For the Terribleminds Song Shuffle Part II, Winamp suggested a song by Nigel Godrich from the score to Scott Pilgrim vs. The World.
Sweat had suctioned the cloth of his underclothes to his skin. The plates and rings of metal that composed his armor felt especially heavy. He leaned on his sword, shield dangling from the strap around his forearm, trying to catch his breath. He lifted his eyes and then, after a moment, the visor of his helm.
The field was covered in bodies. Rivers of red ran between them into the ground between the rises where the armies had gathered. Banners still whipped in the wind at the end of pikes here and there, but lines and order had long been forgotten. Once the melee had begun, there had been no more questions on why they were here or what they were fighting for. There was only blood and terror and survival.
He looked down at his shield. The heraldry of his family was clear despite the spatters of gore and the massive dent. He had ridden in with the cavalry, heavy horse meant to cut off retreats and trample down the enemy numbers. It was butcher’s work, his axe rising and falling until it stuck in some pikeman’s head. The warhammer that unsaddled him belonged to an old rival, a large man whose beard extended beyond the helm he wore. The challenge required no words. The rival had waited, hammer at the ready, until the knight was on his feet with sword in hand.
Are you satisfied now? Is honor satisfied? What place did our arguments have in this field of death?
He moved his eyes from his shield to his sword. It was still in the chest of his rival, a long gash left through tabard, hauberk, skin, and muscle. He didn’t need to remove the man’s helmet to know he was dead. He was already laying in his own piss and shit. The quivering had stopped. Questions of the knight’s worthiness, his honor, no longer mattered, with this tongue at the end of his blade stilled forever.
Around him, compatriots picked their way through the corpses, looking for comrades, looting enemies, and putting the mortally wounded out of their misery. The stink of it made him want to gag. He tore his eyes from the carnage to find his horse, not far away, stepping carefully between bodies as she made her way back to him. The mare had seen battle before and was unruffled by the sight of so much death. He couldn’t have asked for a more loyal companion.
He grunted as he pulled his sword free of his rival’s chest. He had no desire for the man’s money or possessions. Besides, the honorable thing would be to allow his body to be carried back home in as complete a state as possible so the family could give it a proper burial.
The knight wiped the blade of his sword on the blood-stained end of his own tabard and sheathed it, quietly scoffing at the notion of honor. It made for good tales and songs, to be sure, but when the battle actually began you never really thought about it. You prayed your sword-arm would be true and that you wouldn’t miss anything, because one moment’s hesitation or a blow you didn’t expect could end it all in an instant.
The knight wondered, as he swung up into his saddle, if they’d sing songs of his rivalry. Would they paint his foe as some snarling villain, thirsty for blood? Could compelling verse be made of how he got unhorsed at the start of it all? Did any bard possess the wherewithal to realize how scared the knight had been?
He lowered his visor to try and abate the stink. His heels tapped the flanks of his steed. The fight was over, and he would not need a cart to get home. He had to wonder, though, if the woman whose hand he sought would still be with him. He had, after all, just killed her brother.
It was 2 a.m., and the rest of the nation was sleeping. The light from the large fridge bathed him in garish, cold light as he dug out the fixings. He placed the containers on the wide steel counter, closed the fridge door and tightened the cinch of his robe. The kitchen staff seemed to have moved the bread, though, and he was looking for it when a familiar face entered.
“Don’t you ever sleep, Phil?”
The man in the suit shrugged. “I could ask you the same question, sir.”
“I can’t seem to find the rye bread. Any ideas where it might be?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. I do have something important we need to talk about, though.”
The man in the robe rolled his eyes. “Can’t even enjoy a snack in peace… Ah! Here it is.” He pulled the loaf of rye bread out of the cabinet. “You want one? There’s plenty of fixings.”
Phil thought about it for a moment. “Sure. But no pickles, please.”
“More for me. So, what’s on your mind?”
Phil laid his tablet down next to the cutting board. “They made their move, sir. There’s been another bombing. Twenty-seven people killed. Twelve of them were Americans.”
