#but yeah unless you’re conscripted you can just fuck off if you decide you don’t wanna do it

[15hammerheadsharks]

No twitter it is not a retcon that grey warden recruits can leave without being killed

[thebmatt]

FFXIV Write 2021 Prompt #26 - Free Day!

Herein I commit the chronicle of the Traveler. Shepherd to the starts in the dark.

Thought the world be sundered and our souls set adrift, where you walk, my dear friend, fate shall surely follow.

For yours is the Fourteenth Seat – The seat of Azem.

Rheika held the orange crystal before her as the golden light sunburst pattern shimmered and shined on the floor of the Tower’s throne room. Four circles of white light were formed at the edge of the sunburst, two on either side of her, one before, the last behind.

Franks looked around at the spectacle. “Uh…Rheika? How are you doing this?”

“Don’t think it’s her. It’s that crystal she found…the one that mighta belonged to her” Dahkar hadn’t taken his eyes off Elidibus since his transformation into the Warrior of Light. His greatsword was drawn.

“He’s right. If Elidibus is gonna summon people to empower him, I figure it’s only right we bring in a little help of our own!” Rheika said, smirking.

She pressed the crystal to her breast, and columns of light erupted from the circles, empowered version of the very summoning circles G’raha had used to bring aid to her during her battle against Emet-Selch.

The Warrior of Light, Elidibus, stared at her in wonder. “An invocation of eld…thought not of Hydaelyn’s making….what ARE you?”

Rheika started to think of a smartass remark to throw at him, but before she could, he continued. “No-it matters not! You are the enemy, and you will fall! Even should it cost me everything, I will not forsake my duty!”

He lifted his sword to the heavens, and a pillar of light of his own flashed into and out of existence. “For my people-for our world, I will strike you down!

The team drew their weapons as the columns faded, revealing four people. In front of Rheika stood a raven-haired elezen dressed in the gleaming armor of a paladin. “Well, well. Not sure how you all called us here, but it seems like this is a problem we can certainly do something about.” Her voice was refined and smooth, more akin to an Ishgardian than a Gridanian. She turned to look behind her. “So who exactly- What the HELLS?”

The others all recoiled slightly, startled.

The Elezen looked over to the people to their left and right. Rheika naturally followed her gaze. “Holy…shite…”

Standing to her left was….herself…clad in the garb of a Thavnairian dancer, carrying weapons she immediately recognized as the chakrams Fearless made use of as a dancer herself.

To her right was….another Fearless that had the familiar teal undercut hairstyle, but was clad in black robes and wielding a thuamaturge’s staff.

The two of them were staring at their counterparts in open shock. The other Rheika was the first to speak. “Are you…me? Damn, that is awesome. Stuck to the bow, did you? This is trippy. Holy shit, Syhrwyda, check it out, they have a you! Damn, black hair is a good look on you, girl!” Her voice mirrored Rheika’s own, though slightly raspy.

Fearless turned to look at her counterpart. “Did you say….Syhrwyda?”

Her counterpart looked confused. “What…is that not your name?”

“Class 12 aetherial deiform entity present! I suggest we table this discussion and initiate anti-eikon combat procedures first and deal with the cosmological implications of this after! Unless you all would prefer this thing destroy us?”

The new speaker’s voice was clipped and precise, almost…imperial. The four Warriors in the middle turned. A midlander with sandy blonde hair, carrying an Machinist’s weapon and aetherotransformer stood there, holographic screens deployed in front of him as he read the data that scrolled across them. Though he wore goggles, all of them could clearly see no third eye in the center of his forehead.

A conscript? No he’s right, fight now, talk later.

Dahkar strode in front of Rheika to stand next to the Elezen woman. He looked over at her. “Dahkar Darkspear.”

She smiled, shield raised. “Veilette de Liis. That’s a big sword for someone named Darkspear” she said with a slight teasing lilt.

Rheika reached her mind into the Armory, finding her Ninja soul crystal there and quickly re-established her connection to it. With a quick *pop*, she was glad in her shinobi uniform, twin daggers in hand. “Franks, Fearless?”

“We’ve got the healing, Rheika” Franks said from behind her as two more *pops* sounded behind her, followed by Frank’s fae companion winking into existence.

Elidibus raised his sword, and moved to attack.

Rheika thought Hades had been the toughest battle that they had ever fought.

Elidibus put lie to that statement.

He was every fighting discipline they group had ever seen in one massive primal. Swordplay, thaumaturgy, summoning, he threw all of it at them and more. What was worse, he kept bringing more of those spectres into the fight to help him.

Luckily, the allies she’d summoned with Azem’s crystal were every bit her group’s equal. More than once she’d had to remind herself to stop staring at her counterpart whirling and dashing around the battlefield, constantly throwing and catching her chakrams, using the magic of the Kreigstanz to empower them all. She’d seen Fearless do this more than once, but watching herself do it was…amazing.

Didn’t help that she now knew that she looked really hot in the outfit, either.

Fearless’ counterpart was a terror, herself. Elidibus’ magic might have been devastating, but he was an Ascian, or a primal, or…..well, both, she supposed. Other-Fearless was a mortal, and the devastation she struck him with, massive explosions of flame and boulders of ice, even calling an explosion of pure void energy into existence. More than once she spotted her Fearless watching her in wonder….and the Other-Fearless admiring her mastery of Astrology. Dahkar and Veilette worked in perfect synchronicity, back and forth trading the deflection of blows dealt by the Warrior and harrying him from multiple angles.

In the end, he’d fallen. And when he didn’t stay down, G’raha had sprung his trap, wielding the massive energy of the Crystal Tower to contain Elidibus’ soul…and disintegrate it.

She had given back the Convocation’s soul crystals to the echo of the real Elidibus that remained. He deserved to bid farewell to his friends, one last time, before he too was reduced to aetheric dust, leaving behind the soul vessel he’d taken.

Luckily she had picked it up, for the strain of destroying the final Unsundered had proven too much for the Exarch’s body, which was slowly growing more crystalline. But he’d transferred his soul into the vessel , asking her to take it back to his original body. She’d agreed, and he’d become a sentinel, standing atop the tower on the First until…well probably forever, unless something catastrophic happened.

She hugged her friends, her sister and brothers, then turned to the foursome she’d brought here. “Thank you.”

Other-Rheika ran and jumped into her arms. “No sweat! It’s what we do after all!” Rheika hugged her back, adamantly refusing to let her hands wander, but damn, is this what other people felt like when they hugged her. Cause it was nice.

Her counterpart pulled back. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking”

“That I’m suddenly extremely tempted to explore a new and intriguing meaning of the phrase ‘go fuck yourself’? Yeah, more than just a little.”

She giggled. “Oh, it’s very tempting. But if this works like how it did with G’raha did it for us when we fought Emet, I’m guessing we don’t have that long before we go back home. Plus….I don’t think I could do that to Moen and Uri. I mean they’d probably understand, but it feels wrong, you know?”

Rheika looked at her in shock. “Did…did you say Moen? As in Moenbryda? She’s alive in your universe?”

“Yes? Oh fuck, did you lose her? I’m so sorry!”

