#The moment this “Krupp” wakes up you two are going to be in danger.

[probablyaseamonster]

OK so like I predicted Tumblr cut off the tail of my tag worm but at least they didn't shove the ending tags to the front for some gd reason like last time!

Anyway this is the even more dark shit. If you've been traveling through an unlit house at night you are now venturing into the basement. Also at night. Yeesh that sounds edgy. I'm trying to commit to a metaphor alright?!

OK so I've been thinking.

(Nearly) everyone in the Captain Underpants fandom talks about Krupp finding out about that he turns into Captain Underpants and that he'd get pretty mad about it.

But does anyone talk about the opposite:

Captain Underpants finding out about him being horrible to kids and George and Harold as Krupp?

Like it'd be an interesting concept to play around with.

C.U would probably feel terrible for mistreating kids (let alone George and Harold) and would probably try to avoid water so that he doesn't turn back and mistreat them during school.

I'm pretty sure that Krupp would be steaming mad about finding out that he literally strips down to his underwear in order to be a superhero. (Not to mention taking his toupee off)

Idk, just the concept of the two finding out about each other is entertaining to me.

[thepathsofdestiny]

Trail of Embers, Ch. 3 - The Devil’s Wife

~*~ Marta. Glory's ex-lover, and the bright lure that drew her into Harrow's clutches. A year ago, Glory and Poplar broke into Feuerstelle and saved Marta and a slew of acolytes from Harrow's poisonous influence. Now Marta has returned, a ghost from Glory's past, and in her wake follow demons of her own...

Read it on AO3 here.  ~*~ Der Feuerstelle. The Fireplace. A log cabin tucked away in the wooded heart of Schonbuch Forest, lit from within by a warm, inviting glow. Despite its rustic appearances, make no mistake. This place was a castle, and Harrow, its king. And today, his acolytes- his loyal subjects- were gathering in the main lounge, crowding around the spoils of Glory’s latest ‘expedition’. The new trid player dominated the wall of the lounge. It was almost comically ostentatious, starkly at odds with the lodge’s wood-panelled floors and bearskin rugs. Never mind that Harrow had stolen it from a dead man. Never mind that Glory had been the one who killed him. 

