Each Way Bet Calculator - Quickly Work Out Your Return

Ragna
A photograph of a building built in the shape of a pentagon, named, unoriginally “The Pentagon” floats in front of me.
Streaks of red show through the hallways.
I lean back in my seat, looking at dates for each of the red smears.
“So you frequent the Pentagon in the United States a lot, do you Major?” I narrowed my eyes, leaning back, “are you above Vasquez or merely a ruse?”
Rachel soon draped her arms over my shoulders, giving me a soft and sweet kiss on my cheek. “You’re obsessed.”
I smiled, turning to her.
Rachel’s red hair was flawless and spilled over her sweet face as her ice-blue eyes locked onto mine.
My heartbeat rushed and I kissed her back as her mere presence ignited my passions.
“Wow…” Rachel beamed at me, “didn’t realize you could swoon.”
“Swoon?” I protested as I grinned at her.
“Yeah, swoon,” Rachel’s hand caressed my neck, “your heart-rate spiked, the surface temperature of your skin increased…”
My face fell, “Rachel-”
“That’s not new,” Rachel leaned against me, taking a deep breath, “just haven’t used it before.”
I heaved a sigh, “You know how scared I am of this technology that’s running around inside you.”
“I keep telling you,” Rachel said, moving around me, sliding into my lap, her arms around my neck, “The nanites gave up their AI to me. I am not in control of them or them of me,” she smiled to me, “we are one. Our aims are the same.”
I couldn’t help but frown, “what if those aims diverge?”
Rachel laughed, turning to the screen, “You programmed them for survival,” she turned to me, “I wanted to survive as much as the initial samples that entered me did. With our aims shared, there was no point in their own mind ever conflicting with me. It’s all me in here,” she poked my forehead playfully, “try and keep up, Love.”
“Still, Rachel,” I kissed her softly, “I worry.”
“Hmm,” Rachel looked to the screen, “Why are you spying on ‘The Pentagon’?”
“Major F, or whatever their name is, has been frequenting the place,” I informed.
“How do you know that?” Rachel asked, snuggling up to me in my lap.
“Xyphiel and I decided to track the Condensed Quantum Foam. It has a very distinct energy signature,” I frowned, “at first I was looking to see where they were storing it to consider if we could destroy whatever they were fueling… but they appear to be carrying it wherever they go.”
Rachel looked to the screen, confused, “What do they look like?”
I pulled up an image of Major F, his strange mask appearing on the screen. “Odd markings on the front-”
“Seven Eyes of God,” Rachel said, looking it over with an analytical eye.
“Oh?” I smiled.
Rachel now sat up, her head pressing against my shoulder as she pressed her rear into my lap, “mmm-hmm,” Rachel smiled.
“Any more information on that symbol or…?” I asked as Rachel pushed her hips against me harder, “do you have something else on your mind?”
“Well, the Seven Eyes of God are supposed to represent Righteousness, Judgement, Knowledge, Wisdom, Hope, Faith,” Rachel turned to me, her legs wrapping around my hips as she grinned at me, “and Love.”
I smiled, “so… just symbols then?” I asked, placing my hands on her hips, “nothing to give us hints to Major F’s identity…?”
Rachel smiled, grinning to me, “It means they have something to do with God, but I think you knew that,” she pulled down on my neck and I kissed her passionately.
I smiled at her, “So, does this mean you want another round with me, love?”
Rachel beamed up at me, her head on my forehead, “Actually…” she grinned at me, “unless you just want to have fun.”
“What do you mean?” I said, pulling away from her slightly, confused by her words.
Rachel removed my hands from her hips to place them on her waist, my hands resting on her toned stomach, “I mean… we’ve succeeded.”
My eyes went wide and I could feel an insurmountable smile spread over my face, “Rachel? Really?”
“Oh yes, implantation and everything,” Rachel winked at me.
I kissed her deeply, pulling her tight against me as she returned the kiss, her arms around my neck.
Rachel soon rested her head on my shoulder, sighing contently, “I mean… we don’t have to stop, you know, having fun.”
I smiled, “I don’t plan on it…” I pursed my lips, “...but now it’s even more important to bring Zepherina home.”
Rachel pulled away from me, “if I can somehow talk with her, I know she’ll come back.” Rachel frowned, “but everything is so radio silent on Vasquez or anything related to it.”
I moved my hand to Rachel’s stomach, smiling, “in the meantime… you two need to be kept safe.”
Rachel cuddled up to me, smiling up at me warmly, “Yes,” her hand caressed the top of my hand.
My heart felt so full as I roamed my hand over her stomach, “I’m not missing a single moment of her life. Every birthday, first moment, I’m not letting this one slip away.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rachel’s smile weakened, “If I had known, I’d have never left.”
I nodded, “I know my love.”
Rachel took a deep breath and now stretched out over my lap, displaying her body sensually before me, “thought of any names?”
I smiled down at her as she teased me relentlessly, “I can think of you saying my name, passionately, for some time in the near future, if you keep that up.”
“Oh no,” Rachel feigned shock and fear, her hands roaming over her delicious body, “anything but that.”
I picked her up in my arms and grinned wide to her, getting to my feet, “and that does it.”
We kissed deeply as I made my way to our quarters with Rachel in my arms, right up until the moment when I laid her on the bed.
…
After some time, Rachel and I laid nude beneath the covers of our shared bed.
I gazed up at the ceiling, a wide smile on my face still as Rachel, now exhausted, snuggled up to my side, sleeping soundly. “Zerlinda?” I mused, speaking softly out loud. “Nova?” I continued to muse before my smile grew more, “Raanana…?” The name bumped around in my head,“Raanana, come to mother…” I said softly, my eyes tearing up slightly.
I heaved a sigh, “Zepherina…” I closed my eyes, “I hope you forgive me for not being there… I would have done anything to be there.”