“She died making sure Nabriales was felled. Used all her aether to make a blade of light strong enough to destroy him. I didn’t even get to know her that well.”

Other-Rheika hugged her again. “Fuck. We all managed to make it to her in time. Between the four of us, we had more than enough spare aether to do it. We’ve become….really close, and through her I got closer to Uri, too. We….we’re really in love. I haven’t felt anything like it with anyone else, really. Wasn’t sure I could for a while. But I guess you know what that’s like, right?”

Rheika shook her head. “I don’t, actually. I’m aromantic. Sounds like you’re demi, I’m guessing?”

“No shit? Huh. Guess we’re not exactly alike.”

“Yeah, I’m not trained in the Kriegstanz either, for another. Now I wanna be though!”

“Really? So what else do you know?”

While the pair of Miqo’te had been talking, Fearless had approached her own counterpart. “So….Syhrwyda? Guessing you had better luck than I did in the parents department?” she asked, sadly.

Syhrwyda shook her head. “By that tone of voice, I’m guessing we both had shite experiences. Mine always demeaned me until they decided I was useless as anything but marriage collateral. I fled, stowed away in a merchant caravan until I ended up in Ul’dah”

Fearless nodded, smiling as she did “Yeah, same here actually, except I ended up in Limsa. Decided I didn’t want any part of them in my life anymore, so I changed my name to just go by the translation. Got father’s name away from me and if they came looking, well, no one would know who ‘Syhrwyda’ was. It worked for a while, at least.”

Syhywyda chuckled. “Smart, that never even occurred to me. I got taken in by a Hellsguard, a captain in the Flames. I think he saw how lost I was and took pity on me. He…treated me like I was his own daughter. Made sure I knew how to make it out there, life lessons my…that they never bothered to teach me. I owe him more than I can ever pay back. So one day, same day I got accepted to the Thaumaturge’s Guild I came home and gave him a copy of my new identification papers….changed my last name to Saztiwilfwyn. Never saw him cry so much, but we were both real happy.”

“Did they ever come lookin’ for you?”

As the duo continued, Dahkar and Franks walked over the Veilette, who was speaking with the hyur. As they approached, she smiled and walked over to greet them. “You boys fought well, not that I expected you wouldn’t. I imagine you have to, tryin to keep up with your own Rheika and Syhrwyda over there.” She nodded in their general direction.

Dahkar laughed. “We do our best.”

Franks likewise chuckled, then extended a hand to her “Aleister Franks. Pleasure.”

She took it, shaking with a firm grip. “Veilette de Liis”

“….why does that name sound familiar…wait, Dahkar, didn’t we fight Hades alongside someone with that name?”

His eyes opened wide. “THAT’S why it sounded so familiar! But…well she didn’t look anything like you. Dark blue skin, purple and red hair, punched like a freaking battering ram, and she was from the Shroud. Your accent…I’m guessing Ishgardian?”

Veilette nodded. “Formerly, at least, my family got exiled and lives in Ul’dah now. Part political maneuvering by the Dzmaels that we didn’t foresee, part discrimination because, well, we might not look it, but we’re Duskwrights and we’ve always faced some semblance of discrimination over it. Not ‘proper’ Ishgardians or some such tripe. Sounds like that other Veilette and I share a love of punching people though. Was she trained in the Rhalgr’s Fist style too?”

Franks shrugged. “No idea, we didn’t get to talk to her that much, and none of us are trained in it ourselves, so we wouldn’t have recognizes it”

Dahkar looked past her to the hyur, who was ignoring the conversation in favor of meticulously inspecting his equipment. “Uh…hey, man. Just wanted to say thank you for the help”

Veilette intervened “Ah, don’t mind him. That’s B. Short for Brorthon, but we all just call him B out of habit at this point. Tripped over his name a few too many times. He’s not rude on purpose, he’s just…been through things and isn’t good with people he doesn’t know well. He’s from Dalmasca, but they conscripted him into their schools when they conquered the place. Discovered he’s a magitek prodigy, so they basically tried to erase his whole past. Got ‘adopted’ by an Imperial family who basically brainwashed him into forgetting a lot of his past. He got out when a couple of other prisoners escaped and came to the Shroud, but the pursuers killed a woman he was close to during the getaway. He’s….been wary of getting close with anyone ever since. Absolute genius with magitek, and fights like hell with a gunblade, but…yeah. “

Franks nodded. “I’m something of a magitek user myself. You think I could try…”

Veilette held up a hand, shaking her head. “I’ve no doubt you could, given time, but I think I feel the spell’s hold on us fading, and I’d rather not agitate him.”

Franks stepped back. “I understand.”

Dahkar threw a salute her way. “Good luck back there.”

She smiled. “You as well!” Then she turned to the others. “Hey, you two! Finish up, I think we’re heading home soon!”

The two Roegadyn women exchanged hugs before Syhrwyda walked over to her friends’ sides. The two Rheikas did likewise.

“You sure you don’t wanna try a kiss before you go?”

The Rheika in the dancer’s costume giggled. “Bye, sweetie. Take care of those guys. I can tell by the way you carry yourself you’re the leader of em. Another difference between us, I don’t think I’ve got that in me.”

Rheik really wanted to offer some encouragement about that, but there wasn’t time, as the four summoned Warriors of Light began glowing. Their Rheika and Syhrwyda reached their companions and each took a hand of the other two (forcibly in B’s case). Pillars of light erupted from the ground, and the group was gone.

Rheika turned to Franks. “Any luck on doing that whole universe jumping thing?”

He laughed. “Not hardly, not sense I got us all here anyway. I think that’s pretty amazing.”

“Yeah yeah. I wanna visit their universe, though.”

Dahkar elbowed her. “You just want to watch yourself with Moenbryda and Urianger.”

She blushed. “You uh…you heard that, huh?”

Fearless put a hand on her shoulder. “You….weren’t exactly quiet, hon. Either of you.”

Rheika covered her face with her hands. “Uuuugh, okay look, maybe you’re right, let’s keep this to ourselves. I can hear the others coming, we’ve got some explaining to do, so let’s leave that part out. Kay? Kay”

The others chuckled, but also added their assent.

They all turned at the sound of the Scions approaching from within the tower.

It turned out they didn’t need to explain much at all. At least not right away. The sight of the Exarch converted and Elidibus gone definitely spoke volumes.

[historic-old-guard-lover]

Does Boooker still loathe the English ?

TL;DR: Probably. The would-be French and would-be English have invaded, fought, and demeaned each other for pretty much the entirety of the last century (1066 CE to ~1914 CE). Even if Booker doesn’t really care about international politics despite being born during a time when the countries were actively fighting, he still would have been raised to look down on them as Protestants. And it’s not hard to find a reason to dislike the British *cough* destructive imperialism *cough* in the pursuit of spices that they don’t use *cough* and they made speaking their language globally important *cough*. (aside: France has a bad history of Imperialism, too, so Booker doesn’t have much of a moral high-ground) Let’s take the shortest tour through French-British conflict that I can give you. There will be a a few names, but please know that I already cut out hundreds of them.