The acolytes didn’t care. They chattered amongst themselves, babbling in excitement. Harrow himself stood in their midst, his arms wide, drinking in their praise, their blind adoration. “Let it not be said that I do not provide for my people,” Harrow said, lips curled into a toxic grin. Glory lingered in the corner of the room, shying away from the spotlight. Marta sidled up beside her, curling an arm around her waist. She lay her head on Glory’s shoulder, smiling into her throat. “That was quite the prize,” Marta cooed. “The initiates will love it.” “I don’t know,” Glory teased. “I think they just love him.” Harrow gestured, and the crowd of acolytes parted before him. He bowed deeply at the waist in a grand gesture, a caricature of reverence. “My queens,” he said, grinning up at the duo. “Let it not be said that I do not provide for you, either.” He tipped his chin to the picture hanging on the wall- the other newest addition to the main lounge. Glory and Marta turned and gazed up at themselves, captured in acrylic and framed on the wall, the frame itself embossed with an icon below- a pair of antlers, cradling a flame. “Never forget that it was I who made this sanctuary for you,” Harrow said, addressing the crowd. “And never forget who it was who found you on the street, those who lifted you out of suffering and brought you here. Marta. Glory. My queens; my wives. My left and right hands.” Harrow smiled an intoxicating smile. Marta and Glory parted, obediently draping themselves on either arm. Their hair was dyed crimson, the mark of Harrow’s favor. But in astral space, their hair was fire-red, blazing like a crown... ~*~ Glory woke with a gasp, her steel knuckles digging into her cheek. She’d only dozed off for a moment, but she didn’t dream; ever since the surgery, Glory never dreamed. She only remembered. And there were some things she would never forget. Glory sighed, blowing away the memory like a mote of dust straying near her face. They had needed a place to lay low after the commotion they’d made at the docks. David took them to the first place that came to mind- which was why Glory and Marta were sitting across from one another in the attic of a local bar, music thrumming under their feet, the sound of clinking glasses drifting up from below. Despite the noise, a dreadful quiet had settled between them. David reached down and placed two cups of soykaf on the table, to muted thanks. He put his hands in his pockets, fidgeting. “I’ll, um. I’ll go keep watch,” David said, before wandering off. Glory watched as Marta reached forward and took the cup. She didn’t take a sip; she just held it, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Glory had read somewhere that holding a warm beverage stimulates the same part of the brain as human contact. That when you’re lost, or lonely, holding a warm cut is almost like holding hands. Not her hands, though. Her hands were cold steel. Marta was still wearing the midnight-blue robe of the Church of the Nameless Queen, the sign of Venus hanging around her neck like an ankh. But she’d ditched her veil, exposing her hair, and she wore her robe open, like a long coat, over her street clothes. Her hair spilled across her shoulders, dark and undyed, though the tips still held a red that wouldn’t wash out, glowing like embers to the magic in her veins. She was beautiful, Glory thought. She was still beautiful, after all these years. But she was no longer the honey trap, the bright lure that drew her, and who knew who many others, into the gaping maw of Der Feuerstelle. Gone was the intoxicating allure, the treacherous torchlight drawing moths to the flame. Instead, hers was a haunted beauty, a sadness behind every smile- she was Penelope gazing out at the coast, kissed by the seaborne breeze. Marta survived Harrow, just like Glory. She survived, but was not unscathed. And seeing her now… Glory didn’t know what to think. They were dark mirrors of each other, rust red and midnight blue. “I can’t believe you’re here,” Marta began, breaking the uneasy quiet. “It’s… it’s so good to see you, Glory. Running into you like this, purely by chance? It feels like a dream. It feels like… like…” “Providence?” Glory offered. “...Yeah,” Marta breathed. “You, um. You look great, by the way. That coat looks fantastic on you.” “Thanks,” Glory smiled in her eyes, not quite reaching her mouth. “It was a gift.” “I wanted to call,” Marta said. “I promised you I would, after I had time to… figure things out. I tried, but then Saeder-Krupp moved on Berlin, and I didn’t- I didn’t know. I didn’t know where to find you. I was so scared, Glory. I didn’t know if you were…” “Here I am,” Glory said. Marta swallowed. Nodded. “Here you are.” Marta took a sip of soykaf, uneasy quiet hanging between them. Glory gazed at her, unblinking, her brown eyes ringed with red- a legacy of the magic she held, what felt like a lifetime ago. “You have a new totem,” Glory said. It wasn’t a question. “I do,” Marta said, reflexively touching the icon around her neck. “The Nameless Queen, embodiment of divine womanhood. All goddesses are one within her. My matron, my, um, sponsor, if you would, is Hecate. Goddess of magic, and the crossroads- where one road becomes three.” “Fitting,” Glory mused. “I thought so,” Marta smiled. “What about you? You have a new totem, too.” “I’m no shaman. Not anymore.” “But there’s a spirit bound to you,” Marta said, “I can see it, in your heart.” And, indeed, she could. In the shadows of astral space, Glory’s cybernetics deadened her astral signature until she was no more than a silhouette, a phantom- save for the green fire in her heart. Within that flame lurked a man, strongly built, with olive skin and a stag’s skull for a head, draped in crawling ivy and smelling of spring and honeysuckle. His was, by all means, a comforting sight. But Glory’s voice yanked Marta back into realspace. “Ask before you read me,” Glory snapped. “I- I’m sorry,” Marta said. A chilly quiet settled between them once again. Eventually, Glory sighed, her expression softening. “He is the Heart of Feuerstelle,” Glory explained. “Do you remember? A year ago, when I broke into Feuerstelle-” “Of course I remember,” Marta said. “When Harrow being a liar and a con artist just wasn’t enough, he turned to toxic magic to keep us in