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.

30. Tall Tales and Telling Memories

A/N: And now, Chapter 30, and believe me when I say it's been far too long since the last update! And though part of it's due to my ongoing search for work, I must confess that the main reason is simply due to a lack of discipline on my part: every time I tried to end the chapter, I kept thinking of more things to add, and I couldn't bear to chainsaw it because I'd woven it too thickly to do so without wasting even more precious time. I can only apologise for the delay and hope that I can write the next few chapters with a bit more speed and brevity.

Guest, I'm glad you liked the entrance scene - that was a joy to write - and I'm glad you like Glinda's interactions with the Mentor; there will be more to be found in the chapters to come, and with any luck, they prove as different and intriguing as ever. As for your questions as to the voices, I tend to blend or filter the voices of the actors a little when I imagine these characters: for example, the voice of the Empress is essentially that of Elphaba - Idina Menzel - because as an ageless immortal, her voice hasn't changed much in half a century... though, because she's meant to sound serene and unnervingly calm, I do tend to imagine her with just a tiny bit of Sofia Lamb from Bioshock 2 thrown in for good measure. The voice of the Mentor was hard to imagine, considering that Glinda is such an exuberant, childlike character for most of the musical, but I eventually used the character of Kreia from Knights of the Old Republic II as a starting point. As a reader, you're free to imagine them in whatever way works for you. Oh, and by the way, "Elphaba as Idina Menzel because Idina Menzel"? That was wonderful. Thanks again for the review!

Anne, I'm very happy to find that you enjoy it so far; I hope the next chapters will not disappoint - and that I'm able to write them faster!

Nami Swann: I'm always a little edgy around battle sequences, because I can never be entirely sure if I'm overdoing the violence, overdoing the description, overdoing human reactions, or what have you. As such, I'm happy to hear you enjoyed it. As to the truth of the Champion's identity... well, it'll be revealed soon, but until then, please keep up with the theories - they are all so enjoyable!

RadiantBeam, I'm so happy that the confrontation didn't disappoint - that's one of the many things that was gnawing at me after I posted that particular. Needless to say, later chapters will focus on the Empress's attempts to uncover the truth behind Elphaba's existence in this dimension, and - without saying too much - it'll result in a protracted trip down the rabbit hole of Her Radiance's insanity. Later chapters will answer the truth behind Empress Elphaba's "death," the parasite, and if anything remains of Elphaba's original personality. Also, well spotted: there are a number of things our three happy dreamers will have missed thanks to the dream-memories being restricted to their perspective alone. And as for the child... yes, that's one of the many things currently on a slow boil for now. Thanks again for the lovely review, and I hope this chapter and the revelations within continue to impress.

RedApple435, I know you didn't review the previous chapter, but your review of the work overall is much appreciated. I can but hope that the terror factor doesn't overwhelm the awesomeness - but you'll have to be the judge.

Anyway, time's up! Game's on! Good luck! Have fun! Without further ado, the latest chapter! Constructive criticism and critiques are always welcome, as are nice long detailed reviews!

Read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Wicked does not, cannot, shall not and will not belong to me. Also, "Alphaba" does not belong to me, either, nor did I dream it up - this remains the invention of Ichibayashi. I promised I'd incorporate it, and here it is! Hope you enjoy the chapter, Ichibayashi!

---

For three more minutes, the battle for Loamlark raged on.

For approximately one hundred and eighty-seven seconds, the forces of Unbridled Radiance continued their assault on the walls of the city, attempting to overcome the deviant militia and their distorted allies with all the might and bravery that the Empress demanded of her soldiers; even though the arrival of the mercenary reinforcements had caught them off-guard, the Radiant Army fought on nonetheless, redirecting both the elite guardsmen and the Vigilant Eyes away from the walls and towards the mercenary army's clockwork servitors. To their credit, the guardsmen re-manoeuvred with commendable speed, concentrating their energy lances on the first row of mechanicals and reducing their overcomplicated exoskeletons to sizzling blobs of molten copper; and in turn, the Eyes of the Empress swept in from above to bombard the enemy with cleansing fire, bringing down dozens more even as they deployed from the airship overhead.

But in spite of all the strength and valour their purity granted them, the Empress's forces could not win: forced to fight the local militia, the wilful monstrosities of the Deviant Nations, and now the mercenaries all at once, the guardsmen were spread too thinly. With new mechanicals arriving every second and the battlefield now crowding with the flesh-and-blood members of the Strangling Coils, the Radiant Army quickly found itself assaulted from all sides. Worse still, in their attempts to shield themselves from the storm of heavy gunfire, they were left vulnerable to a counterattack by those Irredeemables not content to snipe at them from their trenches.

And it was the Fraud who led that counterattack. Soaring over the battlements, she launched herself at the flanks of the nearest unit of elite guardsmen, scattering the well-ordered ranks with gusts of hurricane-force winds and peppering the fallen soldiers with blasts of eye-searing magical power. For their part, the survivors did their best to regroup and return fire, even calling in the aid of the nearest Vigilant Eyes – right before the Fraud's impromptu honour guard joined the fray, a disorderly rabble of militiamen, mercenaries, mechanicals, monstrosities, husks and Irredeambles all following the witch's insane charge. Worse still, the colossal figure of the mercenary general – the Leviathan, his subordinates had called him – had been among those who'd joined the onslaught; with him towering over the battlefield and visible from almost every angle, there hadn't been a single warrior of Unbridled Radiance who'd missed the sight of the armoured giant casually plucking an elite guardsman from the rank below him, wrenching him violently out of his armour, and hurling his mangled corpse back into his comrades with a spray of blood. By the time the Leviathan decided to simply stomp his way through the guardsmen on his way to their commander – with a sound like a man in heavy boots trudging through ankle-deep mud – the Radiant Army was on the verge of a full retreat.

But it was the Fraud who dealt the killing blow to their morale. Soaring high over the battlefield, surrounded by a swiftly-dwindling array of Vigilant Eyes, her body aglow with arcane energies and her blasphemous mimicry of the Empress's face visible to anyone who cared to look, she was already a monstrous sight. But the spectacle of over twenty Vigilant Eyes – ones modified especially for enforcing the Empress's rule in this violent new territory of the Empire, and specifically corrected to ensure that the Witch's face could not sway their judgment – all magically swatted from the sky and sent plummeting to the ground like comets… suffice it to say that by the time the remaining thirty seconds of battle had played out, General Stellham had finally conceded that the reinforced Irredeemables were simply too numerous and sounded the retreat.

From his perch atop the mobile command post, the Champion regarded the retreating army with disgust – or something very much like it. Far from attempting a dignified exit, with the remaining Eyes providing covering fire for their brethren as they boarded their transports and withdrew as gracefully as possible, the lesser guardsmen simply ran for their lives without a shred of dignity or grace, a cowardly mob disgracing Unbridled Radiance with every step. Furthermore, rather than attempting to board their troop carriers, many simply fled on foot – right into the minefield that their airborne transports had so easily avoided.

Those of them who weren't reduced to flying mincemeat by the landmines were quickly mowed down by the vengeful defenders, or, in the case of one particularly unlucky group, crushed to death by the ruined bulk of a transport that the Leviathan had flung at them. True, some guardsmen were lucky enough to escape both the bombardment and the landmines – if only because those in front of them had managed to clear a path through the field with their bodies – and some retained the presence of mind to scramble aboard the transports their greater brethren now escaped in… but this was by far the least of the mercies this debacle currently present.

A costly tactical defeat was bad enough, but now worsened by the embarrassment these troops had become; disciplinary measures would have to be enacted – reconditioning, to be sure, perhaps even decimation if the soldiers couldn't explain themselves well enough. And after the deaths of so many worthier soldiers, Loamlark still stood as a bastion of deviancy, now guarded by yet another army of defenders.

And the Fraud was still out there, still profaning the Empress's image, still insulting her by merely existing, still evading him, still out of his reach, still impossible still wrong still not making sense still infuriating still enraging-

Be at peace, my love, be at peace, the Empress soothed.

Behind his mask, the Champion blinked rapidly, and realized that he'd been gripping the control panel in front of him hard enough to crumple it.

What was it about the Fraud that disturbed all these long-submerged emotions?

Over the course of his career, he'd killed a grand total of one thousand four hundred and ninety-seven Distortions, five hundred of them lieutenants and officials much like the Witch had been. In all those decades of service, none of those victims had ever managed to disrupt the silent efficiency of his mind, except perhaps for the False Glinda, and the anger he'd felt then had been so easily smothered it was barely worth noting. That had been an anger he'd understood: Glinda was one of the few worthy faces he remembered from his otherwise-irrelevant past, and seeing her memory so insulted by an imposter had been enough to spark the few traces of rage still left active. The Fraud was an even greater insult, yes, a slur upon the perfection of the Empress, but to lose control just by thinking about her…

The Champion looked down at the badly-dented controls. What made the Fraud different? What about her inspired his rage to such heights? And why, as he struggled to listen to the Empress's calming entreaties, were there so many troubling thoughts drowning out her voice?

During the mission briefing, the Empress had instructed him not to listen to anything the Fraud might say or anything she might be forced to say to her in response, so he'd obediently focussed on the battle and closed his mind to the conversation… and yet now, he found himself remembering exactly what had been said. None of it made sense, for both the Fraud and the Empress had spoken of events that had never happened and indeed never could have happened; nevertheless, the fact that his memories had failed to reject this discussion – in spite of his best efforts – raised too many questions for the Champion's liking.

And that didn't seem to be the only problem with his memory either: from past recollections and therapy sessions with the Empress, he knew for a fact that Glinda was dead, struck down by the Mentor just as she'd been about to embrace Purification. He knew that he'd been engaged to her at some point in the dim and distant past, but they'd never had the chance to marry before her death. He knew that he'd been saved from corruption by the warriors of newly-formed Unbridled Radiance, and granted the blessings of redemption and purity by the Empress herself. Most importantly, he knew that the Empress was the living avatar of Perfection and Beauty, and had always been so, having been destined from birth to bestow true happiness and unending beauty upon the world. So why, when he looked back on it now, did everything seem clouded by doubt? Why did he find himself wondering if Glinda might still be alive? Why did he have dim memories of a wedding ceremony in progress? What could have made him doubt the irrefutable fact that his Purification was a blessing? And why, when he looked back on what he'd known of the Empress before his rebirth, could he only think of the colour green?

Why was he even thinking about his past in the first place? His life before Purification was irrelevant, a long procession of meaningless events with no guiding principle in mind; he knew this because the Empress told him so, had helped him to understand it, had saved him. He'd known it for decades on end, accepting it with all his heart just as he'd accepted the love of his Empress. So why had this green-skinned imitation made him doubt these undeniable truths? What was it about the Fraud that made him feel so different – had made him feel anything other than joyful devotion to his Empress?

He wasn't supposed to think so much. Why would he need to? The Empress made all his decisions for him, and the Empress was never wrong. Why clutter his mind with imperfect thoughts when a mind of unparalleled clarity could guide him? His mind should be clean and quiet except for the instinctual calculations of his next movement, and the occasional prayer to the Empress… and of course, the music.

Oh, yes; the music had been the most troubling thing of all.

Up until now, the music had been too indistinct to hear the lyrics behind those unearthly melodies, even when in single combat with the most challenging foes the Deviant Nations had to offer, even when the Empress held him in her arms and kissed him. But when he'd been in combat with the Fraud, the music had been louder and clearer than ever before, slowly improving for every second he'd been in the Distortion's presence – until he could almost understand the words.

