol for every witch-hunter in the country, just something to help draw the angry mobs against Elphaba. Nothing had changed, not really – except that this time, her guardians had a very good reason for handing her over.

And even if they didn't…. well, it wasn't as if she was safe here. She'd seen the Hellion tearing through the walls. It might have been a fluke, but they said it had been because of the magical attack on the capital, and there'd almost certainly be plenty of those ahead: they were at war, after all. So, the lesson was clear:

Nowhere was safe.

Nobody could be trusted.

But… what would it be like when the inevitable finally happened?

What would it be like to become a Doll?

Would it hurt?

Would she remember being Dorothy, or would she forget everything about herself?

Shuddering to herself, she took the dog-eared photograph of Aunt Em and Uncle Henry from her pocket. Kansas had already seemed far away back in Oz, and every step of the journey since then had only brought her further and further away from home; and now she might just have to face the fact that she'd never see it or her Aunt and Uncle ever again. What could they be doing right now? Were they out looking for her this very minute? Had the police been called? Was the countryside swarming with search parties, looking under bushes and in ditches for a trace of her, calling for a name and hoping to be answered? Or was she already thought dead? Were those search parties just looking for a body to fill the tiny grave that had been dug for her?

Perhaps she would be dead soon: if she'd be forced to forget everything about herself, she might as well be dead. And the gap between her and home would be uncrossable then, wouldn't it? She'd be so far from home that she couldn't even remember it; all her time in Kansas would be scrubbed out of her mind altogether. Maybe it would happen so quickly she wouldn't even notice it; one minute, she'd be staring down at the photograph and wondering if she'd ever see Aunt Em again, the next, she'd be tossing it aside and wondering who those strangers had been. Or maybe it would happen in bits and pieces, a tiny piece of memory here, a bit of personality there, slowly feeling her mind being eaten away from within and being powerless to stop it.

Dorothy groaned inwardly, silently hugging the photo. She couldn't keep watch like this… but then, how long could she keep watch? She'd have to sleep eventually, and that would be the moment when they'd finally strike: she'd be woken by footsteps in the darkness; a cold hand would clamp over her mouth; ropes would be wound around her arms and legs, and then they'd take her away.

Or worse still, if the Hellion did break in, it'd be even worse: she'd hear distorted voices cackling in the night; a skinless, blood-soaked hand would seize the back of her skull, and she'd go numb and limp, and then the monsters would spirit her away to her new home on the Hellion's shelf.

Why resist? It was going to happen anyway, so why bother trying to stop it when there was one option left open?

So, she tucked the photo back in her pocket and got to her feet. Moving as softly as she could, she tiptoed out of her room and into Glinda's bedroom – towards the jar full of dream pills on the bedside table. Purloining another one of the tablets, she crept back to her room, shut the door and sat down on the bed.

By now she knew from experience that these pills induced a good deal of drowsiness, and from what she'd heard from the conversations between Glinda and the servants, she and Elphaba had slept so soundly that even the din of a window-washing crew accidentally smashing the windows of the neighbouring apartment hadn't woken them up. So, perhaps it would be better if Dorothy just slept through what was going to happen, if she could just go to sleep – for the last time in her life – as a human girl, and wake up as something else.

That would be better that having to know what was happening to her, wouldn't it? And at least she'd be happy before the end came; at least she'd get to see Kansas again, even if she'd never know where the dream-memories were really coming from.

So, without a second thought, she swallowed the pill.

Then, as the first pangs of sleep began curling around her head, she crossed to the wardrobe, opened the door, and slid past ranks of shoes and dangling coats until she was sitting at the very back of the wardrobe, just out of sight. Then, only once she'd finally managed to shut the door (with some difficulty) did she finally shut her eyes.

Even if being captured by the Hellion was inevitable, she wasn't going to make it easy for her.