For a moment, the butterknife stopped spreading mustard across the bread. Green eyes framed by smile lines swept over the report on the tablet. A heavy sigh broke the silence, and he resumed making his sandwich.
“Sir?”
“Philip, I am not going to make this decision on an empty stomach. I hate to say it, but my fellow Americans, God rest their souls, will be just as dead after I eat as they are now.”
“For a man who campaigned on a platform of compassion and…”
“Really?” The President set down the butterknife and looked evenly at his Chief of Staff. “Can we not have yet another conversation about how I’m deviating so much from my campaign platform and focus on the task at hand? What do we know about the bomb?”
“Early forensics indicate it was a vehicle bomb. Probably some sort of van or truck parked next to the restaurant.”
“Anybody taking credit for it?”
“Not as yet, but…”
“Let me tell you what we’re NOT going to do, Phil.” The President jabbed the mustard-covered knife at the other man. “We’re not going to mobilize a single ship, plane or soldier until intelligence corroborates the claim when it inevitably comes in. We do this smart. We don’t go off half-cocked and invade the wrong country. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me be honest with you, Phil. It’s the least I can do after a decade of my shenanigans.” He counted out three slices of meat for each slice of bread, dropped a slice of cheese on each and put the assembled sandwich in the toaster oven. “Yes, I ran on a platform of compassion and goodwill. And it’s that goodwill that should let us get other countries involved in the investigation behind what happened tonight. But whomever is responsible, it’s a declaration of war. And in war, casualties are inevitable. I hate the fact that it was civilians, and I’m going to give the families of the victims every concession and courtesy I can. But in my ten years in public office, I’ve never really had to go to war. Not like this. And I’d rather not have you second guessing my every move while I get this country ready for it. I’m going to get enough of that from the press.”
“Yes, sir.” Phil paused. “Dave… I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting this.”
“I think I did, at least on some level, as soon as I took office. Sooner or later, someone was going to try and push this country again. We consume too much, and give back too little. We scream too loudly about religion and freedom, but say next to nothing about hunger and oppression in other countries.” The toaster oven dinged, and Dave carefully pulled the sandwich out of it. “Here you go, Phil.”
“Thanks. It does smell delicious.”
Smiling, Dave handed Phil the plate. “I knew you couldn’t resist ham and swiss.” Dave started making another sandwich for himself. “So we find out who did this, who’s hiding them and who’s ultimately responsible. We go at this like a surgeon, not a butcher. If we must take this country to war, let’s do it as quickly and precisely as possible. Agreed?”
Phil had to move a bite of his sandwich into his cheek to respond. “One hundred percent.”
“Good. I knew I could count on you.” Dave put a little extra mustard on his sandwich, and opened the jar of sliced pickles. “So, there have got to be at least half a dozen countries whose intelligence agencies will have interests in helping us out. We’ll need to speak to their directors. And I want the Prime Minister on the phone as soon as possible. I want him to know I don’t hold him personally responsible for this. His people were killed, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dave began toasting his sandwich. “And, just to be safe, we should talk to the Joint Chiefs. We’ll need plans ready to put in action as soon as we have the intelligence we’re after. I don’t want this to be a strictly in-house operation, either. So prepare presentations for allied powers and include their potential forces in our plans.”
“That makes sense.”
The President rubbed his eyes, and then slightly smiled. “I knew something was keeping me up tonight other than indigestion. But shouldn’t you be at home, Phil?”
“I was up late playing poker with some of the staff. We were about to call you when Secret Service said you were down here.”
“Oh, they can be such busybodies.” Dave shook his head. “I better put the coffee on, too. It’s going to be a long day for all of us, I think.”
The toaster dinged.
“Let me do that, sir.” Phil smiled. “You enjoy your sandwich.”
No ICFN this week, I simply ran out of time doing other projects. It shall return next week!
In the meantime, here’s a piece I wrote years ago to compliment the game which was, at that time, under development by Machine Age Productions. It’s a story of the Amaranthine, and it may whet your whistle for even better stories on their way to you in the Amaranthology.