He knew the words were irrelevant, as was the song. All that mattered was obeying his Empress's orders and fulfilling his duty to her. Here and now, his duties were clear: once he was allowed back into the fray, he was to once again ensure that the Fraud was captured and brought to justice. And, should the Fraud once again resist confinement, he would be obliged to end her life as swiftly as possible, ending her mockery of the Empress and preventing her blasphemous image from spreading beyond the borders of this pestilent jumble of nations.

And yet, even as he told himself this, the Champion found himself hoping that the Fraud would survive their next encounter – only for a short while longer, of course.

Just long enough to learn the words of the song.

---

"Is this really necessary?"

"You said yourself that you'd need some time to work all those unwanted chemicals out of your system."

"Yes, but do I really have to spend all that time in the infirmary? Surely there's something more productive I could be doing…"

"Standard procedure, I'm afraid. Plus, I can already tell that it's not just the aftereffects of the drugs that need seeing to: you've got a cut on your left temple, those bruises on your neck are going to require treatment at some point, and you'll need a bit of osteomancy if you're planning on moving the fingers on your left hand in the immediate future. Oh, and I'm pretty sure the diagnostic spells were reporting broken ribs and serious bruising on your arms and torso, so you might want to wait a little while before trying to move. Unless you particularly like chronic pain, of course."

Elphaba sighed deeply – and promptly winced as a fresh jolt of pain shot along her fractured ribs.

With the battle over and the walls now being patrolled by the combined forces of the Irredeemables and the Strangling Coils, she was once again lying prone in a field hospital far south of the front lines; fortunately, rather than improvising some operating theatres on the floor of a hastily-disinfected warehouse, the mage-surgeons now had access to a duo of hospital ships - one of them having been brought to Loamlark by the Deviant Nations the night before, the other a new arrival from the Strangling Coils' fleet. As such, the wounded were being given the best possible treatment the two armies could offer: operating theatres on both ships were now working at full capacity, the wards were crammed with recovering soldiers from all three factions, and a small cluster of tents had been erected outside to help anyone who couldn't find space or assistance aboard the ships. With all the medical treatment available to them, the casualties of today's battle didn't appear to be getting any worse.

Unfortunately, Elphaba's good mood had quickly spoiled when she'd been informed that she'd have remain confined to one of the smaller wards until the mage-surgeons could attend to her. With so many patients with life-threatening injuries occupying their time and Kiln currently flat on his back in the bed to her left, this had forced her to wait there for the better part of an hour, with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and talk to her fellow patients. And because the ward was empty except for a couple of heavily-anaesthetized soldiers, Kiln was the only one interested in talking.

"You don't seem to mind being confined to a bed," she grumbled irritably.

Kiln shrugged. "What can I say?" he remarked dryly. "After free-running the length of the city walls, overdosing on stimulants, assimilating a few dozen unlucky guardsmen and wearing them for the next half-hour, I'm in the mood to put my feet up and relax. Plus, as long as we're both confined to this room, I'm in the perfect position to keep an eye on you – for once."

"And here I was thinking that you'd at least have some interest in repairing all the damage you've done to yourself over the last few hours."

"Oh, I do." He sat up in bed and leaned into the light, revealing his warped physique Elphaba's inspection: from the looks of things, he'd been able to remove most of his tentacles and trim down the accumulations of tissue on his arms and shoulders. He'd even managed to unearth his head from beneath the vast lump of flesh that had been covering it throughout most of the morning's battle. All the same, the repairs were still a long way from completion, and Kiln's left arm and left leg were still little more than shapeless masses of pulsating bone and blubber.

"It's a lot trickier than usual," he admitted. "I'm having a little difficulty seeing straight, you see."

"You're still hallucinating?"

"Not as badly as I was before, but the double vision is still going strong. Colours are a bit distorted too, unless you've actually decided to dye your clothes pink."

Remembering Glinda's long-lost fashion advice, Elphaba almost laughed – before she remembered the pain in her ribs. "In other words," she said, trying valiantly not to giggle, "We've both been left here to sober up."

"Except you're going straight back on the drugs once you're out of here, unfortunately-"

"And I'm going to stay on it until Unbridled Radiance lies in smouldering ruins. Or until I'm dead. Or until my body's been so crystalized that it shatters to pieces the moment I try to sit down. Or likely some rather entertaining combination of the three."

"You know, you can afford to cheer up every now and again; we have just won a fairly major battle."

"Would I be wrong in thinking that this is only going to be the first of many?"

Kiln sighed. "Technically, it'll have been the second, but you're otherwise correct. Look, I understand your reasons perfectly well, and more to the point, I respect them. It's just that listening to you and the Mentor trying to out-pessimism each other might very well drive me to madness."

"Pessimism?" Elphaba echoed. "I'm pretty sure I'm only being realistic."

"Oh god."

"What?"

"You have no idea how many times she's said that to me over the last few decades. She really was inspired by your glory days of cynicism, wasn't she?"

"Again, I didn't have any "glory days," and I wasn't cynical in any sense of the word: I just happened to have a very realistic outlook on life – one that I occasionally abandoned in moments where my own ego got the better of me. But," she admitted at last, "You do have a point: we've managed to achieve a non-pyrrhic victory for a change, and we've gotten some new allies on our side – plus one old one. We're secure on the border for now. I'm going to enjoy a break from being drugged with magic-enhancing drugs. I've managed to talk you into being honest with me. And best of all, I think I might just have spooked the Empress herself."

Kiln's brow rose in astonishment. "Really?"

"She sounded pretty shocked to me."

"Harker told me she was in a communicating mood this morning, but… well, you'll have to regale me with the gory details."

"There is one other bit of good news I forgot to mention."

"Go on."

"You've been officially forbidden from carrying hallucinogenic drugs for the next eighteen months. And they've put a guard at the dispensary door, too."

"Oh har, har, har."

"You know," said a pained voice from Elphaba's right, "There's one other bit of good news you left out…"

Elphaba craned her head in the direction of the voice, trying desperately not to aggravate her cracked ribs; as it happened, the bed to her right was occupied, and though had been curtained off for sake of the patient's privacy and/or dignity, a shovel-like hand was now awkwardly drawing the drapes aside with a hiss.

There, Chief Marchfly lay on his front, his heavy brow beaded with sweat, his ruddy complexion paled to greyish-white. He was clearly injured and in considerable pain, but not in any immediate danger – at least if the notice on the edge of his bed was any indication. But then, Elphaba didn't need to look at an official diagnosis to learn what was wrong with the man: protruding from the man's backside were no less than twelve large chunks of shrapnel.

"…I think we've more than proved just how – ouch – valuable the militia can be," he finished with a wince.

"What the hell happened to you?" Elphaba asked, unable to keep the incredulity form her voice.

"A grenade," he replied. "Those mage-surgeons tell me I was lucky enough to be standing outside of the kill-radius when it went off. Obviously not lucky enough to avoid the damn thing altogether, but hey, at least I didn't get it in the spine, right? So – ow – they left me here with a few stasis spells 'round the bed to stop me from bleeding to death or getting infected, and told me they'd be back once they were done with their list of critical patients. But anyway, like I said, the militia's more than proved itself: I think it might be time for you admit that we've more than earned our place on the battlefield."

Elphaba rolled her eyes. "And I think it might be time for you and I to have another little talk about how I'm not interested in allowing half-trained civilians onto the battlefield and letting them get massacred."

"Those "half-trained civilians" saved your life back there, in case you forgot. And another thing: the men who saved you from being filleted by that silver-hatted bastard? They weren't even part of the militia detachment your commanders allowed onto the front lines; they were too busy trying to fight off all the guardsmen climbing over the eastern wall. The men who showed up to help you were the militia volunteers who weren't allowed to fight; I called as many off-duty trainees as I could reach at short notice, they got their rifles and their gear ready in record time, and they saved your life. Does that mean much to you?"

"Look, I never said I wasn't grateful-"

"You do a very good job of hiding it-"

"Let me finish! First of all, thank you for showing up to help out. Secondly, if you want to make this about who-saved-who, you'll have to bring Dr Kiln and the Leviathan into this little discussion. Third, you didn't really show up just to help me, did you?"

Marchfly's near-permanent scowl deepened. "No," he grudgingly admitted. "It was that sniper of yours – Harker, or whatever his name is. He said the gate was in danger and there were survivors who needed help from the militia… and of course, the eyeless old gimp didn't mention that the only survivor left in the courtyard was you until we were already lining up on the gatehouse."

"Fair enough, remind me to thank him while I'm about it. Last but not least, why do you care what I think about this militia business? You've already got the Mentor's permission to train your own army. Why should my approval matter to you at this point?"

"Because, in case you hadn't noticed, my jurisdiction is currently up to its balls in mercenaries: I mean, I was expecting reinforcements but I wasn't expecting to have the entire fleet and flagship show up on our doorstep; I wasn't expecting to be overrun by clockwork men and badly-tattooed cutthroats. And what's going to happen when all those mercenaries get bored? What happens when they decided that whatever you're paying them won't be enough? Rape and pillage ahoy! Loamlark goes up in smoke, your northern defence collapses in on itself, and the Empress sweeps in to repatriate the survivors back to Unbridled Radiance, then marches on the Deviant Nations. We don't just need a police force; we don't just need front-line troops; we need to be able to replace the mercenaries. If you lot have to leave Loamlark, you'll need to take the mercenaries with you for the sake of security – and if you want to leave this town unsupervised, we'll need permission to upsize our defence force." Marchfly took a deep breath. "And the Mentor listens to you."

"So you need my help in getting your hands on another special dispensation, and you need more equipment from the Deviant Nations. And I thought you didn't trust us."

"I don't! You're a bunch of weirdness-worshipping lunatics with an unnatural predilection for having your own limbs hacked off and replaced with bits of rusty iron and patchworked offal – and that's still nothing compared to some of these mage-surgeons I've seen on this damn ship. And I don't trust you, in particular: you're madder than mercury poisoning, about as stable as sweaty dynamite, and speaking of explosions, my eardrums still haven't recovered from your last temper tantrum. But here's the thing: I trust the mercenaries a hell of a lot less."

"I'm very flattered to hear it," said Branderstove.

Once again, it took a sharp reminder from her broken ribs to keep Elphaba from reacting the normal way. Marchfly, on the other hand, automatically swivelled towards the source of the noise on instinct – and yelped in pain as his shrapnel-shredded buttocks brushed the mattress.

Somehow, in the last few moments since the two of them had looked away from the ward's entrance, the Leviathan had managed to slip through the doorway without a) getting stuck, and b) being noticed or c) making a sound. Now he stood over them, his gargantuan suit of armour discarded in favour of a bathrobe that could have comfortably sheltered an entire circus; on a smaller man, this silken robe might have been called a masterpiece of tailoring, but on Branderstove, it was a masterpiece of tentmaking. But for all the work and material that had gone into it, the garment was, in the end, just a bathrobe, and as such, it left most of the gigantic paymaster's limbs exposed: all of them, from the four that had been manoeuvred through his sleeves to the four supporting his ponderous bulk, were tentacles; each one as thick as a tree-trunk, each one strong enough to snap a man's neck like a dandelion stem – as Elphaba herself had witnessed over the course of the battle.

"Have you been spying on us?" Marchfly asked through gritted teeth. "Is there a secret door in this ward or something?"