Rachel shifted slightly in her sleep, nuzzling closer to me.
As I stared at the ceiling, I heard the echo of a familiar voice from all those years ago ring in my ears.
May any happiness you ever have be tainted by greater sorrow. May the feat of victory always turn to ash in your mouth.
I shuddered and sat up, waking Rachel.
“Huh?” Rachel turned to me, “baby… come back to bed.”
I got to my feet, quickly dressing, “I need to check something.”
Rachel groaned, “is it going to take long?”
“Yes,” I turned to her, “just rest my love.”
“Where are you going?” Rachel complained.
I turned to her, pulling my shirt over my head, “it’s better you don’t know.”
Rachel rolled her eyes and rolled over in the bed, “making the decision for me?”
After I took a deep and exasperated breath, I grumbled, “Rachel… please not now damn it I-” I stopped, the pit of my stomach dropping.
If it was all in my head, I was self-sabotaging, wasn’t I? I turned and walked to the bed, lying next to her, “I need to see Esmeralda because I think…. The reason why we’ve had so much strife has been that the second I’m truly happy,” I took a deep breath, feeling ridiculous saying it out loud, “is because of some kind of hex from an angel from some time ago.”
Rachel turned to me, a perfect eyebrow raised on her flawless face, “A hex?”
…
I approached Esmerlda’s room, the door had an ominous air about it, some sort of curse she placed on the door that she felt would make it easier for me to find her.
Unlike her, of course, I knew this ship like the back of my hand.
I opened the door and to my shock, I spotted two demonesses.
Esmerelda was in her usual human-like shape. She had her horns out, as well as her hooved feet and tail, all beneath a dress skirt (which I truly hated). To my minor appreciation, however, she had gone as far as to wear the armored chest and arm guards I had suggested.
It was a start.
Of course, that could not be said for the woman who stood across from Esmeralda. Or rather: the Succubus who stood across from Esmeralda.
She had long blond hair, flawless hair, as to be expected. Poking out of said flawless hair was a pair of light brown horns, almost demure in their size compared to Esmeralda’s black ones. She had cloven hooves, much skinnier than Esmerelda’s, similar to Tasha’s hooves if I recall correctly. Blonde fur covered her legs up to her mid-thigh and a brown tail flicked back and forth nervously.
Her large brown wings were tightly folded behind her back.
Her figure was tight, voluptuous, and very attractive to be honest. I suppose that would be expected. She wore a purple leather corset and her brown claws were long, poking through a set of matching fingerless gloves.
“Esmerelda,” I chastised, narrowing my eyes, “have you learned how to asexually reproduce, or is there a reason why there’s a fresh succubus here?”
The girl gasped, “P-Please ma’am do not talk to her that way! You don’t know how powerful she is!”
Esmerelda fell to one knee before me, “Mistress, my apologies, I only just now brought Brittney here.”
The succubus, Brittney, turned to me slowly, a cold realization passing over her, “M-Mistress…? B-but you said you… served…”
I walked in, my wings likely more obvious without the door blocking them.
Brittney shrieked and fell to her knees, hard and pressed her forehead against the ground, “Forgive me!” she gasped, “I mean, don’t forgive, but have mercy-wait!” she clasped her hands together, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry!”
I turned to Esmerelda, “Esmerelda, explain.”
Esmerelda remained, dutifully, on bended knee, “My Mistress, I came across Brittney when I was seeking out a cursed book I had left behind. While I found it had claimed a victim, I also discovered that Brittney was summoned by a hapless boy.” she looked up to me, “the boy is dead and the cursed man is now my thrall.”
“Your thrall?” I lifted an eyebrow.
“You may speak boy and be courteous, this is my mistress, your new Empress,” Esmerelda explained.
A pale man with a faraway look in his eyes approached and bowed, “Hello My Empress.”
“Does it have a name?” I asked.
Esmerelda shrugged, “I had not cared to ask.”
I rolled my eyes, turning to Britney, “So what, another refugee from the pit?”
Brittney’s hands were still clasped before her and she continued to shake at the mere sight of me.
“Yes, my Mistress,” Esmerelda explained.
“Okay, both of you on your fee-er, hooves,” I ordered.
Esmerelda rose to her hooves and Brittney did the same, although her knees were knocking together fearfully.
I sighed heavily, “Girl put something less slutty on,” I looked at the girl’s exposed cleavage and sexual clothing, “If you are under Esmerelda’s charge, that makes you mine and if you are, indeed, mine, then you are a seductress no longer.”
Brittney swallowed hard, “B-but, I’m officially lord Belial’s…”
I grinned, “Oh, I know how to fix that, my dear.”
Esmerelda winced.
Brittney backed away from me, “I-I… w-what are you going to do to me? Are you going to hang me upside down from the ceiling? O-Or hang me an inch over the floor?”
“Are those standard things my father does?” I said with a sly grin, my eyebrow raised. Rage, ready my brand, please.
"Yes, mother," Rage answered in my mind.
Brittney just swallowed hard, “Y-Yes, I’ve heard the stories.”
“Oh, my dear, I promise you this will be over very quickly,” I opened my palm, a gauntlet with my burning Ω symbol appearing, the symbol was red hot, I could see steam rise off its surface.
“Wait!” Brittney backed away from me, her eyes wide.
“Esmerelda, hold her,” I ordered.
“No!” Brittney turned around and gasped as Esmerelda grabbed her arms.
“It’s over quickly,” Esmerelda grinned wide, the brand on her forehead glowing, “and then you’ll serve a new master.”
Brittney shook her head, “no! No, I don’t want it!”
“You’d prefer to be under Lord Belial’s command?” Esmerelda argued.
I grinned to her, “Yes, Brittney, is your current master really so benevolent?”