What kicked off this epic mutual dislike? A literal bastard Frenchman with inadequacy issues. Beginning in October of 1066, the soon-to-be-famous William the Conqueror got tired of just being the bastard son of the Duke of Normandy (northernmost France) who secured the duchy for himself and decided to invade and conquer his distant cousin’s country. As you might have guess from his moniker, he was successful and had himself crowned King of England by December of that year. It helps to remember the distinctions between all those pesky pieces of the British Isles:

[ID: Euler diagram showing geographic (green) versus political (blue) labels.]

William conquered England, below, and then had the Pope approve of his new position by Easter. Yes, you heard correctly. This guy had such an inferiority complex that he became the internationally-recognized monarch of a neighboring country within a year. For the next hundred odd years, Anglo-Norman and not Old English was the official language of England. The whole British Imperialism thing starts to make a little more sense: they had it done to them first and they lost badly. Eventually, William’s (still Normand) descendants known as the “Plantagenet Kings” stretched themselves a little thin trying to claim all of France as their kingdom as well and decided to re-brand themselves as English and reinstate Old English as the official language to cope. And yes, this is those Plantagenets who will give rise to the Yorks and Lancasters who will cause the English War of the Roses where all the royalty kills each other for power and leaves the Tudors to come to power. But we’re not there yet.

[ID: picture of the British Isles and Northern France which shows the lands controlled by William the Conqueror by 1087 in pink. Notably, he controlled only England and not Wales or Scotland.]

Before the Normand royals of Britain all kill themselves, they have to stir up international drama. Edward I claimed in 1295 to the members of parliament that the King of France planned to invade England and extinguish the English language. Yes, this was a NORMAND king who was doing the same thing a generation or two ago. Then in 1346, his still-Normand grandson Edward III forged an ordinance from Philip VI of France calling for the destruction of the English and presented it to his parliament. This little performance kicked off the Hundred Years’ War (1337-1453 CE). It’s towards the end of this major conflict that the royals decide to incite civil war, by the way, because they really were too dramatic to live. Just so you know, I skipped over TWELVE WARS between William the Bastard’s (yes, a real moniker) invasion and the Hundred Years’ War so that this article wouldn’t drag on forever. By the time that the Hundred Years’ War is over, the (Welsh) Tudors are on the English throne and, excluding that time the English invaded France in 1475, the two nations decided to stop trying to conquer each other. This is Europe, however, and they’ll continue to be fighting each other through proxy wars at least twelve more times before we get to the 1770s. A lot of this proxy fighting happens over Italy, in case you’re interested.

If you thought that 700 years of nearly continuous armed conflict (a decade or two doesn’t really count as a break in the long run) wasn’t enough to justify the hate between England and France, you’ve underestimated the power of religion. France hosted the (what we call Roman) Catholic Papacy in Avignon from 1309 to 1376. France is to this day a VERY Catholic nation, with up to 88% of its population belonging to the Church if you count lapsed members. Between William (1066) and the 1770s, a little itty bitty religious movement you might have heard of called the (Protestant) Reformation shook Europe when the German Princes decided they were tired of listening to this Roman Pope dude, so they supported this funky little scholar-monk-priest name Martin Luther whose students eventually said fuck it, the papacy is trash let’s start our own church. Christians, being Christians, took this as a new thing to hate about each other despite the fact that most of the doctrine is still the same and whether you were Catholic or Protestant became very important to people from the mid-1500s CE onward. In comes the man with many wives, Henry VIII. He was king while the German Princes were revolting and decided he wanted a divorce from his first wife. The Pope said along the lines of unless you give me a good reason, it’s a no from me and Henry replied something like the fact that I want to marry a younger woman is reason enough, I’m going to make up my own damn church and I get to have as many divorces as I want and then he established the Church of England. And then he went on the have six wives (and one mistress whose bastard he acknowledged) who were either beheaded or divorced except for the last one. I personally regret he never got to the full eight-piece set he must have been going for. Since 1534 when Henry VIII first flaunted papal authority by divorcing his wife, the French and English have also had the pleasure of hating each other over religious differences.

[ID: French corsairs with booty and British prisoners in 1806, depicted in a later painting by Maurice Orange from the Wikipedia page on French state-sanctioned pirates called “corsairs” that I didn’t have the space to get to in the article.]

Booker is born and grows up in a France that is funding the American Revolution and stealing from their trading ships (because fuck the British). This whole “America” decision destabilizes the country, leads to the popularity of the guillotine, and sets the stage for Napoleon Bonaparte (who, fun fact, was actually average height because the French decided to change the length of an inch for a while and if you think otherwise, it’s British propaganda). It helps to understand that the English and French had entered what we now call the Second Hundred Years’ War, this time started by the English trying to depose the French King, where they’d been skirmishing with each other from 1689 until Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo in 1815. When I say that the diplomatic strategy was “fuck the British,” this is what I’m referring to. There were very few rules that couldn’t be broken in pursuit of disadvantaging France’s island neighbor and vice versa. As a poor person, he definitely hated the French monarchy but he probably equally hated the English because, again, fuck the British defined the 1700s CE. Booker ends up conscripted in part because of the British (and in part because of Napoleon being a little too power-hungry). I think our depressed Frenchman has enough room in his heart to hate both the British and Napoleon...and neither has given him a good reason to stop hating them. UK-French relations arguably only normalized because of the increasing threat that Imperial and then Nazi Germany posed. Even during WWII, however, the British dragged their feet to begin helping the French eject the Nazis and let the Americans lead that front (which was only 200-something years late repayment for helping with their Revolution, but who’s counting?). I have no guesses as to what Booker thinks of the EU, but the Brexit debacle is just another reason to resume disliking the UK for someone who unabashedly disliked them for two hundred years. Oh yeah, and they’re God-damned Protestants to boot. (note: that’s from a Catholic perspective, not mine)

[anewalternia]

give me a complete statement of my actions

Rating: PG-13 Warnings: slavery, suicidal ideation, references to attempted suicide, severe corporal punishment (i’m serious about this one). Relationships: psiioniic/fantroll(s), psiioniic & fantroll Characters: The Psiioniic (Mituna Captor), various fantrolls. Additional Tags: Ancestor-Era, Pre-Signless Word Count: 6828 Summary: One of your fellow trolls from Sigma Block does not want to become a helmsman on the Battleship Condescension. You do what you have to prevent that from happening. However, you did not contend overmuch with the possible consequences of your actions, and who would be made to face them. As your group watches another troll receive punishment for what you’ve done, all of you find it in you to rise up. To rise up, and retaliate.�� 

When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.

...

Give me a report on the condition of my soul. Give me a complete statement of my actions. Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in. Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.

- Anne Sexton, Anna Who Was Mad

“Happy wriggling day to me,” Arccos says. “For some value of happy.”

“To us,” Arcsin says. Arctan nods, holding back tears.

They were all hatched at the same time, and some uncreative auxiliatrix with either a head for caste-inappropriate mathematics, a strange sense of humor, or both, named them. They left the caverns at the same time. They have the same blood color. The bond between them is unbreakable. Except.

Well, all of you know what’s going to happen later. None of you really want to think about it.

And like you guys have done every sweep for every troll in your little group, since you were four, two of you left the compound to get a cake and candles. This sweep, it was you and Velyor. And you also acquired a few bottles of spirits. 

