A/N: And we're back! Sorry for the slight delay; ongoing disturbances and the almost-return to day-to-day routine (with more masks than ever) delayed me somewhat, but I'm back. It's been a bit of a stressful time, and everyone's worried that the insanity of last year is due to repeat, only even more pestilential and aggressive than ever before. Once again, I can only hope that my ridiculous and largely inconsequential stories can help provide much-needed relief in this time of absolute madness.
Once again, I thank all my viewers, reviewers, favouriters and followers: you give me strength, my friends.
Without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all enjoy.
Disclaimer: Wicked is still not mine.
All things considered, it wasn't so bad being turned into a child this time around.
With Morrible performing the siphoning as slowly as possible and Dorothy keeping a close eye on her, it wasn't the painful, bone-crunching, near-fatal transformation Elphaba had been forced to endure twenty minutes ago. There was no sense of violation this time around, nor was there any sense that she was about to die at any minute; best of all, she didn't have a mad, cackling ex-press-secretary pinning her to the wall and threatening to reduce her to embryonic goo.
Indeed, the worst thing about the whole process was the sense that Elphaba would now soon be facing Alphaba's capital city while in the body of a child and minus a good chunk of her magic. Well, that and the fact that Morrible had insisted that it would look more authentic if her new clothes looked slightly too big for her, and with Elphaba's reluctant permission, she had drained an additional two years from her, just so nobody would suspect that she wasn't actually one of the Childlike Researchers and her age didn't fluctuate as theirs did.
That said, it was still a horribly awkward procedure: quite apart from the gnawing discomfort of having Morrible's proboscis burrowed deep into her flesh and draining away her very essence, it was almost indescribably odd to feel herself shrinking steadily lower and lower towards the ground, to feel her clothes growing enormous on her dwindling body as her anatomy shifted in all kinds of disturbing ways, to hear her voice becoming higher and more infantile as she struggled to continue providing instructions. It might not have been as painful as her earlier transformation, but that didn't change the crawling sense of unease she felt under her skin for every inch she sank, and not just because she was going to be shorter than Dorothy by the end of this.
For added grossness, she had to watch as Morrible regularly paused in mid-siphon and vomited a plume of glowing undigested essence into the prepared jar, with Dorothy making sure that not a single solitary drop was spilled. In the end, they needed two jars just to encompass the full extent of the essence extracted, but fortunately, Dorothy had been commendably prudent in packing survival gear for this bizarre mission.
By the end of the nerve-rattling transformation, Elphaba was about eight years old, pale as paper and practically swimming in her gigantic clothes, her hat now drooping so low over her face that Dorothy audibly struggled not to laugh at the sight of her. Meanwhile, the two depressingly small jars that now contained the sum total of Elphaba's adulthood, strength and magical powers were to be stored in Dorothy's shoulder bag for the duration of their journey; in the event that their cover was blown or no longer needed, Elphaba was to open the jars and reassimilate the borrowed essence, hopefully giving them enough muscle to fight their way out of whatever mess they'd ended up in.
Elphaba tried not to imagine what might happen if either of the jars broke: as far as she could tell, they looked sturdy enough, but it was hard to be optimistic with her newly-shrunken body crawling with nerves as it was.
Eventually, she was given her new clothes, now a few sizes too big for her. On Dorothy, the plain blue dress and hard-wearing shoes would have looked appropriate, just the thing for an adventurous ten-year-old with a small dog and a burgeoning case of inherited magical gifts. But on Elphaba, they only gave the impression that she'd been trying on her big sister's clothes and had decided to wear them to school just to look more mature. On the upside, at least Morrible and Dorothy had the decency to turn their backs while she got changed.
"Okay," she said at last, new voice squeaking childishly. "How do I look?"
Dorothy giggled. "You could be my baby sister," she said at last.
"Passable enough," Morrible acknowledged. "With any luck, you won't attractify too much attention, provided the Crèche has as many new intakes as I suspect."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then I imagine you'll probably be dragged right back to the holding cells for interrogatiation, and once they find out who you really are, you'll be restored to your normal age, presented to the Empress, and publicly executed." Morrible offered a mirthless grin. "And that's assuming they don't just shoot you dead on the spot."
"Fair enough. Dorothy, are you ready?"
Dorothy nodded, absently adjusting her spectacles as she did so. Having realized how brightly her eyes glowed in the dark, she'd been careful to pack a set of tinted spectacles.
"Okay then. Morrible, if all goes well, we'll be back within the next three hours to let you and the other Childlike Researchers out; if we aren't back by then, cause as much trouble as you can – release the other offenders from the cellblock, start a riot, whatever you needed to do to break out. In the meantime, Toto will be here to keep you company."
Toto barked in agreement. From what Elphaba knew of Morrible's leeching abilities, they only worked on sapient life: the life-force of Animals might be able to stabilize her, but not animals, making Toto the ideal watchdog.
There was a pause, as Elphaba grimly eyed the door ahead of her, trying desperately to look more confident than she felt. "Alright," she whispered, "Now that we're ready… let's begin."
As soon as they were certain that no guards were patrolling that length of corridor, the breakout began in earnest.
Thankfully, Dorothy's powers weren't quite as dampened by the enchantments as Morrible, so while she could hardly blast the door off its hinges, she had mastered enough fire spells to weld her way through it. Then, once they'd cut a decent-sized hole in the lower half of the door, all Elphaba and Dorothy had to do was crawl out through it – hastily fitting the metal plate they'd carved off over the hole so none of the guards would notice anything amiss (provided they didn't look too closely, of course).
From there, they proceeded hastily down the brightly corridor, walking quickly but never breaking into a run; the important thing here was to avoid being seen by any guards who might be on duty, but also to avoid suspicion if they were seen. If anyone asked, they were just two Childlike Research exploring their new home, trying to get used to their new state of being… and hopefully, nobody would ask why they were clearly leaving a restricted area in such a hurry.
Elphaba tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong, or how conspicuous they probably looked – a scrawny eight-year-old girl in clothes a few sizes two big and a ten-year-old girl with a shoulder bag slung over one arm and her eyes covered by a gigantic pair of tinted spectacles. All it would take was a few searching questions, and the wardens would know that neither of them were scientists or magical researchers… and if Dorothy's glasses happened to slip at the wrong time, in subdued lighting, say, and she'd be arrested as a Distortion immediately. And what if someone bumped into the shoulder bag? What if the jars inside broke? What if-
Her nervousness must have shown on her face, because Dorothy put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We're okay," she whispered. "Nobody's seen us yet. Nobody suspects anything. Just stay calm and act natural."
"How am I supposed to act natural?" Elphaba hissed back. "I'm an adult masquerading as a child in the middle of a top-secret holding facility concealed under the capital of Alphaba's empire!"
"Well, just act like you're a kid. I mean, don't you remember how you were when you were little?"