---

Sometime later, Glinda – not sure how to spend the remainder of her time awake and wondering how the youngest resident of the castle was faring – knocked on the door to Dorothy's bedroom. Finding the room apparently unoccupied, she called Vara immediately, half-suspecting that the Hellion might have somehow broken in.

But Vara only smiled, as if to say, "Children do this sort of thing." Then, pausing only to check under the bed, she strolled over to the cavernous wardrobe and swung the door open to reveal Dorothy fast asleep behind the rows of dresses, unconsciously hugging an overcoat around the waist and mumbling in her sleep.

Without saying a word, Vara leaned forward and gently scooped Dorothy out of the wardrobe and into her scaly arms. For her part, Dorothy didn't so much as stir; if anything, she grew even quieter as her head settled onto Vara's shoulder, her directionless muttering slowly petering out.

For a time, Vara held her; perhaps it was Glinda's imagination, but she swore she heard Vara humming what sounded like a lullaby.

Then, the blue-scaled Irredeemable carefully lowered Dorothy into bed and drew the covers over her. Then, almost as an afterthought, she leaned forward and gently kissed Dorothy on the forehead – and this time there was no mistaking it: she really was humming a lullaby, something old, foreign-sounding, and yet almost Ozian somehow.

As Vara stood, still humming, Glinda opened her mouth to ask just about every single question that had occurred to her: the name of the song, where she'd heard it, and if she'd ever sung it to her child. Then her memories of the last twenty-four hours sprung back into the forefront of her mind, and she hastily shut her mouth, guilty that she'd ever been so thoughtless to even imagine asking.

But the last question must have been written clearly on her face, because Vara met her gaze with a sad smile. "Only once," she replied sadly.

For a moment, her eyes shone wetly in the lamplight. Then she blinked and the moment was gone. "Come on," she whispered, suddenly her usual cheerful self once more. "Let's let her sleep."

---

Glinda's agitation didn't let up easily.

As the night went on, she found herself pacing the room, wondering about the lessons scheduled to begin tomorrow: was it going to be as productive as she'd hoped? Would she actually find herself learning and remembering spells, even enjoying them? Or was this just going to be just a repeat of her time as Morrible's chief underling, a miserable slog through one practice session after another without any sense of achievement or magic? Even after the long chat she'd had with the Mentor, it was still impossible to guess exactly how it'd go: the Mentor had said she was a harsh taskmaster, but after enough time spent in Morrible's service, Glinda had learned not to take anything her teachers said at face value – after all, the Dreaded Headmistress herself had once referred to herself as "couragiatingly self-sacrificial" in the use of her time, though admittedly that had been after a few too many drinks at the Ozdust Ballroom.

But after almost an hour and a half of wondering if the Mentor could be a harsh taskmaster but also a good teacher (and if Glinda could really match up to her standards, and what front-line combat would be like if she made it to the position of bodyguard, and how Elphaba was doing right now, and indeed just about every other concern that happened to cross her mind that evening – of which there were almost too many to count), Glinda was at the end of her tether. With a choice between going to bed and experiencing another round of the Mentor's increasingly horrific personal experiences or wandering the palace for someone to talk to, she took the latter almost without thinking.

After all, with all the questions she was juggling around inside her head, even the tranquilizing effect of the pills might have difficulty sending her to sleep. And even if they did properly knock her out, she knew from experience that she'd be in for yet another round of semi-nightmares just before she dozed off – those awful moments when unwanted memories and fears started clawing their way to the front of her mind, and she found herself back on the operating table with Cataphlax and Rance leering down at her…

So, not wanting to wake up Dorothy and not wanting to pester any of the servants, she found herself drifting across the palace's east wing, towards the colossal bulk of the external broadcasting station. It wasn't easy getting in even with the Mentor's blessing, and the guards had to provide an escort to keep her from wandering off or touching anything, but eventually she was allowed as far as the secondary broadcasting chamber where Omber had been put to work.