The band had some kitschy, trendy name that they thought set them apart from the pack. It simply made them sound like another pop-emo-rock fusion outfit trying to be someone more successful. Trevor wasn’t certain why he’d come down here to see them live. He didn’t even like this sort of music. But he’d caught a glimpse of one of their tacky posters, and suddenly he HAD to be here, in this crowd.
He hadn’t paid, of course. If you knew the city the way he did, you could find ways into anyplace that weren’t watched, alarmed or locked. He slipped through the bodies of the crowd, some of the contact welcome, others jarring. The first opening act was leaving the stage as the second was coming on, the one he’d come to see. The girl behind the drums was tightening the bass kit, the guy with the emo fringe setting up his keyboard. Neither of them were familiar. Just two more in the sea of faces that was the indy music scene.
Then the other two members came on stage. Trevor recognized them both. He’d been born and raised in this town, and while he didn’t know where he’d seen them before, the sight of them was like an icepick in his mind – cold, clear and sharp. The girl tuning her bass, to him, seemed out of place up there, in skull motif bikini top, short jean skirt and high-heeled boots ending just below her knees. The last time he’d seen her face it had been shining at him from within the confines of a habit.
A nun? Where did he know a nun from? All of the nuns he’d known in school were wrinkly old gargoyles, not the rock nymph casually ignoring all of the whistles and cat-calls. And the guy next to her… He wore a similar fringe to the keyboardist, skinny jeans, a shirt with wide horizontal stripes, combat boots without laces. The Fender in his hands was beaten and stained, decorated with skater stickers. But the face behind that pomade-slicked hair… Trevor knew that face.
The kid stepped up to the microphone. The lights came down, spots on the band. Trevor’s hand trembled.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned!”
The band came slamming down on their first chord, and it was like Trevor had been kicked in the gut. He heard the words again, this time a whisper, and in Italian.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession.”
The figure in the other side of the booth kept to the shadows. The monsignor did not mind. Let the good people of Florence have their privacy, he thought, as long as they give their burdens to God and their florins to my church.
“You are safe in the house of God, my son. I will hear your confession.”
“I have killed seven people.”
The monsignor paused. “Are you a soldier, my son? A soldier is expected to kill in dark times, and we live in dark times indeed.”
“No, Father, I am no soldier. Not in the sense of marching in rank and taking orders. I am a soldier in a different sense.”
“How do you mean?”
“You have served the Medicis for quite some time, Father. I’m sure you’re aware of their coming exile.”
“Yes. Their loss will surely diminish Firenze.”
“That is one opinion. Another is that a French toad in control of Firenze is something the people do not want. Many of the Medici’s loyal supporters will assist them in remaining here longer than is healthy for the people.”
“I am afraid I do not understand, my son.”
“You are their confessor. I cannot have them falling under my blade having confessed their many sins.”
The blade came through the wicker screen without warning, cold steel lancing across the Mon Sengior’s throat. Blood flowed freely down the front of his robes, staining the black of his oath and the violet of his station with crimson. He grasped the wound and collapsed, gasping but clinging to the last bit of life left in him.
“Your soul will go to God, Father. You will not see these parishioners again. Perhaps in time, you will consider this a favor. Good night, sweet prince.”
A power chord on the bass shocked Trevor back into the here and now. He glanced around the crowd. Had anybody else seen that, felt that? What had just happened to him? He turned back to the stage.
The lead singer was staring right at him.
He was singing his over-emotional lyrics, barely audible over his too-technical guitar playing, and he was staring directly at Trevor. Trevor blinked. No… the eye-line was off slightly. He turned to look behind him.
Fiona. The boss’s daughter.
The connection clicked into place. He’d seen the poster in Fiona’s room. That’s why he’d come here. Fiona was a fan. Fiona, who had been trying so hard to please her father. Fiona, who had long been promised to the son of the boss’ rivals in Chinatown to a bright young man who, despite being half-chink, had impressed Trevor with his politeness and poise.
Fiona, who was getting moist at this punk’s attention.
Trevor faded through the crowd. He waited until the songs were over. Then he moved through the darkness towards the backstage area. The band was tossing back water from bottles. The singer turned to Trevor as he approached.
