Chapter Eighty-Two: Broadcast Day
The driver of the Dersite Royal Postal Service truck nervously drummed his fingers along the top of the steering wheel.
He had been hoping to avoid military checkpoints, but this proved impossible – the commandos were too widespread.
Blinding white light glared at the driver, through the mail truck's windshield, blotting everything else from sight. Including the tanks upon which those floodlights were mounted. He wondered if those tanks were aiming their cannons at his truck. The thought caused sweat to break out across his forehead, seep down his neck.
A silhouette walked across the front of the mail truck to the driver's side, momentarily disrupting the powerful beams of light. An unseen knuckle rapped against the glass of the window, causing the driver's heart to flutter. His finger drumming ceased.
The driver quickly adjusted his mailman's cap before rolling down the window.
The commando standing outside the truck wore full body armor, tinted goggles, and a helmet – all black. Standard battle dress. The only part of the commando the driver could see was the light reflecting off the surface of the tinted goggles.
"State your business." The commando's voice was raspy and metallic.
The driver's palms grew clammy. He quietly took a deep breath before speaking in order to prevent any tremor from quavering into his voice. "Mail delivery for the Duskfall District Cubicles."
"Apartment super-complex on the north side?" the voice in the dark asked.
"Yep, that's the one. They haven't gotten any mail for the past week on account of the riots. Now I'm no government critic, but publicly hanging the Sylph really threw the entire mailing system into disarray. The backlog of undelivered mail is getting larger each day. You ever see a mountain of letters and newspaper ads? Come down to my post office and you'll see an entire mountain range sitting in storage. I'm actually one of the first mail trucks authorized to reenter this part of Duskfall since the last crackdown."
"So you say." The commando did not sound convinced.
The driver's heart began to pound. He took another stealthy deep breath, calming himself down. Time for a gamble. "Call it in. Contact the postal agency – my supervisors will validate what I have told you. I can wait."
It was a longshot. The driver knew that. Still, he also took into consideration commando tactics, which included never taking eyes off a potential threat. If the commando wandered away from the mail truck while making that call, or asked someone else to make the call, the driver was going to be arrested and interrogated.
There was silence from the void beyond the window. The driver fought the urge to drum his fingers.
The commando stepped back from the window and whipped out his radio.
The driver slowly eased one of his legs over to the left a tad, pressing a concealed button on the underside of the dashboard with his knee. All the while, he kept his hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.
The commando activated his radio. He murmured into the device, requesting the person on the other end to confirm the registry of this particular mail truck.
The driver focused on keeping his breathing steady. This was the most crucial part of the gamble – any sign of suspicious behavior at this juncture would ruin everything.
He eyed the button underneath the dashboard, fervently hoping the radio interceptor was working.
Another deep breath.
The driver hated to risk his life on a piece of equipment. He'd tested the interceptor himself when he installed it into the truck before this mission. It was currently rerouting the commando's radio signal to the Onyx, where specialists were impersonating military dispatch.
At least, that was the hope. If the interceptor somehow malfunctioned during the drive, the commando outside would actually be communicating with military dispatch, in which case-
Deep breaths. The driver continued to breathe, calming his thoughts.
Each individual second spent in limbo dragged out far longer than they should have. The driver likely spent only five or so minutes waiting for the commando to make his radio call. It felt more like three days. If the wait continued, those days would turn to weeks.
The driver wanted to wipe his palms on his pants. They were only getting sweatier and sweatier. He set his teeth and kept his hands on the steering wheel.
How long did it take to make a damn radio call? Was the commando encountering difficulty with the-
The flashlight shined back on the driver's face, nearly giving him a heart attack. Fortunately, the only outward sign of surprise the driver let slip was an abrupt inhalation. The commando did not notice.
"The RPS confirmed your vehicle registration and assignment," the commando informed the driver.
The driver stopped himself from releasing the breath he'd only just realized he was holding. The relief flooding through his body was exhilarating. Not for the first time in his life, the driver wondered if he had some sort of addiction to the experience.
"Still, I don't trust you," the commando continued. The driver's newfound relief was placed on tentative hold. "You may pass through this checkpoint, but only after we search your vehicle. If you have anything to hide, this is the time to share. In ten seconds it will be too late."
"Nothing to hide," the driver replied. "Nothing but letters and parcels. Open 'em and read 'em all, if you like."
"Stop your engine and step out of the vehicle."
The driver complied without hesitation. Commandos did not like to be kept waiting.
The commando kept his eyes on the driver. His fingers drummed impatiently on the stock of his rifle. "Stand over there," the commando gestured to the front of the mail truck with the barrel of his rifle, "and place your hands flat on the hood of your vehicle. Remain perfectly still if you know what's good for you."
The driver moved in front of the mail truck and followed his orders to the letter.
The commando gave a sharp whistle, waved a gloved hand twice towards the floodlights. Within seconds, another commando emerged from behind the glaring light. The two soldiers conversed quietly for a few moments. The driver tried to eavesdrop, but their voices were too muffled.
Commando Two walked around to the back of the mail truck while the first kept his rifle aimed squarely at the driver. The back doors opened with a heavy clunk, followed by dull metallic footfalls as the commando hopped inside and started rummaging around.
The back of the mail truck was filled with packages, duffel bags full of letters, sealed boxes. Commando Two quickly realized he would not be able to check them all by hand, by himself. He stepped out of the truck and walked back over to Commando One, who was still watching the driver. They spoke with each other for a brief moment.