Brittney frowned, turning to the brand, her brow furrowed and she swallowed hard, looking to Esmerelda, “n-not the face… please…”
I kept my cocky grin as I approached Brittney, “I have only done it once… I don’t think it matters where the brand is.”
Brittney whimpered as I approached and her wings spread wide, revealing her back.
“This will do,” I thrust the brand into Brittney’s back.
A howl of pain filled the room as the brand scalded Brittney’s flesh.
Esmerelda held her tight, making sure she didn’t fall or move as I branded her.
“By my heritage as daughter of all Hades, I evoke my right, to take any minion of the servants of my father’s, as my own,” I could feel a power surge through me and as it did, my wings tingled as they did the last time with Esmerelda.
Just as last time, however, I felt like something had filled me to capacity as if the contents of my body were under pressure and I should not linger with this power surging through me.
“I do so without permission, without consent! I transfer this soul into my service,” I completed the spell, the brand’s heat now vanishing into Brittney. When I removed the brand, it was cool to the touch.
Brittney heaved in pain for a moment as I watched the wounds around the brand heal swiftly.
“All done, my dear,” I removed the gauntlet, “I told you it would be over quickly.”
Brittney turned to me, her once blue eyes were now violet, like mine. She looked up at me and fell to her knees, tears leaking down the sides of her face, “I… I’ll serve you forever.”
“Now, as I was saying, enough with the whore outfit, put on something dignified. As I stated, you are no longer a seductress, you’re now a warrior in my army,” I demanded.
Brittney gulped, “I’m… like… uh… how so?”
I lifted my eyebrow, glaring down at her.
Brittney gasped, “no, I mean.. Uh… what… do you-?”
“However you think a woman ought to go into battle,” I barked, “something that’s modest and actually serves to protect your body in a fight.”
“In a fight?” Brittney blushed and got to her hooves. She heaved a sigh and I watched as her outfit shifted drastically.
She now wore a heavy black leather shirt, with intricate silver embroidery on the shoulders and along the collar. It was tied there, cinching the collar closed over her bust. Even the cuffs had matching embroidery. Around her trim waist was a wide belt which separated the shirt from the long black leather pants which went down to her hooves, though over the back of the hooves, there was similar silver embroidery.
At her side, attached to her belt, was a whip.
I had to admit, she was wearing pants, which was a step up from Esmerelda, “Dare I ask why you consider that as something a woman would wear into battle?”
Brittney’s face blushed, “My… my idol when I was younger was Linda Sterling.”
Esmerelda and I gave her a quizzical look.
“Zorro’s Black Whip? George Lewis was her co-star!” Brittney rubbed her shoulder nervously, “it was the only series with a female hero who wasn’t a damsel in distress and uh… does no one watch Zorro these days?”
“I don’t know what a ‘Zorro’ is,” Esmerelda explained.
“Well I rather like it,” I pointed out, “it’s functional, at least.”
Brittney beamed to me, “thank you, mistress!”
Esmerelda turned to me, “My Empress, my apologies for bothering you with all of this.”
I laughed, “no bother at all. You will need to get started with training her,” my expression grew serious, “but I have another matter for you.”
“How may I aid you, Mistress?” Esmerelda asked.
“What do you know of curses?” I queried.
Esmerelda grinned, “I know a great deal.”
“Good,” I held out my hand, and asked, “am I cursed?”
Esmerelda’s brow furrowed as she looked me over, not taking my hand, but merely walking around me. She held her fingers up in the air and gave a shudder, “twice over.”
“Lovely,” I frowned, “can they be removed?”
“Beyond my power, My Mistress. One is because it was placed on you by someone far more powerful than I, and the other because it is a Hex from an angel,” Esmerelda explained.
“What luck,” I shook my head.
“That is the nature of the hex,” Esmerelda continued.
“Explain,” I demanded.
“Luck, as it were, is not on your side. The hex is such that any action you take has the better chance to err on misfortune,” Esmerelda rationalized.
I rolled my eyes, “I do not believe in luck, Esmerelda.”
Esmerelda nodded, “perhaps, but that is the nature of the hex.”
“And the curse?” I asked.
“I cannot even fathom it, it is ancient and powerful,” Esmerelda sighed, “far beyond my, or any demon’s ability, at least the ones I know of. Even the new one, Bella.”
“My father’s handiwork, most likely,” I rolled my eyes.
It was then I was interrupted by Xyphiel’s voice over the PA system.
“Ragna, we have a development, Major F is reaching out to us once more and we have a bead on his location,” Xyphiel barked.
“Esmerelda, Brittney, follow me,” I turned and made my way to the bridge.
…
Once there, I spotted Bella standing next to Xyphiel.
Syria, Rasper, and Alexis all sat at various consoles.
Esmerelda stood between me and Bella, while Brittney stopped, looking to Bella with wide eyes.
“W-What is a higher demon doing here?” Brittney asked.
Bella, though in her human form, grinned mischievously, her eyes flashing red, “What’s a lowly succubus doing here?”
Brittney seemed to hide behind me like a child would behind her mother’s skirt.
Xypheil grumbled, “he’s hailing us, but he is in the Pentagon, as per your tracking software.”
I gave a nod, “Esmerelda, can you corrupt the entire building?”
Bella turned to me, her eyebrow lifted in curiosity.
Esmerelda looked the area over, “I could, though it may take me some time.”
Bella gave a melodious laugh, “oh would it now, Esmerelda?”
Esmerelda shot Bella a withering gaze, “and you could do better you nasty behemoth?”
Bella’s wicked grin curled both ends of her lips up and her teeth shifted into a more jagged and interlocking series of fangs, “Oh I could, you glorified pubic louse.”
“To what end, sister?” Xyphiel asked.
“Major F does not travel via portals or teleportation,” I explained, “there must be some sort of holy magic or another form of travel they use.”