Branderstove chuckled softly, water once again gurgling at the back of his throat as he did so. "This ship belongs to the Deviant Nations, sir. If you wanted secret doors, you should have asked for treatment aboard one of my airships."

"Then how did you squeeze through that door?"

"One of the benefits of being an invertebrate: no bones, you see. You'd be amazed at the spaces I can squeeze through. But enough about me, let's talk about Miss Thropp here."

He turned in Elphaba's direction, his blubbery lips curling back into a hideous grin: the jagged shapes that smile revealed might have been teeth once, and later still, they might have been a half-formed beak. Whatever they were now, Elphaba could only guess… but then again, guessing was the best she could do when it came to Branderstove's current state.

"I believe you owe me an explanation," he said.

Elphaba very gently closed her eyes. She hadn't been looking forward to this: not only was her story guaranteed to sound ridiculous, but she didn't have any evidence to support it other than her existence alongside the Empress; worse still, if Branderstove decided to make good on his less-than-veiled death threats, Elphaba's injuries left her at something of a disadvantage. True, the blubbery paymaster wasn't armoured at the moment and the confines of the ward restricted his movements, but once Elphaba was in reach of those tentacles, there'd be no chance of escaping their grip. Maybe, if the worst came to the worst, she might be able to knock him down before he could rush her; if she reacted quickly enough, she could either freeze him or fry him before any of those tentacles got too close. But if he beat her to the punch, the orderlies would most likely be cleaning her off the ceiling with a sponge. And the mercenaries would most likely withdraw their support from the Deviant Nations as well, but Elphaba probably wouldn't be in a position to know or care about that by then.

"You might find my story a little hard to believe," she began.

"Harder to believe than meeting a perfect duplicate of the Wicked Witch of the West, as she was before she became the Empress? I doubt it. Besides, after four decades of extended life as an octopus hybrid, I'm not much inclined to scepticism. Do go on."

"What the hell are you people talking about?" Marchfly cut in. "What is she supposed to be explaining?"

For the second time in as many minutes, Elphaba found herself struggling not to sigh for the sake of her ribs. "It's a long story-"

"Take your time, I'm not going anywhere in a hurry."

"-that's absolutely none of your business."

"Why not?"

Branderstove very gently massaged his brow with the tip of his rightmost tentacle. "It's a private matter."

"Look, unless you two want to put this off until later, then you're going to have to let me in on the big secret. I mean, it's not as if your cracked ribs are getting better on their own, are they? It's not as if all this shrapnel is going to work its way out of my asscheeks by itself, is it?"

There was a pause, as Branderstove glanced towards the door. "I think you might actually have some help with that, sir; it seems triage has at long last graced this ward with a mage-surgeon… and the first treatment seems to be intended for you."

Sure enough, a figure in a surgical gown was already making her way towards the supine militia chief, offering a friendly wave to Dr Kiln as she approached (Kiln awkwardly returning the wave with misshapen, half-repaired hands).

Just like the other mage-surgeons on board, she'd clearly indulged in a great deal of self-alteration: most of her face had been sculpted into a long, hooked beak of bleached-white bone, and what little skin remained around it was heavily layered with thick black feathers. Other than that, though, the rest of the slender body was almost completely unaltered – making it abundantly clear that this bird-headed magician was, in fact, a woman.

Of course, because the curtains on the other side of Marchfly's bed were still closed, he hadn't noticed any of that so far. In fact, he was still struggling to turn himself towards the entrance – no easy task in his current condition; after several seconds of shuffling and wincing, he awkwardly drew the curtains apart and rounded on the approaching mage-surgeon with a vengeance. "Now you listen here, Dr Whatever-Your-Name-Is, I've been lying here for god only knows how many hours, and OHGODYOURFACEAAAAARGH!"

"Now, now," the mage-surgeon chided. "There's no excuse for that sort of overreaction, not at your age." The beak didn't open or even move as she spoke; instead, glittering mechanical mouthparts implanted under her chin buzzed and whirred, producing a shockingly realistic mimicry of human speech.

"Whu… woor… who are you?" Marchfly gibbered.

"I'd have thought Mr Branderstove introduced me well enough: I'm the medical attention you've been shouting after for the last half hour – Dr Corone, at your service." She held out a pale hand; if Marchfly noticed it all, he didn't shake it. Unperturbed, the crow-faced doctor shrugged and went about a swift but in-depth inspection of her newest patient's injuries, hastily drawing the curtains closed as she did so.

"With that out of the way," Branderstove continued, "Let's get down to business. Now, I doubt any of these other patients will be conscious enough to listen in… but what about Dr Kiln? Is he trustworthy?"

"For the most part."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Kiln remarked dryly.

Somewhere in the background, Marchfly was bombarding his doctor with questions, most of them involving the surgical instruments she was currently readying.

"Besides," Elphaba continued, "There's not much point keeping secrets from him: he knows the whole story already – and probably much more of it than I've learned so far… not that he's been willing to share all the details."

"No really, your trust is nothing short of overwhelming."

"What, you don't think I've earned the right to make smartass remarks about you and Mrs Secrecy? After the events of last night, I'd have thought I'd be entitled to at least a few jabs at your expense."

"Can we not do this right now? I know I'm going to have to make a serious effort to live that one down, but right now I'm still trying to live down the Rude Awakening incident; I can't try and live down two embarrassments at once."

Branderstove coughed loudly. "If we could get back on topic…"

"What are those?" Marchfly was asking somewhere in the background, sounding more like a terrified kid in a dentist's chair than anything else.

"Those are scissors."

"Oh. Um. Yes, obviously. Silly me. Thank goodness. Er, what's that?"

"That's an articulated nerve-regenerator. We shouldn't have to use it if you hold perfectly still."

"Wonderful, wonderful. And what's that you're holding?"

"That's a syringe. This might sting a little…"

"Just how much do you know about parallel universes?" Elphaba asked, raising her voice over the panic in the background. "Alternate realities, diverging timelines, crossroad worlds – that sort of thing. I mean, I don't know how much time you spent around Dr Lintel while you were a test subject, but it's -"

"I did pick up a few things during my stay at the Pottery," Branderstove interjected. "Not enough to explain the physics behind Lintel's pet project, but I understand the basics of his studies into other world. And in the last few years, I've also heard some of the more outlandish theories posed by other magicians – his predecessors and successors in the field of portal magic – enough to hear all about divergent universes and the like."

He leaned forward, his many tentacles carrying him closer and closer to Elphaba, until the scent of saltwater and ambergris blotted out even the impressive stench of hospital disinfectant hanging over the ward. "I take it that this is your explanation?" he asked softly. "You're not native to this reality at all, but an escapee from one of these hypothetical divergent worlds – another Elphaba from another Oz?"

"That's right."

At the periphery of Elphaba's vision, tentacles were subtly wrapping themselves around the frame of her bed, tighter and tighter. Either her interrogator was anchoring his ponderous bulk in place… or he was getting ready to flip the bed upside down and crush her to death with it.

There was a dreadful silence, broken only by the sound of Marchfly insisting that he didn't need an injection, that he'd soldier on through the pain, that he could deal with it if he just had a swig of booze and a bit of rope to bite down on – even resorting to the age-old cliché of "I can take it, I'm a man!" And eventually, the noise was joined by the sound of exasperated doctor giving in and hurrying off to find a length of rope – preferably a noose, if the trail of obscenities was any evidence.

For twelve nerve-wracking seconds, Branderstove gazed impassively down at her; Elphaba couldn't even guess at what the colossal businessman was thinking about, for his face betrayed no emotion whatsoever – least of all his eyes: colourless, cold and thoroughly alien, that unblinking stare seemed to bore into her forehead, slowly drilling through the skull and into the frontal lobes beneath it. Was he testing her story for inconsistencies? Was he examining her face, looking for some tic that might prove whether she was lying or not? Or was he just wondering how easy it would be to kill her? Elphaba hadn't the slightest idea. In fact, all she could think of in that moment was how Branderstove's oddly-shaped pupils looked more like coin slots on a child's piggy bank than anything living – a silly thought, but not entirely unwarranted either.

Eventually, the Leviathan leaned back, apparently having reached some kind of a decision. He reached into the vast folds of his robe, and held out a tiny metal tile no bigger than a dinner plate; at the press of a button, however, the tile expanded dramatically into a solid metal cylinder roughly the height of an oil drum, though much wider by far. One way or another, it was large and sturdy enough to support Branderstove's colossal girth, as he sat down heavily atop it.

"I think," he said thoughtfully, "It might be a good idea for you to start at the very beginning."

"That might take some time," Elphaba warned.

To her right, there was a muffled yelp of pain from Marchfly, followed by a shout of "I said I didn't want an injection! I didn't want an injection! I told you I could… deal with… the… the…"

"Yes, yes," Corone mused cheerfully. "I'm sorry, but as much as I'd like to indulge your attempts to prop up your masculinity, I'm pretty sure that you'd much prefer to sit down without screaming at some point in the dim and distant future. Nerve damage to the backside can be problematic, you know."

"Oh… fair enough… but what about the… booze?"

"Other than medical-grade ethanol, the only intoxicants on board are restricted to my stash of Green Vineyard's Best, and I'm saving that for a special occasion. Now, you just relax, and I'll have all this scrap metal out of your ass in no time…"

"Well, we're in no hurry," Branderstove carried on, clearly doing his best to ignore the commotion. "We can either tell tall tales about other lives spent in other worlds, or sit here and listen to Mr Militia mumble his way through the next hour of surgery until someone stops by to fix up your ribs. Your choice."

Elphaba gently massaged her temples, and wondered if it might be a good idea to start studying mage-surgery in her spare time. "Storytime it is, then," she grumbled.

"Excellent." Branderstove's tentacles curled back into his sleeves, and from an inside pocket of his robe, he drew a sizeable packet of expensive-looking cigars; from another hidden compartment, he drew an impressive silver cigarette lighter in the shape of a nautilus shell. Popping a cigar into his mouth and lighting it with a flourish, he leaned back in his seat, exhaling a thick plume of greyish-blue vapour.

"Now that we're both sitting comfortably," he continued, as the smell of burning kelp filled the air, "Tell me a story of the Wicked Witch of the West…"

---

"Oh, for the love of Lurline! I've told you a thousand times – no I haven't, but I'm going to – I am not a spy. Why is this so hard for you to understand?"

"If you're no spy, then what were you doing in the tunnels?"

"Trying to find a way out."

"Don't get smart with me, friend. You're in a lot of trouble, and unless you can answer my questions, I won't be held responsible for what the chief does to you when he gets here. Now, how did you get into the tunnel network and what were you doing there?"

"First of all, I'm not trying to be smart with anyone: I'd ended up in the tunnels by mistake, and I was trying to find my way out. That was what I was trying to do when you found me, and more to the point, the only reason you found me at all was because I was calling for help. No big mystery, no subterfuge, and no espionage. I-am-not-a-spy. This scarecrow is no spy, and neither is this dog. Scarecrows and dogs do not make good spies. Ego, I am not a spy, and neither is Toto. Do you savvy?"

"What mistake?"

"Pardon?"

"You said you ended up in tunnels by mistake. What mistake would lead you into a tunnel that's only been used by smugglers and monsters?"

Fiyero closed his eyes and gently banged his head on the bars.