line. And then you came back. The prodigal child. You came back, and set us free. Me, the kids… and that spirit, bound to his service.” Marta exhaled. She looked up. “That man with you now. Was he part of your old team?” Glory shook her head. “That’s David. He’s new.” “What happened to your team? What happened to the woman who was with you when you came back to Feuerstelle a year ago?” “Poplar? She…” Glory hesitated. “She’s… still around. Still leading the team. When S-K took over Berlin, we managed to get away. One of us stayed behind, tried to fight it.” Glory’s expression dimmed. “...You can imagine how that turned out.” “I’m so sorry, Glory,” Marta said. “It’s how he would’ve wanted it,” Glory shrugged. “Poplar found us a new place. A new info broker. Even had some new work lined up…” “But…?” Marta asked. “But I had to leave,” Glory said. “If I stayed, I knew I’d stay forever. So I had to leave. I had to find Harrow, and see this through.” Glory heaved a weary sigh, combing her fingers through her hair. “Then… then things got complicated. Then I found out that Feuerstelle was only one small branch of a really big, really fucked up tree. The Firepact is much bigger than Harrow. I spent months tracking down and wiping out cells where I could, but Harrow’s always been just out of reach. Now I’m getting notorious enough for them to send assassins after me. I’m almost flattered.” “But David’s been with you for all that, right?” “No,” Glory said. “I only met David a few days ago.” “Glory,” Marta pressed, “you’re telling me you’ve been hunting Harrow- been targeted by assassins- and you’ve faced this all alone?” Glory closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The slightest breeze ruffled her hair and filled the air with honeysuckle, her hand reflexively rising to her heart. “Not alone,” Glory said. “No. Not alone,” Marta said, rising to her feet. “Not anymore. Take me with you, Glory.” Glory grit her teeth, a warning creeping into her tone. “The last time I took you with me, Marta, I almost had to kill you. You were fine with Poplar and I purifying the Heart of Feuerstelle. You were fine with Poplar and I getting Harrow’s initiates out of there. But as soon as we even mentioned going after Harrow himself, you snapped and turned on us.” “But then you purified the Heart,” Marta reasoned, “and I came to my senses.” Glory exhaled. “Marta…” “Please, Glory,” Marta begged, leaning over her in her chair. “I want Harrow brought to justice as much as you do. And I don’t want you facing all this danger by yourself. Take me with you, Glory, and we can hunt him down. Together.” Marta was so close. Glory looked up at her, meeting her amber eyes, the edges stained with red, marked by Harrow’s influence just as Glory’s were. Memories flicked past Glory’s eyes- laughter, secrets, adrenaline, heat, two little fingers curled in a promise- but, like their eyes, these echoes were stained, poisoned, touched with fire and soot. Glory stood, holding Marta’s longing gaze. She reached up and traced a finger along Marta’s cheek, and down her jaw. With hands made of military-grade steel and ceramite, the gesture felt halfway between loving and a threat. Glory saw the question in Marta’s eyes. “Marta…” Glory breathed. “I know this isn’t what you want. But I… I don’t know.” Marta nodded. “I understand. I’m gone for a year, and suddenly I show up out of the blue. After everything that’s happened, I can’t just expect-” “Stop that,” Glory said. “Just come here.” They embraced, Marta’s arms around Glory’s neck, Glory’s coiled around Marta’s waist. Marta gasped, blinking away tears of bittersweet relief. She tucked Glory’s head under her chin, her fingers curling through Glory’s long, dark hair. Despite the cool metal of Glory’s cybernetics, she was a flame in Marta’s hands. She was real, and warm, and alive. The Rose Compass in Glory’s coat pocket was oblivious to this heartfelt reunion. It shone golden-red, like a torch, or a warning, its finely engraved needle spinning wildly in place… ~*~ Across the city, a mob was forming. But there were no torches and pitchforks, no passionate rhetoric, no hateful cries- only an eerie, shuffling quiet of blank-eyed street punks and salarymen lining up for a riot in nice, orderly lines. Firepact Agent Flint sat on a defunct newspaper box, sipping whiskey straight from the bottle. After one last unsatisfying sip, he tossed the half-empty bottle into the crowd. A middle-aged office drone caught it, tore a strip of fabric from his shirt, and stuffed the wick down the bottleneck, all without changing his blank expression or looking anywhere but straight ahead. Sister Ashe appeared, looking resplendent in white and red, though her robe was staining black with soot. “We lost Servo,” Ashe said, lightly. Flint sniffed. “Not much of a loss.” “That’s cold.” “It’s true,” Flint shrugged. “The Communion Project was a waste of time. Overriding people and controlling them through their chipjacks… Pfft. So high-brow. So roundabout. You don’t need all those fancy gadgets to get your way. You just need a little money, and a little charisma.” “We can’t all speak the Word, Flint,” Ashe chided. “We can’t all be so charismatic.” “You can,” Flint grinned lecherously. “Why don’t you tug down that collar, and show me some charisma?” “I think I’d rather fuck one of your thralls,” Ashe spat. “At least they don’t talk. Now listen up, numbskull. Orders came down from the top. We have a second target now- another traitor to the cause. She was seen fleeing the mess at the docks along with our primary.” “Don’t you mean your mess at the docks?” Flint drawled. “You mean, after your mess in the commercial district?” Ashe sniped. “We can do this all day, meathead. But we have our orders, from Harrow himself. Apparently, he had history with these two.” Flint groaned, getting to his feet and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Gee. What an appropriate and effective use of the Pact’s resources, sending the Branded against his ex-wives.” “Why are you so grumpy?” Ashe asked. “Still mad that the girl made a mess of your drones?” Flint shrugged, gesturing to the massed ranks of blank-eyed thralls crowding the street. “There are always more pawns.” Flint stepped forward, his mob following in his wake with limp, shaky steps, mere puppets on