All of you are going to get warned for this, but seriously, all of you are down to no warnings, except for Arccos, who’s leaving to be installed in a temporary rig when evening starts, unless they actually decide to third-warn and cull her. You doubt they will. 

Maybe if Elder Afkami were still alive, she’d cull Arccos. She probably would. As an act of mercy, and as a middle finger to the Empire. That’s probably why she’s not still alive.

Meanwhile, Elder Irvaan’s ten kilograms of shit in a five kilo bag. You remember him before he became an Elder. Back then, he was eight kilos of shit in a four kilo bag.

And as for Elder Asyeva? She can do nothing. She probably would, if she could, but she cannot. Still, you cannot find it in your bloodpusher to be angry at her. She cares for all of you, which is more than you can say for Irvaan.

“Do we stick ten candles on this thing or do we stick thirty?” Xhogar asks. It’s a long-standing joke that he uses whenever the trigonometric triplets have a wriggling day. Last sweep it was “do we stick nine or twenty-seven?” It still hasn’t gotten old.

“Thirty it is,” Pinyix says.

“We’re gonna burn down the building at this rate,” Velyor says.

“And what a great loss that would be,” Zesria says, with a grin.

“Can you guys burn down the building when I’m not in it?” you ask. “I didn’t get this far just to die in my pajamas.”

“I didn’t get this far to die a virgin,” Hiongo says.

“If you’re still a virgin at this point, it’s your own damn fault,” Arcsin says. “What’re you, like, ten or some shit?”

“Ten and a half.”

Arccos smacks Arcsin a little too hard for being a bulge. All of you either snort or laugh outright.

“Don’t be an asshole,” she warns. “I don’t care if it’s your wriggling day.” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well, since it’s going to be my last wriggling day in the compound, I guess burning down a building would be a pretty good legacy.”

You uncork a bottle of spirits and start drinking. If you’re going to get immolated in this building, you might as well die hammered.

“Pass that?” Hiongo asks. You do. They also drink deep.

Someone knocks on the door to Velyor’s quarters. Velyor’s also properly ten, so he gets quarters with a door that locks and shit, and he only really has to share them with Pinyix, who is equally apathetic toward the rules (although slightly better at following them).

“Who is it?” you call.

“Mianni, Etrare, and Khifos,” the latter says.

“Let ‘em in,” Arccos says. “If it’s alright with you, Vel.”

“I don’t give a shit, as long as none of them plan to get me in trouble.”

“We brought soporifics,” Etrare says. “And Khifos brought a few pail inducement publications.”

Velyor, Arccos, Hiongo, and Arcsin exchange glances. Porno mags and booze? Sign them the fuck up.

“Why didn’t you say that before?” Velyor asks. “Hey, Mituna, let these ladies in!”

What follows is the greatest drunken party of your nine and a half sweeps of life.

“I’m really not afraid of dying anymore,” Arccos says, once everyone in the room is varying degrees of passed the fuck out on the floor. You have no idea where in the hell Mianni and Khifos got all this alcohol, because you know Etrare, and she does not usually use, or encourage anyone to use, soporifics.

Arccos’s hair is tousled, and her eyes are a little red, but she seems mostly sober. Like you.

“I’m not afraid of dying, you know,” she says.

“You’re not?” you ask. “Why not?”

“I’m more scared of what happens to everyone who lives.”

“Oh.”

You are not exactly sure what to say for that.

“Tuna, if you make it to ten without being discovered, and it looks like you will, your next chance at conscription is when you hit twelve.”

“I know.”

“Do you really think you can keep the lie going another two and a half sweeps? And what happens after that?” she asks. “I’ve seen you. Your mood swings are getting worse. That’s why Mianni broke it off with you, isn’t it?”

If this were literally any other troll but Arccos, you’d tell them to shut up and mind their own business.

“Yes, yes it is,” you confirm. “But if at any point, I lose the ability to maintain this charade, I’m making a run for it. Far as all the Elders know, I’m mediocre. They won’t look for me too hard.”

“That’s true,” she says. “Still. I meant to ask you for a favor.”

“Yeah?”

You owe the trigonometric fucks several favors.

“We should discuss this elsewhere.”

She looks around, makes sure that everyone is still in some unconscious soporific stupor, and walks you, through an underground passage, to a part of the compound so ancient that there’s graffiti on the walls saying fuck Her Imperial Incandescence, who has been dead for like… two hundred and forty-some odd sweeps.

Allegedly, a troll named Smitty Jensen covered the walls of the good hiding spots in graffiti before he got conscripted, around five hundred sweeps ago, most of it decrying the Empire, bragging about the size of his bulge, wondering if several of his contemporaries had filled any buckets yet, and speculating - in the most vulgar way possible - as to which ones had.

As the legend goes, he was number one. The most powerful psion to ever live in Psi Block. Not many trolls believe in Smitty Jensen, but you do. You wish you could have met him. He sounds like he was a cool guy back in the day.

And damn, it smells musty as fuck in here.

Arccos murmurs partially intoxicated things about electrical impulses and the troll body. You don’t understand.

Well, you understand. But you don’t get what it has to do with anything.

“I used to come here when I needed to think,” she says. “But that’s not why I’m here. I have about nine hours left as a free troll.”

“Fuck, ‘Cos, they’re even more depressing when you count them down.”

“Maybe so. Could you help me with something, though?”

“I guess?”

She takes your left hand, the one you favor ever-so-slightly, and she puts it on her chest. For a second, you think she wants a last minute pail, and you’re standing there thinking shit like, well, you’re hot and all, but ‘Tan and your kismesis would fucking murder me.

Then you feel her bloodpusher beating double time. Right underneath your hand.

“You know what you could do, Mituna. I’ve already tried it for myself. I’m not strong enough. But I think you are. And if you’re not, then we combine power.”

No.

She can’t be suggesting…

No.

“I thought you said that you weren’t afraid of dying,” you say, and you’re struggling to keep your voice even, because you’re crying. “Or was that just posturing?”

“I’m not afraid of dying. But I’d rather die with my limbs and my mind intact.”

“Whoever said your mind was intact lied.”

“Probably, but I’m no crazier than anyone else here,” she says calmly. “I got my orders yesterday. Once I get through the preliminary part of the installation process, I’m going straight to the Battleship Condescension. Which is what Arctan and I were afraid of.”

She said its name. Is she serious?

Sure it’s just superstition, but most of the trolls you know find a way to avoid saying it, as if mentioning it by name were courting calamity.

“Really?”

She takes out her palmhusk and shows you what she’s talking about. Holy fucking shit. She pulls up the specs on what full installation entails, and eventually, she will be fully installed. You are rapidly threatening to lose your lunch of cake, grubloaf, and spirits.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’d want to live like that,” she says. “You can’t, can you? Fuck, Tuna, you look like you’re going to be sick!”

You hang your head.

“Wouldn’t want to live like that, no.”

“Will you help me, then?”

“Why don’t you just run for it?”

“We covered this last sweep! I can’t run for it! They’d look for me too hard. I’m the top psion here.”