How long had he been here? It couldn't have been much longer than a few hours, but it felt more like a day and a half. Yes, thirty-six gruelling hours of boredom – compressed into just four – since the scouting party had found him lost in the mountainside tunnels, wandering aimlessly through the same lightless maze of corridors and passageways he'd stumbled into the previous afternoon. As infuriating as it seemed right now, he'd been so happy to hear those voices echoing towards him, almost ecstatic at the sight of the lanterns bobbing through darkness ahead. And then of course, he'd seen the rifles pointed at him, and everything had gone downhill from there: he'd been handcuffed, yelled at, threatened, questioned, insulted, questioned again, smacked in the face with a rifle butt, and eventually escorted away by a trio of his "rescuers." With Toto still clutched in his arms, Fiyero found himself roughly frogmarched through another network of passageways, down a long flight of stairs, and finally out onto the foothills – and from there, into town.

Loamlark, as his captors called it, hadn't much to look at: it had still been dark outside when they'd dragged him through the gates, and even with streetlights illuminating the crooked streets, there hadn't been much to see except for the walls and roofs of the weirdly-shaped houses. Once they'd gotten Fiyero into the back of the cart, the tiny windows left him seeing even less than ever before: other than the lights outside, the only thing he'd been able to clearly see were the soldiers that occasionally stopped the cart. There were a varied bunch: most of them were dressed in the mottled green livery of the soldiers that had captured him, but some were quite different; quite a few were dressed in improvised armour and badly-patched uniforms – he'd seen one of these men, apparently a representative of the local militia, guiding the scouting party through the tunnels. And a few, the ones in green and black… well, he hadn't seen too many of them, but even in the gloom of the twisted alleyways, he couldn't fail to recognize fanged mouths and crablike pincers.

Sadly, his captors hadn't been in the mood to answer any of his questions. Once they arrived at the barracks, he'd been rudely dragged out of the cart and flung into a cell. They'd given him a jug of water, a dish of it for Toto, some bread and salt pork, and a promise that they'd be back soon to interrogate him. So, with no other option but to sit and wait, Fiyero had reluctantly done so, pausing only to dole out his ration of food for Toto before lying down on the bare mattress and settling in. And there he'd stayed for the next three hours. In that time, dozens of patrol routes had marched around the barracks, voices had grumbled about "goddamn Irredeemables," something had crashed into the rooftop a few streets away, a patrol had shouted at the offenders in question, the militia chief had shouted at the patrol for not bringing the offenders in for questioning, the militiamen had argued at length with the soldiers, and eventually, dawn had swept over the city, along with a great deal of noise: gunshots, explosions, shouted orders, screams of pain, booted feet racing past the building – the sounds of a battle raging in the distance. Whoever was attacking, they didn't get as far as the barracks, one way or the other, so Fiyero was left alone until the battle came to an end with a great deal of rumbling from somewhere overhead.

After that, the interrogation began, and Fiyero instantly found himself wishing that a mortar shell had hit the barracks while he'd been waiting, if only because the explosion would have been quicker. None of the militiamen believed that he was a scarecrow: they kept demanding that he "take off the disguise," and even when he started ripping out handfuls of stuffing out of his chest, they insisted that was just wearing straw under his shirt. In the end, he had to remove of his gloves and let the stuffing spill out of his left arm, and it took about a minute of waving the empty burlap around like a victory flag before they could even accept the fact that he might actually be a scarecrow. Unfortunately, convincing them that he wasn't a spy was much, much trickier, especially given that none of them were in the mood to acknowledge the fact that scarecrows didn't make effective spies outside of cornfields.

And as for Fiyero's attempts to find out where the portal at Kiamo Ko had left and the others, nobody was willing to answer his questions with anything other than a scream of "shut up!" or "I'm asking the questions here!"

Invariably, the questions marched back to "What was your mission here? How long were you supposed to stay in Loamlark? Who are you spying on us for – Unbridled Radiance or the Hellion?"

"Answer me," the current interrogator was saying, his enormous eyebrows bristling in self-righteous indignation. "What was the mistake that led you into the tunnels?"

"Falling asleep in the Hellion's territory. Well, I have to assume that's the reason, because I woke up in her nest. Or her lair. Or her den. Or her hive, or whatever you want to call it. Long story short, I woke up there yesterday, and I've been making my way through the tunnels ever since."

If anything, the eyebrows bristled even further. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't know what I'm supposed to expect at this point. I mean, have a lot of people been kidnapped by the Hellion?"

"I told you, Straw Man, I'm asking the goddamn questions here. Now, tell the truth: why did you enter those tunnels?" By now, the militiaman appeared to be wearing a pair of porcupines on his forehead. "Are you a spy for the Hellion? Did Unbridled Radiance send you here to assassinate somebody? Answer me!"

And here we go again.

"Look, Mister –"

"You will address me as sergeant," the militiaman snarled. He pointed to the insignia of rank on his threadbare shirt. "Sergeant Indekketer of the Loamlark City Police, and the Loamlark City Militia. You got that?"

"Perfectly," said Fiyero, mentally relabelling his interrogator as Sergeant Eyebrows. "Look, I don't know why this is so hard to believe-"

"-because we've just been attacked by one of the biggest invasion forces this city has ever seen, and for all we know, it was guided by information you provided them with!"

At this point, all Fiyero wanted was to give up, lie down on his bed, and stare at the wall. But he knew he wouldn't: even if the resident tough guy was willing to stop yelling at him, his eyebrows would still be following Fiyero around the room for the next eight hours. So instead, he leaned back in his chair, and waited until the Sergeant appeared to be calm enough to speak rationally. Then, he said, "If I answer your questions, would you please not interrupt until I've finished explaining things?"

"You just asked a question; I told you, I'm-"

"-asking the questions, yes, yes. Look, you've been telling me not to ask questions for the last half hour or more, and you've been accusing me of being a spy for much longer."

Sgt Eyebrows opened his mouth to interrupt, but Fiyero beat him to it. "We can do this all morning," he said calmly. "We can probably carry this on all day if you're a stickler for procedure, and you can use just about every single dirty trick in the book to get a confession out of me if you really want to. But here's the thing: I'm a scarecrow. I know this seems hard for you to believe, but that's what I am: an animated mass of straw, burlap, and rope. And I don't have the same needs as you, or anyone else you might have interrogated before: you can't threaten to starve me, because I don't need to eat or drink; depriving me of sleep isn't going to get me to give in, because I don't need to sleep; and sticking my head in a bucket of water isn't going to help either, because I don't need to breathe. You can't cut, stab, impale, crush, hammer – or do any of the things you might be planning to do with that tray of tools over there, for that matter: I don't feel pain, and you can't torture a confession out of me. You can only rip me to bits, and right now, I'm as far from caring about my own health as I can get without actually being suicidal. So here's the thing: you can turn this interrogation into the usual three-ringed circus, and waste the entire day listening to me provide answers you'll never be satisfied with… or you can listen to my testimony without interruptions, and leave the transcript for your boss to sort through while you enjoy a well-deserved break. How's that sound?"

There was a long pause.

Then, Sgt Eyebrows sighed. "Proceed."

In spite of himself, Fiyero smiled. Oh yeah. I still got it.

"Alright, I'll begin at the beginning. I won't bore you with literally everything that's led me here, but I will say this much: I don't know what country this is, or how far away from home I am. I got here through some kind of magic portal…"

---

"… and once we agreed on that, she initiated me into the Irredeemables and sent me out here to curtail an invasion."

Elphaba paused for breath. It had been a very busy hour, and a very complicated series of explanations – only made slightly more complicated by Kiln occasionally chiming in to provide some of the more theoretical details behind dimensional travel. But in any event, Elphaba had provided Branderstove with all the information he'd required: she'd told him of her Oz, how events had diverged in the timelines of the two worlds, how she'd ended up in this one, and how she'd found herself in Loamlark; she'd even told him a little of the dream-memories and insights they allowed her.

Admittedly, the explanation had been delayed by several minutes once Corone finished removing the last of the shrapnel from her delirious patient's backside, and moved on to treating Elphaba's broken ribs. Of course, because she'd been unconscious while Kiln was treating the injuries from her first battle in Loamlark, Elphaba hadn't realized just what a mage-surgeon's treatment for broken ribs involved… though a few suspicions had occurred to her when the attending phyisician had asked her to lift her blouse. Watching Corone's hands sliding cleanly through her skin was unsettling enough; seeing those bony little fingers moving under her flesh, knitting broken bones and sealing ruptured blood vessels as they went, was nothing short of disturbing. Fortunately, it had only taken a few minutes of surreal discomfort to finish treating her, and eventually, the conversation had started again.

As for the Leviathan, he'd given no hint of believing or disbelieving what he'd been told; in fact, he hadn't shown any emotion at all, except perhaps for the occasional raised eyebrow. Now, though, with the explanation over and done with, he leaned back and puffed thoughtfully on his cigar.

"Yes," he mused aloud. "It certainly fits with the information we've managed to gather on our own."

"Still intercepting transmissions, I take it?" Elphaba asked, only just managing to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

"Oh, only enough to listen in on a few interesting reports concerning unusual portal activity, and the occasional whisper of an unimaginably power witch accepted into the armies of the Deviant Nations. In any event, it seems that I have to arrange some contracts with the Mentor."

"So you're going to be working with us, then?"

"Of course."

"Well… that's wonderful news, but just what can you provide us with? How many ships can we borrow? How many troops can you spare?"

"All of them."

Elphaba blinked. "What?"

"You heard me: I'm allocating every single resource at my disposal to the Deviant Nations' war effort. My troops are being recalled from whatever assignments they've been given, and my little fleet of ships is on its way over the border with the Mentor's permission."

"You're really going to take that much of a risk?"

"Well, now that I know that the Deviant Nations have hired saner version of the most powerful witch in rewritten history, the odds are looking better every minute. From what I've heard, the Mentor seems to think that you're their best chance of finally ending this interminable war."

"Given the damage it'd do to your profit margins, I'd have thought ending the war would be the last thing you'd want."

"There'll be other wars," he said, as if it were the most guaranteed thing in the world. "Other conflicts, other rebellions, other coups, other situations worth milking for the very last token of credit. We've been employed far outside the boundaries of the Deviant Nations and Unbridled Radiance, even beyond the lands the Empress seeks to annex, and wherever we've gone, there's always someone interested in hiring the Coils for one reason or another: some inbred ex-monarch wants his crown back, some company needs a competitor erased with all due plausible deniability, or some rich idiot just needs a bit of protection. Wherever I go, there's a paycheck waiting for me. Besides, you know as well as I do that there's no place for mercenaries in the world the Empress wants to build."

"But it's more than just self-preservation, though, isn't it? You said that the Strangling Coils would work for free the moment you learned I was here – and you said that you'd kill me if you weren't satisfied with my explanation… or if you thought I was really the Empress in disguise. So what do you really want out of this bargain? Revenge?"

If Branderstove took this little inquiry seriously, he didn't show it. In the same glib tone as before, he remarked, "That, and all the loot an empire founded on beauty can provide. Well, the latter's what my troops want; I'm only interested in retribution– for a change."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"What, no special contracts requiring double the usual rates for anything other than nominal participation? No extra clauses hidden away in the apostrophes? No special conditions concealed by the underline on page twelve, paragraph eleven, sentence three?"

The Leviathan's blubbery form rippled with laughter. "You really did inherit your other self's memories," he chortled. "Gods only know how much hell she gave me for it during my time in the Pottery."