strings. The brick walls and wooden eaves of a church rose above them, its steeple crowned with a cross and a ring- the sign of Venus, icon of the Nameless Queen. Flint pulled a lighter out of his coat pocket and tossed it into the crowd behind him. A thrall caught it, bearing the wick-stuffed bottle of whiskey Flint had given him earlier. A ripple spread through the crowd as a dozen other thralls produced bottles, wicks, and lighters of their own. “Ignite,” Flint ordered. ~*~ “We’re coming to you live from Halcyon City’s northern sprawl, where what appears to be a chemical fire has broken out along the harbor’s shipping district. The warehouse where the blaze began seemed to be abandoned however, and as of now, no corporation has stepped forward to claim the damages…” David watched grainy drone footage of the fire at the docks, the aftermath of their fight with Sister Ashe’s summoned daemon, presented by an improbably handsome news anchor who’d likely never set foot in the sprawl. Black-bordered captions scrolled up the screen, just out of sync with the pantomiming host, while obnoxiously loud bar music throbbed in his ears. David buried his head in his arms with a groan. The bartender, a rotund woman with warm brown skin and an even warmer smile, merely grinned and turned the music down a few notches. “Everything alright there, kiddo?” She asked. David propped his chin up on his crossed arms. “Hey, Shanti. No, Shanti.” “Relationship troubles?” David quirked his lip, indignant. “Must everyone leap to that conclusion? She’s my boss.” “Easy mistake,” Shanti shrugged. “A kid, a nun, and a chromed-up stranger walk into my bar…” “I’m not a kid anymore, Shanti,” David pouted. “I’m turning thirty in a couple weeks.” “You’re under my roof, you’re still a kid,” Shanti smiled. “Mm,” David hummed. “I’m sorry to come by on such short notice. Thanks for letting us use the attic for a little bit.” “Now, you look at me, child,” Shanti said, leaning on the bar counter. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” “Shanti, I promise you, we weren’t followed-” “That’s not what I’m asking,” Shanti pressed. “David, are you in trouble?” “I… No,” David swallowed. “No. It’s a job. It’s just a job.” “If I hear you’ve joined those damned Hammerheads, I will kick your ass.” David chuckled, although he knew Shanti could very well do it. “No, Shanti. But I am going to be leaving the city for awhile. Work’s taking me on the road.” “And how long have you been working for this woman?” David blinked, and cleared his throat. “Um. About, uh… two days.” “Glory, child,” Shanti threw up her hands. “Where are you running to in such a hurry?” David stared down at the counter, tracing the grain of the wood with his eyes. Shanti watched him, one hand on her hip, her brow creasing with worry. “Or…” Shanti said, “is there something you’re running from?” “Don’t worry about me, Shanti. Everything’s fine.” David’s eyes flicked over to the stairwell, where Glory appeared, silent, inscrutable. He swallowed. “...Everything’s fine, right?” ~*~ Up in the attic, the noise of the bar below faded to a muffled, almost reverent, quiet. David and Glory lingered by the stairs, while Marta sat in a far corner, hands clasped, praying or napping, David couldn’t tell. He couldn’t blame her, either; it had been a long night. And he had the creeping suspicion it was only going to get longer. “You were never properly introduced,” Glory said. “This is Marta. She’s… an old friend.” “I’d seen her around the Church,” David said. “She was always Sister Magdalene to me. I didn’t know you knew her. Lucky you ran into her here.” “Too lucky,” Glory said. “Remember the woman from the docks? The summoner?” “Sister Ashe?” David asked. His lips curled into a frown. “...Glory, the Sisters don’t-” “Have anything to do with the Firepact?” Glory asked sharply. “When one of the Sisters is Harrow’s ex-wife? When another Sister is Branded, one of the Firepact elite?” David exhaled. He pressed his lips into a line. “Maybe Sister Ashe was a plant,” he reasoned. “A spy, acting on her own.” Glory raised and lowered one shoulder. “Maybe.” “I refuse to believe that the Church of the Nameless Queen is just a front for some cult mafia.” Glory fixed David with her eerie, unblinking gaze. She lifted her hands, palms out, by means of apology. “...Nothing is certain,” Glory exhaled. “Personally, I hope you’re right. Maybe Ashe was just hiding in plain sight, with none of the Sisters the wiser. There’s no point in speculating now. If the Firepact is sending assassins after me, I take it that means I’m gaining ground, and getting too close for comfort. We need to pick up Harrow’s trail and get moving again. We need to get out of the city.” David nodded, his gaze turning to Marta’s form, still but restless, at the far end of the room. “What about her?” he asked. “Marta… wants to join us.” “Oh,” David blinked. “That’s good. That’s good, right? We could use the help. I’m sure you could use the company.” “I’ll thank you not to comment on my social life,” Glory said flatly. “Read her.” David swallowed. He blinked, and his vision slid into astral space, the dim light of the attic fading into charcoal-gray shadows, the light of life blazing like fireworks. Glory was a phantom beside him, a hole in the world where a person should be, save for the shining emerald flame of her heart, and the spirit bound to it. Glory’s Essence was a shredded, tattered mess only just gathered together into a threadbare whole, contained within a web of green light. Marta’s Essence unfurled like waves on the shore, in ocean blue and seafoam green, but it still showed signs of scarring- the lingering effects of some foul, hateful presence that seared David’s mind’s eye and made him flinch away. “She’s whole,” David said, slipping back into realspace. “More or less. But her edges are frayed, like, like the singed edges of a paper held too close to a flame. There’s a mark there, like a scar-” “Or a brand,” Glory finished. “The mark of The Horned King.” David turned, meeting Glory’s eyes. “...Glory… you don’t think she’s-” “I don’t know what to think, David,” Glory exhaled. “I know that the Horned King left its mark on both of us. I know that the Horned King had one of his servants hiding out at the Church of the Nameless Queen. I know that the