Omber was in his/her element: seated at a huge desk strung with complicated-looking gadgetry and cables, the engineer looked positively buoyant as s/he punched in the broadcast coordinates and sent out the code. Also, whatever restrictions Omber had been placed under, they obviously didn't include having to keep the workspace clear of food and drink, because dinner had been served scant minutes ago and Omber was spending the minutes between broadcasts gleefully demolishing a plateful of roast pork and baked potatoes.

"Enjoying dinner?" Glinda asked.

"I'm enjoying just about everything at this point, but I think dinner would have to be the high point of this evening." Omber sighed. "Sorry; I know this is a state of emergency, but at this point, I'm just happy to be enjoying a hot dinner. Or just food, truth be told: if we'd stayed any longer in Exemplar I'd have probably ended up raiding the airfields' locker room for packed lunches. But enough about me – what brings you down to Intermission City?"

"To what city?"

"Sorry. The technicians around here call this place "intermission city" because of the gaps between broadcast and reply; these are meant for long-distance communication, so it's always guaranteed to be at least long enough to boil a pot of coffee."

"So you're an engineering expert on communication systems as well?"

"No, not really; I've only had a chance to dabble in the subject. Circuitry, power-distribution and security were my specialities of choice back at university, and I learned airship repairs and flight testing from the Nobruvo mechanics that took me in, but this? Different can of worms altogether, let me tell you. But tell me, what brings you here?"

"It's… well, it's funny that you were talking about Exemplar, because I was just thinking about something that you mentioned while we were still there and… well, it was something a bit complicatory and obviously not the sort of thing you were exactly comfortable talking about, at least with me, but…" Glinda took a deep breath, and gave up. "I wanted to ask you how you ended up joining the Amorphous League," she said simply.

"Ah," said Omber, smile visibly fading.

"Look, I can understand if you don't want to talk about this. I mean, it's really rude of me, of course, but –"

"No, no, I understand. You heard a little about us back in Unbridled Radiance, most of it from those godawful mage-surgeons, so now you want to hear the whole story straight from the horse's mouth. It makes sense, I don't blame you. And I'll be happy to talk about it, but first…"

Drawing a bottle of wine from a small trolley next the table, Omber quickly refilled his wine glass to the rim, before downing almost the entire glass in a single gulp.

"Fair enough," said Glinda, "Now, y-"

Omber held up a hand; s/he'd noticed the label on the bottle, and was examining it with considerable interest. Then, without another word, the glass was refilled again and emptied just as quickly.

"Are you alr-"

This time, Omber didn't even bother filling the glass: instead, s/he just grabbed the half-empty bottle of wine and started drinking, showing no intention of leaving a single drop. It took about thirty seconds to drain the whole thing, and at the end of it, the engineer didn't seem even the slightest bit tipsy as s/he set the bottle back on the desk and began to speak again.

"There," said Omber, visibly relaxing into the seat cushions. "Now I'm ready to talk. Sorry about that; alcohol doesn't work as easily on long-term shapeshifters - altered nervous system and physiology, you see. Anyway, you wanted to know how I got involved with the League… and presumably you also want to know why as well?"

"Well, yes. I mean, like you said, I heard a little about you from Cataphlax and Rance, but they didn't really explain why any of you wanted to join."

"Then I'd advise you to get comfortable: this is going to be a very long and boring story. Anyway, I told you that I ended up visiting the Sepulchre about three times before the night I ended up in custody alongside you. Now, the second visit really took a lot out of me; the Studious Interviewers didn't actually torture me during the questioning, but they certainly made sure that I got a good look at what happened to people who didn't cooperate with them. So, as soon as I was released, I took a leave of absence from work and spent about a whole week doing just about everything I could to forget what had happened down there. It wasn't easy: at first, I was just happy to have a few drinks and pretend that everything could be okay for a while; but then I started having nightmares, horribly vivid nightmares – seeing the torture all over again, except this time I was watching myself being sliced to ribbons. After that, I was drinking mainly so I'd black out and avoid the dreams. But it's never easy as that: I started seeing things out of the corner of my eye – faces of people who'd been in the interrogation chair, or the Studious Interviewers themselves; and even if it wasn't guilt-induced hallucinations or fear-induced hallucinations, I also had the paranoia to cope with.