"I remember getting into a lot of fights. And getting told off for biting the other kids. And that was on the occasions when I was allowed out of the house."
Dorothy blinked. "Okay," she sighed. "Just smile a lot and skip everywhere; when you're a little girl, skipping pretty much makes you invisible."
"If you say so…"
The common room door loomed ahead of them. Elphaba was dimly aware of Dorothy holding her hand, and for just a moment, Elphaba could honestly believe that the two of them really were sisters; then the door slid open, and all thoughts of camaraderie were lost in the utter chaos that was the Crèche.
Alphaba's memories had described the Crèche as a nursery for the Childlike Researchers, a gilded cage in which the regressed intellectual cream of the Empire could live out their days in orderly comfort while their old identities slowly vanished. At the very worst, it was essentially a strong box for captive minds and arranged accordingly – strict, efficient and disciplined. Once upon a time, that might have been the case, but now it looked more akin to a zoo.
Everywhere Elphaba looked, dozens upon dozens of children were fighting for space in the tightly-packed common room, brawling over cushions and chairs, playing furious games of tug-of-war over toys and books, or just beating the living crap out of each other. In the midst of the carnage, orderlies and nurses waded like stilt-walkers through sewage, trying vainly to separate the brawling children, or at the very least to make sure that nobody got seriously hurt – an uphill task, given that several of the researchers were Animals who'd grown up using their claws and teeth. On the upside, the anti-magic enchantments prevented any of the young magicians among the crowd from trying to win the battle through sorcery, but so far, that looked to be the only small mercy on display.
From what she could work out from Morrible's testimonies and Alphaba's recollections, the Crèche simply didn't have the capacity to hold so many kids at once. It had been constructed with only forty-five inmates in mind, not counting the guards, orderlies, nurses, cooks, technicians and other staff members who'd be on hand to keep the facility operational. With seven of them having been condemned to an eternity in the solitary confinement block for crimes against beauty, that left thirty-eight Childlike Researchers to enjoy the newfound breathing room of the Crèche; as far as the staff had known, that had been the absolute limit of the population for decades on end.
The simple fact was that nobody had been expecting the Empress to incarcerate anyone else in the Crèche. After all, the Empress had officially classified Age Fluctuation Syndrome as a Distortion, one that was barely tolerated due to the fact that a cure for it was still being researched: after all, her mouthpieces across the city had argued, how could anyone be judged perfect if their biological age was in flux? By nature, perfection was unchanging, undying and unalterable.
Of course, it was easy to say this when nobody except the Empress knew that the Purified were secretly upgraded on a fairly regular basis.
As Morrible had explained over the course of their preparations, Alphaba had hit upon the bright idea of using the Childlike Researchers' botched source of immortality as a means of deliberately inducing Age Oscillation Syndrome in troublesome thinkers across the country.
Up until now, intellectual freedoms had been a problem that the state had grappled with since time immemorial. No matter how often the Empress rhapsodized about the beauty of unimpeded thought and the wondrousness of creativity, Unbridled Radiance laboured under the burden of censorship, and many schools of thought were strictly forbidden by the Radiant Laws: archaeology was banned; historians were little more than mouthpieces; philosophy was non-existent; architects and designers were forbidden from creating "ugliness"; scientists who happened to discover anything that might potentially contradict the Empress were given an unofficial warning and a reward in exchange for their silence; authors, poets, and artists could only operate under the watchful eye of the Imperial Censorship Board – who insisted first and foremost that ugliness could only be used as a demonstration of moral failing and nothing else. Those who knowingly and defiantly flouted the rules were fined, imprisoned, executed, or in more politically sensitive cases, simply vanished.
However, some rebellious scientists and magicians often possessed skills that couldn't be so casually discarded… and now that the Empress had permitted the use of Morrible's Method, now the troublesome intellectuals could simply be cursed with eternally fluctuating youth and imprisoned in the Crèche until they forgot their old identities. That way, their Deviant personalities would be destroyed and their abilities could be used to benefit the Empire on a permanent basis.
Unfortunately for the staff, the Empress had been a little too zealous in clearing the intellectuals from the prisons around Unbridled Radiance, and that left the Crèche dealing with a ridiculous amount of overcrowding. Eavesdropping revealed that plans were already afoot for a gargantuan replacement Crèche hidden deep in the rolling plains far to the south, well away from prying eyes or collateral damage; here, the story went, the Childlike Researchers could continue their work in much more spacious quarters with facilities to accommodate as many new intellectuals as the Empress could provide. But for the time being, such plans were months away from fruition, giving the two intruders an incomparable advantage.
In fact, the Empress had been so eager to ensure the preservation of vital knowledge and the dissolution of unwanted personalities that she'd barely bothered to notify the functionaries in charge of records, and left the bureaucracy struggling to catch up: most of the staff had yet to fully register the new arrivals or even count the number of regressed geniuses they'd just accepted. And since nobody knew who was meant to be there, Elphaba and Dorothy barely stirred a ripple.
Of course, getting out of the Crèche was a different matter. While organization within the facility was a shambles, security at the gates was not. The two of them had to wait for nearly fifteen minutes before a guard at the door began calling for researchers to go on outside assignments, and it was hard to try and act natural when the rest of the room was in the middle of a colossal brawl.
Eventually, though, one of the guards was able to disperse the rioting with several earsplitting blasts of his whistle, just long enough to proclaim "We're going to need experts on portal magic, teleportation, warding, weather control and metallurgical transmutation."
A storm of hands shot skywards, nearly two dozen researchers straining for the guards' attention at once; it might have looked like a scene from Elphaba's childhood, except none of the students at her local schools had ever been that enthusiastic. Belatedly realizing their chance, the two intruders hastily raised their hand, hoping they'd be noticed amidst the confusion.
The guard briefly floundered, trying to sort out the known experts from the unknown new arrivals, and then pointed at a group of approximately eleven Researchers, including Dr Lintel, easily recognized from the dream-memories. But to the mutual surprise of both Elphaba and Dorothy, they were selected as last-minute additions, apparently because they'd been one of the few new arrivals who'd been on their best behaviour. Then again, Elphaba got the impression that the guards were just trying to make some space in the complex for a little while so they could sort out the confusion.
Not for the first time, Elphaba found herself unable to ignore the distinct notes of dysfunction under Unbridled Radiance's polished surface: over the last few weeks, she'd already noticed a few distinct hints that the Empire wasn't as perfect as it first appeared, from the refusal to accept basic facts if they contradicted Alphaba's doctrine, to the sheer effort needed to disguise the contradictions in the Radiant Laws. Now, the weaknesses in the system were becoming more obvious: the Empress's zeal had left the staff too overworked and strained the bureaucracy to breaking point… and more importantly, years of working with docile child prodigies had made the guards complacent. Nobody had warned them that the new arrivals might be a bit cannier and more rebellious than their older counterparts. For now, Elphaba could only hope that the bugs in the system could keep them under wraps for the time being.