Commando Two broke off and vanished into the glare of the floodlights, only to reemerge a moment later with a third commando. Commando Three carried a portable X-ray scanner while Commando Two carried the monitor which the scanner hooked into. Both hopped into the mail truck and got to work. They scanned through each individual box and parcel, every last duffel bag.
"Excuse me?" the driver spoke up. "Any idea how long this will take? The Postmaster expects me back in time for the afternoon circuit-"
"Silence," commanded Commando One.
The minutes crawled by.
Commando One continued to drum his fingers against the stock of his rifle.
The driver tried to focus on the drumming more than the search taking place in his truck. He met with very limited success. He stared intently at his hands, still spread out flat on the mail truck's hood. He wanted very badly to drum his own fingers, though he dared not while under the scrutiny of-
"Truck's clean, sergeant!"
Commando Two and Commando Three emerged from around the back of the truck, X-ray equipment in tow.
"You're absolutely certain?" asked Commando One.
"Nothing in those boxes and bags but mail," Commando Two replied as he walked past. "Swept for hidden compartments, too. Came up clean." With that, Commando Two followed Commando Three into the glare of the floodlights, vanishing from view.
Commando One lowered his rifle. "Reenter your vehicle and proceed through the checkpoint," he said to the driver. "After you deliver your mail to the Cubicles, return by this route. You will be searched again. If you do not return, we will track you down, place you under arrest, and incarcerate you in the Silent Dungeon. Move along."
"You got it." The driver took his palms off the mail truck's hood. "Thank you, sergeant, for keeping our streets safe." He climbed into the driver's seat, fired up the ignition. He drove slowly into the floodlights, squinting so that he could see. After a few seconds, he passed the tanks, ignoring the silent stares of the commandos manning the checkpoint.
It took a few minutes for the driver's eyes to fully readjust to the faint dawn light. The buildings and shops lining the sides of the street slid on by. Many of the front windows were shattered. A couple buildings had even burned down, leaving behind charred empty husks.
The riots had taken a heavy toll on Duskfall District. Recovery would not begin in earnest until martial law was lifted. And so long as Heroes drew breath on Derse, martial law would never be lifted. In a way, the driver felt it was fitting the damage from the riots would take forever to be fixed. It would serve as a constant reminder of what happened to the Sylph, in case the populace grew forgetful.
As the driver continued down the street, he grew aware of a subtle tremor that was not coming from the truck's engines. It was a sensation he'd grown familiar with ever since martial law had been declared and the Navy showed up. He stretched his neck forward and looked up to the sky.
Sure enough, the driver spotted the looming figure of a naval vessel in low orbit, crawling ever so slowly westward towards Duskfall District. A destroyer, judging by the size. Even though he knew the destroyer could not see him from that altitude, the driver still felt the jitters whenever naval vessels approached.
The driver turned down a secluded alleyway. He was close, now.
Fortunately, there were still functioning street lamps in this alley, so the driver was not flying blind. Even so, he nearly missed the parking garage. Only the back wall of the garage was visible from the alleyway – a giant slab of concrete protruding eight stories into the sky.
Further on down the alley, adjacent to the parking garage, was a smaller building with a mess of satellite dishes cluttering up its rooftop. Upper Duskfall Broadcasting Station was emblazoned across the back entrance of the adjacent building in faded, nearly illegible letters.
Good. Definitely in the right place.
The driver turned into the parking garage, drove down the ramp to the basement level.
A familiar figure waited at the far end of the basement, clad in a dark gray overcoat.
The driver pulled the mail truck up alongside the far wall and killed the engine, swinging himself out of the driver's seat. "Good to see you again, sir. Almost didn't recognize you out of uniform."
"I think the 'sir' is rather moot at this point, Arcturus," the Authority Regulator pointed out, clasping his friend's hand in greeting. "Domestic Enforcement is now history. My authority is a joke."
"It was a joke even before Domestic Enforcement went down the toilet," the former Commandant of Lunar Sector Enforcement chuckled, reaching into the truck and retrieving a tool bag from underneath the driver's seat. "We were never anything more than dumb muscle for the Agents. I say it's high time we started going our own way. We should have helped the dissenters long ago."
The Authority Regulator chose to allow Arcturus's opinion to pass without argument. "Did you encounter any trouble on your way here?"
Arcturus nodded, producing a large wrench from the tool bag. "Sailed right into a checkpoint at the western border of Duskfall. Had a paranoid commando sergeant search the truck with X-ray scanners. He was itching to detain me, but they found nothing. Fortunately they did not search the entire truck." As he spoke, the former Commandant applied the wrench to the back-left wheel of the mail truck, undoing the bolts securing the hubcap.
The hubcap popped off, clattering to the stone floor.
Wedged neatly behind the hubcap was a collapsible transportalizer pad.
The Wrathful Veteran focused on the COM, listening intently for any kind of signal from the Authority Regulator. Only white noise hissed from the console's audio outputs.
"Approaching five minutes of radio silence," reported the operator sitting at the console.
The normally bustling control room was silent. All the headquarters staff were listening for any updates.
Static continued to crackle, caused by the disruption of a naval destroyer passing over the Regulator's position in Duskfall District. The invisible energy fields emitted by military vessels always wreaked havoc with the dissenters' illegal radio communications. Headquarters merely learned to track the movements of the military vessels and work around them.
For this particular operation, however, timing was of the essence.
