level_main_12-06_beg

Stay away! All of you stay away!

This gutless man suddenly pulls out something and brandishes it in the air. It's a fountain pen, and even in the dark, you can tell clearly just how fancy it's decorated.

He's a scholar of heraldry, claims he could be the next Fellow of the Royal Victorian Academy of Sciences. Maybe that's the pen from which all sorts of marvelous criticisms used to flow.

But now, it's just a pathetic, utterly shameful weapon, clutched in a trembling hand.

With a clatter, a can falls out from his coat, which he hastily stoops to pick back up and hide again under his layers.

Sir, that's our last can of meat.

I...

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, I can't carry on. I'm at my limit! This lockdown zone, the dust of the dead floating in the air, this rotting corpse stench, this—everything—

I don't understand! Why should I be living out my days like this?!

I... I'm someone who means something! I should be waking up to the call of fowl, to a cup of coffee, and then to my writing desk and manuscripts...

Why should I—madams, I'm sorry, I'm aware of all the assistance you've afforded me, but...

Excuse me, really, please, but this isn't the sort of thing I should be doing. I used to take pride in my virtue—I was wonderful to my servants, I would tip double what anyone else would whenever we went out to eat...

I...

I can't carry on. I've had enough, really. I just can't make sense of this, I'm so confused...

Then you're free to put down that can you've got, and be out of this place.

I can make a trade with you! I have some gems, Sargon origin, and a Sankta's patron firearm...

Which we don't need.

I'm begging you, I'm begging you—

The man trembles and shakes harder and harder, until finally his legs give out and he's kneeling on the floor. He's probably never begged someone like this in all his life. He's acting a comedic sight.

He grips his overcoat with white knuckles, so tight the place where he hides the can bulges out. It's like a weeping tumor parasiting off his body. Or an unborn child more loved than it'd ever know.

Get on your way, man. Front door's sealed. You know how to make a balcony exit.

Baird!

Let him go, let him go! Get him the hell out of here, and that stupid bloody can with him! Never to return, why don't you!

I... I'm worn. I'm done watching this happen anymore.

I never want to see... any of this anymore.

The timid man hurries to leave, stumbling, hesitating, like he doesn't believe this boxing gym owner-slash-gang member would let him go so easy.

Delphine stares daggers at him. He turned his head, and subconsciously he feels about himself. He doesn't have a thing on him. Notes and coins are worse than useless in Norport these days, to boot.

He grinds his teeth, drops down and leaves that gussied-up pen of his on the floor, then immediately turns and legs it into the darkness.

He's out.

Baird picks the fountain pen up, and with no comment stows it in her pocket.

Delphine.

Come and let's touch heads. Kip for a bit.

Just like the old days, in the video shop.

Young girl. They say you're the merc freshly assigned here?

Y... Yeah.

Nice luck, then. You've got an easy job here.

All you've gotta do is watch that those Victorian guys don't cross the blockade line. If anyone makes trouble, you kill 'em.

Got it!

Ha! Yeah, let's give those stuck-up Victorians the miserable days they deserve! If I was calling shots, I'd throw them a pile of hatchets or whatever and let them dispatch themselves instead!

I... I don't think the brief allows that.

You know how to rain on a parade, little girl. We're Sarkaz. What does it matter to us if they live or die?

We may as well find our own fun where we can.

B... But...

No, whatever. I'm going to take a nap, so you watch this place. If any accidents happen, I've got no reservations about taking your little head off along with theirs.

He's gone.

Thank you, girl.

I didn't bring much out this time. There's some food, and some medicine...

Oh, that suffices, thank you, thank you.

Why is it so weird for me to help you? You're a Sarkaz.

You're one of us...

What if we talk to my officer, sir? You don't need to be staying with these Victorians.

No, no. I've lived here my whole life. This is my home.

Londinium is?

Anyplace you go, you find Sarkaz, don't you? I took on running a hotel myself, after you lot arrived here...

I've never been to Kazdel, little girl. Is that where you're from?

No, I've never been either.

Then where do you call home?

Home? I... I'm not that sure. I was born in Columbia, but... my old captain said Kazdel was the real home for us Sarkaz.

Even though you've never set foot there?

I... I don't know, but that's what all of them say...

Hah-hah. I don't take much notice of what those soldiers like to tell us. Never mind going out killing with them—I'd rather get that chandelier in my hotel fixed.

You should've seen it when it was still in good shape, I'm telling you. A crown of jewels to beat any dame's necklace!

Not to mention all the effort I spent as a younger man, hands-on, polishing that thing to a spit-shine!

You... You sure are one weird Sarkaz.

Is it strange to be more fond of light fixtures than murder? I'm sorry, I confess I've never had much contact with mercenaries...