"Even when you're out of the Sepulchre, you've never really left: they watch you once you're out, they make sure you don't give them any reason to drag you back and force you through the mincer like they wanted to do the first time. I'm not being paranoid, Glinda: in Unbridled Radiance, security watches everyone; the only thing keeping them from arresting more potential Deviants is the simple fact that resources can't permit security equipment literally everywhere, and the watchers can't precisely monitor thoughts … yet. And the sad thing was that I hadn't had a problem with this before the second visit. I knew that the Empress and her servants were watching as much as practicality allowed, but I accepted it because I had faith in Unbridled Radiance and I believed that the Empress wanted the best for us. I thought we were being protected by all the surveillance – the watchful eye of the state ensuring our safety, as they put it. But after the Sepulchre, it was impossible to see it that way again: all I could think of was how many different ways they could be watching me: the man sitting beside me on the train home; the couple across the room in the café where I ate my lunch; hidden cameras on library shelves, audio transmitters wired into my briefcase, magicians scrying into my house – all I could think of was this huge inescapable mass of eyes following me across the city, always watching me, always waiting."

"So, for five days I was pretty much drunk from sunup to sundown; it was the only way I could think to blot out those thoughts of being watched. And I usually started getting paranoid that I might blurt out something incriminating while I was drunk, so I started getting drunk in places where I thought that nobody would care to follow – down labyrinths of alleyways too complicated for anyone to tail me through, to dives too obscure for the Empress's finest to know about… or so I thought. But it was on the fifth day when I bumped into a guy by the name of Gavvun Lobbage, or at least that was the name he went by at the time. One way or another, we got talking and he eventually told me that he and some of his friends were running a hobby team for an experimental sport, and he invited me to come along to the next meeting. I was happy for anything that'd take my mind off the Sepulchre, so I accepted... and eventually, I became a full-time member."

Once again, Glinda could only stare in disbelief; just when she'd thought that Unbridled Radiance couldn't surprise her any further, it once again proved her wrong. "You were put under house arrest for being a member of a hobby group?" she asked, incredulously. "That's what the Amorphous League was really using shapeshifting for?"

"I know. We were surprised when Unbridled Radiance went after us as well: we were about the smallest fry catchable when it came to Deviant Groups."

"Well… I suppose you were, but were you really just practising shapeshifting as a hobby? Is that all you were using it for?"

"Is it really that surprising? Surely you must have seen someone using magic frivolously or mundanely back in Oz?"

"Not all that often." But that's only because there aren't enough magicians to make much of an impression.

"Completely different story in the places where I've visited. Go to any bar in Unbridled Radiance, or the Deviant Nations or even Nobruvo, and chances are you'll see at least one patron or employee doing something magical: you'll see some cocky student from a Thaumaturgy College trying to impress the girls with roses made of fire and pebbles glamoured to look like diamonds; you'll see cardsharps teleporting aces in and out of the deck, and caught-out cheaters having their fingers sliced off with cards sharpened to the thickness of an atom; you'll see bartenders cleaning the benches with a wave of their hand and chilling drinks with a snap of their fingers; you'll see people reading from books hovering a foot above the table and drinking without touching their glasses; you'll see barmaids rubbing elbows with golems and imps and other magical servants; you'll see wands and talismans confiscated by the bouncers just as often as guns and knives; you'll see barroom brawls where at least one participant can fly; you'll see academic wizards wanting downtime, you'll see half-trained magicians looking for work, and if you're in a really seedy place, you'll see glamoured prostitutes and drugs made from human tallow. Back there, in that rundown speakeasy that nobody ever bothered to monitor for Deviants, I met a man who could change his shape. He was subtle about it, I grant you – changing the colour of his eyes, making his eyebrows vanish, things that wouldn't be too noticeable if we really were being watched – but that was enough to pique my interest."