Horned King isn’t above forcing obedience when words aren’t enough.” Glory’s stare grew flinty and hard. “...I know that, years ago, the Horned King took control of me, and tricked me into doing something unforgivable. I know that I got this surgery and mutilated my Essence, buried my magic under steel and chrome, so he would never have that power over me again.” “But Marta still has her Essence,” David said. “She doesn’t have that protection.” “No,” Glory agreed, her voice low. “She doesn’t.” David stuck his thumbs through his belt loops, heaving a sigh. “Glory. I think-” David’s commlink chirped, sharp and shrill in the attic’s restless quiet. He glanced at Glory, sheepish. “Sorry,” he muttered, lifting a hand to his earpiece. “Hello-” “David!” Petra’s harried voice crashed into his ear. “It’s Petra. Have you-” “Didn’t you say this was a private frequency?” “And who made those comms for you, numbnuts? Just shut up for a second. Have you seen the news? Did you hear about the fire?” “Yeah. Uh. We ran into some trouble on the docks-” “Forget the docks. The Church! The Sisters are under attack!” ~*~ Fire exploded across the Church of the Nameless Queen. Firebombs crashed against the steeple, the roof, the walls, the lawn, stoking a bonfire that few would escape. Smoke choked the air as flames raced across the complex, engulfing the library, the kitchen, the shelter. The city’s homeless rose from fitful sleep and awoke to a nightmare, of dancing fire and curling smoke, of phantoms standing in the flames. The Sisters and their wards woke in a panic, fear and confusion sweeping through their ranks just as steadily as the flame. And in the midst of the calamity, the horror, Flint’s mob stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the blocks around the church, penning them in for the slaughter. Ashe stood before the statue of the Nameless Queen in the church’s main lobby. A female form, seated, tranquil, her face hidden behind a veil. A goddess. Every goddess. All the aspects of womanhood, raised to the divine. She took a deep breathing, drinking deep of the acrid smoke, scorched wood, the chaos and fear in the air. The Nameless Queen stood silent and offered no succor, even as her sanctum burned around her. “Pity,” Ashe said, gazing up at the Queen. A Sister ran past, then ducked her head back into the corridor, robed in midnight blue. “Eldest!” She cried, with shaking hands. “The Church is on fire! There are people outside- what- what do we do?!” Ashe turned, her eyes- and her brand- burning with an infernal light. Ghostly antlers appeared at her temples, framing her face. She lifted her hands, wrists haloed by wreaths of flame. Behind her, the carved idol of the Nameless Queen smoked and began to burn. “Pray with me, Sister,” Ashe said, eyes wild, her wicked smile flashing in the firelight. “All hail the Horned King.” As fire and terror flooded the compound in equal measure, Flint’s mob formed a perimeter outside, eerily silent and still despite the chaos around them. They were silhouetted against the flames, specters in the firelight. They basked in the blaze, eyes forward, staring blankly into the light. “We’re live at the Church of the Nameless Queen, where a crowd has gathered and a massive fire has broken out-” The soot-faced reporter cried out as Flint threw them back against the side of their news van, ripping the microphone from her hands. “Keep filming!” He barked. Her cameraman nodded meekly and obeyed. Flint adjusted his collar. “Now that we have your attention,” Flint began, smiling for the camera, “This is a message for all of Halcyon City, on behalf of the Firepact. We are searching for a woman- a woman who has done us wrong. Wherever she is in this city, wherever she’s gone to ground, whoever’s roof she’s hiding behind… we will find her. We will have her, even if we have to burn down-” “I’m here.” Glory stalked down the street. David and Marta trailed at her heels, gazing up at the blazing compound in blank-faced horror. “I’m right here,” Glory hissed, in a voice like ice. Flint grinned, clapping his stolen microphone to the reporter’s chest and shoving her away. “The rebel,” Flint smiled, eyes flitting from Glory to Marta. “And the runaway. Two traitors for the price of one. Gentlemen!” As one, Flint’s thralls broke from their lines and charged forward, eyes filled with an unearthly fire. Glory opened her hands and extended her claws in a flash of silver- but Marta was at her side in an instant. A plume of water exploded up from the curb, shards of scrap metal studding the street. It coiled in the air and smashed the encroaching mob away, hurtling them to the curb in a massive spray, before redirecting itself towards the church. The wave blasted away the flames littering the front lawn and cleared a path inside. An arcane glyph hung in the air, and began to fade. “Marta!” Glory cried, but she was already running. David appeared at Glory’s shoulder, his pistol drawn. Three of Flint’s thralls hurled themselves wordlessly in front of their master. David’s stun rounds left them twitching and convulsing on the street. Flint smiled smugly and waved a hand, sending forward his thralls in a surge of bodies. “Get back here, asshole!” David snapped. “I’ve got him,” Glory said. “Go with her!” David nodded. He ran into the compound, his rifle dropping down into his arms. Glory watched him go for just a moment, and then Flint’s thralls were upon her. ~*~ Chaos had taken the church. A Sister cowered, trapped behind a pile of flaming rubble. She knelt and clutched the icon of Venus around her neck, the sign of the Nameless Queen. The roaring fire around her could not block out the screams of panic and pain that shuddered through the compound. There was a creak of wood and part of the ceiling collapsed, crashing down in a cloud of embers and soot-blackened plaster. The Sister cringed, clutching her icon and praying��� And then, providence, for at that moment a plume of magicked water slammed into the pile of rubble and swept it down the hall, clearing the blocked doorway. The Sister blinked as her rescuer appeared, a shadow in the smoke. “Sister Magdalene?” Marta stepped forward, plumes of magicked water trailing from her back like mighty wings. “Sister Shelley,” Marta said, helping the older woman to her feet. “Are you