The two of you sit in this poorly lit place for another half hour, before an idea occurs to you.

“Listen, ‘Cos. I know somewhere to hide you,” you say. “It’s even more hidden away than where we are now.”

She shakes her head.

“No, Mituna. They’ll keep looking, and the only way they’ll stop looking for me is if I’m dead,” she replies, but as she says this, you see her eyes light up with something. Something like hope. “Wait. Hold on.”

“I just told you that I’m not culling you.”

She gives you a little smile. “Oh, I know you won’t. But you don’t have to. You just have to say you did. If everyone thinks I’m dead, they won’t search for me for long. I’ll hide wherever you say for a while, and then I’m fucking leaving here.”

“Where will you go?” you ask.

“I don’t know. Away.”

As far as last minute plans to avoid helmsman conscription go, this one could actually work. You say so.

“Okay,” you say, taking a few breaths to steady yourself. “Let’s do this, then.”

By the time you get back to Sigma Block, everyone is mostly sober. You school your features into something utterly despondent. You do not have to act too hard to do this. You just think of Alhena, because if Arccos was slated to be sent to the BC, that means he’s probably either dying or dead.

Everyone stares at you, and once Khifos gets a good look at you, she preemptively stuns the surveillance equipment in Arctan’s room to deactivate it for the moment.

“Where’s Arccos?” she asks.

“She won’t be coming back,” you say, with an air of finality.

“You didn’t--” Arctan starts out.

“She made a last request, I owed her a favor, and I paid that favor back.”

“I don’t believe it,” Arcsin says. “I won’t believe it.”

“Believe what you want,” you say. “But she won’t be returning to Sigma Block. Ever.”

Arctan looks to Pinyix for confirmation. “Did he really…?”

Pinyix nods, solemn, before catching your eye. Something in their expression betrays that they know what has happened, but won’t call you on your lie. You have no idea as to why.

“He did,” they say. “She’s… she’s dead.”

Etrare lets out a long wail of utter despair, the sound making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“No! No, she can’t be!” she exclaims. “Not my matesprit!”

“I’m sorry,” you tell her. “She asked me, and I was the only one strong enough to make sure it happened.”

“Mituna, you fucking bulge!”

She punches you square in the face. That’s the first time you’ve ever heard Etrare resort to violence, or even swear, and she’s not the only one swearing at you.

You sigh.

Everyone’s going to hate you for a while, as they very well should. Velyor puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Etrare, calm down,” he says.

“I don’t want to fucking calm--”

“This is what Arccos would have wanted,” Arctan says, tears running down his face. “This is what she wanted, and you know it. When we were wigglers, she wanted to be a helmsman. But not recently. Not...”

He does not add that she would have been sent to the Battleship Condescension, and that is what shattered the last of her resolve, mostly because that would mean admitting to Velyor that Alhena is probably dead. Not the best admission to make under the circumstances.

“She told me she’d rather be dead than be strung up by biowires now,” Arcsin says. “Surely she’s told you the same thing.”

Etrare wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “Well, yes, but…”

“Exactly,” Khifos says, extending her hand to pap Etrare. “So leave it alone, then.”

All Etrare does is start crying again. Xhogar’s musings on the current state of affairs interrupt her.

“Elder Irvaan is not gonna like this one,” he says. “Soon as he finds out, Tuna, you’re dead fucking meat. Sentenced to culling at the speed of sound. Actually, forget that one. When he finds out what you’ve done, he’ll know you’re powerful enough to be a helmsman, for sure. You’ll just end up taking Arccos’s place in half a sweep. And probably after he flogs you for a while.”

Hiongo raises one slender finger, to be heard.

“Not if we all say we’re responsible,” they say. “He’s not going to cull all of us.”

“And then, nobody finds out about Mituna,” Pinyix adds.

Zesria, who has been silent for a long time, finally elects to speak.

“Sigma Block,” she says. “Psi Block. We protect our own. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” Velyor agrees.

After everyone present rehearses the story you’ll spin to Elder Irvaan, even Etrare, as she glares daggers at you, Khifos turns the surveillance equipment back on. All of you file into the communal nutritionblock to meet Irvaan, who instantly wants to know where Arccos is.

As the oldest one present, Etrare is the one who breaks the news to Irvaan, her voice thick from all the time she’s spent crying.

And as Xhogar predicted, Irvaan’s pissed. Not just pissed. He’s scared. His hands shake before he speaks.

“If I’m to understand this, all of you claim culpability in aiding Arccos in what she has chosen to do?” he asks.

You hope Arccos is staying where you’re hiding her. It’s a spot you would occupy if the excrement ever hit the whirling ceiling device where you’re concerned. And you hope she keeps her promise to stop trying to self-cull.

You’ll keep your promise to cull her yourself if you ever think anyone will find her.

“Yes,” everyone answers, some of you nodding.

Irvaan paces the length of the nutritionblock for a while, momentarily lost for words.

“Well. This is a special circumstance, one that calls for severe punishment. And since nearly all of you have drawn warnings at least once, I’m going to punish the one troll here who has never been warned,” Irvaan says. “Perhaps she will learn more than any of you have. Or maybe the troll who actually did this will feel compelled to step forward.”

You try to figure out who’d be either smart or boring enough to manage never being warned, and very slowly, all of you turn to look at Pinyix.

None of you object to this, because as fucked up as it is, Pinyix is also the youngest troll in your group. Therefore they’ll get the fewest lashes. They’re seven, and this is their first warning. So that’s seven lashes. Not great, but not awful.

You should have figured that Irvaan wasn’t done yet.

“Since this young lady was involved in helping a ten-sweeps old to evade conscription, she will receive the maximum punishment that a ten-sweeps-old can in her stead. Thirty lashes.”

Ten by three. Shit fucking Ancestors.

Pinyix is even smaller than Arccos, which is actually an achievement. You don’t know if they could even survive thirty lashes. The most you’ve ever seen a troll get is twenty-two, and they were eleven sweeps old, a little above average sized for their age, and passed out after twenty. They didn’t live for too long after.

“I’m not a young lady!” Pinyix protests

“Three extra lashes for back-talk,” Irvaan says. “That puts you at thirty-three, doesn’t it?”

Pinyix sparks purple at their fingertips, in anger. Velyor steps on their foot before they get themself into deeper trouble.

“If you want to cull Pinyix, then just cull them,” Arctan says. “You know that thirty-three lashes for someone of their size is pretty much a death sentence, anyway.”

You’re about to open your mouth to confess. You had never meant for it to go this far.

Pinyix gives you a look telling you to back the fuck down.

“That is true,” Elder Irvaan says. “But perhaps watching this display will inform all of you what happens to trolls who try to interfere with the operation of the Empire. As for Pinyix, well, she is what I would call an object lesson.”

It’s official. Irvaan was never a goldblood like the rest of you. He’s an Imperial drone wearing a goldblood troll’s skin. He might be the Condesce wearing a goldblood troll’s skin, for all you know.

When he leaves, all of you go back to Velyor’s room, which explodes into conversation. 

Khifos seems like she’d like to stun the surveillance equipment again, but decides not to.