“A door,” Bella explained, “it opens wherever they want,” she turned to us, “I’ve seen an angel walk out of it before.”
I smiled, “Well there you have it, Xyphiel.”
Xyphiel turned to Bella, “can you prevent it from opening?”
Bella scoffed, “if Immunda could prevent it, for me it will be child’s play,” she beamed to the image on the screen, “the building is even the right shape,” she whispered as another melodic chortle escaped her lips.
Esmerelda pointed her finger forward, dragging it through the air from slightly above her head and down to her hooves, black smoke following behind it, “Then come along dear if you hurry maybe we can find you, someone, to devour along the way.”
Bella snickered as she approached the portal.
I glanced at Brittney, “perhaps you should help them.”
Brittany gasped, “y-yes Mistress!” Britney walked into the portal with Esmerelda following behind.
Another alert came, “incoming call,” Rage announced.
“You didn’t answer them right away?” I asked.
Xyphiel grinned, “I wanted to let them wait.”
“Well before you do,” I interrupted him, “you should know that the symbols on his mask are that of the Eyes of God.”
Xyphiel laughed wickedly, “Ah, a true man of god? Then he at his heart, a fool,” he grinned at the screen, “let us see if I cannot remedy his faith.” Xyphiel proceeded to press a button, finally answering the call, “Major F, good to see you.”
“The feeling is not mutual,” Major F began, their voice still modulating.
“Problem?” Xyphiel grinned.
“You are acting out of character,” they began, “I had expected you to attack another target by now.”
“I decided to deal with a pest problem first,” Xyphiel mused, “but luckily the pest has shown itself.”
“A pest?” Major F’s helmet tilted to the side inquisitive, “how amusing, I had thought you the same.”
Xyphiel looked at me, “Let me know when the demonesses are done,” he thought to me.
I nodded, closing my eyes, speaking to Esmerelda’s mind, “Esmerelda, inform me when you three complete your task.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Esmerelda responded promptly.
As I looked on at the screen, it appeared as if the eyes of God on Major F’s helm shifted in hue moment to moment.
Xyphiel narrowed his eyes, “Well, if this little exercise was merely to lob insults at me-”
“Why is it your children flock to me, Xyphiel?” Major F asked.
Xyphiel narrowed his eyes, “What was that?”
“Do you think I attract your children specifically or at random? I am rather curious about your theories on this,” Major F inquired.
Xyphiel placed his hands behind his back, “Tasha is a priestess and you serve God, which makes sense for her to be there.”
“And I requested Eva to come to me as well,” Major F began, “have you considered why that might be?”
“No,” Xyphiel glared at the screen, “I have not.”
“I am disappointed Xyphiel,” Major F began, “surely you have a hypothesis…? Have I outwitted you so well?”
Rasper couldn’t help but let out a weak laugh.
“Well, Major,” Xypheil growled, “I assume you’ve surrounded yourself with my children with the erroneous thought process that they would offer you some modicum of protection from my wrath.”
Major F’s head tilted the other way, listening.
“Mistress, it is done. The building is corrupted. And Bella has snuck inside looking for a ‘snack’,” she grumbled in my mind.
“Excellent work,” I smiled, glancing at Xyphiel, nodding, “See if you yourself can’t find Vasquez or Major F.”
“It’s an interesting concept,” Major F turned the camera’s view, and I could now see a woman with brown hair and icy blue eyes sitting next to Tasha and a rather muscular dark-skinned man. “...or I could just enjoy turning your own children against you.”
“Is that Evangeline?!” I shouted, looking at the tan-skinned girl. I could see Xyphiel’s eyes and Rachel’s nose.
“Yes, Empress, it is,” Major F informed. “You’ll also be pleased to know that I have your daughter here as well.”
I narrowed my eyes, grinning, “I’m coming down there and I’m going to take Zepherina back!”
Major F gave an odd chuckle, “no, you won’t because I have worked diligently to turn her against you as well, Empress.” He clenched his fist in front of the camera, “If you show your face, she will kill you.”
“Doubtful,” I narrowed my eyes, “Rage, get me down there.”
“Disruption detected,” Rage pointed out.
I glared at the screen, “Right…”
“Xeilitch,” Major F taunted, “You have taught her so well, Empress, her technology has been invaluable.”
“You may find her technology is limited,” I informed, “but you’ve only delayed our arrival.”
“Xyphiel,” Major F began, “have you stagnated on your other goal?”
Xyphiel lifted an eyebrow, “what goal would that be?”
Major F paused for a moment, leaning towards the camera, “the one where you open the gateway to Hell, and in doing so, travel to Hell itself to kill Lucifer, freeing yourself from your immortality.”
Xyphiel grinned wide now, and I heaved a sigh of relief. Xyphiel now appeared to have finally cornered the Major.
“Ah, you finally tip your hand too far,” Xyphiel chuckled, “you know my true desire? That means you can only be from two systems I have visited previously, explaining your knowledge of my methods.”
“Oh?” Major F tilted his head, “Do continue.”
“Let me pose a question, Major,” Xyphiel grinned, “Why do you hate me so?”
“Retribution,” Major F began, the treble in their voice dipping.
“Be specific,” Xyphiel grinned, “I imagine many wish retribution on me.”
“You raped a woman before her father and the corpse of her fallen lover,” Major F admitted.
“Vestia?” Xyphiel began to laugh, first a low chuckle and then a downright maniacal laugh, “You’re here to avenge Vestia?” he grinned viciously. “Of all of them? Her? She lives, you fool!”
I glared at Xyphiel, “You told me you killed her, damn it Xyphiel!”
Xyphiel chuckled, “Sorry, sister. She was the only one.”
“What a marked improvement for you,” Major F jabbed.
I narrowed my eyes, “what if Timothy had seen it? Even heard of it?”