At any rate, the thirteen researchers were promptly funnelled out through the Crèche's heavy airlock door and out into the winding labyrinth of underground passageways that comprised the bulk of the Deep Sepulchre. Waiting for them outside were a small gang of armoured guards, perhaps eight or nine in total, and all of them toting a vicious arsenal of dart guns, net launchers, and bolas; their leader was even holding a cattle prod. Had the researchers been anyone else, Elphaba might have called this overkill, but knowing how much magic these not-quite-children possessed, it was entirely justified.
And yet, not quite enough manpower for all of us, Elphaba thought. Notes of inefficiency again! Hopefully, if we can find a gap, we might be able to slip away.
As they were slowly marched through the corridors like a column of unruly schoolchildren, the layout of the group shifted ever-so-slightly, and by chance, Elphaba and Dorothy ended up right at the back of the group, right next to Lintel. By that point, Lintel had stabilized at somewhere around seven years of age, and looked quite content with things as they were: trotting happily along in his misshapen one-size-fits-all robes, with his lurid red curls bouncing with every step and his chubby little face alight with excitement, he looked more like a kid on the way to the carnival instead of whatever sordid duties the Empress had arranged for him. However, in mid-step, the resident portal expert turned around and asked, "You new here?"
Blinking rapidly in surprise, Elphaba mumbled a yes. Dorothy nodded.
"My name's Lintel! What's yours?"
Elphaba wasn't used to people being so enthusiastic around her, least of all kids; when she was this age in reality, nobody had ever approached her with this much excitement or aplomb, least of all her fellow students, and the shock left her jaw hanging limply open.
Fortunately, Dorothy wasn't so easily surprised: "I'm Theodora," she said. "This is Evanora."
"Evanora?" Elphaba whispered near-audibly. "Where the hell did you get that?"
"I don't know. It just popped into my head; I think it's got something to do with the Hellion's powers, though."
"Are you serious?"
"What are you talking about?" Lintel asked, innocently.
"Nothing," Dorothy replied, grinning with all the good cheer and sincerity of a clown held at gunpoint. "Absolutely nothing. Um, do you know what we're actually going to be doing today? We're new here, like you said."
"Oh, it'll be easy: we're working on my portal again! The Empress is working on something special to do with portal magic, and she wants us to make sure it all works out. Oh, this is gonna be so cool!" he squealed, suddenly no longer walking but literally hopping with excitement. "I haven't had this much fun since I got better!"
"Got better?" echoed Elphaba.
"Don't you know? We're sick."
Now it was Dorothy's turn to look blank, but then, she hadn't had a chance to read the notes that Elphaba had written on her dream-memories, and Morrible hadn't actually described the behavioural quirks of the Childlike Researchers in any detail.
"That's why we're kept down here," Lintel explained. "The Empress doesn't want us getting hurt, and she doesn't want us going on long visits upstairs until we're well enough to be on our best behaviour. Otherwise, we'll just be running around telling everyone we used to be older and that we used to be something else before we got here and upsetting everyone. I used to be like that, telling everyone I was a grown-up; I even thought I remembered being one, so every time I got weird and big and gross I kept thinking it meant that I was going back to normal; but I wasn't going back to normal, I was just sick. I didn't remember being a grown-up: I was just dreaming. But the Empress put me right; she helped me forget the dreams until I started thinking the right way. Now I know that I'm not losing anything when I go back to being little, 'cause I'm getting well again for a while. I'm not really a grown up; I'm just a kid."
It took every last drop of willpower in Elphaba's body not to cringe in disgust: by now, she'd seen enough dream-memories of the Crèche to know that Lintel had gradually lost all memory of his adult life over decades of transformation, imprisonment and humiliation. Alphaba had clearly done her best to encourage memory loss among the Childlike Researchers, as it made them easier to control, and that had been monstrous enough in the recollections... but it was one thing to read the reports through someone else's eyes and another to see the results up close and in person, to see Lintel so happy and so well-behaved. Before he'd accepted Morrible's blundered immortality ritual, he'd been a foul-tempered old man with a hundred thwarted ambitions and a million petty grudges against the Animals, critics and deniers who had "sabotaged" his career (though really, the only saboteur at work had been his own monumental ego). He hadn't been a good man by any means, but to see him lose every aspect of his old identity, to hear him casually deny his own past so sincerely and genuinely believe that he was getting better… it was almost obscene, really.
And that's what the Empress wants for everyone in the Crèche, she thought feverishly. It's not enough to regress the new arrivals until they're too young to fight or speak out; she wants them to forget they were ever adults so they can serve Unbridled Radiance forever, a stable of child prodigies that will work miracles for the Empire whenever asked, like good little boys and girls. And if any of them happen to forget their skills as well as their old lives, they'll be bumped off.
It might not be as bloody as Purification, but it's no less a violation.
"Do you still think like that?" Lintel asked. "That you used to be older?"
Elphaba and Dorothy mumbled noncommittally. With any luck, it would look as if they were already forgetting their pasts, and not like they were trying desperately to avoid blowing their cover.
"Don't worry: you'll forget all those dreams soon and you'll stop having to worry about being a grown-up. Soon, you won't even think the same way!" he added brightly, as if that was a good think. "I mean, you'll get bigger and smaller every now and again, but you won't have to worry about being naughty. Plus, once the Empress says you've been good enough, you'll get to work on your own projects! It'll be so much fun! Oh, by the way, what's your specialties? What kind of magic do you study?"
"Um…" Elphaba's mind raced. "I've… kind of worked on a lot of different styles of magic… but I guess right now I'm specializing in interdimensional physics."
"Likewise," said Dorothy.
At this, Lintel made a noise at the back of his throat, a high-pitched shrilling squeal that brought to mind a piglet with a lungful of helium getting a hatpin jammed in its backside.
"OhwowmetoometoometoometooMETOO!" he shrieked excitedly. "I'veseensomanyamazingthingsthroughmyportalsbutI'veneverhadachancetotellanyonebecause everyone'ssobusyand-" Here, he took a deep breath. "-OHMYGOSHTHISISGONNABESOAWESOMEI'msogladImetyoucanwebefriendswe'refriendsrightnowrightohmygoshwearegonnabebestfriendsforever!" He exhaled.
And so the conversation continued, helmed mainly by Lintel: it seemed after so many decades spent studying portal magic, he had a near-endless supply of trivia concerning the multiverse stored away in the back of his mind, and much like his scientific gifts and thaumaturgical skills, they had been too deeply ingrained to be forgotten along with the rest of his life. And now that he'd found someone willing to listen, he was determined to share all of those fun facts with Elphaba and Dorothy.