“Thanks for grounding me Velyor,” Pinyix says, making the diamond sign with their fingertips. “If he called me a “she” or a “young lady” one more time, I was gonna punch him.”

“We can’t let him do this,” Arctan says.

“No, we cannot,” Velyor says, typing something away on his communicator.

“What are we gonna do, then?” Mianni asks.

“Something,” Velyor replies. “We’re going to do something. I’ve got this.”

Within an hour, it’s official. Everyone in Sigma Block, aged six and up, regardless of their involvement in Arccos’s escape, must report to the area around the flogging jut, to witness the punishment of Pinyix Idcaye, in eight hours time. 

Thirty-three lashes. 

Trolls from the neighboring blocks are also encouraged, but not ordered, to attend.

This is the dim season on Alternia, so the powers that be can just have you stay up until whenever without worrying about you burning to a crisp in the sun. 

Several trolls come by Velyor’s room, the same way they did with Arccos, to bring offerings of food and give words of condolence.

Pinyix, whose temper is longer than Arccos’s ever was, accepts these with grace. Shit, some of the psions who’d actually had schoolfeeding lessons with them, and witnessed the alacrity with which they allowed less intelligent trolls to cheat of them, some of them actually weep. 

And even those who had never cheated off Pinyix, well, they’re crying too.

“It’s going to be fine,” Pinyix says, as Hiongo sobs into their uniform. “Everything is going to be fine. I have seen it.”

“No it’s not!”

“It’s not, not really, but…” Pinyix kisses them on the forehead. “We’ll all get through it, somehow. Of that, I am certain.”

You never really understood Pinyix until tonight, even though they are your kismesis.

In situations where you would be growing progressively more emotional, they grow more detached. You think it’s why they’re so good at shields and other defensive telekinesis. They can distance themself, physically and mentally. Maybe they’re counting on their shields holding for the full length of the flogging.

Since Pinyix and Velyor share quarters, Vel’s door is pretty much open for the remainder of the time until Pinyix’s doom.

Even Overreactive Gigantic Fuck, whose name is actually Vogreu, shows up to offer Pinyix some sort of words.

“I’d take the lashes for you, if I could.”

Pinyix manages to hide their surprise.

You and Arcsin manage not to laugh at his declaration, but only just. Shit, you’ll take your amusement where you can get it, particularly now, with the straits so dire.

Anyone with eyes could see that Vogreu’s been flushed for them since last sweep, save Pinyix themself. And shit, he’d probably survive thirty-something lashes on account of being fucking huge.

“I would never ask such a thing of you, Vogreu,” Pinyix says. “This punishment is mine to take.”

He looks stricken, and then he interrupts you and Arcsin’s attempts to maintain your composure by asking you to take a walk with him. You remember that he had a pitch dalliance with Arccos a sweep back. He probably wants to end you for what you’ve done, or at least what he thinks you’ve done.

“When Vog culls me, I’m coming back as a fucking ghost to haunt you fuckers, if any of you touch my music playing device!” you yell at your friends.

“Yeah, yeah, keep going,” Arcsin says.

Sin may be your moirail, but he’s still upset with you. After all, you “culled” his kismesis. You’re slightly surprised he’s not joining Vogreu on the “let’s fuck Mituna Captor up” crusade.

But Vogreu doesn’t seem to be in a particularly homicidal mood at the moment. He leads you to the far end of the corridor, where the nice ablution trap is, where there are no surveillance devices nearby, at least not as far as anyone can detect.

“I know what you guys say about me when I’m not around,” he says. “Someone fucked up in the caverns, and I’m part purpleblood, part subjuggulator.”

Fuck. Really? You all were that loud with your speculations?

“Um, Vogreu, we weren’t serious when we--”

“You were. It’s cool. I understand. I’m larger than most goldbloods, less intelligent, and less psionically inclined. I’ve wondered the same thing, myself.”

You don’t know where he’s going with this.

“So…”

“So,” he says. “You and I, I think we could keep Pinyix from facing their punishment. I have an idea.”

Vogreu Terbim has an idea? 

This must truly be the end of days.

“Don’t look so shocked, Mituna. Hear me out.”

It’s not like you’re about to do anything else at the moment.

“Okay.”

“Elder Irvaan’s going to make some sort of speech before he starts flogging Pinyix because he’s a grandstanding bastard. And I’ve figured out why you’re so inept on the exams. You’re holding back, so you don’t end up conscripted.”

Well, shit, if Vogreu figured that out, the entire Empire might as well know.

Old enmity dies hard.

“And if I were?”

“When Irvaan’s done with his speech, and after he gives at least the first eleven lashes, maybe a few more, I’m asking you to stun him with your psionics. Don’t fry him. Just stun him, ‘cause you’re the only one who could probably do that from afar without fainting,” Vogreu says. “I’ll do the rest. The real elders, in Alpha Block, are already mad at him. They’ll be even more mad to see him abusing his power like this.”

“It’s not an abuse of power, Vogreu,” you say easily. “Arccos is dead. Someone has to pay for it.”

“It so is, because it’s clear that Pinyix didn’t do it, and even if they were partially responsible, they should only be getting seven lashes. Maybe ten. Not thirty-three, because that could kill them, and deprive the Imperial Fleet of a powerful prospective psion. Besides, a lot of the blame for what happened with Arccos goes to Elder Irvaan for not being able to keep a good eye on her in the first place,” Vogreu goes on. “So I wanna give the Elders the opportunity to see what else he’s doing. Velyor recorded everything Irvaan said, and sent it to them. Now they’re waiting to see whether he actually goes through with this. Once he gives Pinyix more than ten lashes, he’s dealing cruel and unusual punishment. Like, crueler and more unusual punishment than usual. Worse, he’s fucking up Empire property.”

“Got it,” you say, overcome with grudging admiration for this jackass, even if he did try to cull you a few perigees ago just for calling him a dumbass. “You really thought of this all on your own, Vog?”

“No. Velyor did a lot of the thinking on Trollian over the last hour. But so did I. I’m slow. I’m too slow to score high on exams. But that doesn’t mean I can’t think. Just takes longer. And I have been thinking.”

“You and Velyor have command over the full arsenal of my telekinesis,” you say, all formal-like, like you’re being conscripted.

“We don’t need command over anything,” Vogreu says. “We need innovation.”

“And I will show you innovation, in spades,” you reply. Then you recall your old platonic hatred for Vogreu, and how easily that statement could be misconstrued. “Not in actual spades, but in--”

“I got it, Mituna. You’ll cooperate.”

“I will.”

“Good,” he replies. You turn back to go to Velyor’s room. “And Mituna?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

A lot more trolls turn out to watch what will happen to Pinyix than you expect. Every 6+ from Sigma Block is in attendance, along with some randos from Epsilon, Kappa, Eta, Zeta, Lambda, and Mu Blocks. Nobody from Alpha or Beta, though. You wouldn’t have expected it. They think they’re better than the rest of you.

Since the demise of almost everyone from Psi, Chi, and Phi Block, they technically are.

The drones cuff Pinyix at the wrists at the flogging jut, the one whose cuffs Arccos said looked like a 6 and a 9 by the time she was half-delirious with punishment for her second warning, and then further chain them to the post once those cuffs are in place.