“He didn’t,” Xyphiel said confidently, “Trust me, the boy was oblivious of my true nature.”
“Oh,” Major F chimed in, “No, he was not.”
A chill ran down my spine and I turned to the screen, my heart nearly in my throat, “Excuse me?”
Major F shrugged, “What sort of vengeance could I possibly reap if I didn’t first shatter the boy’s faith in his parents first.”
Xyphiel’s breaths grew deeper and faster as his fists clenched, “What?”
I got to my feet, “You!?” I screamed, “You took Timothy!?”
“Yes!” Major F confirmed, “I took Timothy from you,” their head leaned back, their voice emotionless, “and before that, I showed him every rape, murder, and atrocity you committed!”
I gritted my teeth before I screamed, “You’re a dead man!”
“Rage!” Xyphiel roared so loud that Rasper, Alexis, Syria, and even I jumped, “Charge, target and fire!”
I turned to Xyphiel, “Our children are down there!”
“I’d rather they be dead than in his hands!” Xyphiel screamed, now in his full Niten form, glaring at Major F, “You… are… doomed!”
Major F chortled, “Am I? Dragon?”
Xyphiel roared, “Rage! 5% Charge, I want no time for him to escape!”
“Charging,” Rage announced.
“Damn it Xyphiel!” I shouted, knowing that I had the ability to stop Rage from actually firing, “My daughter is down there!”
“She was there when we fired on Jerusalem!” Xyphiel confessed, “the girl survived fine!”
“And what about Eva?” I protested, glaring at him, “Will you kill Timothy’s sister in an attempt to avenge her brother?!”
Xyphiel turned to me, sneering, “Zepherina will save her.”
“I appreciate the trust you have in her, but don’t you think it’s a risk we cannot take?” I shouted.
“Uh, Master, Mistress?” Rasper shouted.
“What?!” Xyphiel and I turned to Rasper.
Rasper pointed up and we saw the image of Major F, mockingly waving at us.
“Bon Voyage,” Major F chortled as we felt a shudder reverberate through the ship.
“What was that?” I asked.
Rage announced, “Charge of ion cannon at 40%, 80%,” a moment later, “160%”
“What?!” I shouted.
Rasper exclaimed, “Something entered the firing chamber and detonated!”
Major F’s image vanished from the screen as I watched in horror as the screen flashed red, showing numbers that were more than troubling.
“What’s the theoretical threshold of the magnetic fields?!” Xyphiel shouted.
“It’s 200%!” I shouted.
“360%” Rage’s screen flashed, “Please advise of action: All actions require user decision.”
Xyphiel shouted, “Do not fire the cannon!”
I turned to him, “Oh, Now you don’t want to fire it?!”
“Bella tells me the doorway to Hell is somewhere in that world!” he narrowed his eyes.
I turned to the screen, “Rage! Fire the cannon, backward!”
“Backwards?!” Xyphiel shouted, and in an instant, we all lurched forward.
Rasper tumbled over his console while Alexis laughed maniacally at the event.
The lights continued to flash and while the cannon’s charge now read “0%” there was a new warning. “Shield integrity: 80%”
“How did this happen?” Xyphiel shouted, “Rage is fully shielded, how could a foreign object enter the cannon chambers?!”
“The rear is unshielded while charging,” I growled, tapping a few items on the console in front of me. Our current trajectory had us barreling towards landfall somewhere on the Eastern Seaboard of the United States of America.
I tried to calculate a better trajectory as Rage announced, “shield integrity at 50%”
“Brilliant Ragna!” Xyphiel roared, “Now you have an interstellar vessel diving into the atmosphere that it was not designed to exist in!”
I glared at him, storming over to him, “If you weren’t such a hothead, then maybe we wouldn’t have had to have done this!”
“Me?!” Xyphiel growled, “How is this my fault!”
I pointed at the screen, “He read you like a book! He knew you’d fire the cannon on him!”
“Then why did he have Eva, Tasha, and Zepherina with him!?” Xyphiel glared, “he thought they were insurance!”
“He knew you’d think that and fire anyway!” I shouted.
Xyphiel roared at me and pushed me backward.
I clenched my teeth and fist and then slammed my fist into his jaw, causing him to fall to one knee.
Rasper now shouted, “Can yah stop tearing each other apart before we are torn apart!”
Xyphiel and I turned to the screen.
“Shield integrity 25%, impact in 3 minutes and 30 seconds,” Rage announced.
I helped Xyphiel to his feet, “He planned on that too.”
Xyphiel nodded, “Rage, side thrusters, push up towards the Atlantic.”
I shouted next, “Divert shielding from the rear systems to the front.”
“Doing so will cause irreparable damage to the rear sections of the ship. It is not shielded for re-entry temperatures,” Rage informed.
“Move all of the Colonists out of the colony,” I frowned, “sadly… they’re about to lose their homes.”
“Confirmed, moving civilians,” Rage advised.
Everything shuddered again and the sound of flexing and stressing metal sent shivers through my body.
Xyphiel slowly shifted from his Niten form, now returning to his smaller humanoid shape, “I’m sorry Ragna,” he looked to the screen, “it was never my intention to cause damage to the ship.”
“Stop being sentimental and let's make sure we survive!” I shouted.
“Shield integrity at 65%, rear hull temperatures increasing,” Rage announced.
Syria got to her feet, “Rage, Fatima, where is she!”
An image of Fatima with many other colonists huddled together in a large room flashed on the screen.
Syria screamed, “Fatima!”
“Rage!” I shouted, “Make sure the Colonists are safe!”
“Impossible without risking more extensive damage to the ship,” Rage confirmed.
I took a deep breath, “Rage, focus on passenger survival,” a tear rolled down my cheek as my life’s work was now destined to burn in the atmosphere. “Life support and living quarters only.”