"Approaching six minutes of radio silence."
The Wrathful Veteran felt an intense temptation to step outside and walk a lap around the HQ house. He suppressed this urge – it would not do for him to leave the control room in the middle of a high-risk covert operation. Unfortunately, sound logic did not alleviate the butterfly swarm in his stomach.
A signal chirped from the console. Everyone's ears immediately perked up.
"—ome in, Onyx, com—d—you read?" the voice of the Authority Regulator issued through the audio output, garbled in all the static.
"Can you clean up that signal?" the Veteran asked his radio operator.
"Working…" the operator's fingers were ablur as he worked the console's equalizing controls, making minute adjustments in an attempt to isolate the static and eliminate it.
"Do you rea—nyx? Please respond." The sound quality had improved, but not by much.
"That's about as good as it'll be until that destroyer gets well out of range," the operator informed the Veteran.
"This will do nicely. Thank you." The Veteran reached around the operator and removed the transmitter mic from its groove. He depressed the 'talk' button. "Onyx reads you. Please tell me some good news."
"All good news on my end," the Authority Regulator responded. "The scrambler was suc—sfully planted. There was a momentary—rruption of the local power current, but no one seems—ave noticed."
"Has the transportalizer pad arrived?"
"Affirmative. We're programming it as we speak."
"Excellent. Standby for my arrival. Onyx out." The Veteran placed the transmitter mic back in its groove. He turned and nodded to the runner waiting at the entrance to the control room. "Burnless, would you go upstairs and fetch the Prince and Witch? Be sure to knock before entering."
Gino Caiazzo trudged through the various rooms and hallways of his house, following the ever-so-tantalizing aroma of pizza.
There seemed to be more rooms to his house than what felt right. The hallways seemed a little too labyrinthine. How long had Gino been stumbling through them? Difficult to say. Gino glanced at his watch, but the numbers were hazy and hard to make out.
Fuck, that pizza smelled good…
Where could it possibly be hiding?
"Pizza's in here, Troublemaker."
Gino froze, his heart skipping a beat. It had been a lifetime since he'd last heard that voice. He turned to his left, where a doorway had appeared in the wall. Beyond the doorway was Gino's bedroom. Sitting on his bed was a large stuffed crust, extra-cheese pizza with pineapple and sausage. And sitting next to the beautiful, exquisite pizza…
"…dad?" Gino's voice cracked. "Dad, what…? What are…? How are you…? I thought you were… Gwen told me you-"
"Died?" Mr. Caiazzo finished his son's sentence. "Well, she certainly wasn't lying. Can't you see my eyes?"
"I…" a puzzled frown creased Gino's brow as he looked at his dad's eyes. Sure enough, they were purely white – no pupil, no iris. How could he possibly not have noticed?
"You weren't paying close enough attention," Mr. Caiazzo answered Gino's unspoken thought. "Dream bubbles are finicky that way. It takes effort and focus to notice all the nitty gritty details. Otherwise you'll just glaze your way through and forget the whole thing. Now will you stop ogling me from the doorway and give me a fuckin' hug before this pizza gets col—OOF!"
Gino ignored the pizza, running straight into his dad's arms and squeezing so tight Mr. Caiazzo almost feared dying a second time. "I missed you, old man," he whispered. "Fuck, I missed you…"
Tears glinted in Mr. Caiazzo's ghostly eyes. He tousled his son's hair. "I missed you too, Troublemaker."
"How'd everything get so fucked up, dad?" Gino's voice cracked as he choked back a sob. "This fuckin' bullshit game is killing us, and for what? What the fuck are we even doing here?"
CHASING YOUR OWN TAILS
Gino woke with a start, bolting upright in bed, chest heaving. His eyes darted around wildly, searching for his dad. It was of no use – the dream was over, and there would be no returning to it.
"Fucking outer gods…" Gino muttered under his breath. "Stupid fucking outer fucking gods..."
The bedroom lights were off, but it was not completely dark. There was dim light from the Onyx's power grid spilling in through the windows. The grid was built into the Onyx's ceiling, fluctuating in brightness based on a programmed day/night cycle. Right now, judging by the dimness of the light, it was edging towards 'dawn'.
Today was Broadcast Day. That's what Gino was calling it. He'd been counting down the days ever since Cass's hanging. Now Broadcast Day was finally here.
Gino wanted to feel excited. After weeks of hiding underground with the dissenters, some form of action was finally being taken. Shouldn't that be a relief? Gino felt it should be, but he was hesitant. This was going to be a risky operation. Lots could go wrong.
At least there would be no dodging gunfire, this time. No more lost friends.
Gino realized he was holding his breath. He released it, allowed himself to settle back into the pillows. He looked to his right, trailed a finger across Gwen's forehead, gently brushing the hair from her eyes.
She looked so beautiful when she slept.
With his free hand, Gino pulled the blankets up to his chin, snuggling in. Right now, the world was perfect. The blankets were warm and cuddly. Gwen was right next to him. The day's troubles were currently being kept in mental suspension.
He wanted to remain curled up in bed forever.
ENJOY THE MOMENT
Gino closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
He no longer bothered to engage the Outer Gods in conversation. Attempting to do so only intensified their presence in his mind. Ignoring their little comments was difficult enough. He could hardly remember a time when his mind had been quiet.
Gwen stirred with an unintelligible mumble. Her eyelids fluttered, cracked open.