They strip Pinyix of their garments above the waist so they can properly feel their punishment. Also, so errant fabric in wounds doesn’t cause infection. 

Pinyix looks down at themself, and you can see tears threatening to spill over.

“We believe in you, Pinyix!” someone yells.

Elder Irvaan figures that this is the time to give his speech before the flogging, for he rises to his feet and everything. You overestimated how long it would be, given Irvaan’s inclination toward refusing to shut the fuck up.

“It is time,” he says, a hoofbeast-whip in his hand. “Young lady, I expect you to count the blows. And if you falter, I’ll just start from one.”

He definitely plans to cull them.

Meanwhile, Pinyix inhales sharply just so they can spit in his face.

It catches him unawares.

“Thirty-six, then,” he says.

“Do your worst,” they reply.

Arcsin, Arctan, and several others shout at them to stop baiting him.

Meanwhile, perhaps realizing now that this may not be the best idea, Irvaan dithers on dealing the first blow.

“Lower your shields to nothing,” he says. “They cannot help you now.”

“If you insist, you taintchafing blight upon the Empire, too much of a coward to cull kill me outright. Do you think punishing me will make you a real troll?” they reply, furious. “Worthy of conscription? Twenty-plus sweeps old goldblood and nobody wants you? I think the results speak for themselves. Your ineptitude echoes int the halls, to the point where underage trolls are like, well, ‘at least I’m not Irvaan or some shit’. But you probably knew that already.”

Elder Irvaan will give them even more for that outburst.

Unless Vogreu’s right and he and Velyor really do have a plan.

“Forty lashes even, then,” Irvaan says. And then to the drones, “Don’t stop me, even if her bloodpusher stops.”

Pinyix inhales sharply, in anticipation of the first blow. He throws the whip with all his strength.

“Count them, or I lose count, and start from one,” he says.

“One!” they exclaim, once the whip makes contact.

Of all the fucking… nonsensical, idiotic bullshit.

Someone should intervene now. Right now.

You look over to Vogreu. He shakes his head. Then, you catch Velyor’s eye. He shakes his head as well.

You and your friends continue staring amongst each other as if you can prevent this just by staring hard enough.

“Two!”

“Three!”

“Four!”

Time passes slowly in these awful moments. Irvaan continues to throw the whip.

“Eight!” they exclaim.

By the time you decide that you must intervene, Pinyix is hanging from their shackles, rendered incoherent and partially unconscious by their punishment. Velyor is howling expletives into the wind. You and Vogreu exchange places and glances.

Pinyix is only still seven and a few perigees old.

They don’t deserve this.

Why aren’t the Elders from Alpha Block doing something yet?

Because you’re not trolls. Not really. 

You’re chattel.

But Pinyix deserves this fate least out of all of you.

Since they’ve temporarily lost the ability to speak, Irvaan makes good on his threat to start from one if they ever stopped counting. He raises the whip, and brings it down.

“One!” They exclaim, more from conditioning than anything.

“Why doesn’t anyone do something?” Arcsin says. “Velyor, I thought you sent that footage to the Elders!”

“I think they know,” he says. “But they don’t care. We’re low priority. And we really fucked up with Arccos. I think...” He swallows. “I think they just might let him cull Pinyix. We need to act.”

“Yeah, okay, well, what’s the plan?” Arcsin asks.

“Three!” Pinyix exclaims.

“Fucking shit,” Velyor says.

All of you keep watching, unable to tear your eyes away.

“Four!”

Zesria jumps up onto the flogging block.

“Five!” Pinyix screams.

Zesria throws a tunic over Pinyix’s shaking, bloodied form, and gets warned for the action. 

The cuffs and chains remain the only thing holding Pinyix upright.

“When I’m finished with her, you’re next,” Elder Irvaan says to Zesria. “Nine lashes.” 

She flips him off with both hands and asks him - if, when he became an Elder - how many caegars they gave him in exchange for his soul.

He draws his hand back and slaps Zesria so hard that she falls off the block and a full meter to the dirt. She whimpers, and forces herself back up.

“Zesria!” Khifos and Ortuye shout.

“Save them!” Vogreu yells at you.

You throw up your desultory shields, and stun Irvaan, while Velyor shatters Pinyix’s chains, in that order. 

By the time you manage to get Pinyix to the infirmary, you think Elder Irvaan will have probably called up a warning on pretty much everyone in Sigma Block, for interfering. But he’s still, thankfully, too stunned to make the order.

You throw up another halfassed but powerful shield, sprint to the flogging jut, and unlock the cuffs around their wrists. They fall into your arms. Meanwhile, Khifos moves to tend to Zesria.

“Pin?” you ask them.

“Pinyix, speak to me!” Velyor nearly shouts.

“Tuna? Vel?” they ask, as you stand over them. “Guys, tell me I’m, dead. Or cull me. Either one.”

“They’re delirious,” Velyor pronounces, but Pinyix isn’t done speaking.

“You know when you have to do something because it’s part of the greater design?” they ask. “Well, sometimes, you have no idea how awful it’s going to be until you do it. I can’t feel my legs. Is that good?”

Their eyes start to glow purple. Their eyelids flicker.

“Probably not,” you say to them, honestly. You hand them over to Velyor.

“We’re gonna make the drones in the infirmary be competent for you,” he says, making to carry them that way. “Shit, the auxiliatrix will make them be competent.”

“That’s nice,” Pinyix says, closing their eyes, their voice sounding far away.

The two of them leave. You should have done something sooner. What if Pinyix dies?

However, the fiasco at the flogging jut isn’t yet finished. Vogreu snatches the whip from Irvaan, hauls the older troll to his feet, clamps the flogging cuffs shut around his wrists, and tears the upper half of the jumpsuit from his body.

“Let’s see,” Vogreu begins. “You’re twenty-seven sweeps old, Elder. Hey, Adrani, what the fuck’s twenty-seven times three?”

“A lot,” Vogreu’s moirail, an instructor from Epsilon block, originally from the now nonexistent Chi block, answers. “Eighty-one, actually.”

“Good looks, Adrani. Thanks.” Vogreu gives Irvaan a grin utterly devoid of mercy. “So. Eighty-one lashes. I can dig it. Whenever you lose count, I’m starting again from one. Ready?”

“The Elders will cull you for your insolence,” Irvaan says, looking terrified nevertheless. “They’ll cull you all!”

Vogreu laughs, his eyes dancing with hatred and mirth.

“Maybe so, but not before we settle the score.”

You are more than ready to settle the score. 

You wish Arccos were here right now. She’d probably be positively cackling with glee to see this. How the tables have turned. What all of you are capable of, in the face of an injury toward one of your own.

Vogreu throws the whip with far more vehemence and raw strength than Elder Irvaan ever could ever command.

“One!”

“Fuck yeah!” Arctan shouts. “Do it, Vog!”

“All the way to eighty-fucking one!” Mianni chimes in.

“Go to a hundred!” you yell.

“A hundred and ten!” Arcsin returns.

“Why stop at a hundred and ten?” Xhogar wants to know. 

Ortuye, in her black and rust jumpsuit, nods.