"But you said that you were using this for sport; how did that work?"

Omber's morose face twitched upwards into a smile, and for the first time since the two of them had met, the engineer's voice sounded enthusiastic – almost impassioned. "Oh, however we pleased: about the simplest game among the League was for a whole flock of us to take the shape of birds and race each other across the city. The gamblers among us loved seeing how they could work our new abilities into games of chance, too: being the ball in a roulette wheel, melding themselves with the floor to control the roll of the dice in craps, or even making the cards disappear into their own bodies; there was even this weird variant on strip poker we used to play – every time you lost a hand, you'd have to transform yourself into a shape of the winner's choosing, usually something really embarrassing. And then there'd be the more scientifically-minded of us, who'd experiment for hours on end to see just how far they could push their abilities, how long the effects of the potion would last."

"And you never did anything illegal?"

"We were committing Deviancy just by drinking the potion, Glinda; everything we did was illegal."

"No, no, no – that's not what I meant: did you ever use your powers to steal or fraud or anything like that?"

"The temptation was always there," Omber admitted. "We had to police ourselves as best we could, weed out members who'd been misusing their powers and clamp down on any particularly despicable acts. It's not as hard as it looks, once you've learned to recognize a fellow shapeshifter in disguise. I think we were pretty successful: after all, we were arrested as hedonistic Deviants, not hardened criminals… and renegade mage-surgeons, in the case of our leaders."

"Cataphlax and Rance did mention rogue mage-surgeons starting the League."

"Not so surprising when you think about it. You saw those lecturers warping flesh and bone with their bare hands back at the lecture; I've heard tell that mage-surgeons here in the Deviant Nations – who haven't sealed away their tissues behind flesh-porcelain like they do back in Unbridled Radiance – can actually alter the shape of their own bodies in similar ways. The Amorphous League took it a step further: the researchers who founded our society all those decades ago had hit upon the formula for a potion that would allow them to take on literally any form they desired. Unlike any kind of shapeshifting discovered before, the range of shapes they could assume was almost infinite – no limits to the extent of the transformations, no restrictions on mass or height, no tedious process of moulding flesh and bone by hand. So, once they realized that they had the power to exist free of almost anything that kept them chained to their work, they left their posts, formed the League, and bestowed the potion on those interested in being a part of their unique new lifestyle."

Glinda took a deep breath and sat back in her chair. "Was it really that simple?"

"What do you mean?"

"No offence, but it… well, don't you think it all sounds a bit extraordinary?"

"Well, there've been shapeshifters before, but only among truly accomplished magicians; plus, the League's bosses always like to talk about one of the big inspirations for the first mage-surgeons – this disaster that happened decades before the Empress reset the clock on everything -"

"I wasn't just talking about the League, Omber; I was…" Glinda sighed, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of her calling anything extraordinary. "Don't you think it's incredible that you went from looking for a way of keeping yourself from going crazy to being a shapeshifter? I'm sorry, it just sounds like a bit of a leap from getting drunk every day of the week to transforming yourself into... well, anything you liked."

"Does it? Have you ever been imprisoned, Glinda?"

Glinda rolled her eyes. "Well, of course I have; I was locked up in one of those sarcophagussy things when we first met, remember?"

"Okay, stupid question. But I'll bet that you've had a point in your life when you've wanted nothing more than to just escape from it all; it doesn't have to be the tail-end of a stay in the Sepulchre – it can be anything – a loveless marriage, a dead-end job..."

Or a lifeless, hollow existence with no real authority, no true friends, and no chance of finding any kind of fulfilment; only a long serious of glamorous photo-opportunities that reduce you to a smile on a magazine cover, another brainless face for the people of Oz to fawn over.