“Confirmed,” Rage announced as the ship shuttered again, “Impact in, 2 minutes.”
I checked the instruments, seeing that we now were speeding towards the ocean, at least. “Rage,” I shouted, “can the ion cannon fire in any capacity?”
“Cannon will function at minimal capacity,” Rage announced.
“Fire whatever you can in front of us,” I shouted.
“What?!” Xyphiel shouted in return.
“It will break the surface tension of the ocean water!” I shouted.
The lights shut down and we were now in darkness, feeling the ship shudder and shake.
Xyphiel turned to me, “now, we have no power for any of the instruments.”
I nodded, “then, whatever happens, happens.”
“Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major,” Rasper began to sing. “Tuck me in my little wooden bed.
We all love you, Sergeant Major.”
The ship shuddered and I wondered if this was the moment Rage fired what he could of the cannon.
“When we hear you bawling, "Show a leg!" Rasper continued, sitting down in his seat once more, “Don't forget tah wake me in the morning, an’ bring me 'round a nice hot cup o’ tea.”
More groans of the ship echoed through the bridge.
“Kiss me goodnight, Sergeant-Major,” Rasper continued.
“Would you shut up!” Xyphiel screamed before everything lurched forward.
I recall flying forward and then backward, my back hitting against a console hard, as the sounds of the hull creaking and groaning as well as the sounds of what could possibly be considered thunder echoed from all around us.
With effort, I pushed myself to my feet, finding that now the bridge was tilted at a 90-degree angle. I was standing on the console I had previously been working on.
The hull groaned again and I felt my ears pop.
“Are…” Rasper groaned, “we dead?”
Syria crawled across the screen, groaning, “No.”
“Goddamit,” Rasper cursed.
The lights turned back on and I shielded my eyes as the dark red of the emergency lights was drowned out by the light of the normal functioning lights.
“I feel fish!” Alexis, for her part, pressed herself against the far wall, shouting happily, “Oooh we’re in the water!” as she nuzzled her face against the wall.
“Did the crash kill you, Xyphiel?” I asked.
“No,” Xyphiel growled.
“Good,” I looked around, feeling disoriented.
“Restoring artificial gravity systems. Priming medical bays,” Rage announced.
“Oh, fuck me,” Rasper groaned.
“Prepare for proper orientation in 20 seconds,” Rage announced.
Slowly the bridge seemed to shift from it’s 90-degree angle to 180 degrees once more. As it did so, I slowly guided myself to my seat.
“Rage, damage report!” Xyphiel barked.
“35% of the ship remains. Shields are holding back most of the water. We currently have maintained buoyancy, but due to a large amount of the ship damaged, we have taken on water and remain sunken somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic ocean,” Rage reported, “Multiple injuries of colonists, no casualties. Treating minor injuries at this time.”
I heaved a sigh, “Good job baby,” I patted the console, then closed my eyes, “Esmerelda, can you feel me?” I reached out with my mind.
“Yes, my Mistress! I can!” Esmerelda explained.
I got to my feet, “Xyphiel,” I looked to everyone around me, “good news, you’re going to get to kill him.”
“What?” Xyphiel exclaimed.
“Rage,” I queried, “who do you require to maintain the ship while we launch a counter-attack?” I asked.
“I will work best with Serenity and Rachel, as communication is instantaneous. Both can aid me in recovery and protection of the colonists, as well as minute repairs that are needed throughout the ship,” he advised.
“Is Rachel okay?” I frowned worried that she might have been hurt.
“She is unharmed, she was sleeping at the time. Securing her in bed protected her in her delicate state,” Rage informed.
“Good,” I heaved a sigh, “Keep Rachel as your contact with humans, not the ship.”
Xyphiel turned to me, “and how are we going to attack? Major F has prevented teleportation.”
I grinned and once again reached out to Esmerelda, “Esmerelda, open a portal for me.”
“Yes, mistress,” and with that Esmerelda’s dark portal appeared before us.
“Not all types.” I grinned, “Come, Xyphiel: We have a ship to avenge, daughters to collect and Major F’s pained death to thoroughly enjoy.”

After 5 real life years, I have finally done it. AFC Bolnore, “the worst team in England”, have won the treble!

It’s taken 5 years in real life, 35 in game seasons, 23 promotions, two hard drive reformats and 4000-odd ingame hours (most of which have been spent processing or idling), but thanks to the lockdown, I’ve finally reached the goal at long last: Taking AFC Bolnore, the “worst team in England” which in 2014 were predicted to come dead last in the illustrious Mid Sussex Football League Division 11 - all the way up through the football pyramid to the Premier League and Treble glory. In this time, the real AFC Bolnore have unfortunately become defunct, which made me unexpectedly sad. This spurred me on to complete the challenge, however. And now that I've done it, I'm not about to move on without documenting the suffering I've put my patience and my computer's processor through, so here goes.
This is basically a marathon version of the “dafuge challenge”, with some personal modifications to avoid going completely mad (such as allowing scouting at even the lowest level and signing players to an amateur team from across the country). The journey itself presumably started in some sort of field near Haywards Heath. Due to database quirks, I had to use fake players and staff to ensure that clubs that would normally be empty would have players and managers. For those who doesn’t know, this usually doesn’t change much other than the names and occasionally the nationalities of well-known players. This means that Eden Hazard is now named “Scott Greatorex”, Alvaro Morata is called “Candido Pastor”; and Thomas Müller, hilariously, is just called Josef Müller. From the beginning, I also only had the English football leagues as this alone was more than enough to bring my laptop to a boil.