Gino made sure to smile. He did not want the first thing Gwen saw to be a frowning face. "Morning, sunshine."
"Morning?" A yawn emerged from deep within Gwen's throat. She balled her fists and rubbed the bleariness from her eyes. "We're underground. How do you know it's morning?"
"Gut feeling. The gut knows all. Trust the gut. Now may I please kiss your face before we get too caught up in another round of rousing witty banter? I love the witty banter, don't get me wrong, but right now I'd much rather-" The rest of Gino's quip was stifled by the sudden taste of grapefruit.
Time slowed down.
Gino closed his eyes and returned the kiss, losing himself in the moment. Even the whispers of the Outer Gods could not bother him here.
Unfortunately, the kiss was not eternal. Eventually it came to an end.
Some kisses never lasted long enough.
The taste of grapefruit lingered on Gino's lips. "I love that you still wear lip gloss."
"Hey, don't make fun." Gwen gave Gino a playful shove to the shoulder, throwing a clump of blanket in his face. "I love my gloss."
"I was being serious!" Gino insisted, pulling the blanket from his face and throwing it right back. "I love the gloss, too! Makes the kisses all citrusy and sweet. Don't get me wrong, you taste like candied heaven to begin with, but I'm really digging the extra flavor."
"I…" Gwen hesitated, embarrassed color rushing to her cheeks. "Candied what now? Not sure if that was endearing or nauseating."
"Endearing. Definitely endearing. Of all the possible ways you can perceive the things I say, you should always choose the more dashing interpretations. This'll save you so much stress."
"Easing up on the perpetual stream of flirting might also do the trick."
"Flirting? Gwen, if you think that was…" Gino was interrupted by a quick yawn, "…if you think that was flirting-" A much longer yawn followed, ruining any chance Gino had of parrying Gwen's barb. "C'mon, that just wasn't flirting."
Fortunately, Gwen chose that moment to change the subject. "You get any sleep?" she asked. "Got dark circles so big you look like a raccoon."
"For a hot sec, yeah. Sort of drifted off without realizing it. Woke right back up."
"You need sleep, Gino. You'll self-destruct if you keep going on this way."
"Sleep deprivation, sleep satisfaction – it doesn't matter any which way. The Outer Gods are always there. Difference is…" Gino paused for another yawn, "…when I don't sleep, the Outer Gods are only a voice in my head. And voices I can ignore."
CAN YOU?
Gwen noticed Gino's subtle flinch. "You heard them just now, didn't you."
He gave a silent nod.
She slipped her hand into his.
Gino quietly leaned his head into her shoulder. "Gwen, you're just about the only thing keeping me sane."
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK
"Jesus fuck!" Gino screeched, nearly leaping out of bed.
Gwen burst out laughing.
"Prince? Witch?" a familiar voice called from the other side of the door. "Everything alright in there?"
"Yeah, Burnless, we're all good!" Gwen hollered back, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Our Prince might need new boxers, though."
"Er…" there was a hesitation from beyond the door. "Boxers? What are-"
"Never mind!" Gino cut in. "Tell the Veteran we'll be downstairs in a minute!"
"We'll be waiting," Burnless replied. His footsteps faded down the hallway.
Gino flopped back onto the pillows, covering his face with his hands. "Why does today have to be Broadcast Day?" he moaned. "Why can't we just transmit the damn message from the Onyx? Then we wouldn't even have to leave bed."
"One," Gwen raised a finger, swinging herself out of bed, "we send out a broadcast from here, all those naval ships orbiting around the sky will instantly know where the Onyx is, and Two," another finger joined the first, "you really want all of Derse to see us in our underwear?"
"Fuck yeah, I do! Who cares? They don't share our genitalia – it'd all be fuckin' Ancient Greek to them. I mean, sure, the Derse girls technically have boobs, but something tells me they'd clack if I touched them. All part of the carapace. Not that I'd actually touch them…heh…but…you know… Real boobs don't clack, Gwen! We'd be educating them! Showing them new things aboutmmf-"
Gino's purple Derse dreamer pajamas hit him square in the face, muffling the rest of his thought.
Gwen picked her own pajamas up from the floor, slipped into them. "Gino, sometimes you talk waaay too much."
"What? Me? Naw." Gino threw a pillow at Gwen. She ducked. The pillow sailed overhead and smacked into the wall. He hopped out of bed and pulled on his pajama top and bottoms. "…okay, maybe you're right. My big mouth has gotten me in trouble once or twice. Or twenty times. Or more. Probably more. Definitely more."
"C'mon." Gwen turned the doorknob and opened the bedroom door a crack. "The Veteran's waiting."
Gino caught her by the elbow, drew in close, gave her a little peck on the cheek. "He can wait a few more seconds, can't he? Will Derse crumble to pieces?"
Gwen was tempted to argue, but she did not. She had no desire to leave the bedroom, either. Maybe just a few seconds wouldn't hurt…
They both kissed one last time.
Then one last last time.
Gwen pulled away first, tapped the bedroom door open with her index finger. "Ready to broadcast?" she asked.
Gino clasped Gwen's hand, interlacing fingers. "Let's do it."
They exited the bedroom together, walked hand in hand down the hallway to the stairs. About halfway down the stairs they let go of each other before any Dersites could see.
The Wrathful Veteran waited by the front door, flanked by a pair of rifle-wielding dissenters. Burnless stood outside on the HQ front lawn, impatiently drumming his fingers against the back of his other hand.