Glinda blinked and shook herself, trying to focus her attention on Omber again.

"... My point is, at first I thought I just needed a way to escape from everything I'd seen in the interrogation rooms. Then, as my time with the League went on, I started realizing just how little control over my life I'd had beforehand: looking back on it all, I'd seen all the choice I'd ever made in my education, my career, my entire adult life in fact – and how few of them I'd ever made on my own: I'd ended up studying engineering because I'd been told that it was more profitable than any of the theory classes I'd been really interested in; when I got out of university, I got a job in a boring everyday field of engineering work, simply because some draft officer warned me that any other field might have gotten me employed on the front lines; when I was brought back to the Sepulchre, I could have just stayed calm and honest, but when the Interviewers warned me that they might have to apply torture if they weren't satisfied, I just started telling them whatever I thought might satisfy them – name, dates, addresses, anything that might be associated with Deviation. The aftermath of that visit had just been the tip of the proverbial iceberg, the final straw that made me realize just how frightened and miserable I really was, how trapped I'd been; I needed a way out, and I found it in transformation.

"It's not nearly as weird as it sounds. Okay, maybe it is, but once you've gotten over the initial side-effects and stopped transforming into anything that crosses your mind, it's probably the most wonderful thing you'll ever experience in your life: to be able to gallop as a horse, to fly as a bird– it's such a liberating thing that... I mean, it's probably the only thing that stopped me from losing my mind on the busier weeks: to be sitting at home one minute, terrified that someone was going to knock on my door and have me dragged off to prison, then the next minute, to open a window and just fly free. Or if I was feeling bored or frustrated with myself as a human, I could just concentrate for a minute and make myself into someone completely different: man, woman, adult, or child, with whatever features I could possibly imagine. And that's just the joy of being someone or something else; the transition from one form to another is so... so glorious… the sense of flesh becoming as fluid as water, of bones shifting into new positions, the old face simply melting away..." S/he sighed, eyes closed in blissful remembrance.

"And you don't regret any of it? I mean, from what Cataphlax and Rance said, there were some pretty weird side-effects to the potion – and I know they're not exactly the most reliabliating source on the subject, but you said yourself that the oldest members of the League are just-"

"Sentient protoplasm, existing in a permanent state of transformation. You're asking if I regret the current crop of side-effects, and those I'd be saddled with if I ever had access to the potion again; the answer is and always will be no. The changes in the nervous system, the disappearance of primary and secondary sexual characteristics, the loss of physical solidity, the final state of being as protean liquid – it's all worth it for the joy of being able to lose yourself in transformation, in wearing another shape. It's all worth it. Every single minute. Even if joining the League ends up getting me incinerated by the Vigilant Eyes, even if there's some health complication due somewhere along the line for half-finished shapeshifters like me, I wouldn't change it for a second. Shapeshifting might one day mean death for me… but living in Unbridled Radiance is death."

A long silence followed, as Omber hastily dredged up another bottle of wine from the trolley and poured himself/herself another glass.

This time, Glinda helped herself to a glass of her own. "You sound like you've been meaning to say this for years," she said.

"Oh, I have. Nobruvo wasn't exactly overflowing with fellow shapeshifters, if you take my meaning. But why all the interest in my past? I know that standoff with that duo of dickwits back in the museum probably got you interested, but why now? You could have left this until tomorrow, you know."

"I could, but…" And in spite of herself and everything else that had happened in the last few hours, Glinda couldn't help but smirk. "I think I might be undergoifying a transformation of my own tomorrow."

---

The quarters they'd given her were ridiculously opulent, even by officer standards: thick carpets, velvet drapes, oil paintings adorning the mahogany-panelled walls, plush sofas, oaken coffee tables, and a bed so layered with mattresses, covers and pillows that even skilled mountaineers would be daunted. True, the entertainment was limited to what was on offer downstairs at the hotel bar and the occasional gramophone record, but that just gave Elphaba all the more excuses to open her back and dig out a few of the books she'd been itching to read.