"I'm serious," Elphaba continued, once again raising her voice over the thunderous gurgling of Branderstove's laughter, "Is that really all there is to it? You're only joining us just so you can settle your score with the Empress? You're going to throw literally everything you've got at the enemy, risk your army, your fleet, your fortune – and not for the sake of profit or financial pragmatism, but just to get revenge for something she did to you almost fifty years ago?"

Suddenly, Branderstove was no longer laughing, and the smile on his face had turned very ugly. "Things change, Miss Thropp," he said icily. "And you clearly haven't seen more than my first few days at the Pottery. Back then, I'd never have made the kind of gamble I'm making now; back then, I thought grudges were a waste of precious energy, and seeking retribution would damage profits; back then… I cared."

He cleared his throat. "You say I'm in this to get revenge for the Empress did to me… but what exactly do you think she did?"

"From what I've seen, she ruined your reputation, crippled your business, siphoned off what little you had left to pay for the revolution, and…" She eyed the tentacles protruding from the sleeves of his robe. "…did that to you," she finished. "I take it that's a side-effect of the Plague."

If Branderstove's smile had looked unpleasant before, now it looked downright venomous. "A permanent side-effect, yes. The previous iterations of the Plague left plenty of sufferers manifesting animal traits long after their transformations concluded, but those side-effects could be cured – or at the very least, be allowed to wear off on their own. The Final Strain, though… the side-effects were permanent. Rare in comparison to earlier strains, but permanent – and debilitating. So many of them died from mergings of incompatible physiologies, and so many died in the hysterical rampages they inspired. I was one of the lucky ones: I survived… only just. And that was because I was travelling on water at the time – a half-hearted lake of saltwater and weeds that someone thought to call an inland sea. The Pottery released me, with a few incentives to keep me from talking, so I thought I was safe… Up until I found myself on the receiving end of their last little joke."

He was gripping the end of the bed again, his tentacles wrapping themselves tighter and tighter around the iron bannisters until Elphaba swore she could heard the faint squeal of metal slowly bending out of shape.

"Look," she began, in her best attempt at a placating tone of voice, "We don't have to talk about this if you aren't-"

"Oh no, I'm not bothered. Far from it. In fact, I think it's time I told you a story: as you say, it happened almost fifty years ago, but it's never felt that long to me. In all that time, the memories have yet to fade; I still remember everything with absolute clarity – every memory as vivid as the day it was forged. There are days when I feel as though my distortion only occurred an hour ago... and there are some days when it feels as though it's never stopped. It's always the same nightmare, awake or asleep: I'm back on the barge, my arms splitting down the middle even as I try to grip the promenade railing, my skeleton softening melting away inside my body, my legs wilting beneath me even as I try to walk, and the sun is burning hotter and hotter until my body seems ready to fry in its own juices… And this time, there's no shrinking, no diminishment, no sense of being reduced to a mindless animal. In that final transformation, I was myself – almost myself – and aware throughout every excruciating minute of the transformation until I threw myself over the railing and into the lake.

"I spent a month in that lake, struggling to acclimatize to my new body, seeking help from anyone within in reach of the shore. Well, you can imagine how many people screamed "sea monster" after seeing me lurching out of the depths. So, there I stayed, living off crabs and mussels, exploring the mazes of reefs and caverns, resting in the drowned staterooms of sunken ships, and all the while trying to find someone willing to help me. It took a while, but eventually I stumbled upon new friends – very industrious friends, I might add: over the course of the next few months, they helped me to alter my body further, augmenting me with enchantments and mechanisms that allowed me to survive on dry land… and more importantly, walk upright. It took some getting used to, but eventually, I returned to Oz."

"Why? Northsweep Industries was gone by then, wasn't it?"

"Gone? More like obliterated: its resources had been cannibalized by the Pottery, its reputation obliterated, its workers and executives alike scattered, and the politicians who'd allowed it to flourish in the first place forced out of office – including the Wizard. But, fool that I was, I thought I'd still be able to make something of myself. Even at the tender age of fifty-five, I still had my ambitions, and thanks to transformation, I was healthier than ever before – healthy enough to pursue the dream again. I knew I'd never be able to return to the lofty heights of Northsweep Industries again, but I thought I was still capable of building something worthwhile. Just enough to provide for a comfortable retirement. Just enough to prove that I wasn't completely helpless in the new world.

"But then the first of the Radiant Laws was established. All of a sudden, I was legally obliged to make my way to the nearest mage-surgeon and ensure that my deformities were erased. At first, I welcomed the surgery: I'd been getting tired of passers-by staring at me, whispering behind my back, and I admit that the Empress's talk of Purification and rebirth intrigued me. So, off I went… only to find that my body could be so easily "corrected." Wounds could be healed, poisons could be neutralized, scars could be erased… but my condition was too deeply ingrained to be destroyed. Every tentacle they amputated simply grew back; every skin graft was simply assimilated and replaced with octopus flesh; even the spells of transformation and transmogrifying enchantments couldn't return me to humanity.

"The Empress had made her final iteration of the Plague a little too effective, you see: she'd developed the formula for maximum shock value, and enhanced its effects with spells from the Grimmerie itself. And like those spells, the side-effects couldn't easily be undone. A new underclass formed in Ozian society, lower even than the Animals had been under the Wizard; we were "The Incurables," the pariahs of Oz, the first of the Distortions that the Empress was to demonize. In time, the Incurables would form the basis of a dozen revolutionary movements, including the Irredeemables of the Deviant Nations… but until then, we were fugitives. The moment we were detected, we were to be arrested "for our own protection," and stripped of all rights, holdings and connections; personal belongings were auctioned off, homes were confiscated, businesses were either sold or made state property, marriages were terminated, and families were… encouraged to disown us. And as final insult, we were to spend the rest of our lives in the protective custody of the Research Group 001 – or as was once called, the Pottery. Of course, later variants of the Radiant Law simply had us quietly incinerated, but that's beside the point.

"You see, I lost almost everything thanks to the Plague and the Pottery. But I didn't hold a grudge: I'd been taught that loss was always temporary; that with devotion, skill, luck and patience, I could earn back what I'd lost – or least some of it. But then they told me I couldn't: all my chances of starting again were smothered in the crib. And for all the Empress's talk of redemption and rebirth, they'd denied me the chance to begin again – all because of her fuck-up. Because of her Plague, her experiments, her interference, they made me a pariah!" His voice slowly rose by several decibels, enough to make the few conscious patients on the other side of the ward look up. "It wasn't enough for her!" he snarled, growing steadily louder; he was on his feet now, his seat overturned and rolling across the ward. "It wasn't enough that she destroyed everything I worked so hard to build over the last thirty years! No, she had to promise a fresh start, and then deny it because I didn't fit in the perfect world she wanted to build, because she didn't want to acknowledge the mistake she'd made! She'd taken just about everything from me… AND IT STILL WASN'T ENOUGH!" he roared. "SHE TOOK MY HOME! SHE TOOK MY POSSESSIONS! SHE TOOK MY…"

He stopped, and seemed to sag.

"My family," he finished, almost inaudibly. "There was no fresh start for me in Oz; no money, no work, no friendships, no family, not even the comfort of a run-down apartment and a few cheap books. Nothing. Only another stay in the Pottery, and once was more than enough for me; even if it wasn't going to be a life sentence, I wasn't going back. So I ran; I fled as far as my means could allow me, and didn't stop until I was lurking in the most obscure backwater Oz had to offer, working as a legbreaker for some local landlord. And there I stayed until the fucking civil war caught up with me, and swept me into the mercenary business."

There was a pause, as Branderstove appeared to recover his equilibrium. "So, Elphaba," he said quietly, "You want to know why I'd risk so much to kill your other self. It's not because of this." He gestured to his tentacle-festooned body. "It's not what she made me into; I can live with that quite easily. No, I want the Empress dead because she destroyed everything I'd built and everything I treasured twice in a row – once out of convenience, and the next time because she couldn't tolerate evidence of her own mistake. Does that answer your question… or should I go into any detail as to how I'd like to see her die?"

Elphaba swallowed. "No," she said hoarsely. "I'm fine."

"Then there's only one other thing I'd like to make clear: I'm going to be allocating every last resource at my disposal to helping this war effort along, and I will put my fleet, my soldiers and myself at the Mentor's disposal… but only if it means that I get to kill the Empress – in person, and close enough to hear her bones snap. And when we launch that final attack on her palace, I want you to remember this: I won't tolerate any obstacles. If you end up in my way, if you slow me down, if you fuck up the operation, if you try and kill her yourself, if – gods help you – you make the mistake of trying to save her… then I'll bury the two of you in the same grave. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly."

"Good."

And then, without warning, Branderstove's smile was back on his face. "Ah, but where are my manners?" he boomed jovially. "Here I am, turning what should have been a thirty-second explanation into an hour-long screed, and you haven't even eaten breakfast yet! Come now, let's have no more talk of death and vengeance; let's finish off the morning in as merry a manner as we can manage – with a gourmet breakfast aboard my flagship."

Outwardly, Elphaba could only blink in confusion. Inwardly, she was still marvelling at how quickly the Leviathan's mood had changed, while her paranoia was sounding as many alarms as humanly possible: Branderstove could be lying, an ambush could be lying in wait, the food could be poisoned, it's not paranoia if they really are out to get you, etc etc etc. And even though she knew full well that the mercenary commander had no reason to kill her unless he was a) petty enough to satisfy his vengeance with a lookalike or b) stupid enough to make an enemy of the Mentor and all the Deviant Nations, the niggling doubts were almost impossible to ignore. "Uh… that's very kind of you, I'm sure," she said at last, "But I'm not hungry."

And right on cue, her stomach chose that moment to let out a growl that could probably have been heard on the opposite end of the ward.

"Empty bellies speak louder than words," the Leviathan chuckled. "Come on; Dr Corone's cleared you to leave – you, Dr Kiln, and your silent bodyguard standing outside the door – so it's high time the three of you stretched your legs and enjoyed my hospitality for a change. Besides, the Mentor will probably want another long-distance chat with you, and take it from me, these conferences are always more bearable on a full stomach!"

---

For most of the journey from the gymnasium, the two of them walked in silence: the Mentor clearly had her mind on other things, and Glinda was still pondering her older self's somewhat unsettling response; she couldn't tell exactly what it meant, but judging by the all-too-familiar mannerisms, it couldn't mean anything good. For a time, she tried not to think about it, but something about the dimly-lit corridors around them seemed to fuel her imagination; by the time the two of them finally ground to a halt, every other thought that ran through her head was another unwanted daydream of whatever might have happened, only worsened by the sounds in the darkness – the constant echo of their footsteps on the marble floor and the nerve-wracking hiss of doors opening and shutting.

But as disturbing as all this was, dreaming of things that had happened to someone else almost half a decade ago was a picnic compared to the things she she'd usually see in places as dark and silent as this – especially after her stay in Exemplar. In the last few days, she'd almost gotten used to seeing the sneering faces of Cataphlax and Ranse looming out of the shadows above her bed, or hearing the screams of the unwillingly Purified echoing in the shriek of every airship that passed her window. True, she'd never be able to stop herself from whimpering, but she knew when those half-awake nightmares were due to creep up on her next. After far too many nights awaiting that distinctive crawling sensation at the pit of her stomach, a few unpleasant daydreams of what her other self might have experienced were easy to deal with.

