Title: A Voice of Reason and Platitude
Description: "Sylvanas broods."
Notes1: Work has kept me busy, on top of the three chapters of the Naruto/Tales of Berseria fanfic I churned out over the course of a month (and those chapters are going to stay that large, as far as I know and care) and the Trinity Seven drabble I put out (I mostly regret watching it, and as hopeful as I'd like to be, I doubt the manga is any better). I'll probably work on a Dragon Age one-shot after this while I outline Heart of Fire, Soul of Calamity on the side next to my NaNoWriMo project (a sci-fi fantasy piece that I hope comes off as original - or, at least, as original as "original" gets nowadays).
Notes2: Funnily enough, my muse wanted to tack on a connection to How Does That Even Work? (I haven't forgotten it, I swear! Half the new chapter's even written out) and ignore the prompt I blatantly put up on the prompt dump doc - "Syvlanas watches Sonya train newly-transitioned minions and wonders what it'd be like to raise her as a Forsaken carrying the transition." In the end, it became a chapter about the transition and building on the thread of Sylvanas's character development that gets fleshed out in HWDTE.
Notes3: I'm going to leave the poll up for the spin-off for at least this week before I close it (mainly because this week will be long shifts). If the tie isn't broken by then, I'll open up another poll that will decide what will be on the table.
Notes4: There's one particular question I've been meaning to ask my readers: What is something you want to see more of in this story? What characters, Heroes or OCs, do you want to see my interpretation of? What settings do you want to see (other than King's Crest)?

Sylvanas brooded.

It was a very Sylvanas-like thing to do. She didn't do it as much when she was alive (and when she did, more often not she always asked herself why Alleria was such a goofball, why couldn't she be the older sister instead when they were the ones that were supposed to have all their marbles together?), and to her surprise she realized somewhere along the way—probably between Tirion striking Arthas down with Ashbringer and her jumping off Icecrown Citadel—she hardly brooded in undeath. When she did brood, it was mostly about trying to find ways for the Forsaken to thrive and increase their numbers when, for obvious reasons, they could not; sometimes it was about Garrosh being a meathead when he started to display his more fascist leanings (and how hypocritical it was now, when he condemned his soldiers for delving into the demonic artes but had no problem whatsoever with eating the heart of an Old God and sprouting tentacles). Sometimes it was about Varian, her mind always turning back to the day the Siege on Orgrimmar had ended and she had overheard him telling Mishka and Armi that he would have to keep her in line in case she tried to do something that would set Genn Greymane off even more (I could so much as flick his nose with the ole 'what's that on your shirt' and he'll tear my head off my shoulders).

In the past week and a half since she had entered the Nexus, tried to will herself out of this immortal plane of existence, went on the run with that odd girl, Nova, and a stolen gryphon named Swiftwing, and got strong-armed into joining the Hero League on the grounds that she would sit in the Starless Depths for eternity ("And we'll keep you there forever, princess, Powers be damned," the Knight had said, bringing his faceless mask to hers in that abhorrent display of masculine dominance. "We have ways to stop 'em from calling you back."), Sylvanas brooded about her place in the realm.

Or rather, what she had been forced to be made into: an errand girl for the Board and its families, because it was common knowledge ("The worst kept secret, but it's not like they care we think that way," the more sensible folk had said) they winged their economics half the time and found more pleasure in addictions and luxuries no one could afford unless they were bought through a pawn shop, bargained in backdoor alleys, or hauled out of landfill dumps…barring the possibility of getting shot by automatons, mauled by exotic guard beasts, electrocuted by the powered fences, and getting arrested by the few police officers that patrolled the area. They needed someone to keep on a leash: long enough for her to go somewhere they wouldn't think to tread lest they soil their expensive shoes and pinstripe suits, but short enough to keep an eye on her and to remind her of where she sat on the Nexian social ladder.

Her! The Banshee Queen!

It was like being stripped of her rank and being to demoted to orc peon…and Sylvanas Windrunner didn't do demotions.

Except you're doing it right now, said that rational, pragmatic voice she fell back on, when she plotted strategies and considered the future of the Forsaken; but now it was rebellious, it annoyed her, and Sylvanas drew her knees closer to her chest. Like a petulant little girl.

Goddammit.