alright?” “I am now,” Shelley nodded. “Dear, I never knew you were a Mage!” “This isn’t really the time,” Marta smiled. “Go on. I cleared the way out through the front.” “Bless you, dear,” Shelley said, clasping Marta’s hand in thanks. “Be careful. I saw the Eldest inside- but she’s… dear, she’s not herself.” Marta blinked. “What do you mean?” “Dear, Sister Ashe led this attack on our church,” Shelley said, somber. “Honestly, it’s as if she’s… possessed.” ~*~ Marta didn’t need to go far to see what Shelley meant by that. Stepping into the nave of the church was like stepping into Hell itself. Splintered wood and crumbling plaster fell from the ceiling in burning clumps, and fire was spreading through the pews, as if the flame itself was sitting in attendance, waiting to worship the one at the altar. Sister Ashe stood at the altar, looking for all the world like service was about to begin. Flames consumed the carved idol of the Nameless Queen, transforming her stone pedestal into a throne of flame. Sister Ashe paced the stone dais, her fluttering white robes untouched by soot or flame, shining a brilliant, resplendent white in the firelight. She raised her arms in exultation, standing before the statue as it became a bonfire. “And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and the blood of the martyrs,” Ashe recited. “And when I saw her, I wondered with great admiration.” Ashe turned, and Marta saw the brand shining on her neck, and the ghastly fire in her hands. She saw the flame at her fingertips, in her hair, and in the pair of antlers rising from her head like a crown. It was a power both wretched and painfully, intimately familiar. “Welcome back, Sister Magdalene,” Ashe said, her voice echoed by the buzzing of insects and crackling flames. “Shall we pray, together?” Marta stared at the woman who first brought her into the church, who had her kneel before the Nameless Queen for benediction and guidance, who led her to the life of charity and piety that helped her break free from Harrow’s poisonous conditioning. To think, after all that… The blistering heat of the room pressed in around her. The curtain of magicked water, draped across Marta like a cloak, kept the fire at bay- but only just. Part of her, deep down, knew that she should have ran. Only the brave or foolish ran into burning buildings, rather than out of them. And right now, in this moment, Marta didn’t feel brave at all. Fear rooted her in place. Fear, and a stubborn will. She had to know. “Eldest,” Marta said, her voice almost lost to the roaring flame. “Why?” “‘Why?’” Ashe gasped, incredulous, mocking. “The short answer, is because we needed to smoke your friend the traitor out from whatever bolt hole she’d run off to. The long answer: because there are two kinds of people in this world, people who do as they please, and people who can only do as they’re told. You need power to choose, and not just obey- and The Horned King is generous with his power. But do you want to know the really, really short answer?” Ashe splayed her fingers and she rose into the air, the folds of her gown billowing like wings. An arcane sigil drew itself in the air behind her, and the flames within the church gathered together, spiraling into a braid of coiled crimson magic. Ashe smiled a wicked smile, her voice thundering with purpose- with power. “I belong to the Pact. Until my soul sleeps, and my body burns.” Ashe cried. “NOW BURN!” Marta clutched the icon around her neck, drew a sign in the air- and then Ashe’s pillar of fire came crashing down. ~*~ For the third time in 24 hours, Glory found herself being assaulted by a mob. The first time, they were mercenaries and street gangsters motivated by the promise of payment. The second time, they were the members of Father Servo’s ‘Communion’, being controlled remotely through their datajacks. Now, this third mob seemed to be enthralled by Flint’s voice alone. The power of the Brand, Glory supposed. The Horned King’s blessing. She was starting to see a pattern with his so-called ‘gifts’. She realized, in a flash of equal parts insight and irritation, that the Firepact knew she wasn’t unscrupulous enough to flick out her hand razors and carve a bloody path through what were, essentially, hostages. Through the swell of bodies, she could see Flint, his mouth open, doubtlessly in the middle of gloating about how he’d so brilliantly paralyzed Glory with her own conscience. Glory fixed her gaze on him, not hearing a word he was saying. At the base of her spine, her adrenal pump began to hum. She would count to three. Glory surged forward. One. Claws out. Dodge the groping hands. Run. Jump. Two. Stepping stones in the air. A knee. A shoulder. The side of a news van. Three. Flint staggered back. His fingers curled into hooks, reaching for the ragged line down his chest, splitting his brand in two. He tried to speak, only for blood to spray out of his mouth in a ghastly mist. Glory rose from where she’d landed in a crouch from her diving strike, tearing out Flint’s hamstrings in a single fluid swipe. Bloody, beaten, his suit in tatters, he was a far cry from the dignified Firepact Agent who’d attempted the hit on her only two nights ago. Glory grabbed him by his suit collar and dragged him across the church grounds, past groups of his thralls standing limp, puppets with their strings cut. His mouth was moving, though he couldn’t make a sound, only dribble wine-dark blood past his lips and down his chest. “Let me guess,” Glory said, as she pulled him in from the street and towards the compounds burning ruin. “You belong to the Pact, until your soul sleeps, and your body burns.” Glory threw him into the blaze. “You did better when you still had your drones,” Glory said flatly. Flint dragged himself along the ground, his chest wound scraping the grass, his hamstrung legs limp and useless behind him. He made it one agonizing step before his suit caught fire. Several gruesome minutes later, Flint’s thralls rose again, clutching their heads and coming back to their senses- but by then, Glory was long gone. ~*~ Fire cascaded down, smashing into the floor and erupting across the pews. When the wave finally parted, Marta was on her hands and knees, gasping for breath, with a glyph glowing faintly on the floor around her, and the remnants of an