“Sorry, man, gotta wait for us to come to you at the merch table.”
“I’m not here for your merch.”
The singer blinked, trying to clear them of the haze caused by some illegal substance. The other band members looked on, the drummer and keyboardist wide-eyed and frozen with uncertainty. The bassist, however, merely backed up a pace, taking a long sip from her water bottle. Her eyes never left Trevor’s face.
“What, are you an agent or something?” The singer hooked his thumbs in his skinny jeans. “You wanna sign us?”
“No.”
Trevor had gotten good at never telegraphing his punches. It was something the boss loved. Once he’d knocked out a 300-pound Sicilian with a single punch. The fat bastard had screamed at the boss to let him have another crack at Trevor, to have a fair fight. The boss had laughed in his face and demanded his money. 90 days overdue was 89 too long by the boss’ count.
So when he hit the singer with a right cross to the face, nobody saw it coming. The drummer & keyboardist were on their feet, gasping in shock. Not the bassist, though. She was smiling. Somehow, Trevor didn’t need to see it. He could feel her smile.
“You were eyeing up the pretty blond behind me, weren’t you, boy?”
Trevor hauled the punk up by his trendy shirt. He punched him again, with the left, breaking his nose. The blood flowed freely, almost eagerly, just as it had down Trevor’s robes. Trevor saw red. He punched the singer again and again. Every time, he heard another voice, saw another face, always the same face but different times, different places.
“Requiescat in pace.” Punch. “Does Columbus even know where he’s going?” Punch. “The British are coming!” Punch. “Fuck you and your Arch-duke.” Punch. “I don’t think Hitler has what it takes to lead.” Punch. “How dare they destroy the Buddhas! They’re sacred relics!” Punch.
By the time Trevor came back to his senses, the singer’s face was a mess, bruised, bloody and swollen. He let the unconscious punk slip to the floor. There was commotion towards the front of the venue, bouncers fighting through the surging crowd to get to him. The bassist placed her empty water bottle by the stage, fingers sliding over a splotch of red on her skin.
“You got blood on me.”
Trevor caught his breath. “Sorry. I don’t know what…”
“No. But I do.” She took his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
Trevor was pulled towards the backstage door. “Wait. Who are you? How do I know you?”
She smiled over her shoulder at him. “I’ve been waiting five lifetimes to hear you ask me something like that. It’s about time you woke up to what you really are.”
The phone always rang at the worst times. And in this case, it was the worst person calling.
“This really isn’t a good time.”
“Then why didn’t you let it go to voice mail?” Her voice, as always, had tinge of obliviousness that he simultaneously thanked and cursed her for.
“Because I know you don’t call this number unless it’s damned important.”
“I’m calling because it’s your son’s birthday this week.”
He glanced to his left, placed a finger to his lips and shook his head.
“Yes, I know. It’s Thursday.”
“He said he’d really like it if you were there.”
Oh, God damn it. “I’ll do what I can. I’m out of town at the moment. Business.”
“Oh?” She sounded genuinely curious. “Where are you?”
“It’s best if I don’t say.” You wouldn’t like ‘in an empty office building nobody ever uses except for things like this’ as an answer. “Look, my clients are sensitive people. They don’t like people knowing where they are at times like this.”
“And you have to be there in person? You can’t arrange things like this from your office?”
The office I don’t have? “They trust me. They prefer to have me close by to coordinate things on site. They need me.”
“I just think your son needs you, too. That’s all.”
He rolled his eyes. “I really do not have time for this. I will do my best to be there. Okay?”
“Oh. Okay. Do you want to talk to him?”
For fuck’s sake… “No, I can’t right now. I have to go.”
He hung up before she could say another word. The man in the chair made a noise. The duct tape made it as hard for him to form words as it did for him to get out of the chair. The estranged father put his cell phone back into his coat pocket.
“Sorry about that. Now, where were we? Oh, right, you were about to tell me what you’ve done with Mr. Vugatti’s merchandise. Let’s talk about that, okay, Steve?”