Credit where credit was due, Lintel was a genius: his stream-of-consciousness babble contained so much esoteric magical formulae that even Elphaba needed several seconds of concentration before she was able to process what any of it meant, and as for his discussion of interdimensional physics, he'd taken his study in directions that nobody would have thought possible; he'd actually seen some of the conceptual worlds that Elphaba had briefly visited, and even worked out an accurate layout for the structure of the local multiverse. And as for his mastery of portal magic, he was capable of feats that hadn't been seen in centuries: not only had he successfully pierced the dimensional boundaries and begun a survey of other worlds, not only had he been behind the creation of the portable portals that had allowed Unbridled Radiance to invade Greenspectre, but he'd also developed a whole range of improved portal spells.
Easier to cast and far less prone to instability than the older varieties, the incantations were drastically shortened in favour of adding a series of magical gestures; in fact, the only downside was that they didn't have the range of the older breed of spells, and thus couldn't be used for transportation between cities. However, they could be used for easy transportation across the city… though apparently, the Empress had forbid him from using this unless under strict supervision. On the upside, he'd taken to using his using his new spells as a party trick: he could create portals small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and because he could conjure them almost anywhere within eyesight, he could use them to do something as mundane as trimming fingernails or cutting paper. All he had to do was create a portal around an object, and it would be instantly sliced in half.
Indeed, he spent the final minutes of their journey through the corridors conjuring portals around the loose ends of his oversized sleeves, gleefully shearing off inch after inch of his unruly robes as if the highly-sophisticated new spells were nothing more than scissors. "Snip-snip!" he'd say with each conjuring, barely able to hold back his laughter. "Snip-snip!"
All in all, it was fascinating from an academic perspective, but Elphaba was very glad to see the portal chamber looming ahead of them, if only because it spares her ears another ten minutes of rambling.
The room they'd emerged into was vast, probably large enough to accommodate a one-story house – if not an entire neighbourhood of the damn things. Elphaba could easily imagine entire armies being rallied here in preparation for the journey through the portal, and perhaps they had in the hours leading up to the invasion of Greenspectre; right now, the portal was inactive – just a collection of stabilizing components and ritual ingredients scattered across the ground at the far end of the room. Likewise, the room itself had been scrubbed clean of any sign that this had been the staging ground of the single biggest attack on the Deviant Nations in recent memory: no blood, no gun oil, not even the slightest scuffmark on the floor – every single tile had been scoured, buffed and polished until it gleamed like pack ice under the harsh fluorescent lighting.
Soon after, the guards began handing out the printed orders: the Empress wanted the portal reinforced with a support frame and augmented with a control system terminal in order to make it easier to select a destination. The goal of this wasn't certain, but Lintel made it clear that the boosts to the power output were too great for the simple act of transporting troops to the Deviant Nations: this modification was to be used for interdimensional travel.
Seeing the control system terminal being hauled out of the equipment crates, Elphaba couldn't help but feel a subtle twinge of recognition. Somehow, the numbers on the terminal keypad looked familiar, even though she'd never seen this device before. And though she told herself that it was probably just déjà vu, she found herself periodically gripped by strange thoughts of darkness, of cold blue eyes, and a voice whispering numbers in her ears.
Elphaba didn't have time to focus on any of that, of course: the guards were expecting them to work, so Elphaba and Dorothy hastily busied themselves around the chamber as best as they could, doing their best to make it look as if they knew what they were doing. Now that they were out of the Crèche's anti-magical enchantments, they could cast spells far easier: Elphaba magically hauled the new components into position, while Dorothy welded them in place with fire spells and metallurgical enchantments.
This went on for nearly half an hour before Elphaba finally began checking the chamber for exits, but unfortunately, the guards had prepared in advance for this: heavy steel gates had been extended over each entrance to keep unwanted visitors out and Childlike Researchers in, and each entrance had at least two guards on duty at all times – both of whom were armed with cattle prods. Worse still, there was a regular patrol keeping watch over the Researchers' activities.
Lowering their voices to a volume that dogs would have struggled to detect, Elphaba had Dorothy hastily discussed options: pretending to be sick or claiming to have left something outside probably wouldn't work – after all, these weren't tired orderlies just hoping to get the kids out of their hair for a few hours, but seasoned military guards who'd prepared for this well in advance. Likewise, asking to go to the bathroom would probably result in them being given an escort to the ladies' room. And as tempting as it was to just charge in guns blazing, Elphaba knew that the odds were against both of them: in her regressed state, she was shorter and weaker than any of the guards, and Dorothy might be tougher than she looked, but even she wouldn't be able to paralyse an entire room of armed soldiers – not before they realized what was going on and took her out.
In the end, they pinned their hopes on Lintel – the only member of the team powerful enough and naïve enough to get them where they needed to go without asking too many questions.
"Uh, Lintel?" Elphaba asked, doing her best to sound even more nervous than she really was. "I have to go to the bathroom and I don't want to bother the guards. Could you help?"
"Sure! Do you want to go back to the one in the Crèche or-"
"No, just down the hall will do: there's a bathroom there just left of the passage."
Morrible had been very thorough in her description of the Deep Sepulchre's layout, and from the map they'd hastily drawn up from it, Elphaba and Dorothy had worked out the exact point where they could reach the radio room without running into too many guards.
Of course, Lintel didn't suspect a thing: for all his brilliance, he was essentially still a child, his mind having lost the maturity and adult experience that might have alerted him to the fact that something was wrong; as far as he was concerned, sending them to a bathroom without the guards' permission was just a little favour for new friends.
So, as soon as the patrol was over and everyone had busied themselves with their other work for the time being, Lintel whispered a short sequence of arcane words and waved a hand through the air in a complex pattern. A moment later, a portal flared to life in front of them, just big enough to allow Dorothy and Elphaba entry pausing just long enough to whisper a thank-you over their shoulders, the two of them stepped inside-
-and were gone.
Fortunately, the radio room hadn't seen much use in the last few days: in the wake of Unbridled Radiance's victory over Greenspectre, there'd been little need for secret communications between Exemplar and any of its covert operatives, most of whom were either dead or had returned home. Also, judging by the distant hubbub from far above them, most of Unbridled Radiance was currently celebrating the latest triumph with a parade, no doubt believing that with the Mentor dying and the Deviant Nations struggling to hold themselves together, it would be only a matter of time before Unbridled Radiance's greatest enemies surrendered.
So when Dorothy and Elphaba emerged from the bathroom, they found the corridor leading to the radio room empty and unsecured except for a collapsible gate – which the two witches easy cut through with a fire spell or three. Once they'd carefully severed the wires on the nearest surveillance camera and took the alarm offline, the nearest security to be found was a checkpoint at least three corridors away, so as long as they didn't make too much noise, they'd be free to explore. Of course, the guards hadn't been stupid enough to leave the heavy door unlocked, forcing Elphaba to magically pick the lock in lieu of her usual strategy of just blasting the door off its hinges and calling it a day, but other than that, it was plain sailing.