icy shield weeping steam into the air. Ashe loomed above her, borne aloft by an otherworldly power, her robe flaring out like wings. Her hair shone with the power of the Horned King, blazing fire-red. And, to Marta’s quiet shame, she could still feel the memory of that power, the echo, charging her own body and making the very tips of her hair glow like hot coals. “You remember, don’t you?” Ashe asked, eyes ablaze with light. “You were like me, once. You remember what it’s like to wield the power of a god.” Marta’s limbs were heavy. It took all she had just to look up. “No,” she rasped. “I’m not like you.” “Not now,” Ashe smiled. “But you could be, again. You’re a traitor, Magdalene. You forced me to burn down this compound, and cost me a perfectly good identity. But the Horned King rewards loyalty with power. His power can be yours again, if you only let him in.” “No,” Marta whispered. “You’ve no power to choose, girl!” Ashe snapped. “You can only obey!” Marta cried out in alarm as something took hold of her body, shivering and convulsing. She fought her rebel muscles, feeling her willpower buckle under the weight of something huge and unknowable. She felt the crushing presence, the weight pressing in from all sides, the oppressive heat of an inferno far worse than a mere burning building. Mage instinct took over. She channeled her willpower, raising her mental wards- but it wasn’t enough. How could it be enough? Trying to hold back the daemon was like holding a door against a flood with only your bare hands. The nightmare was coming. He was already here… Let me in. The presence was suffocating. Intoxicating. But the poisonous desire, the echoes of addiction, would not let her go. Marta screwed her eyes shut, blinking away tears, the ends of her hair shining red… Glory…! A phantom flicked across her vision- a robed woman, outlined in arcane blue. The oppressive presence drew back for a moment, and Marta sucked in a desperate breath, clutching the icon of Venus, so like an ankh, around her neck. “Hecate,” Marta breathed, like a prayer, as the goddess faded from her eyes. Above her, Ashe’s face twisted into scorn. “Your matron bars the doors,” Ashe spat, “when she should be preparing to receive her King. All goddesses are one within the Nameless Queen, and the goddesses are one within me! I bless their names, the wives of the Horned King! I am Lilith, consort of daemons, turned away from Eden merely for declaring herself man’s equal! I am the Whore of Babylon, astride a scarlet beast with seven heads and ten horns, a herald of the end! I am the Red Apostle, the Horned King’s right hand! I am Jezebel, Queen of-” A gunshot cut short Ashe’s manic ranting. It struck a shimmering barrier around Ashe with the sound of chipped glass. “You know Jezebel died, right?” David asked. “Way I remember it, she was thrown out a window.” David emptied his rifle into Ashe with one long pull of the trigger. The barrage crashed against her barrier like hail on a tin roof. There was a sound of shattering glass- both of Ashe’s barrier breaking and the window smashing behind her- and Ashe hurtled out of the church, wreathed in fire and stained glass. David slid a fresh magazine into his rifle and slung it over his shoulder. He knelt by Marta’s side. Within her magic circle, her little place of protection, the air was still cool and speckled with mist- but outside that bubble, the church was collapsing. “Come on,” David pleaded, helping Marta to her feet. “Where’s-” “She’s fine,” David smiled. “She should be right behind-” “Here,” Glory said, making David jump out of his skin. “I’m right here.” “Glory…” Marta sniffled, before darting forward and wrapping her in a hug. Glory stiffened, awkwardly patting Marta on the back- which, given her hand razors, seemed more threat than comfort. “Miss me?” Glory teased. David smiled, despite everything. It was about the warmest he’d ever seen Glory act. Then a wooden beam fell from the rafters and smashed into the burning pews, ruining it. “Building’s coming down,” Glory said, letting Marta lean on her shoulder. “Time to go.” “Got it,” David replied. There was an explosion behind them. They whirled around, David’s rifle dropping into his hands and bracing against this shoulder, Glory’s revolver snapping up to aim. Ashe rose from the debris, haloed in fire, the numerous bloody holes in her torso lit from within by a wretched light. She was burning from the inside out, her mouth and eyes weeping flame, and when she spoke, her voice was echoed by a chorus of thousands. “Until her soul sleeps, and her body burns…” The Red Apostle threw her hands forward, a pillar of fire cannoning towards the trio. Glory threw Marta behind her and held up a hand, the Heart of Feuerstelle tracing her veins with green light. The blaze halted in its tracks, wavering before the ring of green flame. Then Glory extended her claws and slashed open the beam. It burst apart at her touch, scattering harmlessly around them in the wake of a spring breeze and the scent of honeysuckle. “Headstrong little mouse!” The daemon roared, through Ashe’s mouth. “Let me in!” The presence shot forward in a plume of ghostly fire, abandoning the burned-out husk of Ashe’s body. Glory held Marta close. Their auras mingled- ocean blue and forest green, Hecate and the Heart warding away the daemon’s will- but just a few steps away… David cried out. His body went rigid, his limbs fighting his brain for control. Flames flickered around his head, his eyes. “Let him go!” Marta cried. “Wait,” Glory said, drawing forward. David’s hands lurched for his rifle and fired off a burst, the rounds sparking off of Glory’s augmetic shoulder. David grit his teeth. He pulled the strap off his shoulder and hurled his rifle away before he could squeeze off another shot. Then, when his hand lurched to his holster and drew his pistol, he forced his thumb up and clicked the release. The magazine of ammunition clattered to the floor, and his pistol with it. David gasped, a crown of fire sliding over his mind’s eye. Flames began to gather in his outstretched hands. Foolish boy. Do you think I need the tools of man to do my killing? David cried out and threw his hands forward- -and the plume of fire he summoned sputtered and faded before Glory and Marta were even singed. “Sorry to disappoint