There was another muffled protest from Steve. The man shook his head and reached into the toolbox he’d brought along. He selected a pair of pliers, grabbed Steve’s left pinkie finger with them, and pulled until something snapped. Steve’s scream was distorted by the tape. The man reached up and yanked it off.
“I’m sorry, Steve, what was that?”
“You… you bastard… just… just let me go and… and I’ll tell you.”
“No, no, Steve, it doesn’t work like that. You tell me what I want to know, and then I set you free. Have you never played this game?”
“Game? This is my life, man!”
“Steve. Steve. I need you to focus.” He broke the other pinkie. Steve howled. “Where’s the merchandise?”
“I… I gave it to someone. For safe-keeping.”
“Well, that was probably smart. You’re a smart guy. So do the smart thing, and tell me who this person is so I can get Mr. Vugatti’s stuff back, okay? I mean, if you’d sold it like you were told to do you wouldn’t be here, and I know you don’t want to be here.”
“He… he works down at the docks.” Steve had to spit blood out of his mouth. He’d already been hit a few times before the phone rang and the duct tape went over his mouth. “Pier Sixteen. His name is Terry. He’ll know… he’ll know which container the merchandise is in.”
“Good. That’s good, Steve. I can work with that.” He put the pliers away and closed the toolbox, turning away.
“Wait! Wait! You said… you said you’d let me go!”
The man stopped and turned back. His suppressed Nighthawk 1911 was in his hand.
“No, Steve.” His tone was sympathetic. “I said I’d set you free.”
He raised the gun and fired. The suppressor made the gunshot slightly louder than a snap of the fingers. Steve’s head snapped back, then rolled forward, blood and mucus seeping from his mouth and nose. Sighing, the assassin unscrewed the suppressor, slid it into his coat pocket and holstered the gun as he fished out the phone.
“Lilith.”
“Hello, Mr. Caine. I take it you were successful?”
“Yes. Have Mr. Vugatti’s people come around to their office building to clean up Steve. I have to track down another lead.”
“You know he won’t be happy with another delay.”
“He’s the one who wants professional results. If he doesn’t like it, he can find someone else do clean up his mess.”
“I understand, sir, I was simply making sure you were aware of the client’s inclinations.”
Mister Caine got into his sedan, placing his toolbox on the passenger seat. It was the only name he gave in professional circles, the only name by which Lilith knew him. By the same token, he didn’t know her real name, nor how she’d found him after the CIA had burned him. They didn’t like the excuse of ‘incendiary devices are tricky’ when an entire floor of a hotel had burned and nearly taken the whole building after he’d misjudged the device’s mixture.
“I’m fully aware, Lilith, thank you. After you get off the phone with his people, I’ll need a personnel manifest for Pier Sixteen. First name Terry.”
“I will get right on it. In the meantime, may I suggest you make time for your son’s birthday party?”
“Lilith, I told you. Listening into my phone conversations is rude.”
“Keeping your line secure is difficult, sir. If I am listening I can ensure nobody else is. The fact remains that your son has asked for you to be there.”
“If you heard my name, or his, that would be a serious breach of security. Think about that. That’s your job.”
“My job, Mr. Caine, is to keep you alive and working. And if you see your son, you might remember why being those things are good for you. No more excuses.”
She hung up. Caine fought the urge to shoot the phone.
Let them call her ‘heretic’ if they wished. She was a witch, no more or less.
Thalia and the priesthood were never comfortable with her kind. Humanity, they professed, had no need for the tools of the arcane, and such things only drew the attention of the darker denizens in the night. She didn’t begrudge the people overmuch for their fear. Drinkers of blood and changers of shape stalked the shadows outside the city; why tolerate something equally dangerous in their midst?
Staring at the manor house, though, Victoria wondered how many knew what lay within.
She’d observed the comings and goings, the parties and the banquets. Always by night, never under the light of day. The vampires of the house of Markov knew better than to dwell within the walls of Thraben. Yet these were doing so, right under the nose of the supposedly watchful clergy. The Doomsayers and her siblings both told her to stay away from the mansion. She knew in her heart they meant well, but to let these creatures live within the walls unchallenged was folly. So in spite of her better judgement, there she was, alone, knocking on the manor door at sunset. The slot in the door opened slowly.