"Cutting it a bit close, are we?" the Veteran remarked, checking the timepiece on his wrist. "Have you forgotten our timetable?"
"Hey, relax," Gino said. "We're all here, we're all pumped and ready to jive. You ready to jive Gwen?"
"I'm ready to jive."
"See? We're all ready to jive. C'mon, let's go jive! Let's do it already!"
Burnless opened the front door, leading the way to the jeep waiting outside. He hopped into the driver's seat, starting the engine. Gwen and Gino climbed into the back, the Veteran into the passenger seat.
As Burnless pulled away from HQ and onto the road, the Veteran turned round in his seat to face Gino and Gwen. "Just so we are clear. When we pass through the Hub, we will emerge inside a broadcasting station in Duskfall District. That is where we will send our appeal to the people of Derse. I believe it best I do the talking. Unless either of you thought of anything specific you wish to say?"
"Nah." Gino shook his head. "I'm an extemporaneous speaker."
"You should definitely do all the talking," Gwen said to the Veteran, gesturing toward Gino with her head. "Anything this one says will be for shock value."
"What, you think I don't know how to inspire the fuck out of a crowd?" Gino reproached. "I could convince Derse to paint itself gold and white if I put my mind to it."
"It's settled, then." The Wrathful Veteran turned back around in his seat, facing front. "I'll do the talking."
"What are you gonna say?" Gino asked the Veteran. "You have a long, epic monologue all ready to go?"
"No," the Veteran replied. "Not a long one. Short messages are always more poignant. Long messages give the Agents more time to trace our location."
Fortunately there was no one else on this particular road, allowing Burnless to push the jeep toward its upper speed limit. Within five minutes, the jeep left behind the residential sector and approached the north wall of the Onyx cavern. Built into the north wall was the auxiliary supply depot – a fenced-off warehouse containing a large portion of the Onyx's stored food and water.
Armed guards stood watch at the entrance to the depot. Upon recognizing the Wrathful Veteran, they stepped aside and allowed the jeep to pass. Burnless took the jeep straight through the open garage doors of the warehouse. They drove through the central aisle of the depot, past all the rows and columns of towering shelves.
Burnless brought the jeep to a stop just shy of the depot's back wall. Four armed dissenters guarded the entrance to the Hub - a heavy metal door set into the wall of the depot's most isolated corner. They, too, stood aside for the Veteran. One of them opened the door, revealing the transportalizer master pad beyond.
Gino hopped out of the jeep. Gwen did not immediately follow – she was leaning against the jeep's door, eyes closed, massaging her temples. "Uh… Gwen? You alright?" Gino asked her.
"Hm?" Gwen snapped out of it, opening her eyes, straightening up. "What?"
"You alright?"
"Yeah." Gwen climbed out of the jeep. "Headache."
Gino and Gwen followed the Wrathful Veteran into the Hub. They both moved to step onto the transportalizer, but the Veteran stopped them. "One at a time," he said. "We're jumping to a collapsible pad. Smaller model. Only fits one person at a time. You jump first, Prince."
"Er…okay, sure." Gino stepped onto the transportalizer, moved directly to the center. "Beam me up."
The Wrathful Veteran went over to the Hub's console, tapped in a series of commands.
That was the last thing Gino saw before suddenly finding himself enveloped in a cocoon of white light. For a split second he was overcome by a profound dizziness, followed by the sensation of his consciousness getting sucked down a vortex.
When he emerged from the other end of the vortex, Gino found himself standing on a tiny metallic transportalizer pad – no more than three feet in diameter. He stepped off the pad, took a deep breath, regained his bearings. He was in a small closet. The only illumination came from the weak lightbulb in the ceiling.
Gino exited the closet, walking into what appeared to be a television studio. A long desk for the news anchor and co-anchor sat on one side of the room. The entire wall behind the anchors' desk was a giant green screen. Opposite the desk were three cameras set at various angles – one camera to capture both the anchors, with the other two angled for close-ups of each individual anchor.
Behind the cameras was the tech booth, where all the technicians responsible for maintaining the newsfeed would sit.
Standing in the middle of the room was a short Dersite clad in a dark gray overcoat. He raised a hand in greeting. "Welcome to Duskfall District, Prince."
"Um. Thanks. Whoever you are. Who are you?"
"An old acquaintance of the Wrathful Veteran. You may call me AR."
"Ar?"
"No. A.R." the Dersite clarified. "They're the initials I chose a long time ago."
"What do they stand for?"
"I'm not entirely sure, anymore."
"Oh. Well, that's cool. Names are overrated, anyway. They're pretty much on par with barcodes."
The closet crackled with light a second time. Gwen came stumbling out, clutching her stomach, her face a faint shade of green. "Trashcan," she demanded. "Now."
Gino scanned the room, located the tiny plastic wastebasket behind the anchor desk within a fraction of a second. He leaped into action, bounding across the room, scooping up the wastebasket, running it straight back to Gwen.
Gwen took the wastebasket and promptly splattered the interior with retchy spew.
"Fuck…" she muttered when the vomiting ceased. She wiped her mouth and spat the remnants of puke into the trash can before putting it down on the floor. "Fucking hate transportalizers. Make me feel like I'm getting shat out of a tornado."
The closet flashed a third time. The Wrathful Veteran emerged, utterly unbothered by the effects of having the matter of his body simultaneously disassembled and reassembled. He observed Gwen's handiwork in the trashcan. "Bested by the transportalizer, I see."