As of yet, she wasn't entirely sure why Mayor Wilder had decided to give her the finest room in the entire hotel; even the captains and majors who were sharing the building with her were bedded down in only four-star accommodations, a fact that several of them had remarked on ("Hell's teeth, Thropp, what the hell were you doing up here to get this kind of treatment?"). If it was an attempt to curry favour with the visiting Deviant Nations troops, it was somewhat understandable, but not entirely: after all, she was technically only a section coordinator and not even a commissioned officer – useful on the battlefield and quite influential with the Mentor, but not exactly the highest-ranking figure that Wilder could have sucked up to. Maybe he was playing for bigger rewards from the Mentor herself rather than just the local command, but it was still a bit of a mystery. But truth be told, Elphaba was honestly too tired to focus on at this point: by now, after the marathon of briefing sessions, troop deployments, leadership assignments, uplifting speeches and repetitive chants of "we must hold the line," she was at the end of her tether.

By now, the body of Captain Marlford Marl had been loaded into an impressive coffin of black ebony and – along with the coffins of all the other casualties from the visiting troops – respectfully carried by a military parade of pallbearers into the black-painted cargo freighter for transportation back to Greenspectre, where he and others like him could be buried.

In turn, over three thousand troops had arrived to replace them: eighteen hundred regular troops, seven hundred Irredeemables, four hundred golem-like "husks" belonging to Polyandrium's army, and perhaps a hundred gleaming brass automata fresh from the workshops of Ironmongery Peak. Also, dozens upon dozens of armoured turrets, several mobile artillery batteries, two squadrons of short-range attack aircraft, a fresh minefield, the promised five sections of magicians that Elphaba was supposed to be helping to lead, and almost an entire company of mage-surgeons (most of whom were helping her personal medic clear away the bodies of the aggressors). And this wasn't even counting the troops they were keeping in reserve. And that wasn't even counting the troops that had survived the massacre, the mercenaries that were currently present, the mercenaries that were due to arrive tomorrow, or the militia battalion that Marchfly was currently training. Looking down from the balcony of the hotel at the multitudes amassing in the square below, even Elphaba couldn't help but feel the tidal wave gathering around her, just waiting to break upon the shore.

She still wasn't happy about the civilian army eventually being deployed upon the front lines – specifically just behind the crude concrete bulwarks being erected outside the northern wall – but at least her mood wasn't nearly as incredulous as it had been a few hours ago. For the moment, she was keeping her mood stable by finishing off the remains of tonight's dessert (five-star) and wandering about the new arrivals.

For the first time, she'd realized just how much the character of a Deviant Nation effected its troops: for the most part, the regulars didn't vary too much, so it was in the specialist forces – the Irredeemables, the magicians, the war engines, and the unique units – where the differences were most pronounced. Greenspectre, being the capital of the Deviant Nations and the home of the revolution, was the most cosmopolitan: in its Irredeemables, you'd see a rather balanced mixture of biological alterations, mechanical alterations, and purely magical accoutrements; its war engines and magicians were pretty similar. Ironmongery Peak adored machinery and mechanisms: their Irredeemables disregarded biological enhancements in favour of the purely mechanical - artificial limbs of whirring clockwork gears and cogs, brass armour-plating bonded to their flesh, additional eyes of glass and copper, hearts of ever-ticking clockwork, bowels replaced with steam engines (complete with boilers for stomachs and the occasional pair of tiny smokestacks built into their shoulders), sometimes even wheels and treads instead of feet; their magicians preferred more mechanical equipment to their traditionalist brethren in other cities, augmenting their magical strength with elaborate structures of glass and electrum while boosting their physical strength through armour plating and piston-enhanced harnesses; even their war engines provided more gleaming brass and whirring gears- not to mention devastating explosives and mechanical soldiers - than any other city. Polyandrium's warriors were all midnight blue silk and frameworks of bone; skeletons seemed to be the most popular material of choice for the experimental necromancers – their Irredeemables used it in their replacement limbs alongside conductors for esoteric energies, the magicians specialized in animating dead bodies and ossified matter, and the infamous Husks themselves had been built from the carcasses drawn from ancient battlefields. Gortrald preferred the viscerally biological, admiring tentacles and crab claws among their Irredeemables, along with exoskeletons, poison-dripping glands and appendages so bizarrely shaped that Elphaba was almost scared to ask what they were used for -