Goddammit, indeed. She had the free bank account and a decent sum of one thousand gold (Yes, that's really going to be enough to pay the bills with how high inflation is; bravo, G-Man), but the Nexus had experienced an influx of newcomers (Yeah right, they're probably all economic migrants; these so-called gods have to maintain their pathetic status quo) and assigned them all the 'pre-packaged housing' (plus the basic government benefits until they were able to get on their feet) because they hadn't expected Sylvanas to give them the one-finger salute and take off like that. Not like it mattered to the Board—they had enough problems dealing with troublemakers and transitioned folk that just weren't being cooperative—but Executive Charleston, one of the least affected members, managed to get her into the Sturmhause, a late Gothic manor set on the outskirts of the Shire where very little vehicular traffic crossed that way. Almost all the Heroes were located there ("The human ones, that is," said the Executive, "as well as the anthropomorphs that are willing to abide."), although some of the more evil Heroes decided to turn up their noses at the offer and struck northwest into the local Shadowskirt, kicking out the majority of the cult worshipers that had squatted there for centuries, aspiring to reach the Darkness via ritualistic sacrifice, bloodbound magic, paper planes, and Ye Olde Dial-Up (to no avail; those were so last millennium). Their landlord was a guy named Hendrick who was pushing into his middle age and claimed he was once a Realm Knight ("Where are your credentials?" Sylvanas had asked, hand out, to which the man's neck flushed a radish red and responded with "They're there! But, you know, everything's under lock 'n' key at HQ; I can't just simply ask for it and have 'em handed to me. They have very strict protocols!"), but all he ever did was come around every two weeks to remind them of the payment they had to pitch in and deliver to the office due to the gross lease they had signed upon settling in. That, and from the stories she had heard from the other Heroes boarded there, he always, always made certain to let them know they shouldn't get so rowdy, because this place was old, very old, not as old as an angel like Tyrael but older than the nice elf with the owl ("And…other…things," he mumbled, and glanced shyly at the basket of melons Jaina had put on the counter after coming back from grocery shopping) and the mean elf who already had several felonies on her record and reeked of dead animal ("Good thing we're in the middle of nowhere and among folk who deal with this kind of thing. Otherwise, you'd be out on the streets searchin' for the nearest Underworld!"). Just a simple misuse of power could blow this place to Kingdom Come, Shangri-La, Shamalamadingdong, for all she knew, so they had best take extra care with how they sparred and trained and meditated their otherworldly I-Ching.

Sylvanas didn't care what happened to the Sturmhause. She didn't care what happened to the Heroes there, and she didn't care about the landlord and his unrequited crush for a woman whose breasts were going to one day, inexplicably, pop out of that blouse if she didn't buy a bigger size soon. She didn't care for the Board and its hedonism, its people and their seesawing dualism between lunacy and their pathetic attempt at common sense and decency. They could try to be nice, but Sylvanas didn't care.

She didn't care, and that was a very, very Sylvanas-like thing for her to do. Why, she could even go to some backwood hick country like—what was that place out west called again? Oh right, the Wend—and espouse to them her philosophy. The rules would be simple: Don't care for anyone else but yourself unless it's a means to an end. Piss on the government because they don't owe anything to you (and never will). Become the master of your life, someone else's life, and everyone else's. Take advantage of the transition so that you can live a life of luxury that fits your personality and beliefs. Be the Sylvanas that exists in you, but never become the Sylvanas that is not Sylvanas. Only Sylvanas could call herself Sylvanas, for she is Sylvanas-Supreme. She would call it the Sylvanas Windrunner Prerogative, and maybe if she started like right now it would spread like wildfire and become a new religion: Sylvanasism. And then they would make a church to spread her teachings: the Church of Sylvanas. Sure, she didn't have the val'kyr to grant her the power of reanimation, but it was pointless here. Through her they would become the Forsaken of the Nexus, the rebellious conservatives to the anarchic libertines, the shepherds to the sheep. Sylvanasism!

No. Stop it. That's retarded, said the pragmatic voice again.

No, you stop it. You're retarded, Sylvanas thought, simmering. It could work.

Dumbass. You already have a bunch of willful followers serving you hand and foot back on Azeroth. Do you WANT a group that can't see past its own hand in broad daylight?

I can teach them.

You want to teach approximately three hundred trillion Novas—in King's Crest alone, I should add—how to act in public and do their tax forms properly, without some form of medication? Are you insane?

According to adventurers in both the Alliance and the Horde, I've lost more than my fair share and have become some sort of Lich Queen. If I'm as insane as the average peabody in the Nexus, then my chances would be worth the risk, no?

Don't be ridiculous. They would leave you drained of resources and open to vulnerability, be it internal strife or all-out war, and then you'll either really die or the Alliance and the Horde will assimilate the masses.

Or get overrun and the world ends with not the Legion but an extreme case of the looney tunes.

EXACTLY! Besides, how would you even handle the transition? Everyone has it.