But it more than comforts me that there are kindhearted girls like you who'd bring supplies for me out here.

Bye for now, child. I can't stay around here too long. If you ever get the chance in future, you must come pay a visit to my hotel.

Forty, even thirty years ago, when Norport was still singing with life, the hotel on Sunset Street was the best place in all of Londinium to be!

I... I will.

Maybe... once we're done with this war?

Hah-hah. Good! You'll have a secret invitation from me to try our best desserts!

Shatter.

Such witchery has no purchase against us, Banshee. You've made more than enough attempts over these past days.

It is time wasted. A true grasp of our cluster's nature is not yours.

Your knowledge is wholly attained from study. Altogether parched is your personal experience.

Perhaps, you should lay down your pen of bone for one moment? We would like simply to take a walk with you.

In the words of a good Viscount we once became, this city offers no better time than the present.

Walk slow. The footpaths about the city center are Londinium's pride.

Damazti, what fate is it you wish to elect for yourself?

You're profuse with incarnations and transformations. You believe death is always yours to outrun.

I will perform your elegy, for you in your whole.

Please, don't look to scare us, Banshee. We know the methods at your disposal.

We simply point out that an individual's death is not the end to us, just as a city does not metamorphose for a street's removal, nor does a civilization collapse for a written script's vanishing.

Yet any civilization will languish and decline.

And thus, we value the renewal, the experience.

We knew close to every one of your forebears, Banshee. All once were young, and all once were greatly, ardently aspirational as you are now.

Perhaps there's no other way it should be. Perhaps it is by the elegy, the dirge, that transformation should be begotten.

But they all became as dust in the end. Your cohort likewise cannot flee the knell at your nape.

Does your experience still draw you to that flame of ruination's side?

No. No, it doesn't.

Already we have searched for countless years, and still we search. For different looks, for different places.

You are an extraordinary master of witchcraft.

May we bid you to grant this olden memory a pittance of a stage set?

We... I sunk into Sargon's sea of sands for a hundred years. The time when the King of Kings' expedition had only just come to a close.

Such exploits call to you to follow in their wake. Especially before they've fully passed into legend.

Banshee, stir those sandstorms for me, a Fata Morgana though it may be.

I ask a meager moment of your precious time. Come seek my origins with me.

Let us submerse in them. Let us trek together. Maybe you'll understand me, or maybe I'll find myself in you.

Prove yourself to me.

We will reach a conclusion, Damazti.

Curtains.

Of course, obviously, this doesn't quite match up with what remnant memories I have, but I can't blame you. The wind scours all too many traces.

It was here I built people's houses. Newfangled wonders like nomadic cities weren't yet to be, and the houses built of stones ultimately vanished into thin air within the sandstorms.

Built, then destroyed, built, then destroyed...

Most might tire after facing such a cycle, but in it, I was happy.

You likened this to civilization. This is the 'renewal' you so enjoy?

No, not enjoy.

That was a sloppy metaphor, no more. Ultimately, there is a construction to every civilization, and an ending.

And yet I possess neither, though I so yearn to.

You aren't a stone. You're sand.

...Sand.

Yes, Banshee. I am sand.

Unable to be constructed. Its very own end.

A state you're not content with.

I once became as a lord ameer's countenance, and met the King of Kings of that era. He proclaimed himself 'The Shah of Past and Future,' that all answers to all creation lay in his golden trove of treasures.

I asked him: Your Majesty, what meaning is there to all we surround ourselves with? Where will you lead us?

He lifted his head high, and proclaimed to me: My very thought is Meaning.

Such was his arrogance, his egotism, that basking in the light of the afternoon sun, he believed himself Civilization's ruler.

But all I could see was that, comically, he'd trodden on a corner of his own cloak.

I was bored. And so I departed the place.

I'm very struck by the dukes' methods.

Our squad's not a small one... but you infiltrated like you were walking into your own backyard.

Those quick grapples of yours, and the mini illusion Units... No wonder you got your own Londinium intelligence network established under Sarkaz control this strict.

You're free enough you can move between Londinium and this disused plate however you want.

Victoria's the most formidable nation in these lands, and the Duke I'm loyal to is Victoria's worthiest of note.

It's only natural we'd have our whole gallery of Arts tricks readied.

Hope you don't turn them on us.

The Duke of Caster treats her friends very dearly.

The airship's hidden somewhere on this plate. By our estimates, there should be an underground dock here.

Nothing more concrete?

We'll leave it up to you.

You've got a little time before old Wellington and General Nachzehrer start testing each other's strength, but a little's all you've got.

I'm trusting you all to wrap this up in a satisfactory way. For me.

And don't forget. This is a trade, Your Royal Highness Alexandrina, and you, Doctor of Rhodes Island.