Eventually, she managed to tear her eyes away from her horrid imaginings long enough to look around her, and realized that they were now standing in the middle of a vast, empty room. Because most of the lights were either dimmed or extinguished altogether, Glinda could only guess at where they were and why. However, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she couldn't help but notice the metal railings that bordered their current position, as if they were standing on the edge of a balcony – though what this balcony overlooked was anyone's guess.

"What is this place?" she asked. "What was it you wanted to show me?

"It's a viewing platform in the upper floors of the palace, used for directing high-priority missions. As for what I wanted to show you… well, I think it's time you understood just what kind of a war we're waging. By now, I imagine that Elphaba's had firsthand experience with it; consider this a prelude to your own battle on the front line."

"You think I'm improving quickly enough for it?"

"Glinda, if I didn't think you'd improve, I wouldn't have bothered to train you in the first place. I know I've told you this before, but you have potential: it's been run over with a steam roller a few dozen times, but it's there. Now, one moment if you please…" There was a pause, followed by a faint succession of clicks and whirrs, and the Mentor called out, "Open the spyglass!"

There was a rumble from somewhere in front of them, and a moment later, light flooded the chamber around them: once Glinda had recovered her eyesight, she realized that the wall had simply retracted into the ceiling, exposing a colossal stretch of window over eight hundred feet wide and two hundred feet tall. Daylight was now streaming through it, illuminating a room that looked more like one of the lecture theatres at Shiz – an amphitheatre of desks, control panels and machines gently descending towards the surface of the window, and all of those workstations were occupied by serious-looking technicians in grey jumpsuits. Meanwhile, Glinda and the Mentor were standing on a catwalk perhaps fifty feet above the amphitheatre, staring out the newly-formed window at the landscape it had revealed.

But instead of looking out on the scaffolding-swathed districts of Greenspectre and rebuilding efforts in progress as far as the eye could see, Glinda found herself looking out upon an unblemished skyline of gleaming white towers.

Exemplar.

Forcing all the unpleasant memories of her time in the Radiant capital city to the very back of her mind, Glinda managed to croak out a mumble of "How… I mean… why are we looking at…"

"It's not really a window; it's a scrying screen, ensorcelled to allow us to view events thousands of miles away. The Empress's enchantments make it impossible for us to see what's happening inside her cities, but –"

"No, no, no, I wasn't talking about the window or the magnifiary effect – I meant, why are we viewing this city?"

"Do you remember what I told the technicians a few minutes ago?"

Glinda's mind raced. "Something about… making Exemplar burn. Wait a minute, is this meant to be a counterattack?"

"Of course. This is how it's always been: they strike out at us, and we reply in kind; they invade us, and we answer that with an invasion of our own; they bombard our capital, and we return fire. If we're lucky, we manage to strike harder than they did; if we're really lucky, we manage to launch another attack, answering one vicious injury with two crippling ones."

At the edge of the platform, a lectern stood; sitting open upon it was none other than the Grimmerie (more specifically, the version that had been "borrowed" from Elphaba). This time, Glinda didn't need anything explained to her. "You're going to bring down their magical defences with one of the spells of the Grimmerie," she surmised. "Just like they did yesterday? And then what – you've got some kind of bombardification arranged for the capital, something like that?"

The Mentor nodded. "Well done. Normally, we wouldn't be able to penetrate the shields around the border so easily, but your friend's version of the Grimmerie has proved a considerable boon to our war efforts. And more to the point," she added with a near-mirthless grin, "it's also allowed us to drastically enhance the destructive potential of the missiles we'll be launching at them – as you correctly guessed."

In spite of herself, Glinda couldn't help but smile at the compliment: after Lurline only knew how many hours she'd spent afraid that she'd disappoint her older self, it was a relief to know that she hadn't made a complete ass of herself just yet. But even as she inwardly rejoiced, another one of her many niggling doubts occurred to her, and on instinct, she voiced it: "I know this is probably a really stupid question," she said hesitantly, "but why attack the capitol? Why not an army base? Why not an industriality town?"

"Because we have to reply to their insult in equal measure. They attacked our capital, so we have to attack theirs. And they also have an industrial district of their own and a few military bases concealed within the city – remember the Sepulchre?"

"Okay, I see your point, but is the main point of this attack really just to avengify an insult?"

"And to disabuse Unbridled Radiance of the notion that we can be so easily crippled, yes. You'd be amazed at just how much of this war has been lost and won through messages like this."

"I hate to ask the obvious, but the Empress is actually going to be in the city, isn't she?"

"Of course."

"Well, from what you've told me, she's the most powerful witch alive: won't she just turn the missiles into doves before they reach her? Wouldn't she be able to conjure another barrier as soon as the other one fell?"

That near-mirthless smile again. "I'm glad you asked: you see, the Empress is possessed of extraordinary power and unlimited potential, not to mention immortality. She could end a our attack with a passing thought, swat the missiles from the sky and send them hurling back at us with a few thousand salvos of her own accompanying them… after a few more years' growth. If she could do that right now, the war would have been over for a very long time. At the moment, even the Empress has limits: she can only reach so far, do so much; her energies aren't infinite, and she can't be everywhere at once. In time, those limits way very well vanish… which is why we need to win this war sooner rather than later. Now, I'm afraid I have an attack to initiate, so if you'll excuse me for a moment…"

And with that, she turned to the Grimmerie in front of her, and – pausing only to whisper a "stand by" into the microphone overlooking the lectern – began to chant.

For perhaps a minute, the viewing station was silent except for the sound of the Mentor chanting the words of the spell, each arcane word spoken in the slow, methodical cadence of a magician who'd translated the language only with the greatest possible difficulty, in sharp contrast with Elphaba's flowing, effortless incantations. There was none of Elphie's instinctive fluency, no artistry or flourish, only carefully-learned invocations delivered in the Mentor's distinctive rasping voice… but there was no mistaking the power in that voice, no disguising the magical energy that crackled in the air with every syllable – or the will behind that magic.

Even Glinda couldn't fail to recognize the energies at work here. With every word spoken, the spell drew more power, gathering in the air above them and thickening into an almost-phyical shape, forming frondlike tendrils that stretched outwards as the spell continued, expanding across the length of the amphitheatre, phasing through the wall, and arcing out across the unseen horizon towards the border of Unbridled Radiance.

In front of her, the Mentor stopped chanting… but even thousands of miles away, Glinda still felt the ripple of the barrier collapsing.

"Fire at will," the Mentor hissed.

Suddenly, the giant viewscreen changed: half of it now remained focussed on Exemplar, while the other half blinked away to a wild-looking stretch of prairie somewhere in the Deviant Nations (according to a tiny caption above the screen). There, spread out across the landscape and heavily camouflaged with shrubbery and spells, sat a long line of ugly metal shapes. At a distance, they looked oddly like manhole covers – just round metal plates built into the prairie ground, covering Lurline only knew what. But then the plates opened, revealing several deep shafts in the earth, tunnelling downward into the darkness and out of sight.

And then the first missile split the sky, a single comet-like ball of flame rocketing into the air.

There was a flickering light from the depths of the next shaft in line, and then a second missile took flight; a third was disgorged from the neighbouring shaft, and then a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, until all forty of the launchers had sent their deadly cargo blazing towards Exemplar.

Just as she was beginning to think it was all over, Glinda saw the distinctive light flickering in the gloom of the first shaft; moments later, the launchers began the firing sequence again, sending another forty missiles over the border. And then another forty – and another, and another, and another… By the time the launchers had finally ceased and the covers had rolled back into position, Glinda had lost count of the missiles that had been launched. At the very least, there had to be a few hundred of the damn things soaring across Unbridled Radiance, and at the most, there was now a thousand-strong barrage of explosive death rocketing towards their capital city.

Even with enchantments of acceleration placed upon the missiles, it took several minutes for the storm to reach Exemplar, and by that time, the defenders were already scrambling to intercept the attack. The radio crackled to life, announcing that the border defences were doing their damnedest to raise the barrier again, only stymied through the effort of counter-enchantment team #145 (whoever they were); the screen blurred as the viewing station technicians trained their roving eye on just about every single defence station from the border to Exemplar – all of those posts trying in some way to stop the incoming torrent. Lightning shot out from a tower to the west of the mass salvo, sending perhaps half a dozen missiles toppling out of the swarm; a gun battery stationed at the highest peak of a hilltop town opened fire, disabling two; a squadron of dogfighters attempted to intercept the missiles, even steering directly into the path of the storm in a suicidal attempt to save Exemplar. But whatever enchantments had been placed upon the missiles, they were clearly potent ones: the miniature airships were either flattened by the warhead they'd tried to destroy, or dragged along for the ride by the immense force of the spells protecting the barrage.

Finally, the storm of missiles descended upon the white spires of Exemplar. And just as Glinda had feared, the Empress was ready: dozens upon dozens of the barrage simply vanished in mid-flight, and dozens more exploded violently enough to wipe out huge swathes of their fellows; several missiles dissolved into flocks of doves or bouquets of flowers, even gold coins; a few even turned around and made a beeline for the Deviant Nations. But for every missile she blasted from the sky, another found its target; there were simply too many missiles to destroy or deflect, too many targets to shield from the onslaught, and Exemplar's palatial exterior soon bore the wounds and scars of hundreds upon hundreds of impacts. Entire city blocks were reduced to rubble, their proud walls and gilded statuary collapsing under brunt of the bombardment; other buildings simply disintegrated, their facades pulverised by the explosive power of the missiles and dissolved into billowing clouds of ash. More than one of Exemplar's mighty towers fell as the attack continued, at first trembling, then swaying, then crashing to the ground in a huge plume of dust and debris. And though many other buildings remained unscathed, protected as they were by the Empress's powers, the fires sparked by the explosions still licked hungrily at their walls, ready to consume them the instant the magical defences faltered.

After about a minute of this, Glinda tore her eyes away from the carnage and turned back to the Mentor – who was now in the process of casting another spell. This time, when the casting was complete, the pulse of magic wasn't just a palpable surge of energy cracking across her skin: it was a visible entity, a huge cloud of black vapour coalescing in the sky above the launchers. For a moment, it warped and twisted in mid-air, forming rudimentary limbs, fanged maws and oozing, claw-tipped fingers. Then, with an audible roar, it bundled itself back into a cloud and soared away, following the flight path of the missiles over the border.

For a while, Glinda could only lean against the catwalk railing in astonishment.

Eventually, she managed to whisper, "What did you just do?"

"Two parts distraction, two parts destruction."

"What?"

"As I said, the Empress has her limits. The missiles will keep her occupied in defence of Exemplar, while my spell seeks out another priority target: Silverforge, a prominent industrial centre to the east of the capital."

She waved a hand, and the screen divided itself once again, the newest division focussing on a much smaller city built upon the crest of a vast plateau of gleaming white rock. Unlike the shining towers and skyscrapers of Exemplar, the buildings of this city were dwarfed by the gleaming brass smokestacks that crowned it, and almost lost amidst the shadows of enormous industrial facilities that dominated the bulk of the settlement: factories, foundries, refineries, power plants, smelters, steel mills, shipyards, docks… and in the air above them, past the hovering shapes of the smogeaters, a unending stream of airships went about the business of ferrying Silverforge's produce to the other great cities of Unbridled Radiance.