Yes, Sylvanas thought, and she drew her knees up her chest as much as she could. Even me. Why couldn't it have left her alone? Why did it have to affect everyone, their dog, and their grandmother? Why did it seem like the Powers That Be were the only entities in the multiverse (omniverse? Hell if she knew) that acted normal? Did normal even exist anymore?

No, said the pragmatic voice. Because normal has never existed in the first place.

She hummed angrily and picked her head up. Over the hill and yonder, soldiers in steel armor and colored pennants were arrayed in six rows of seven. They had their shields drawn in one hand and their weapon of choice—a sword, an axe, a mace—in the other, and at the command of the woman strolling at the front they swung and cut through the air: high, medium, low, pirouette, jab, over, under. Some moved with a more stilted gait, as though they could quite capture the movements as fluidly as their fellows. She recalled, very reluctantly, from the tour Thrall had given her that these kinds of soldiers were automatons manufactured and mass produced by the Houses, which were leased to the Board and government regulated businesses that required heavy manual labor and frontline expeditions into the Shadowskirts. Sometimes they were purchased by the less powerful barons that either had a connection to a House dynasty or were more than well-off in life and had the money to spare (and, apparently, there was a lot of bank to make or break—"literally," Thrall had added—in the barely tamed inner city districts of Jeetilopolis). With them they would strike a deal with the Board so they could enter the arena, to earn prestige in the eyes of a House or wanted to flaunt their company's representation on interdimensional cable network and internet streaming services.

Who could tell the difference, with all that armor on and those pennants in the way? You'd need to be blind or nearsighted to know who's flesh and who's not. Those that were human—or anthro or alien—and not tied to the noblesse applied at job fairs (from various realms) and, after passing a series of physical and mental tests, were handpicked by the Board to work at minimum wage (an even five gald, once union dues and taxes were accounted for), and their main job, outside of running drills from their sergeant or an assigned Hero, was to maintain construction on new forts and keeps, install the defense mechanisms based off each worldly dimension or default sector (the point of a Hero's origin, the true version of a person before the variations followed close behind upon summoning), and the production of catapults varying from ballistae to single-shot cannons of either divine design or technological advancement. For a sum—and that depended on the family and their social status—could pledge their service to a figurehead and fly their banners freely, regardless if they were made from the finest cloth to the flimsiest burlap. Their secondary job was to push the two-to-three lane arenas and inflict as much damage as they could with their meager weapons before being mowed down by an enemy Hero or taking the shots the cannon towers wasted on them. It was only after the first keep was destroyed that they could use the catapults and press onward, buying time while the competing teams fought for their objective (and may or may not be empowered by Zerg strain or whipped to haul ass by a general of Hell and his lieutenants). Out on the battlefields, they respawned faster, not in the Hall of Storms but given back shape and form by the core that was, to use a word, blessed by the Powers for as long as it was up, and there they would continue the march—dying over and over again—until the game was won.

It must suck to be them, knowing they're way out of their league.

But at least they're getting paid, said the pragmatic voice. Pain hurts, but at least not staying dead is a big plus.

Sylvanas rolled her eyes. Gee, I didn't know. Thanks for enlightening me, Captain Obvious!

Oh, you're most welcome. But think for a moment…what you can do with the transition. Just think of what you can do…if you can master it.

Master it?

Well, barring the immediate descent into lunacy, just imagine how much more powerful the Forsaken would be if they were immortal. Think of how much terror you can sow by surprising your enemies…and your allies. They can try to break you, but they could never destroy you.

Yes…that sounded like a wonderful idea. The transition granted resurrective immortality and slowed the aging process to a near standstill, allowing all things—everything—touched by it to progress through life more slowly than a sloth (not that anyone noticed the difference, and some scientists and think-tanks were debating as to whether the classification to 'agelessness' should be changed after more studying). In her mad rush to escape the Nexus she had read the texts in the library, and…well, no one knew where it came from nor when. There were claims and sources citing from everyone under the social, economical and political spectrum across all realms, from the most humble (as humble as they could be) peasant to the most hedonistic king (as hedonistic as law dictated...and laws, for the most part, could never hold much water under the cloak of insanity), but each story varied so wildly that she wondered if it was possible to suspend her disbelief. Who even cared to discover its origins other than the Association of Varied Histories, Timelines, and Universes and the Nexus History Museum? Everyone was affected (or would that be infected?), couldn't stay dead for long, and as a result caused an increase of bizarre, psychotic, and sociopathic behavior, although nature was kind enough to let some wildlife go to that big barnyard in the sky and provide so no one starved.