“Yes?”
“I need to see the lord or lady of the house immediately.”
She held up a symbol of Avacyn, the archangel to whom the clergy prayed. The red eyes behind the slit narrowed.
“We have no business with the church. Begone.”
“Then I will tell them vampires dwell here and the manor will be put to the torch at first light. Good evening.”
She turned on her heel.
“Wait.”
Pausing, she looked over her shoulder. The sound of the latch opening was like a snapping bone. The door creaked open slowly and a pale hand gestured. She approached, the Avacyn symbol dangling from her wrist. The servant stepped aside and allowed her to enter. The receiving hall had a high, vaulted ceiling. As she walked in, the candles in the chandeliers came to life of their own accord. The feeling of dark power was palpable and seductive. Victoria swallowed and marshaled her mind.
The door closed behind her and the bar came down across it. Servants and guests moved slowly out of the shadows, watching her with red eyes. She turned her attention to the figure in the gown that floated just above the staircase.
“To what do we owe this unexpected visit, my child?”
“I have come to ask you politely to leave Thraben and never return.”
Silence filled the hall. Then, the woman began to laugh. The others joined suit. Victoria held up her hand and conjured a light. It wasn’t a great trick, in and of itself, but the intensity of the light was comparable to the noonday sun. It shut the vampires up immediately.
“Do you know who I am, witch?”
Victoria looked up at the lady of the house. “A vampire.”
“Astute. I am Drusilla of Markov, formerly Drusilla of Thraben. I was driven out because I, like you, expanded my mind beyond the clergy’s bounds. And I, like you, know that light is nothing but a conjurer’s trick.”
The vampires hissed. Victoria grimaced. She brought her hands together and poured all she could into the light. It filled the hall for a moment, causing the monsters to cry out. She ran for the nearest door as they recoiled.
“It was an illusion, you fools!” Drusilla’s anger and hunger seethed through her voice. “Capture her! I want her alive!”
Victoria pushed away thoughts of what horrors awaited her as she scrambled through the mansion. She found a staircase leading up, held back from taking the first step by cold fingers around her wrist. She spun, a stake in her other hand, driving it deep into the vampire’s chest. Blood exploded from the wound as the monster fell back. Victoria vaulted up the stairs two at a time, cursing her own stupidity. Why didn’t she listen to her sisters and brothers?
Several of them had flown up to the roof to meet her. She snapped her fingers, bringing fire to their tips, generating heat along with the light to complete the illusion. Before she could draw another stake, however, another vampire grabbed her by the shoulders from behind. The flame went out and the others approached. Victoria closed her eyes. She tapped into the well of power deep within her, convincing herself that releasing all of that power, all at once, was the only way to keep Thraben safe, even if she were to burn with these creatures.
As her clothing caught fire and the vampires began to burn, she was aware of another presence on the roof. Beyond the flames, golden eyes watched her. A dark coat and white hair were caught on the wind. Vampires on fire released her and fell to the streets below. The fire was breaking through her defenses, and soon it’d be searing her flesh…
“Enough.”
The word, whispered and deep, quelled her fire and sapped her strength. She held herself, suddenly aware of the evening’s chill, as she knelt by the chimney. Long fingers gently lifted her chin, and she stared into a face that both tugged at her heart and filled it with fear.
“You’ve got potential, Victoria of Thraben. But if you burn yourself up (and I do appreciate that irony) it’ll all go to waste. So you’ll go home, and I’ll deal with these wayward children of mine.”
His eyes became her world, and the next thing she knew, Victoria was at home abed, in her threadbare nightgown. The window of her loft was open, the morning breeze giving the curtains life. She walked downstairs to find a pile of vampire heads on her porch and a gathering of frightened townsfolk on her lawn.
Some said Avacyn had saved her. But she knew the truth.
The lord of Innistrad had returned. And given this carnage, he was not pleased.