The radio room itself was a spectacularly intricate array of transmitters, receivers, scramblers, decryption funnels, audio broadcasters, transcribers, video monitors, radioanalysis machines and autotelegrams, a veritable mountain of devices intended solely for sending and receiving the most clandestine messages in the Empire.
But though the place was deserted, it wasn't entirely inactive: in their haste to join the festivities aboveground, the operators had left a good deal of the machines running, particularly the autotelegram text messaging system: at that very moment, it was churning out a long stream of decoded messages and likely had been doing so for several hours judging by the haystack of tickertape that had piled up at the foot of the desk. Curious, Elphaba read through some of the messages, hoping to find some fresh news of how the Deviant Nations were faring; however, the telegrams weren't from sleeper agents in Greenspectre, but from other cities of Unbridled Radiance – and it was here that Elphaba uncovered another revealing detail.
Of the twenty-five telegrams that had been transmitted ticker tape, nineteen of them were requests for assistance, some of them quite urgent: a drought in one of the agricultural sectors, a famine caused by blighted crops in another, several outbreaks of plague in a residential zone far to the north, a burst dam (apparently due to lack of maintenance thanks to the war), and a petition from a returning regiment of sick and wounded soldiers asking to be healed "by the Empress's cleansing hand."
There were even desperate requests for certain Purified individuals to be transferred to different parts of the Empire where work was more readily available – and here the major weakness of the Purified as a social class became obvious: having been made immortal, they would never need to retire, maintaining their positions indefinitely and forcing newly-Purified individuals to seek work further afield. Thus, Unbridled Radiance would never be able to stop expanding, for without the constant seizure of new territories, the Purified would eventually become stagnant and purposeless, until they were reduced to exactly the kind of decadent elite that the Empress had once despised in the days of old Oz. Thus, war between Unbridle Radiance and its neighbours would be inevitable – not only as a means of siphoning the resources needed to fuel the aesthetically-obsessed empire, but as the only reliable means of ensuring that the Purified retained their status as beautifully functional cogs in the Imperial machine.
More troublingly, though, these encrypted messages had been addressed specifically to the Empress: Alphaba had built her reputation as the ruler and saviour of the Empire so thoroughly that it was apparently standard policy to send these telegrams directly to her so that she could carry them out. Based on what she'd learned from the dream-memories, Alphaba rarely delegated these duties to anyone else, even though there probably mages and physicians and other professionals in the area who could have handled the work themselves. But the Empress was nothing if not a dedicated micromanager, and a vain one at that; not only did she need to take personal control of her kingdom's affairs, but she needed to be seen doing so, to be witnessed curing the plague, calming the waters of the flood, ending the drought and feeding the people – even if it meant that help would be delayed.
Once again, cracks were beginning to appear in Unbridled Radiance's seemingly immaculate exterior: the Empress had made the land dependent on her, had undermined several covert departments for the sake of convenience, and wasn't stopping anytime soon. In any other government this would have been fatal, but however insane Alphaba might be, she definitely wasn't stupid: she was still an effective governor, a cunning general and a brilliant witch, and she at least had Paragon keeping her society stable in spite of her fanaticism.
But if Alphaba were cut off from those dependent on her – either through death or communications blackout – the Empire would fall to pieces.
Of course, it would probably take too long to engineer a full-scale social breakdown, so Elphaba set about trying to find a long-range transmitter that could reach the Deviant Nations. It took a while to find what they needed and even longer to get it working, for though Elphaba had witnessed the radio operators managing transmissions between Greenspectre and Loamlark several times, actually repeating the routine from memory was a different matter altogether. In the end, the two of them were forced to bring out the instruction manual from one of the copious drawers under the array.
After perhaps thirty-five minutes of tinkering, once they'd managed to get the transmitter up and running, they finally keyed in the receiving wavelength for Greenspectre Central Command and began broadcasting…
Not for the first time that day, Glinda wondered how long it would take for the situation to finally spiral out of control – assuming it hadn't already.
At that moment, she was sitting in a corner of the Mentor's bedchamber, watching her counterpart slowly ailing before her very eyes: in the centre of the room, the Mentor herself lay on the bed in a litter of sterile bedsheets, her withered body cocooned in life support mechanisms: a portable set of replacement lungs to breathe for her, a mechanical heart to sustain her circulation, organic support webbing to prevent infections, and even an enchanted circlet just to maintain her brain function in face of her ongoing coma. But even with all these measures in place, there was only so many things they could do to help: the Mentor's wounds had been too great, her body worn too thin by decades of battle and illness to sustain itself even in the face of Kiln's heroic efforts to keep her alive.
Sooner or later, the Mentor was going to die… and then, once dimensional synch kicked in, what next? Would Glinda find her personality being overwritten by the Mentor's? Would she become her replacement? It was hard to say – after all, this was supposed to be dependent on how similar they were, and the Mentor had reinvented herself so thorough that it might not work. But even if it didn't work, Glinda would still receive the lion's share of the Mentor's memories. Would she be asked to substitute? After all, with the power to shapeshift on her side, she could easily pose as her counterpart and nobody would know the difference so long as she acted the part well enough.
Wouldn't it be better that way? Didn't the people need to see that the Mentor was still leading the fight even in these dark times? She'd been a beloved leader and a major source of morale for years on end; losing her now could cripple the hopes of the Deviant Nations. Perhaps Glinda could give them the hope they needed when the time came. After all, it'd be better than letting the citizens see the Mentor as she was right now: a decrepit old woman swathed in bandages and draped in a surgical gown, comatose and barely alive despite the best attempts to mend her.
Glinda had a sneaking suspicion that she wasn't the only member of the Mentor's attendants to think this way: judging by the occasional looks that Kiln, Nessa and the Chapter Master had shot in her direction, they'd been considering the same issue, perhaps wondering if they would need to deceive the people of Greenspectre to keep the peace – or if no deception was necessary and Glinda could step into the Mentor's shoes as soon as her counterpart had died.
The three deputy governors were here right now, whispering urgently to one another as they discussed the newest crisis, but this was hardly a new development: they'd been meeting here for last forty-eight hours, apparently hoping to include the Mentor in their conferences just in case she happened to regain consciousness. Besides, Kiln needed to keep an eye on his official duties as the Mentor's personal physician, and for once, the Mentor was too sick to send him away on other duties.
Also present were the Tin Man and Lion, both of them sitting on the floor and looking more despondent than ever. By now, the repair crew had finally managed to mould Boq's crumpled body back into shape just well enough to walk and talk unassisted, and Brr was finally out of the hospital, but neither of them were in the mood to celebrate: on top of all the other grave news they'd heard since their recovery, Dorothy had been reported missing, and nobody could find her – not even the Mistress of Mirrors. In fact, the only living creature that might have been able to show them where she'd gone was Toto, and he'd disappeared as well.