"Bested?" Gwen wrinkled her nose. "No. I just wanted to leave something for Duskfall to remember me by."
The entrance doors to the TV studio hissed open. Another Dersite who appeared to be a mailman entered the room. "Explosives are set," he reported to the Veteran. "They are all linked wirelessly. AR has the detonator."
"Good. Set the final explosive underneath the transportalizer," the Veteran ordered. "We want to make absolutely certain no one recovers it and traces our jump back to the Onyx."
The mailman looked to AR, who gave him a single nod. With that confirmation, the mailman ducked into the closet.
"Shall we take our seats?" The Veteran gestured to the anchor desk, making his way around the back and sitting in the middle.
Gwen sat in the seat to the Veteran's right. There were only two chairs behind the desk, so Gino had to grab an extra chair from the tech booth and roll it over. He sat on the Veteran's left.
The mailman emerged from the closet. "Transportalizer's rigged to blow along with the rest of the building. There'll be a ten second delay after we hit the detonator."
"Thank you, Arcturus," said the Veteran. "Now have a seat. AR, are we ready to begin?"
"Yeah, let's get this show on the road!" Gino chimed in.
AR sat down in the tech booth next to Arcturus and gave a thumbs-up. "Ready when you are."
The Veteran gave a single nod. "Activate the emergency broadcast system, then. Give us a three second countdown before going on the air."
THWUCK
The crudely scribbled crayon drawing of the Black Queen hanging on the back of the closed office door now had a dart embedded in her left eye.
Jack Noir reclined back in his swivel chair, feet propped up on his desk, twirling another dart through his fingers.
Piled around Jack's feet were stacks of parking citations. Heaped against the sides of his desk were mountains of additional paperwork. Appeal requests from inmates of the Silent Dungeon, various forms of license applications from small business owners, lawsuits – the list went on and on.
Some of that paperwork was at least two hundred years old.
The Archagent of Derse had many duties; most of which Jack shirked, as evidenced by the state of his office. He could scarcely remember an instance in which his desk was clean. Despite the severe backlog of paperwork, however, the Black Queen stubbornly kept Jack in the position of Archagent.
Jack often wondered if the Queen was simply being passive aggressive. The position of Archagent truly was a thankless job, and he very rarely got the opportunity to go out and do something relevant.
Take the Heroes, for instance. That octet of annoying little ticks had been awake for several weeks, now, and all of them were still infuriatingly alive despite repeated attempts to make the opposite come true.
If Jack were sent on the assassination missions instead of his subordinates, the war would already be over. He'd already killed the Prince's waking self, for crying out loud, and how was he thanked for accomplishing such a risky undertaking?
More fucking paperwork.
Jack threw the second dart at his drawing of the Black Queen.
The dart thucked into the Queen's mouth.
What a boring day. What a boring waste of a day.
Perhaps the Droll's mission was finally complete? Might as well check. Not as if there was anything better to do. Filing away another parking citation was certainly out of the question.
Jack opened his top desk drawer and took out a third dart. He then retrieved his walkie-talkie, which operated on the highly specific encrypted frequency shared between the four top-ranking Agents. "Spades to Hearts. Answer your damn radio."
There was nothing but static for a few seconds before a shaky signal made its way through the speaker. "Hearts here. I hear ya, boss," came the response.
"Any signal yet from Clubs?"
"Not a peep, boss."
Jack's brow twitched with consternation. "He radioed me over five hours ago with news of the Witch's arrival. What the everlasting fuck is taking him so long?"
"I dunno what to tell ya, boss," the Brute replied. "His radio's off, and it ain't turnin' back on 'til he-"
Jack killed the channel, cutting the Brute off midsentence. He threw the third dart.
Dart Three impaled the Black Queen's throat.
Why did he even bother contacting the Brute? Did he honestly believe anything useful would come of it?
No, of course not. Patience, simply, was paramount when it came to waiting for an important signal. Patience also happened to be completely absent from Jack's personality. Patience was the Dignitary's department, not the Archagent's.
Jack's gaze returned to the nearest stack of parking citations.
His pen taunted him from its holder at the corner of the desk. Jack. Jaaack. Might as well pick me up, Jack, the pen said. These parking citations will not authorize themselves, you know. If you don't pick me up, they will laugh at you for another hundred years. They will laugh, and chortle, and giggle, and-
The office door flew open. The Draconian Dignitary entered in time to see Jack backhand the pen off his desk.
The Dignitary frowned at the sight he just witnessed. "What did the pen do?"
"That pen's an asshole. You forget how to knock?"
The Dignitary shook his head. "Impossible to forget something I never learned," he quipped. "Much as I love trading barbs with you, Jack, that is not why I came. I am here to inform you of an unauthorized usage of the emergency broadcast system. Do you know anything about this?"
Jack's permanent scowl deepened. He produced a remote from the desk drawer, swiveled his chair to the left, activated one of his two remaining fenestrated windows. He was greeted by a discordant tone and a dull violet screen. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY BROADCAST scrolled slowly across the middle of the screen.
Jack flipped the channel to a different one. Same screen, same tone, same message.
"How long has this been transmitting?" Jack asked.
"Less than a minute."
"Where from?"
The Dignitary hesitated. "Unknown," he replied. "We are having trouble pinpointing the source of the broadcast. Each time we try we are rerouted. The broadcasters must be using a scrambler of some kind."