THE EARLY YEARS
Basically, the first decade or so is just a test of endurance rather than representative of any form of management skill. The game isn’t really balanced below Conference level, so if you’re good enough to get promoted once, chances are you’re good enough to get promoted next year as well. The one challenge is keeping your players for an extended time, as amateurs change teams at the drop of a hat and aren’t restricted by pesky things such as “transfer windows” or “the loyalty and homebody-ness of a sane person”. I reckon that until Bolnore went semi-pro around the Isthmian level, at least half the squad would turn over each season. That said, it was in the amateur years that I also managed a whole league season without conceding a single goal, and I didn’t even notice until the summer break.

THE GREEN WAVE
Semi-pro level provided a different challenge; finances. I’d grown a preference for offering exorbitant (relatively speaking) match and goal bonuses to lure League One/Two-level players to my Isthmian/Conference side, which ensured that Bolnore’s liquidity was teetering on the edge of the abyss every single season. Fortunately, the consecutive promotions continued all the way to the Championship largely thanks to players such as John Brown, a club legend who followed the club all the way from Isthmian to the Premier League (I’ll get back to him later). The cartoon villains of the board considered firing me for managing the finances like a drunken sailor. Miraculously, the club was then suddenly sold to some spanish bloke who immediately injected cash; not a lot, mind you, but enough to ensure that the smallest venue in the Championship could stay afloat and even make a few free transfers. Bolnore only spent three years in the Championship, getting promoted in their third season in part due to the magic of Mirkos Petrak, another club legend and goalscoring virtuoso (I’ll get back to him later).

A NEW COLOSSUS
I was cash-strapped with mostly Championship level players, and had to change playstyles accordingly to survive in the EPL. Through the first three seasons, AFC Bolnore would be known to play proper English 4-4-2 with long balls and hard studs (whew, euphemism much?) which would award us with ignoble mid-table positions. A gradual change began in the 42/43-season, where strategic sales allowed the purchase of Tom Moore, future vice-captain; and Tommy Spencer, Harry Kane-clone and absolute lad. These two and the return of one Kezie Keen (who I don’t have a screenshot of as the game opted not to save his history) led to a masterclass 4th place finish.
The rise continued from there. With powerhouses such as Man Utd, Arsenal, Man City and Sunderland going through upheaval and rough patches, Bolnore pounced. And, through continued development of their youngsters as well as the occasional iconic transfer, they’d finish runners up twice before dethroning Chelsea in 45/46. In the same period, Bolnore won the EL in 2043, and the CL (somewhat fortuitously) in 2045, as well as the domestic cups a few times - look it doesn’t matter. Only one thing remained; the elusive (true) Treble.
Anyway, after Chelsea’s second second place in -47, Miguel Perez, legendary manager (and for some reason, friend of yours truly) decided to join Manchester City instead. He spent a whole 5 months there before getting fired, whereupon he joined Stoke instead in the Championship. Every big team was in complete shambles. The season turned into a cakewalk after the fatigue from the christmas period started setting in, and I was merciless in the transfer market to ensure complete dominance over the English pyramid that I had worked so diligently to climb.

JUST ONE LAST THING…
The Champions League was the one big hurdle that stood unforded. True, I had already won it once, but that was pretty much a fluke. While the teams on home soil had become routine, four clubs in Europe were still fully capable of massively fucking my shit up; Barcelona, Bayern Munich, Juventus, and particularly PSG. The latter almost had me give up in the penultimate season, as they managed to overturn a 0-2 loss at home to a 3-4 in thanks to an own goal and a massive blunder, both from the same defender. But the year after, it happened. It began with a needlessly narrow 3-2 vs. Basel, followed by a complete 11-1 walloping against Chelsea, then a delicious 7-2 semi final against Barcelona. Only Bayern remained for the final, and they’d fall to Chris Bennett’s desperate header from a free kick in the 30th minute of extra time, making it 3-2. AFC Bolnore, the “worst club in England”, are treble winners.
(Side note: I also briefly managed France for a couple of years, which was a dumb decision that may have indirectly contributed to making PSG an all-time powerhouse.)

THE ABSOLUTE LEGENDS
This is the all-time AFC Bolnore best eleven as calculated by whichever algorithm it is the game uses. I’m pretty split on it, as while it’s nice to see the formative years and players being acknowledged in line with the superstars, a 4-4-2 still makes for a not quite optimal selection. Oh well;
GK - Dennis Bertram: Can’t really say I’ve had any outstanding goalkeepers, and it seems Bertram made the team sheet based on appearances alone. He has been a mostly nailed-on pick in the ‘modern age’ and is a reliable German goalie - what more can you ask for?
RB - Ryan Steade: At a glance, this is probably my best ever Bolnore player, stats wise. I reckon he’s at least 190 CA. I threw money at Chesterfield for him (£15.5M) because a scout said he’d turn out 4-5 stars. Since, he’s been a steade-y feature on the right back.
CB - Liam O’Hanlon: Okay, so, once I had won promotion to League Two and became pro, I disabled many of the lower leagues to ease the toll on my computer, and enabled a good chunk of the bigger leagues from around the world to avoid making England too dominant on the world stage. The side effect seemed to be a lot of random, good players showing up in leagues around the world. O’Hanlon was such a player, and I bought the Englishman for a laughable £12.5M from Anji in Russia.
CB - Damián Lozano: Joined up on a free from Valencia Mestalla when Bolnore was still in the Championship, and stuck around for six years, featuring reliably. Never quite good enough to get caps for Spain.
LB - Chris Morgan: Morgan really just proves that I haven’t had many long-serving left backs, as he showed up in the Conference and stuck around for five seasons until the Championship before he fucked off to Corinthian-Casuals to get relegated from League 1. I can’t remember him but he seems to have played well so he couldn’t have been bad.
MR - Tom Moore: This guy is shoehorned into the right midfield position because he can play there but he’s spent 98% of the time being a striker for me. He’s still around, serving as vice-captain being third-or-second choice up front depending on form, and although everyone keeps telling me he’s plagued by injuries, I’m just not seeing it after 256 league games.