And the worst part about Dorothy's absence was the simple fact that there was nothing that could be done about it: every single faction still in working order was too busy to focus on one lost little girl, either providing humanitarian aid, trying to keep order, or just keeping what was left of the city safe from enemy attack. When she wasn't bringing in new shipments of food and equipment, the Mistress of Mirrors was busy using her shadows and mirrors to deflect incoming missiles from the creeping barrage. The Strangling Coils were desperately shoring up the city's defences, all mercenary obsessions with payment forgotten in the face of imminent death. The mirror golems were reinforcing the remains of the police force and the fire department, impervious to flame as they were. The Amorphous League were deployed all over the city, hauling rubble away with their bare hands, rescuing wounded civilians from collapsed buildings, flying in vital supplies on massive wingspans, and even providing entertainment in a commendable (if somewhat questionable) attempt to boost morale… and with the Dolls now standing patiently around the palace and refusing to respond to orders, everyone had extra work to do. So until such time as Chistery found some sign of Dorothy, there was precious little to be done about it.
For now, the situation was stable: the population was being protected, temporary housing had been improved, food was being supplied on a reliable basis, and crime had ground to a halt for the time being. There were even some portable industrial equipment at work, producing the Amorphous League's potion bulk. With a little help from the Mistress of Mirrors, troops from other cities had managed to eliminate a huge number of the guerrillas at work in the Deviant Nations' heartlands, and the creeping barrage had stopped for now, though the Mistress of Mirrors speculated it was only a matter of time before the mortars restocked their ammunition and resumed the bombardment. Unfortunately, with Greenspectres wounds bound but not yet healed, everyone was asking the same question: what do we do now?
After all, the plan for the assassination of the Empress had hinged on Elphaba luring her out of hiding, and now that Elphaba was gone, the chances of them being able to break into Exemplar were limited at best – especially now that the Empress had fortified her defences against the Mistress of Mirrors.
So while the Mentor quietly slipped closer to death and the three deputies argued over what to do next, Glinda was left to stare in silence at the Mentor, wondering what might happen next: if the worst came to the worst, could she replace the Mentor?
But then again, maybe it wasn't a question of if, but when.
The sky above Greenspectre is now a bloody red, studded with oily black clouds. The dazzling light beamed by the Imperial flagship is finally beginning to fade, but the smoke billowing up from the ruined airships has yet to fade; the triumphal hymns of Unbridled Radiance are fading too, drowned out by the roar of artillery, the thunder of ships erupting into flame, and the screams of the dying. By now, the Radiant Fleet is retreating, its advantage lost and its ranks devastated.
At the front of the Deviant Fleet that still pursues them across the sky, Glinda lies in a pool of her own blood, half-collapsed against the inner bulkhead of her personal airship. She is missing an arm now, the lost limb reduced to a heap of shredded meat and bone; her legs have been shattered beneath her, a jagged length of bone protruding from her right thigh; her body has been lacerated in a dozen places, she's been stabbed one or twice in the stomach; she isn't sure how many times she's been sliced across the face, but it must have been quite a brutal attack, because blood is gushing merrily down from her forehead and over her left eye. By now, her injuries are painless, her body numb to the horror that's been inflicted on it; all she can feel is mute grief over the deaths that have ensued today.
All around her, hundreds of her loyal warriors lie dead, their mangled bodies contorted and charred and even vitrified in their final agonies: soldiers, mages, engineers, all butchered in the fight to save the heart of the Deviant Nations from the most brazen assault in its history. And this is only a fraction of the defenders who were slain protecting Greenspectre, and the countless innocent civilians who were caught in Unbridled Radiance's "defensive bombardment."
But despite the tragedy of today, despite her exhaustion and growing numbness, Glinda still feels a subtle, bitter hint of victory.
Before her, the Empress is being helped away by her Champion, the two of them forced to retreat by a hail of suppressing fire from Glinda's remaining bodyguards. Weakened by the battle and the wounds they have sustained, they cannot continue their attack, and can only flee for the safety of the gunship they arrived in. By now, the Champion is limping, his mask battered, his tunic scorched and his skin burned down to the bone in some places… but the Empress is even worse.
She has only one arm remaining, now clinging helplessly to the Champion's shoulders; her other arm and both her legs have been blasted off in a series of magical explosions over the course of the duel between her and Glinda. She's been partially flayed, most of her remaining skin hanging in tatters from her mangled body like strands of ragged wet cloth. Her bare muscles have been roasted in places, burned so thorough that Glinda almost expects the flesh to simply slide off the bone. Her right eye is nothing more than scorched-pale jelly in a cratered socket… but there's no mistaking the look of all-consuming hate that the Empress is focussing in Glinda's direction.
But in the last moment before the gunship whisks her away, there is a lull in the action – as the remaining bodyguards finally run of ammo and the Champion struggles to ignite the damage ship's engines. And in that moment, the Empress speaks, somehow still possessing a voice despite her injuries.
"This isn't… the end," she rasps through skinless, blackened lips. "Not for either of us. Neither of us… have the strength to finish the job... But if I can't kill you now… let you bear the scars… forever. If beauty is your mark of shame… wear it… for… eternity!"
And weakened by blood loss as she is, Glinda cannot stop the flood of magical incantations that follows. It's clearly something from the Grimmerie, something horrific and vindictive but not powerful enough to kill her… but as the spell oozes into her flesh, Glinda finds herself wishing it would.
For nearly a minute and a half, she burns within her own flesh, her blood alive with searing magic as she writhes helplessly in pain, until at last she finally loses consciousness. The last thing she sees is the gunship flitting across the horizon to safety, carrying the Empress with it.
And when Glinda finally awakens, her face is never the same again.
On one side, she is scarred forever, old wounds preserved forever. On the other, a face she has not seen in decades now looks out at the world with a single, baby-blue eye, and smiles at the world with full, perfect lips. But if the Empress thought this would be a mark of shame, or at the very least a substitute for actually killing Glinda, she is wrong – once again deluded by the belief that ugliness is a fate worse than death.
From now on, Glinda wears her face as a badge of honour.
This is the face of war and innocence lost.
This is who Glinda is now.
She is the Mentor: she is justice, vengeance and the fall of false doctrine.
And it is her mismatched eyes that will one day behold the death of Unbridled Radiance…
Glinda shot upright, heart hammering, her arms instinctively bristling with hundreds tiny blades as she lurched into full consciousness. For perhaps thirty seconds, she surveyed the room, frantically checking for what might have woken her up.
Fortunately, the Mentor wasn't dead and hadn't changed much since she'd fallen asleep; Greenspectre wasn't under attack from without or within; a horde of flesh-eating squirrels hadn't emerged from the forests to feat upon the complacent masses; everything was okay. In fact, she must have only nodded off for a minute or so, judging by the clock on the wall – so what had roused her?