The discordant tone suddenly cut off. The violet screen was replaced by a live camera feed of the Wrathful Veteran sitting behind a desk, flanked on both sides by the Prince and the Witch.
"Good morning, citizens of Derse," the Wrathful Veteran began. "I apologize for interrupting whatever programs you were just now enjoying. They will be returned to you in very short order."
"'til then, listen the fuck up!" the Prince chimed in.
"Yes, Prince, thank you. Do listen closely. Unless any of you are recording this broadcast, it will soon be wiped from every archive, and all you will have to go off of is memory. For this precise reason, I will make this message very brief. I want to make one truth very clear to all of you." The Veteran leaned forward in his chair. "We are nothing. We are bred, not born. Spawned as dispensable units of currency to be spent with reckless abandon on a distant war perpetuated by our dear Monarchs. We are given strings of numbers and told they are names. We live in a police state where the slightest whisper of discontent brands us as domestic terrorists. How many of you know someone who was taken away to the Silent Dungeon for speaking their mind?"
The second fenestrated window began to hum.
The Black Queen appeared onscreen, her face dominating most of the window space. "Good. Both clowns in the same room," she remarked after peering through the window into Jack's office. "Call off your technicians."
"Call them off?" Jack rose from his chair and faced the Queen directly. "They could shut down the signal within thirty seconds. You want this to continue?"
"Yes I do. We are about to send a message of our own. Keep watching. And give the Droll a treat when he returns, would you? Perhaps a cheese platter. Or a quiche."
The Black Queen's image fizzled out.
Jack traded a puzzled glance with the Dignitary before turning back to the first fenestrated window.
The Wrathful Veteran was wrapping up his message. "We are finished with raiding supply stations. There will be no more protests, no more rallies. Instead I offer you a simple promise: by the week's end, the Queen's head shall be mounted on a pike in Greenflame Plaza."
"Look there." The Dignitary pointed suddenly.
"What?"
"The Witch," said the Dignitary. "The timing could not be more perfect."
Jack focused his attention on the Witch. Sure enough, he could see blood flowing freely from her nostrils. She pinched her nose discreetly, trying to stem the bleeding before anyone else noticed.
That was when the blood started dripping from her mouth, ears, and eyes.
"All support for the war on Skaia will be withdrawn," the Veteran continued, utterly oblivious to what was happening right next to him. "All members of the armed forces currently engaged in conflict will be afforded the choice to come home and live their lives on their own terms. The Amethyst Tower will be demolished. The Silent Dungeon will be-"
The Witch collapsed, pitching facedown onto the desk. She started to convulse, shaking uncontrollably.
The Veteran broke off midsentence. His mouth hung slack as he beheld the Witch, completely at a loss for words. He stood paralyzed.
"Gwen? GWEN!" the Prince stood up so violently his chair smashed against the green wall behind him. He shoved the Veteran aside, picked the convulsing Witch up from the chair, laid her down on the desk. "Jesus fucking Christ, no no no, please no, please, please, please no, Gwen, c'mon Gwen, c'mon c'mon 'cmon… Gwen…? Gwen?"
The Witch stopped convulsing.
The Prince cupped her face, slapping her lightly. "Wake up. Gwen. Wake up."
The Wrathful Veteran regained lucidity, emerging from his paralyzing shock and snapping, "Turn the fucking camera off!"
"Gwen I'm not joking, WAKE THE FUCK-"
The camera feed fizzled out, returning to the dull violet emergency broadcast screen and the discordant tone.
For perhaps the first time in the history of Derse, Jack Noir was speechless.
His face was wet. Tears, probably? No. Definitely tears. Crying.
When was the last time he'd cried so hard? Gino was unsure. Probably when he'd peed his pants in 3rd Grade. Entire class watching. Horrible. Absolutely horrible.
Nothing like this, though. Nothing could compare to this.
Gino tightened his grip on Gwen's motionless body, burying his head in the soft purple fabric of her pajamas, ignoring the blood.
He was vaguely aware of shouting. Someone was shouting. Who the fuck was shouting?
Gino wished they would just shut up.
"Prince!" A powerful grip closed around Gino's upper right arm, tried to drag him off Gwen. "Prince, we must leave immediately!"
"Fuck off." Gino tore his arm free, latching back onto Gwen's corpse.
"Prince, you must listen to me. We cannot stay here."
"FUCK OFF!"
"This is hopeless," another voice said. "He's completely lost it."
"We are not leaving him," the first voice insisted. "Do you wish to attend another hanging?"
"He doesn't need to be conscious. Knock him out."
Something struck Gino in the back of his head. He held Gwen even as his consciousness winked away.
Gino followed the aroma of pizza down the hallway towards his bedroom.
"Dad?" he called, approaching the bedroom. "…dad? You in there?"
Gino pushed open his bedroom door.
Sitting on his bed was an empty box of pizza.
"Dad?!" Gino hollered, stepping into his bedroom, looking on the other side of the bed, searching the closet. "Dad, this ain't funny. You're supposed to be in here. Where the fuck are you?"
"Hey."
"FUCK." Gino whipped around. Gwen stood in the doorway. "Jesus, Gwen, don't fuckin' scare me like that!"
"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." A smile crept across Gwen's face. "Gotta admit, though, Gino, you scare pretty damn easy."
"No I don't, that's bullshit."
Gwen raised an eyebrow.
"…okay, maybe I do. Still. Doesn't mean you have to jump out at me."