“Why stop, indeed? Cull the waste of oxygen,” she mutters.

Various trolls yell numbers.

“One-fifteen!”

“One-forty!”

“One-fifty!”

“Make it an even two hundred!”

All of you continue shouting such things as Vogreu thrashes Irvaan, who manages to stay conscious and aware enough to count accurately. What a shame. You were looking forward to when Vogreu would have to start from one.

However, by the time he gets to twenty-six, you notice Elder Asyeva, leading several goldbloods, and a couple of drones, toward the crowd. You’re not the only one.

“This is not gonna go well,” Arcsin says, bumping shoulders with you.

Hiongo shakes their head. 

“I think the party’s over. Well, you can’t say the fucks from Alpha Block never showed up.”

“Took them long enough,” Ortuye says.

As for Arcsin stating that this isn’t going to go well?

Well, that’s… the understatement of the sweep.

One of the drones quickly shoots Vogreu right between the eyes with a blaster.

Your mouth drops open. 

Adrani cries out, falling to his knees.

“Irvaan was right about something. We’re all fucked,” Hiongo says, watching blood and thinkpan matter leak from Vogreu’s head. “Everyone? Everyone run! Now!”

All of you try to dash to points unknown before you become the next trolls to be culled, but Asyeva and two Alpha Block elders send out a shockwave that stuns the lot of you.

She walks over to the flogging jut, and unshackles Irvaan.

“Thank you, Asyeva,” he says, making the diamond sign with his thumbs and forefingers. “I knew you’d come for me. I knew you’d save me.”

“Save you, nothing,” she says contemptuously. “You’ve more than likely crippled a high-scoring psion, and for what? A pissing contest. Right after we’ve lost another psion. As per unanimous vote from the Elders of Alpha Block, you’ve been sentenced to execution without trial.”

She then turns to address the rest of you.

“All of you, return to the nutritionblocks of your buildings, your respective punishments to be determined,” she says heavily. “None of you should see this.”

Then, she gives Irvaan a deft kick to the side, before calling him all kinds of interesting expletives. You’ve never seen Elder Asyeva lose her temper like this.

“Actually, I think the party’s just starting, Hiongo,” Zesria murmurs, still lying on her back. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

You don’t need telling twice. You stumble to your feet, and help Arcsin to his. Khifos and Zesria hobble, their arms thrown around each other’s waists. Arctan forces Adrani to get up, even as he insists that he wants to do no such thing.

“There’s nothing you can do for Vogreu. There’s nothing any of us can do,” Arctan says. “Go back to your block before you get yourself culled.”

Another troll from Epsilon block takes hold of Adrani’s hand.

“I’ve got you,” she says. “Please, Adrani?”

At last, he acquiesces.

As for all of you from Sigma, you report to your nutritionblock, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Some of your group starts to play a halfhearted game of Fiduspawn.

“Think they’re going to cull all of us?” Khifos asks.

“I wish,” Xhogar replies. “It’s probably going to be way worse.”

“What’s worse than culling?”

“I’m sure they’ll think of something,” Hiongo says.

You hear another blaster shot echo from the flogging area. So goes Elder Irvaan.

Hours pass, as all of you wonder if this is how everything ends.

Then, Elder Asyeva strolls into the nutritionblock, looking thoroughly tired, the faint lines in her face seeming far more pronounced.

“All of you, every single one of you, have been sentenced to reduced rations for the next sweep,” she says.

“Is this before or after we get culled?” Hiongo wants to know. “Are you telling me there’s grubloaf in the afterlife?”

Asyeva shakes her head.

“No culling. The Elders of Alpha Block wanted to second warn all of you at the very least,” she says. “However, I discouraged them from doing this, because enough Empire property has been irreparably damaged tonight, without more floggings taking place.”

“Reduced rations?” Zesria asks. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Asyeva says. “However, all of you should essentially consider yourselves first-warned, minus the corporal punishment. Any sort of warning-level infraction you incur for the next sweep will get you second-warned, with the corporal punishment.”

“Understood,” you say. “And Elder?”

She blinks at you.

“Yes, Mituna?”

“Thank you.”

She says nothing in response. 

Then, she sighs.

“I wish I had been around to protect Arccos. And Pinyix. Even Vogreu,” she says. “Before I am an Elder, I am an instructor. And being that I am an instructor, all of you are my charges.”

“All of us did what we had to do,” Etrare says gently. “It is not your fault, Elder Asyeva.”

“That may be true. Nevertheless, we must agree to disagree there, Instructor Etrare Toftas.”

Etrare looks shocked at this pronouncement.

“Me?” she asks.

“Sigma Block is short an instructor, given Irvaan’s fate,” Elder Asyeva explains. “Therefore, I have been tasked with appointing another. You have scored the highest out of your cohort in instructor training, so...”

Etrare gives Elder Asyeva a low bow of respect.

“Thank you, Elder Asyeva,” she says. “I accept this appointment.”

“Good. And I am sorry about your matesprit, Instructor Etrare.”

Elder Asyeva seems as if she might cry. Etrare embraces her, wordlessly.

“I am, too.”

Then, Elder Asyeva orders all of you to go to your rooms, and takes her leave. As you sit on the edge of your recuperacoon, Arcsin does nothing but stare at you for a while. He walks over to you, until your noses are mere centimeters apart.

“She’s not really dead, is she?” he asks, in a whisper.

You refuse to answer. However, Arcsin is no fool. He grins.

“I fucking knew it,” he says. “I knew it. You can bullshit everyone else, but you can’t bullshit your moirail.”

You continue to say nothing.

“Hey, Tuna?” he asks, still in a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“If you didn’t cull her, that means she’s hiding, and you probably know where she is. Could you tell her that Arctan and I are going to miss her?”

You think carefully before speaking. But, like Arcsin said, you cannot bullshit your own fucking moirail.

“I will,” you swear. “I’ll tell her.”

“Great.”

Pinyix will survive, as you find out later. However, Elder Asyeva got one thing right. They’ve been crippled. Unable to feel from the waist down. And nearly catatonic, as well. They’ll be stuck in the infirmary for several perigees, at the very least.

“I shouldn’t have done what I did,” you say to Velyor, the two of you eating your grubloaf side by side in the nutritionblock.

“You’re not the one who flogged them nearly to death, are you, Tuna?” he asks. “You did what you had to do, as far as Arccos goes. I’m sure Pinyix would agree. Once they’re out of the infirmary, they’ll probably say so.”

“Yeah, but Pinyix is fucking weird,” you say.

Velyor pushes his plate away, and grimaces.

“I can’t argue there.”

A few weeks later, you skip your lessons for the day to go visit Pinyix. They’re responsive now, even though they can’t walk. You apologize profusely to them, and they neither accept nor reject your apology.

“I Saw many things while I was Out,” they tell you. “Necessary things.”

You gesture around, at them, at everything in the infirmary.

“Necessary enough to justify this? Pinyix, you’re never going to walk again.”

“Of course, Mituna,” they say. “Why else would I have said so many terrible things to Elder Irvaan? It was necessary.”

Just when you think you understand your kismesis, you realize that you have never, and probably will never, truly understand them.