It's not like the Forsaken need to eat, anyway. We don't even really sleep. Everything we do is just pantomiming.

If it's possible to get the transition under control, you can pantomime even death. Wouldn't that be something?

That would indeed be something. But say I go through with this; where would I even start? It's not something you can just put in a box and take it home. It would be like catching lightning in a bottle. And bottled lightning was cheap in novelty thrift stores; the only thing that could surpass it and the majority of the latest technological trends on the market was bottled aether lightning, and nothing short of going into the eye of the storm and spitting death in the eye would make a person think twice of attempting the impossible.

Well, say if you could force one of those Erewhon Gates to open. Say you had the ability to bypass all security and jumpstart one. Let's say you do that and…take that Hero down there, for example.

Sylvanas peered over her knees at the muscular redhead marching back and forth among the ranks. Her square, chiseled face and body were tattooed and raked with scars old and new, but there was power in those muscles, power that flexed and rippled underneath as she walked. Her massive pauldrons caught the sun, but from this high up and far away she could not tell how worn for wear they were (but perhaps that was how she preferred them). There was a pair of large, silver-blue blades strapped to her broad, strong back.

This was a warrior, forged and made by trial and pain. This was someone who could punch your teeth out, flay the skin from your skull to pad the drums of war, polish your eyeballs and hang them up as part of an abacus, and hollow it out to make into a stein to be raised and quaffed at the halls of Valhalla. This was someone who would drain the blood and remove the bones from the body to store away in some DIY Viking-style freezer they would open again if they ever wanted to consult some ancestral spirit or have a god mantle them via mask or animal skull for so-called sacred blood rituals and haruspicy. They could even use your ears like people do with conch shells and hope for a message they believed to be the divine word but was really subliminal backmasking.

Holy hell, what is wrong with me?

Plenty of it. Sylvanas wasn't sure if that was her or the pragmatism or both talking.

She looked at the warrior again. What was her name? Sonya? Yes, Sonya. Sonya of the Dreadlands, who worshiped some god named Bul-Kathos. From what little of the matches Sylvanas had seen during her stint on the run and in prison, the woman was fast on her feet, knew how to yell and make the enemy piss themselves, and jumped so high that when she landed the earth would splinter and trap the unlucky son of a bitch to a painful death. Outside of the League, she wandered, for what Sylvanas didn't know or care, but when she came back she was usually found to be instructing soldiers—the minions—and challenging them to spars to test their progress. Their banners flowed freely today, in the face of the wind, marking the clearing below in a rainbow brightening on one end and darkening at the other, offset by logos and sponsorship titles in contrasting colors that made them pop out for the eye to be drawn to. Training posts, straw dummies, and bull's-eye targets littered the field in compartmentalized segments, where archers, wizards, and technicians fine-tuned their spells and machinery.

Even from up here, she could hear Sonya: "You there! You must put more force into your swing; you are barely denting it. Distribute your weight between your shoulders and your feet, so that you may be able to catch yourself when you fall. Roll with it and get back up." Then: "You are too wide open, pup! Keep your arms close to you, or you will leave room for a blade to pierce through." She continued walking, making corrections and shouting instructions.

She'd make a perfect candidate, wouldn't she? said the voice. It would be beat having Nathanos and those no-name browbeats running around with their heads cut off getting our forces in top shape.

Yes. Yes it would. But the Board will be sure to notice.

Since when did you start caring about the Board?

I don't.

Then why won't you do it?

I'm smart, not stupid. You're supposed to give me suggestions that are neither right nor wrong unless I act upon them. You're nothing more than a disembodied fragment of my state of being that wants to rebel against governmental control and societal conformity to the point where I'll dive headlong into extremism and be labeled a domestic terrorist, not only for all the troubles I have and will cause for the Nexus but for simply for reminding the populace that common sense is still alive. I can't just go up to this Hero and try to abduct her in broad daylight. If she can't skewer me with her swords or kick my gut out of my backside, she will crush my head between those thighs and pop it like a grape. I don't know about you, but I happen to enjoy having my head on my shoulders—figuratively and literally.

So you won't even try? You're not even going to bother?

You're losing your sense of self, dear. I should like to bring a transitioned person back to Azeroth and…study them. In an ideal world, I could take someone random Joe Schmoe off the street, contain the transition's more negative symptoms, and apply it to the Forsaken. It won't solve the reproduction and body degradation problems, but at least they would be immortal. They would be strong.

And if you couldn't get Sonya over?