And then she heard the sound of an alarm issuing from the console across from the Mentor's bed, the last trill cut off as Kiln hit the reply switch. "What is it?" he asked wearily.
"Palace radio receiving centre here, Doctor. We're receiving an encrypted transmission from Unbridled Radiance."
"…seriously?
"That's what the caller claims, sir; she says she's directly under Exemplar. Truth be told, she sounds a little young to be broadcasting, but the level of encryption is genuine: it's only used by the Empress's covert ops teams for secret transmissions across the border."
There was a pause, as Kiln and the Mistress of Mirrors exchanged looks. "Dorothy," they said in perfect unison.
"Okay," said Kiln. "Reroute the transmission up here; we'll speak to her personally."
"As you wish, sir; over and out."
There was a hiss of static from the console that eventually resolved into the sound of a young voice muttering, "Maybe he's hung up – he didn't sound like he was taking this seriously…"
Kiln coughed loudly. "This is Greenspectre Palace responding to your transmission."
There was a sigh of relief from the other end. "Kiln! Thank Lurline it's you. You wouldn't believe the idiot's we've had to talk to in the meantime."
As one, Kiln and Nessa eyed the console with undisguised confusion, and Glinda found herself doing the same: the voice at the other end of the line was quite clearly not Dorothy, for though it evidently belonged to a young girl, the tone and register couldn't be mistaken for even a close approximation of the kid from Kansas. This was the voice a stranger… and yet, Glinda couldn't help but find it ever-so-slightly familiar.
"Who's this?" Kiln asked.
There was a pause, and then the real Dorothy's voice murmured, "I don't think they can see us, Elphaba."
"I couldn't get the video feed connected; we'll just have to make do with audio."
"Elphaba?" echoed the Mistress of Mirrors. "Elphaba?"
Once again, Glinda found herself sitting bolt-upright in her chair, eyes wide with astonishment. A quick glance around the room confirmed that Boq, Brr and the Chapter Master were all wearing similar expressions of shock.
The voice at the opposite end groaned in open exasperation. "Yes, it's me. I somehow managed to navigate my way back to the world of origin… only I ended up right in the middle of Exemplar. I've had a very long and trying day: I've been lost in the multiverse, I've been to worlds that just about beyond description, I've been mobbed by faceless monsters, I've seen myself transformed into things best forgotten about, and I've met my own dead relatives. Since I got back, I've had my age drained by Madame Morrible, been rescued by Dorothy, had to drain my age all over again just so I could sneak the damn Crèche, and I've had my ear talked off by a prepubescent portal researcher. I'm currently shorter than Dorothy, and I think she's enjoying it a little too much for her own good, so if we could just get over how childish I sound and talk about something serious, that would be absolutely fan-frigging-tastic."
At that moment, Glinda stood up and strode over to the console. By now, she knew what Kiln, Nessa and the Chapter Master were all thinking: Dorothy was instantly recognizable, but it wasn't as if there weren't methods of altering or disguising a voice; the other speaker could very well be Elphaba – after all, she had the same mannerisms, the same irritable streak, even the tendency to rant defensively when upset – but they still needed to be absolutely certain before they started trusting the voice on the other end of the line.
So, Glinda halted next to the console's microphone, took a deep breath, and asked, "If you really are Elphaba, what prank did you pull on me during our second week at Shiz?"
"Hello to you too, Glinda. To answer your question, I replaced your hair conditioner with green dye and had everyone at Shiz believing that I might be "greenifying" you. Satisfied?"
Glinda's heart leapt. There was a stunned silence, and then she let out a strangled cry of joy and relief, punching the air with both fists and five more grown for the occasion. "Elphie!" she shrieked. "I don't know how you're alive, but you wouldn't believe how good it is to hear you voice right now. I mean, it sound a little weird right now, but it's good to hear your voice."
"Likewise. After being trapped in the void for Lurline knows how long, I'm glad to hear anyone's voice. Sadly, we don't time for small talk, otherwise I'd tell you all about it. Anyway, Dorothy and I are currently transmitting from the Crèche."
"The Crèche?" echoed Glinda.
There was a pause, as Elphaba, Nessa and Kiln hastily explained the concept and its inhabitants, somehow managing to condense the details into less than thirty seconds of definitions.
"At the moment, we've got a plan to bring down the magical defences around Exemplar, starting with the ones that keep Nessa out and ending with the ones protecting this city from external attack. If we can get that done, do you think you can bring in a fleet to carry out the assassination?"
There was a pause, as the four of them exchanged glances. "Possibly," said Kiln. "By now, we might very well have enough potion to deliver a fatal dose to the Empress, but actually delivering it's going to be another matter entirely. Greenspectre's air fleet isn't doing so well at the moment, and the other cities of the Deviant Nations might be too busy trying to put down the remaining infiltrators to supply ships or troops. We'll need to leave a good chunk of the regulars here to keep the people safe, too, so that excludes most of the army."
"So what does that leave us?"
"For one thing, the Irredeemables," said the Chapter Master proudly. "We can commandeer a few spare troop transports and maybe a carrier."
"And my mirror golems," added Nessa. "I may not have many ships, but I do have the ability to transport them into the city en mass… provided you can bring those defences."
Kiln clicked his tongue anxiously. "I can also confirm that the Amorphous League will be happy to join in now that they've had a chance to replenish their numbers, and as long as Branderstove's still alive, the Strangling Coils will be on our side: they still have one functioning airship left – the Abyssal Titan. It's not exactly a fleet, but a carrier of that size could tip the odds in our favour, if only slightly."
"It won't be enough: we're taking the fight to the capital of Unbridled Radiance – we need everything we can possibly get. You need to persuade the governors that this is the time."
"But what of the infiltrators?"
"It doesn't matter!" Elphaba exploded. "If we can't get this done right, the Empress will realize what we're up to and she'll be ready for the strategy from now on. We'll never get a chance to try this again, and with the damage she's done to Greenspectre, we might very well be starting a losing streak that'll end with Unbridled Radiance winning this war. Persuade the governors of the cities that they need to contribute everything they have – ships, troops, mages, everything – or it won't matter even if they stop the remaining infiltrators; we'll have already lost. Make it clear to them: no half-measures. Today, it's all or nothing."
She took a deep breath.
"That probably would have sounded a lot more impressive if I'd said it in an adult voice."
"Okay," Kiln sighed. "We'll do our best. But with the Mentor as she is, we might not be able to talk them into agreeing. After all, it was her leadership that the governors responded to, and with things as bad as they are…" He took a deep breath. "In the meantime, you'll be – what? Trying to bring down the defences from within?"
"That's the plan. It might be a bit easier that it sounds: the Empress is current staging a parade by the sounds of things, so that should give us some cover."
"Not for long, it won't. Are there any secret projects at work in the Deep Sepulchre?"
"They're preparing the portal for something special, but I'm not entirely sure what."