"Jump out at you?" Gwen's second eyebrow went up. "All I said was 'hey'."
"It was more than just 'hey', Gwen, it was the…"
Gwen took a step toward Gino, her smile widening. "…yeah?"
"…the tone, Gwen, the tone, and…"
"…yeah?" Gwen took another step, standing face to face. "The tone?"
"Yeah the tone, and the suddenness, and-"
Gwen kissed Gino, consigning the rest of his thought to mystery. She touched her forehead to his. "Gino, sometimes you talk waaay too much."
"I know, I know, I just… It's weird, I think I'm forgetting something…"
"Please don't think. Just enjoy the moment. I don't know when we'll get another one."
"When we'll…? What do you…? Gwen?" Gino pulled away, taking a step back, his heartbeat skyrocketing. "Why are your eyes all…? What happened to your eyes? Why are they white?"
"Gino…"
"What's going on?"
"Gino, I'm-"
"No." Gino clapped his hands over his ears, screwing his eyes shut, shaking his head. "No. You're not."
Gwen gently took Gino by the wrists, lowered his hands. "It's going to be oka-"
"Shut up!" Gino shouted, yanking his arms free, backing away. "You're not real. None of this is real. This is just a dream."
"Gino please, you need to-"
Gino found himself running faster than he'd ever run in his entire life. Away from Gwen. Across his bedroom. He dove straight into the window, did not even feel the shattering glass.
He plummeted into empty darkness. An endless void. His house fell up and away, smaller and smaller, quickly vanishing into a point. Gino plunged and plunged. Impossible to tell how much time passed.
After tumbling through the void for a long while, Gino realized he was no longer actually falling. He floated in suspension. No way to move in any direction. Nothing to grab onto, nothing to push against. Total inertia.
Complete silence in the void. Gino listened to the sound of his breathing. He did not want to be anywhere else.
"I don't want to wake up," Gino murmured to himself, watching the sound waves travel off into the void where no one and nothing would ever listen to them. "I don't want to wake up. I don't want to wake up."
Vibrations in the darkness.
Gino could see nothing, yet still he could sense them. Behemoths. Ancient horrors.
Their presence was overwhelming.
It was the last thing Gino felt before he allowed his mind to go completely blank.
YOU ARE OURS
Burnless tapped a restless rhythm on the jeep's steering wheel. How much longer until the Veteran and company returned?
Shouldn't be too much longer.
The Veteran said so himself.
How long had it been? Five minutes? Ten?
Burnless had not kept track. Perhaps one of the guards would know?
"Erm…hello?" the runner gave a little wave to the four guards stationed in front of the Hub's entrance. The nearest glanced over in Burnless's direction. "You have any idea how long it's been since everyone went through-"
The doors to the Hub burst open. The four guards scrambled out of the way to avoid getting smacked.
The Authority Regulator emerged from the Hub, stepping aside to allow the Veteran and Arcturus through. The Veteran and Arcturus held in their arms the unmoving bodies of the Witch and the Prince, respectively.
Both Heroes were soaked with blood.
Not good.
"Skaia's light, what the hell happened?!" Burnless exclaimed, exiting the jeep and hurrying over to help. "Are they dead?"
"The Witch is dead," replied the Veteran, gingerly laying her body down on the floor. "The blood is all hers."
"But…" Burnless blinked once. "I don't understand – it was only a broadcast – how will we explain this to everyone-"
"We'll worry about that later." The Veteran turned to the four guards. "Move the Witch's body into a storage crate. We cannot allow anyone else to see-"
Whatever else the Veteran had to say was lost in the sudden explosion of dark energy.
Arcturus, still holding the Prince's body, vanished into a conflagration of black flame. A shockwave roared outward from the explosion, throwing everyone off their feet. The jeep's headlights and windshield popped and shattered.
All the supply depot's lights flickered and died, plunging the entire warehouse into darkness.
Burnless was hurled by the force of the blast into the nearest tower of shelves. Pain shot up his spine as his back made contact with the unforgiving metal. His head, fortunately, was spared from the impact. He remained conscious even as he dropped back to the floor in a heap.
A flashlight snapped on. It was one of the guards – they had lights attached to the barrels of their rifles. "Sir?" the guard scanned the floor with his light, searching for the Wrathful Veteran. The first thing illuminated by the light was a gaping crater in the floor.
The crater was splattered with blood, littered with chunks of what appeared to be Arcturus's body. A left arm. Bits of intestine. Part of a head. Still-smoldering remains of a stolen postal service uniform.
A pair of eyes floated in the darkness above the crater, looking squarely at Burnless. Staring straight into him. Brightly glowing ovals of gray light, with pupils of deepest black in the middle.
The guard with the flashlight shined the beam toward the eyes.
For the briefest of moments Burnless saw the outline of a head, neck, shoulders. Dark gray skin. The faintest glimpse of purple Derse pajamas. An aura of cold black fire.
The creature spoke, though the words were not a language recognizable to the ears of a physical body. To Burnless it sounded like the scream of twisting metal.
Then it was gone, vanishing from the flashlight's beam, flitting upwards.
Another explosion tore through the ceiling. Burnless backpedaled to avoid getting crushed by falling debris.
Artificial daylight from the Onyx's power grid spilled into the supply depot through the newly created jagged hole in the ceiling. Black fire continued to burn along the molten edges of the wreckage.
Then the ground began to quake, and even the artificial daylight winked out.
All of the Onyx went dark.