"Miss Elphaba?"

Elphaba looked up from her book to find that the errand boy who'd been waiting on her for the last few hours had finally returned with her last coffee of the evening.

"Thanks," she murmured, taking the mug from the proffered tray and enjoying a gentle sip.

"Sorry if it tastes weird," the boy piped nervously. "We couldn't find the usual seasoning you like."

Elphaba did a double take. "Seasoning?" she echoed. "What seasoning?"

"The seasoning you had with the last cup of coffee. I saw one of your assistants adding some powder to it, so thought that was just the way you always had it."

A slightly agitated pause followed, as Elphaba ran through the long list of angry questions that had just sprung into being as a result of this rather innocent comment: what seasoning, what assistant, what powder, why didn't you stop him, why didn't you ask what the powder was, why didn't you replace the coffee, why did you let me drink something that might have been poisoned you stupid fuck… Then Elphaba remembered who she was talking to: the waiter had to be about twelve years old at the very most, having only been employed due to a critical staff shortage; yelling at him wouldn't help and wouldn't accomplish anything worth a damn either. The last coffee she'd drank was almost two hours ago, and she hadn't noticed any ill effects so far, so she'd have to assume for the time being that whatever had been added to the drink wasn't poisonous.

"Who exactly added this stuff to the coffee?" she asked hesitantly.

"I don't know his name, Miss; I didn't recognize his face, either – he was kind of tallish, dark hair, big bushy beard."

"Anything else you know about him?"

"Well, Miss… there was this weird thing I saw on his way out of the kitchen: I think he… changed."

"In what way?"

"Well, all the hair on his face vanished for a start."

"And you didn't think that was worth telling anyone about?"

"I thought it was just something all Irredeemables could do, Miss. After that – this didn't happen until he was out in the alleyway – I thought I saw something grow over his face; this weird veiny, fleshy kind of mask thing, Miss."

Elphaba's mind lit up. "Was this man wearing red armbands by any chance?"

"Yes, Miss."

The medic, she realized. The little bastard's been spiking my drinks. Why?

She took a deep breath, trying to smother the urge to do something rash; she needed to think carefully about what to do next if she wanted to avoid setting the entire command structure into an uproar. She needed to tackle this problem carefully, smoothly, and quietly – none of which had been her forte thus far in life. Also, because the medic (being a mage-surgeon) was clearly capable of altering his face and body at will, she also had to do this in a way that wouldn't allow him to escape into yet another disguise: she had to physically restrain the man if she wanted answers out of him.

It took almost five minutes of hemming and hawing before she was able to come up with a plan that seemed to meet the requirements. "Listen," she told the boy, "I'm going to need to be woken very early tomorrow morning, ideally at five. I want you to get me a coffee ready for me at that time; once you've finished making it, just get out of sight and wait. If the same assistant comes along again, you tell me immediately. Okay?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Good; now run along…"

As the errand boy hurried away, Elphaba reached into the cavernous depths of her bag, and drew out the bottle of dream-pills.

This might just be the only way I'll be able to sleep tonight after that little shock, she thought, as she began shaking the pills into her outstretched hand. Oh well… at least with Harker watching the rooftops outside, I don't have to worry about being sniped.

… Hopefully…