"Then the Empress won't be attending the parade for long: she'll want to survey the work first-hand, especially if it's of vital importance… and that's why I'm going to suggest that you do the single most idiotic thing you could possibly do under the circumstance."
"What's that?"
"Split up."
"…you're joking."
"Unfortunately, no," said Kiln, gravely. "If the Empress happens to see you, she probably won't recognize you without the green skin, but she's met Dorothy before during the attack on Greenspectre; as soon as Alphaba sees her, she'll know that something's wrong and sound the alarm. Hence why the only logical approach to this is to divide your efforts: Dorothy can handle the magical defences on the walls, while you dismantle any of the defence systems positioned underground."
There was a muffled chuckle from the other end of the line, and Dorothy's voice remarked, "I did say I could do that."
Elphaba groaned. "Fair enough. As long as Dorothy here keeps her head down and has her Dolls ready to go as soon as the city's defences are opened. In the meantime, if Morrible's little map has got this right, there's maybe three to four runic defence platforms hidden around the Deep Sepulchre, one set up against Nessa's powers, the rest for general reinforcement. Question is, how is Dorothy supposed to get aboveground without the guards noticing?"
There was pause, as the four of them exchanged looks. "If I recall correctly," said Nessa, "There's an access shaft one corridor to the east of your positon, mainly used for performing maintenance on vital wiring and pipework. If Dorothy can climb up it, she'll emerge directly onto street level. From there, it's only a half-hour walk to the nearest of the city walls. After that, I'm afraid you'll have to make use of stealth as often as possible, Dorothy: if anyone sounds the alarm, the Vigilant Eyes will be all over you within minutes."
"No problem: I'm getting used to sneaking around."
"Don't we know it," Glinda muttered.
"What happens after the shield spells go down? Will you be ready to go by then?"
Kiln hesitated, absently chewing the inside of his cheek. "Maybe we'll be able to rally the governors if we can promise a decisive end to Unbridled Radiance; hopefully, that should be enough to quell any anxieties they might have about deprioritising the defence of individual cities, but there's still the risk of outliers not chipping in. As you've said, Elphaba, we need the ships and troops needed to keep Exemplar's defences under control, to access Paragon long enough for you to get the Purified out of the way, and to keep the Empress preoccupied while we load the potion into the rifles and mortars and gods only know what else we need. With morale as low as it is, we may not have enough supporters for a push towards a final battle; unless we can find a way of getting everyone fired up again, we might have settle for less-"
From somewhere behind them, there was a low, sepulchral hiss of breath through decrepit longs, and a deathly, ancient voice whispered "No."
As one, all eyes in the room turned to face the source of the voice, and Glinda realized that the Mentor was now wide awake and sitting up in bed, her eyes blazing with baleful power. She looked smaller and sicklier than ever, and the life-support systems were barely keeping up with her newfound vigour, but somehow she was stubbornly clinging to full conscious despite her ailing body's best efforts to give up the ghost.
"They'll listen… to me," she rasped. "They'll listen to me as they always have… and they'll follow me to war."
Kiln blinked. "You're intending to join this final battle, then?"
"Yes. As you say, we need morale… and this old warhorse charging into the fray might be all we have left. I… will arrange a remote-link conference with the governors within fifteen minutes. I can promise that they'll be ready to fight as soon as the barriers around Unbridled Radiance fall. Mistress of Mirrors, I'm going to need all your power to send our fleets to the front lines: I don't care if it's a reflection or a shadow – if you can transports us through it, I'll take it."
Nessa bowed in deference.
"And as for you, Dr Kiln… I'm going to need my war-colossus."
Kiln's eyebrows rose substantially. "I should probably note at this juncture that your colossus still hasn't been tested," he said quietly. "The weapons work fine, but the life-support functions might not be up to maintaining your organs in their current condition."
"You'll just have to modify them… as best as possible in… what time we have left."
"As your doctor, I'm obliged to talk you out of this, you know. Any strain on your body could very well be enough to kill you outright; you might not even make it as far as the battlefield, much less the conference room."
"I… have too far to die in bed, doctor..." There was a pause, and then the Mentor's lopsided lips quirked into a smile. "Besides," she hoarsely continued, "I'm detecting… a very distinct "unless" here, doctor."
To Glinda's surprise, Kiln smiled back. "…Unless," he concluded, "you were accompanied and supported by a qualified mage-surgeon familiar with your medical history and the art of restoring damaged organs on the fly. And anyone accepting this role would have to remain on hand at all times to monitor your condition and perform repairs whenever necessary."
"So for once… I'd have no excuse for sending you away to look after other patients."
"Correct."
"Then I accept your proposition, doctor: we ride to war together."
"Nice to see everyone's finally on the same page," said Elphaba. "I hope you don't need any backup plans arranged in case Dorothy and I can't get the shielding down."
"None will be required," the Mentor replied, her breath more laboured than ever. "I have faith in your ability to wreak havoc on Unbridled Radiance by… and I have faith in your resolve. We'll be ready: as soon as the shields fall, we'll be… on our way. As I said, I've come too far to die without seeing Unbridled Radiance fallen and the Empress defeated, and I… will not cross the threshold into death's domain before I see my daughter again. And I know the governors… will not hesitate… to follow my lead." A pained rictus tore itself across her mangled face. "As much as I hate to use gambling terms at a time like this, but... all in."
The Empress snapped awake.
It wasn't often that she needed sleep, but even with her unique physiology, even she occasionally needed to rest – though at the time, she hadn't been certain why: she'd fully recovered from the exertions of her victory over the Deviant Nations, she'd given herself a top-up of elixirs to keep her magical stamina primed and ready, and she was even getting ready to provide a speech for the cheering multitudes now amassing below the palace. Why, she'd wondered at the time, should she need to sleep now?
Well, now she knew.
She had dreamed of Elphaba's life again: she had seen the moments of the detestable little rat play out across the once-peaceful vistas of her sleep, from the moment she'd been old enough to think and dream for herself until the last bitter day in Oz. She'd seen the moment Elphaba had first rebelled, and she'd seen how her history had unfolded without ever being stopped… and she'd even dreamed of Elphaba's victories in this world!
This should have stopped: with Elphaba flung through the portal, she should been desynchronized, cast out of the Empress's head and into oblivion; no more dreams, no more recollections of someone else's pestilential life, and no more disgusting reminders of what she had once been.
But if the Empress was experiencing dream-memories again, that could mean only thing: Elphaba was alive.
In a flurry of rage, the Empress sat up in bed, biting down on her lower lip so violently that she tasted blood.
It wasn't possible, but somehow, Elphaba had returned from the void – and there was no way of knowing where she was. And for the first time in what seemed like eons, the Empress felt the first stirrings of an emotion that she had long since banished from her mind:
Terror.
Naked, helpless terror.
A/N: Up next... your guess is as good as mine :)