And as Glinda watched, the black cloud slowly drifted away from the missile's flightpath, heading eastwards towards the industrial centre. The airships above the skyline were the first to feel is effects: the gentle rumble of their engines turned harsh and grating, then rose to a pained whine, before shutting off altogether; even as the airships fell, Glinda could see that their once-magnificent hulls were now smeared with rust and corrosion, their bulkheads audibly groaning in protest at the sheer strain of remaining airborne. If their engines had remained active a moment longer, they'd have simply fallen apart in mid-air… and some did. One way or the other, they fell, raining down on the city below in a hail of corroding metal. As the noise of their descent rang out across the city – the explosions, the bangs, the thuds, the screams of tortured metal and the screams of workers trapped beneath them – the cloud was already having an effect on the city itself. Zooming in as close as the viewing stations equipment would allow, the screen closed in on the nearest of the great chimneys, following the path of decay along its length: metal pitted, tarnished, rusted, and finally collapsed into useless junk; stone weathered and cracked, turning green with moss and creepers, before crumbling altogether; and other, more exotic forms of decay took over as the cloud descended upon the city.

Soon, falling airships were the least of the city's worries.

"And these were only two of the attacks we scheduled for the day," the Mentor whispered. "As long as the barrier remains down, our magicians at the border stations will perform remote strikes of their own on military bases and settlements. Meanwhile, we've dealt a decisive blow to enemy morale with the attack on their city, and the Entropic Storm over Silverforge will have left their armaments production crippled – at least for the time being… and it's all thanks to the Grimmerie!"

"I take it you've never been able to do anything like this before?"

"Oh, we have… it's just that it's never been this easy. Up until now, the Empress had the only complete copy of the Grimmerie in existence; we've had to make do with a few hastily-copied spells I managed to scribble out almost thirty years ago. As such, Unbridled Radiance had a powerful strategic advantage over us… but now, we have a complete copy of our own. We might not be able to translate it as easy as her, but it's already been enough to level the playing field."

Glinda wasn't sure how to respond to this; after all, even with her experiences in Unbridled Radiance and the few hours of training she'd endured, violence on this scale was very much out of her league. And the more she thought about it, the more disturbing the imaginings became: what had it been like aboard those falling airships? What had the crews felt, as the hull decayed and corroded around, as their engines failed and sent them plummeting to their deaths? And as for Exemplar itself, how many innocent people had been killed alongside enemy soldiers, officers and Purified? Was the death toll equal to last night's attack on Greenspectre? And what about the workers in the capital city's industrial district-

And as if by magic, a strange and curiously obvious question occurred to her, and she voiced it almost immediately: "You said the spell you cast on Silverforge would do serious damage to the arms production – what about Exemplar's industrial district?"

"That won't have been damaged at all."

The Mentor waved a hand in the direction of the screen, shifting the viewing station's roving eye to the other side of Exemplar: sure enough, the city's industrial district had been left completely untouched by the bombing and the ensuring inferno.

"How did you know that was going to happen?"

"It's always been that way: the logic of war demands that industry and administration take priority over other districts in the defence of a city. Take a good look at the Imperial Palace: not a scratch on that, either."

"But if the Empress made sure they were protected, what did she leave unguarded?"

"The same things she usually abandons when the need calls for it: the entertainment district, the markets, the parkland… and the residential zones."

"W-what?!"

"Yes, I'm afraid it's as bad as it sounds."

"We just bombed civilians?"

"No. We bombed a city: the Empress ensured that the bombs fell on her people instead of her factories."

"But why?"

"Because rebuilding factories takes time and effort better spent on the war; replacing a population only takes people, and there's no shortage of them in Unbridled Radiance."

"What about the Purified? Surely the Empress-"

"Yes," the Mentor interrupted bitterly, "The Purified are valued above all. That's exactly why they won't be in the buildings destroyed in the bombardment or endangered by the fire: the moment our attack was detected, the Purified will have been evacuated first, teleported out of their homes and workplaces to the safety of the palace. The promising ones, the citizens in line for Purification, they'll go next: they'll either be teleported away along with their future brethren, or rushed to the fastest transports by the city guardsmen. The others – the ordinary people, the workers, the middlemen, the bureaucrats, the artisans, the talented young folks who haven't gotten the Empress's attention just yet – they'll be left to take shelter in their basements and cellars, to hurry into the subways, to hide under park benches and abandoned carts, to cower in the face of the inferno… to die."

There was a horrified pause.

"How do you know all this?"

"Because I've seen it happen before. Because…"

The Mentor took a deep breath, and a look of pain flickered across her distorted face. "Once," she said at last, "back when this war was still in its earliest days, back when I thought that there was still something of Elphaba left in the Empress, I conducted a bombing run much like this. True, things were a tad different: the tune changes but the lyrics remain the same. Back then, Greenspectre was just a few buildings we'd managed to save from the destruction of Emerald City; great palaces and monuments sitting alone in a vast green field, surrounded on all sides by the shantytowns and tent-cities of people who'd once been citizens of Oz. Great mansions, libraries and museums alongside scrap-metal shacks and tents of animal hide, and – for the first time in years – Animals and humans living and working together… if only out of necessity. Yes, we had saved so little compared to newborn Unbridled Radiance – but we had strength, even in those days. We had a fleet of airships, crude though it was; we had weapons, basic though they were; and we had magic – enough to knock out the barrier defending the distant Imperial capital and send a volley of explosives into the heart of their hateful little nation. The lyrics to the song went the same way as ever: the defences fell, the missiles were launched, and I watched what little I could see through our scrying pools. Yes, I watched… and listened.

"I'd had my spies in her territory for a while by then; quite a few of them had been caught, but not before planting their eyes and ears wherever they could. Of course, all of those gadgets, talismans and voicecatching conches and eyeballs wired to transmitters – all of them were eventually discovered and destroyed, and espionage has never been as simple and elegant since. But until then, I had the perfect means of spying on the Empress: the Imperial War Room was layered with listening devices, as were the transport control zones of Young Exemplar; when that first salvo soared across No-Man's Land – a mere sandpit in those days – I heard the first alarms ring out across the war room; I heard the Empress arrive… and I heard her give her orders, cast her spells, and seal the fates of everyone she judged unworthy of rescue. Even back then, she understood the cold logic her nation would need to survive… and even back then, she was callous to the death of those who had not earned her love.

"I was young and stupid. I thought Elphaba was still in there, fighting to escape the parasite's coils; I thought there'd be a point in which she'd seize control of her body once again, just long enough to say "No! I will not do this!" And when I heard that she'd have to make a choice between her factories and her citizens, I… by that time, I knew the logic behind the choice. I knew it was a rational, practical move. I'd had to make it many times myself, but… when I heard that there was a chance to evacuate citizens from the unsafe districts, I thought this would be the moment Elphaba would break free – if only for a moment. The Empress would order the transports to rescue as many people as they could, not just the Purified, but everyone; Elphaba would give that kind of order, Elphaba would make that decision. Elphaba wouldn't just want to win; she'd want to save lives, she'd want to help people. But…"

Were those tears in the Mentor's eyes? Was that a tremor in her voice?

"I remember what she said that day very clearly. I still hear it in my nightmares, always over a backdrop of burning cities, lakes choked with the drowned and mountains of corpses a thousand miles high. Always those words: "Save the Purified. Leave the rest." And I remember thinking, "No, no, it's not supposed to happen like this! This doesn't make sense on any level: if Elphaba's in there, she'll stop it!" I was on my knees at that point, praying for the Empress to change her mind, begging Elphaba to break free of the parasite's control and do the right thing. But all I heard was, "They are necessary sacrifices, every one of them." And as the airships sped across the city and the teleportation began, I heard her voice ring out across the war room – a speech to rally her dedicated servitors. "Their deaths shall serve as an inspiration to those who doubt the righteousness of our cause, and drive soldiers and civilians alike to achieve perfection in the struggle against the Deviants. For every man, woman and child lost today, we shall reap a harvest of Purified from those moved to avenge them. We sow those seeds today!" And all I could do was listen as the explosions rang out across the city, praying that Elphaba would wake up and stop this… right up until I heard the screams. A listener planted in a restaurant sometimes frequented by the Purified – now capturing the sound of innocent people burning alive.

"And that was when I understood that Elphaba was dead – and had been for years. I'd seen her do horrible things – unforgivable things – many times before… but this was the first time I saw her make a blood sacrifice of her own people. And I knew that all that remained of my friend was the parasite animating her body, mimicking everything she'd hated in life. And that was the day I realized that I'd never be able to win this war if I expected to find compassion and sanity in my opponent. To win this war – to survive it if nothing else – I would have to be prepared to see the worst things imaginable, to experience them firsthand, and endure. I would have to think differently, to harden my soul against the horrors I'd be forced to witness. I would need to remake myself, to become dispassionate, efficient, calculating…

… and heartless."

She sighed deeply. "There's a lesson in there, I'm sure… but I pray that you'll never have to learn it as well as I did."

---

They were finishing off the last of their breakfast when the question occurred to her.

"Kiln?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you believe in the Mentor's… theory? The one about the parasite, I mean."

"Mfffgmrrrfmf."

"You know, just because Branderstove offered us a free meal doesn't necessarily mean that you have to eat everything on the table."

"Frrmsnngrm. Ahem. I seem to recall that you just about demolished the bacon plate back there. Thaumaturgical starvation is a hell of a thing, isn't it?"

"You tell me – you're the one who's been dosing me with witch-crystal."

"Oh har, har. You know you're going to be getting right back to your normal dosage by nightfall, don't you?"

"And until then, I'm free to enjoy silk cushions, fresh apricots and spiced omelettes for as long as the morning lasts. Oh, and pancakes."

The breakfast had been just as luxurious as Branderstove had promised, if not more so. After a swift ascent through the skies above Loamlark, Elphaba, Kiln and Harker had emerged from the unadorned interior of their transport and stepped out into the enormous hangar of the Leviathan's flagship, the Abyssal Titan. Once they'd gotten their bearings and recovered from the sight of the innumerable horde gathering in the departure lounge, the three of them had been hurriedly ushered out of the hanger and through a warren of corridors – all painted in the distinctive red and black colours of the Strangling Coils. It was a journey that had taken them past sleeping quarters that could have supported a few thousand troops at the very least, through mess halls reeking of old gravy and fried food, in and out of a breakroom outfitted with a small ocean of pool tables, over armouries stocked with enough weapons and ammunition to supply a decent-sized revolution, and even detoured them through a stadium-sized training chamber outfitted for everything from hand-to-hand combat to magic. Eventually, they'd boarded an elevator bound for the upper decks, and after a minute-long ascent and a brisk walk through several barred gates, found themselves stepping into Branderstove's cabin.

Not that "cabin" was the word that sprang to mind when Elphaba looked at it: "stateroom" was more appropriate, but still woefully understated; "private quarters" just didn't encapsulate the place; and "royal bedchamber," though fitting, still sold it short. Taking up more than a third of the airship's topmost deck, this gargantuan penthouse suite could have comfortably accommodated an entire platoon of mercenaries if Branderstove had been willing to share the place with anyone else; perhaps he did – there were quite a few spare bedrooms at the far ends of the suite – but Elphaba wasn't entirely certain she wanted to know that much about the kind of guests the Leviathan entertained. Along with those guest quarters, the suite contained a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, a bathroom, a library (to Elphaba's relief), and a well-maintained armoury, all of it built specifically for the Leviathan's colossal dimensions, and all of it arranged in red and black: gleaming black tiles, deep red walls; finely-polished tables of dark oak, crimson tablecloths; sinfully luxurious couches of black velvet augmented with red satin cushions; obsidian ornaments tipped with rubies – on and on it went. Even the plates they ate off were black – bordered with red designs, of course.