"Then I'd find another Hero to cross over with," Sylvanas said aloud, and was glad she wasn't wired (she had managed to convince those dumbass Knights she would comply with the Board, even though, to her unfortunate dismay, she needed to to survive, and that was partly the truth). The ankle bracelet, made from nanorite and powered by aether, the essence of reality, was more than enough.

Like what? the pragmatic voice said, exasperated. That girl, Li Li? That murloc?

Sylvanas tapped her chin. I guess it'd be more humane if I took the murloc. No one likes them.

What does it matter? You can't guarantee you'd be able to cross back after all those experiments. Just imagine being stuck with a transitioned person and you couldn't return to the Nexus! Imagine being stuck with Jaina. Or Arthas. Someone! Anyone!

Sylvanas mulled it over. If her bodily functions still worked, she would gag. Arthas…in Undercity? It didn't matter which version of him it was; he would either destroy the Forsaken and raise them again under his thrall or she would have him crucified on the spot. Jaina? Who would want to put up with that nerd? Pandas were a joke and, sadly, could stomach fel-laced brew. Would they even reanimate? Who cared? People would say the same thing if she kidnapped a murloc and…well, what use would Murky be? She would only release him into the wild. It most certainly wouldn't be done out of kindness or any high, moral ground, that was for sure.

Would you rather have Nova instead?

Sylvanas paused. That girl was heavily transitioned, wasn't she? Flip-flopping between being helpful, reserved, and flirtatious and whacky, childish, innocent, and stupendously airheaded. She was supposed to be an assassin, wasn't she? Cold, calculating, loyal to anyone who put the paycheck in her bank account. If Sylvanas had bothered to read the Board's records more thoroughly beforehand, she would have easily dismissed Nova as another dumb, mewling sheep eking out an existence as a single-minded lapdog in this ridiculous, incompetent world. But she didn't, wanting to pull a Descartes and vanish from the Nexus (And you are such a dumbass for thinking IT WOULD WORK), and she had hit the road shortly after.

There was something off about that girl, something that nobody else didn't bother to notice or tried to help and couldn't offer much other than worried conversations in hushed tones and sympathetic gazes. Even Kerrigan seemed troubled, for she said that even the heavily transitioned didn't experience mood swings and personalities as quickly—and smoothly—as Nova did. So what was it?

Sylvanas froze.

Oh.

Oh. So that was why...but it was just a passing thought. She didn't have any proof that Nova had been—

Would you rather have Nova instead? the voice asked again, but it wasn't resigned this time. She was impatient, but she was also…curious.

No, Sylvanas said. No, I'd rather not have her. She would rather Nova have her instead, because the Nexus was full of morons that even if the Board knew, they, in their infinite wisdom, just didn't care. There were countless transitioned; what was one more? Even better: she was a heavily transitioned Hero, and, if they wanted to (and they probably did), they could promote her and her like for increased profits. The only unanswered question was what Nova saw in her.

Idiots...Those stupid, greedy, arrogant, capitalist sons of bitches—

The pragmatic voice hummed knowingly. I thought you said you didn't care?

Sylvanas grit her teeth and loosened the hands she had made into fists. No. No, I don't. I don't care about a lot of things. You're a part of me, you should know this. Everyone and everything here is for my convenience at their expense.

Is it really? Can you really call that 'convenience'? How would you even know that's what you want and not the transition?

There was that, too. Would she be able to tell the difference between what she wanted based on her decisions and not this…virus? Mass mind control? Divine punishment? Enlightenment? The general state of all things since time immemorial that had become the Way of the Nexus?

What do you think?

Sylvanas contemplated. Then, after a long silence: "I don't think. I know I am me; and if the transition should influence me in any way…well, the intensity varies from person to person. I will simply make do with it, just as I am making do with undeath. Both curses, but weapons to be mastered…and balanced. That's all."

The voice scoffed. Well, it's as good of an answer as I can get. But what will you do with Nova? You can't always leave her unattended. Even the most affected transitioned have some bursts of clarity now and then.

Thinking of all the chaos that was sure to come by being around Nova—anyone, really—made her grimace. "No…I certainly can't. But…someone needs to watch over her, even if she is an annoying little ball of energy. Killing her multiple times isn't going to cure her, but at least, for what respite it gives, it'll shut her up and put her in her place. I am an older sister, after all. If no one wants to do it, then I will. It'll be nothing new."

In her mind's eyes, she could hear herself tut-tut and see herself cross her arms and shake her head. It sounded more smug and condescending than reasonable. You are too kind.

"I don't do kindness," Sylvanas growled. "This is merely a convenient partnership. No more, no less."

She saw herself shrug. If that's what you want to call it.

"That's exactly what it is," she grumbled, and buried her chin between her knees to brood some more.