you,” Glory said, staring down the daemon wearing David’s skin. “But David isn’t a very powerful Mage.” The daemon roared in frustration, charging forward, no doubt with the intent to kill Glory and Marta with his bare hands. Marta cringed. Glory ducked. She fell to one knee, scooping David’s pistol up off the ground. Even with the magazine ejected, he still had one round in the pipe. David was right on top of her. Glory jabbed the gun into his chest, stared down the phantom in his eyes. “Tell your boss I’m coming for him.” Glory fired. The stun round spattered into David’s chest and filled him with a surge of electricity, shocking him out of consciousness- and forcing the daemon out. The fragment of the Horned King fled David’s body, shrieking in pain and frustration. It passed over the church like a strong wind, the flames consuming the compound flaring upwards, resonating with its impotent fury. The fire rose, one last act of spite before the banished spirit dissipated on the wind. Glory cradled David’s limp body in her arms, heedless of the electricity crackling along his limbs. The building’s wooden frame was creaking ominously, and the compound was blazing out of control. Glory felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up, and met Marta’s eyes. Marta opened her arms. A glyph of etched blue light formed a circle beneath their feet. The Church of the Nameless Queen’s burning husk crashed down on their heads. ~*~ Hours passed. Sister Shelley watched, with a grim fascination, as the Church of the Nameless Queen burned to the ground. There was no relief. Who would come? Out in the sprawl, far from the corporate holdings in the center of the city… There was no danger of the fire spreading beyond the compound, so that was a small mercy, at least. But with no risk of it endangering corporate property, the fire would burn until nature willed it. Imagine Shelley’s surprise, then, when it began to rain. Sister Shelley stood under the awning of a makeshift tent, while her fellow Sisters tended injuries- many of them their own. The rain came down around them, smothering the blaze, leaving only a huge plume of gray smoke hanging over the block like a grave. It was an apt, if macabre, comparison. How many people had died in that blaze? Too many. Far too many. Shelley clutched the icon of Venus around her neck, praying for one soul in particular… And then she saw it- a dome, a bubble of blue light at the heart of the ruined church, and the trio emerging from the smoke. Shelley smiled, her heart swelling in her chest. “Providence,” she whispered, the icon of Venus shimmering in her hands. ~*~ Glory and Marta sat under a makeshift tent on the street, watching the rain wash away the catastrophe they brought upon the Church of the Nameless Queen. David had regained consciousness while they were waiting out the blaze. He lingered nearby, chatting with Sister Shelley, giving the two women their space. “This is a nightmare,” Marta murmured, staring up at the rising smoke. “And I brought here.” “We brought it here,” Glory said. “And, well. You got us out of there, too.” Marta shrugged. “You and David did all the work, really,” Marta muttered glumly. “When I fought Sister Ashe, I… I barely even did anything.” “You survived,” Glory said. “That’s not nothing.” “Yeah.” Marta exhaled. Slowly, she curled a pinky around Glory’s. Glory’s machined metal hands were cool to the touch. “He was here,” Marta murmured. “The Horned King. Or part of him, at least.” Glory stayed silent, staring out into the rain. “You’re still going to hunt him?” Marta asked. “You’re still going to go after Harrow?” “Yes,” Glory said. “Do you still want to come with us?” Marta’s heart caught in her chest. ‘...Yes,” she breathed. Glory turned, and their eyes met. “Good,” Glory said simply. “Good,” Marta smiled. David wandered back to rejoin them, heaving a sigh. “This place is gonna need one hell of a remodel,” he muttered. “I mean, I know it was just a building. But a roof means a lot to people who don’t have one.” “The Sisters will rebuild,” Marta said, with a quiet conviction. “The Queen will provide.” “I hope the Queen won’t mind taking donations,” David shrugged. “Now that Sister Ashe is… indisposed, Sister Shelley is taking over as Eldest. That means she’ll be overseeing the fundraising and the reconstruction.” “How does she feel about that?” Marta asked. “She said she’d rather just be running the kitchen again,” David said. “That sounds like her.” “Mr. Wen,” Glory cut in. “If all our affairs are in order, I think it’s time we got moving.” David glanced at Marta, and gave her a small smile. “Got it,” David said. “I’ll go get the car.” “Where do we go from here?” Marta asked. Glory paused. She reached into her coat and withdrew the Rose Compass, glinting in the dim, pre-dawn light. She tossed it to Marta, who caught it in both hands, studying the engraved symbol that could have been a rose and could have been a flame. “What does it say?” Glory asked. Marta opened the Compass and studied it. David tensed. Marta turned, aligning the compass. Behind her, the rain clouds were cut through with silver, the first threads of light cast by the rising sun. The Rose Compass’s third, red needle wavered, for just a moment, before settling in place. “West,” Marta said. “It says west.” Glory smiled. Nodded. “Then let’s get going.” The tension between them dissipated, like smoke cut through with rain. Glory took a seat in the back of David’s car, joined by Marta after a moment’s hesitation. David got into the driver’s seat and pulled his door closed. He reached up, catching Glory’s eyes in the mirror. “You shot me,” he said, playfully indignant. “I knew you could take it,” Glory replied. “You owe me a new shirt,” David said. “Get a new one after you get paid,” Glory said. “He gets paid?” Marta chimed in. “Do I get paid?” “You volunteered,” Glory teased. “Aww!” The trio laughed- and, gods, how long had it been since Glory just laughed? It was a moment of levity and light that she sorely needed after her relentless last few days. They ventured out into the dark, with rain clouds overhead and the smoking ruin of the compound behind them, three lights in the shadows- the forest green glow of the Heart of Feuerstelle, flanked by David and Marta- Glory’s left and right hands. ~*~