In fact, the only part of the suite that they didn't get a good look at was Branderstove's bedroom – though judging from the gentle bubbling sounds from behind the door, it was probably more aquarium than bed anyway.

For about forty-five minutes, Elphaba, Kiln, Harker and Branderstove had breakfasted in as decadent a manner as possible, waited upon by clockwork caterers and served everything from fried eggs to caviar. Once Kiln had checked that the food hadn't been poisoned, Elphaba had dug in with a vengeance: though she hadn't wanted to admit it, the morning's combat had left her ravenous with hunger, and all the magic she'd poured into battle only left her feeling more drained. So, with the gigantic repast set out in front of them, they'd gladly dined, talked enjoyed themselves… and then Branderstove had been called away by one of his underlings, and the breakfast had quietly dissolved.

Now they lounged in deckchairs on the stateroom's collapsible terrace, basking in the morning sun, admiring the sight of the mountains that surrounded them, finishing off the remains of breakfast… or, in Elphaba's case, asking difficult questions.

"As I was saying," she continued, "Do you believe in the Mentor's theory? Do you really think there's some kind of parasite infesting my other self's mind, and that's where the Empress sprung from?"

"What exactly brought this to mind, might I ask? I'm not trying to change the subject, but I really wouldn't have thought that scenic mountain vistas and blueberry-cream sundaes would make you think of the Empress."

"If you must know, it's something the Empress said during the battle."

Kiln blanched. "Ah."

"She talked about dying in the past; but she also said that it was only metaphorical, not literal as the Mentor seems to believe. I got the distinct impression that the Empress knows the theory of the parasite by now… and that she's insulted by it."

"And you'd be right. I've seen the two of them duel in the past, and every time the Mentor's talked about the parasite, it's usually her Radiance's cue to sneer in disgust."

"So, do think there's any truth behind the theory?"

Kiln sighed, and took a swing of champagne. "No," he said at last. "I haven't seen any solid evidence that could confirm the existence of this creature… and I don't think you have either. Am I right?"

Elphaba hastily reviewed the dream-memories, and shook her head. "If there is a parasite, then it's a very subtle one. I mean, the Mentor claims that my other self was killed over the course of her Purification and her corpse possessed by the parasite, but when I dream, there's no sign that the memories belong to anyone other than this world's Elphaba. There was only one indication that she was under some form of mental control, and that was due to Morrible. Even the big shift in personality only happened because of the collision between the Plague and Morrible's emotion-altering spells." She sighed. "And what I don't understand is why the mental trauma sent my other self in that direction. I mean, psychic trauma like that could do some serious damage to her personality, but why did those specific changes occur?"

"I have my theories," said Kiln, vaguely.

"Care to share?"

"That depends: would you be open to discussing your past? Well, more open than the Mentor, leastways; she doesn't even want to hear any challenges to her theory."

"Why not? I mean, she knows that Morrible was tinkering with my other self's emotions; Morrible confessed it so clearly that even she couldn't have misinterpreted it. So why doesn't she suspect that her theory might be wrong?"

An odd little smile flickered across Kiln's face; on his way out of the hospital ship, he'd taken the time to change out of his tattered coat and into the white smock and black lenses of a master mage-surgeon, apparently for the sake of his dignity; but looking at him now, Elphaba had to wonder if it was just so that she wouldn't be able to see his eyes. "Why did I once believe that Glinda would fall in love with me?" he asked quietly. "Why did I hang onto that belief for so many years, even when I couldn't find any proof of it? Why does my other self, this Tin Man, cling to the same belief?" If anything, the smile looked even gloomier. "Simple: because that belief was the only thing that kept me going for all those long, thankless years."

"And this delusion of a parasite is the only thing keeping the Mentor going?"

"Well, it's one of them, at any rate. But don't mistake me: she's nowhere near as delusional as I was back in the bad old days. It's just that her devotion… no, her sanity – it's sustained and protected by a few rather intensely-held beliefs. Some of them are more justified or realistic than others. Her theory on the parasite is a pretty minor one without much basis in reality, but it's there nonetheless; it allows her an escape from unpleasant truths, a means of hating the Empress without ever having to hate Elphaba. Without that belief…"

"… She'd be forced to admit that her oldest friend had become her enemy," Elphaba finished. "And that's the theory we're working towards: the Empress isn't a parasite; it's just… Elphaba. Just me."

"Just her," Kiln corrected. "Don't start getting the two of you confused: you're self-destructive enough without adding misplaced guilt into the mix. Your other self did this, not you."

"Thanks. But how would my other self..." She took a deep breath. "We really need to find a better name for her than that; all this talk of other selves is starting to merge."

"Call her Alphaba, if you like."

Elphaba only just managed to stop herself from laughing. "Alphaba?" she echoed, her voice trembling with hastily-suppressed giggles. "Alphaba?"

"What, you don't like portmanteaux? I thought it was simple enough: Alpha - the first, the most powerful, the leader - combined with Elphaba. I'd have thought that would have been the most logical name for the Witch Who Would Be Queen."

This time, Elphaba did laugh. "Just when I think you've reached your maximum eccentricity limit for the day, you go and do something like this," she giggled helplessly. "Okay. Alphaba. I can work with that. As long as you don't expect wolf comparisons in every other sentence, we'll be fine."

"You were saying?"

"Oh, right. How would Alphaba ever have become so-"

"Fanatical? Obsessive? Insane? Oh, I'm no expert on the psyche, but I've collaborated with a few in my time, and I've picked up a few titbits of knowledge… some of which I've actually had the privilege of seeing in action. And I've read your notes on the dream-memories. One way or the other, you and I already know that the great shift in Alphaba's personality occurred as a result of psychic trauma, caused by the reaction of the Plague with Morrible's personality alterations. The question is, why did she become so devoted to beauty? The spells Morrible cast were intended to make Alphaba calmer and more rational, not to turn her into a self-deifying perfectionist. The answer I've been gradually cobbling together might surprise you, because it's something you may have encountered over the course of your own life."

"And what's that?"

"A lie."

"… How do you mean?"

"Well, look at it like this: tell a lie to a group of people. Some will believe it instantly, others won't; maybe they know more than the rest of the group, maybe the falsehood doesn't match with reality – one way or the other, a portion of the group doesn't believe the lie. So, repeat the lie. Repeat it loudly and clearly, so nobody misses any details. Repeat it constantly and consistently, making additions where necessary but always keeping to the basic form of the original lie. Repeat it enough times and get enough of the group to agree with you, and you'll notice the disbelievers starting to weaken. Some will recant and accept the lie as gospel truth; others will begin to doubt their arguments, eventually caving in after further repetition. A few stubbornly cling to the truth, even when the lie's repeated once again. So, get aggressive. Force them to agree. Intimidate them by any means available to you, crush their self-esteem with insults and epithets, turn the full force of the group against them. More will fall. Use violence against the remaining disbelievers, crushing them in combat or in torture. Those of them who don't die will recant just to stop the pain… but continue pressuring them long enough and painfully enough, with enough repetition of the lie, and they will recant because they believe it.

Now tell me, have you seen anything like this happen before?"

"Yes," said Elphaba softly. "I have."

At the beginning of the equation, "Animals Should Be Seen And Not Heard." And at the end, cages and silence. Dr Dillamond knew it was happening, that there was simply too much pressure for Animals not to start falling silent – but I didn't see the truth until it was too late for him…

"This is where the matter of your past comes in," Kiln continued, "So I hope you won't be offended. From what I've heard – and I've seen – you were bullied from a very early age by everyone from your father to fellow students, called a freak, a monster, an abomination. Did you believe those insults?"

"I believed that I was ugly, but I didn't believe that I deserved the treatment if that's what you mean. Mother did manage to teach me a little self-esteem before she died."

"And so, rather than admit they were right to hate you, you hardened your heart. You learned to respond with righteous anger to those who thought they could crush your spirit. You made yourself nigh-invulnerable to petty insults, to give as good as you got. How am I doing so far?"

"Accurate enough. Some bullies hurt more than others, but I always bounced back."

"And that strength of will carried you through Shiz University, through the social minefield of cliques and conventions, through magic classes, and all the way to the Emerald City. Then just as it looked as though you might be able to escape the lie altogether-"

"I rebelled and the lie ended up become enforced by law. Yes, I do remember how this goes."

"But even with all of Oz against you, repeating the lie, you still didn't give in. You didn't believe them when they said you were wicked, when they said you deserved nothing but suffering… up until –"

"Fiyero. I know,you can stop talking about it now."

So be it then, she'd screamed. Let all Oz be agreed: I'm wicked through and through!

Kiln winced. "Sorry. But you see what I mean: you didn't start to cave in up until they killed someone you loved. So, what if similar process applied to Alphaba? What if this enforcement of lies essentially gave birth to the Empress? We already know that the two of you lived very similar lives: you had the same parents, the same skin colour, endured the same bullying, struggled through same social life, and Alphaba rebelled in much the same way you did. The difference lies in how the falsehoods and trauma were applied: the fall from the broomstick, the near-fatal beating, the hospital stay, the attempted poisoning – all of which her attackers justified with "she's wicked, she deserves it." And after that, the Purification-"

"-traumatized her even further as a punishment for wickedness," Elphaba finished. "Then, once she was re-introduced to the people, they started calling her redeemed simply because she was beautiful. Yes, I can see how this works. But it's not just traumas and lies, though: eventually, her own subconscious started trying to convince her. In the weeks leading up to the accident, Alphaba was experiencing… well, for lack of a better term, intrusive thoughts. Every now and again, she would get tangled up in these runaway trains of consciousness that kept trying to tell her that she was a better person for being made beautiful, that she'd deserved the punishment for being ugly – that sort of thing."

"Side-effects of the personality alteration I would imagine. Sometimes, mind-altering spells can have unpleasant effects on the psychologically scarred. But you see where this logic takes us, yes? In spite of all the pressure, Alphaba refused to accept the lie even when part of her own mind was trying to persuade her. But after the accident, that train of thought became self-sustaining and she couldn't resist it a moment longer. A lie had been told to her for a very long time, and when she recovered from the backlash of the spells, she didn't just accept it: she embraced it and so much more than anyone had ever intended. It took over her mind. All the self-loathing, all the doubt, all the inward-facing grief and anger – all of it turned to face the rest of the world, and became an unreasoning hatred of everything she saw as ugly or imperfect; all of her pride, her idealism, her desire to help, all of that was warped and twisted into a saviour complex. Alphaba had been taught that beauty was goodness, so, in her final descent into madness, she embraced the lesson: but it didn't make her a follower, as the Wizard or Morrible would have wanted; it made her a self-appointed messiah.

"Of course, that's just my theory. The Mentor hasn't been interested in listening to it, and you're free to accept it or ignore it at your leisure. But whatever you do, whatever you think made Alphaba into the despot she is today, reflect on this: the Wizard didn't have a tiny brass cog in his brain that told him to have Animals arrested and silenced en mass; Morrible didn't have a devil on her shoulder, spurring her onto bigger schemes and manipulations; Branderstove doesn't have a mind-controlling squid attached to his brainstem, driving him to vengeance and mercenary exploitation; and let me tell you, when I was working for the Empress, I didn't have any of Dr Uligna's fungal spores growing in my skull.

Human beings don't need parasites or possession to make them do horrible things: they do that perfectly well on their own."