MC - Kezie Keen: So this is where it gets fuzzy, because his player history has been removed to save memory. He joined in Conference N/S as a youngster from Arsenal, and followed the team to the Championship before joining Tranmere in the Premier League. After two seasons, he re-joined Bolnore, having now been retooled from a left winger to an attacking mid. By the end, he’d racked up the second-most appearances ever for Bolnore.
MC - Osmar: I’ll be honest, Osmar was an impulse buy in the PL which I wasn’t excited about. I needed a creative midfielder and he looked interesting. He was so consistent however that he pretty much played every game until he got displaced by a better midfielder, whereupon he graciously asked to return to Italy. How could I deny him?
ML - Marc Wilkinson: I don’t remember this guy, to be honest, but he played for 8 consecutive seasons during the Mid Sussex-years which makes him a friggin’ rarity.
ST - Matthew Dickson: I am so very happy that Dickson still is in the XI after all this time. I posted a screenshot of him years back. Although he was an atrocious footballer overall, he has many key attributes that allowed him to dominate on an amateur level - speed, stamina/workrate, and goalscoring ability. He alone allowed me to play a “boot it long to the fast lad”-style for about a decade, and when that didn’t work, his relatively intense pressing ensured that he’d at least create one goal from snagging the ball off any defender with a First Touch of 1 (which was everyone).
ST - Luke Harris: He’s just a rich man’s Dickson, really. He played for me in two periods between the Sussex County Leagues and League One, getting his most impressive scoring streaks in the Conference.
2nd GK - Jack Moore: As far as I can remember, I didn’t even mean for Jack to become a regular. I simply ran out of keepers in League 1 and brought him in on a free, and he unexpectedly developed into a starter who played all the way up to a whole season in the PL. He then moved to Reading and have had a very respectable career.
2nd Sub (MC) - Andrew Wilson: Wilson used to be my captain if I’m not mistaken, and he was a man of extremes. Completely devoid of everything resembling technique, he was first and foremost a physical powerhouse with the defensive sensibilities of a pitbull terrier, making playmakers pee their pants all around the country. Serving Bolnore from 35 to 42, he then went on to terrorise League 1 for half a decade before hanging up his boots.
3rd Sub (MR) - John Brown: The biggest atrocity of the all-time XI is that John Brown isn’t in the first eleven. This is a man who could have played Championship football but opted to join a Sussex County League Division Three team because he saw their potential. This is a man who diligently turned up every single day, from the arduous depths of Sussex to the heights of the Premiership, to make 528 appearances from Bolnore. This is the man who, in a single season, racked up 50 fucking assists and still went on to play for 8 more seasons despite teams 4 levels up wanting his services because he’s just that badass. Now he spends his days teaching the Bolnore youth how to be as awesome as he is. Praise be John Brown.
4th Sub (ST) - Mirko Petrak: Poacher extraordinaire from Croatia that I bought for the Championship. Fired his way into legend but fell a bit into the wayside when I started playing a more free flowing, versatile game and left the club. Still a top bloke though.
5th Sub (ST?) - Robbie Craven: Yeah, I don’t remember what this guy was like. A striker, most likely.
6th Sub (DC) - Andy Tatters: Tatters only made 86 league starts, which makes him the least featured players in the list. Bit of a robbery too, considering some of the players that came later, but I guess there’s some old farts in Haywards Heath somewhere voting on this and reminiscing about the good old days when the pitch was grown from cowpats.
7th Sub (ST) - Edu González: If Steade isn’t the best player I’ve had, this is the guy. Literally the Complete Striker made flesh, I lucked out as Barcelona had three excellent young forwards but only one position for them to share, so I bought him for a...reasonable £72M fee. Honestly, he hasn’t been terribly consistent and he’s injured a bit, but what a big game player he’s been.

Honestly, having written all this I’m finding it a little hard to let go. I semi-ironically swore that I’d never play Football Manager again after completing this, but the state of Bolnore now is a financially precarious one. If I were to, say, retire, and simulate for a few decades, I couldn’t leave them without establishing a healthy economy first...

The Best Part of You: Chapter 2.2: Concert Crasher (final)

((You can find part 1 here!))
Seth stumbled backwards and slipped on a puddle of digital slurry. His duelist flipped the bows into icepick grip, still with that aching, fake smile, and drove them down like daggers.
Scooting back as the sabers plunged through where his shoulders had been a second ago, he sent a wild kick into one of her shins and sent the encroaching killer toppling forwards. A knee landed uncomfortably close for comfort, eliciting a startled gasp of anticipation, followed by two bows ripping through the sleeves by his elbows to staple him with his back to the ground. Not enormously keen on letting a straddling serial killer vivisect him, Seth drew his legs out from under her, bent up and planted his dress shoes into her stomach, forcing her up and off in a flailing angry ball of venom. She cracked the back of her head on the floor with an audible impact that made him feel a brief pang of sympathy, quickly overshadowed by fear.
Untangling himself from the ruined jacket skewered with bows, the unclaimed demigod climbed to his feet, sneezing in a cloud of dust and resin. The masked attacker had recovered just as quickly, forcing him to raise his arms to catch her fists in a hurry. Her superior positioning and grip slowly eased him closer to the pile of instruments while her own breathing grew heavy. The gloved fingers laced with his own, mixing sweat and sludge, and squeezed until his bones threatened to crack. Several sharp points pricked his back. They had reached the pile, where, among other things, the demolished top board of a harpsichord terminated in a minefield of wooden splinters and nails. She eased him onto the deadly speartips with sadistic slowness. Seth’s arms trembled and were moments from giving out.
A trapdoor opened unhinged beneath her, swinging inward, and swallowed her up. Her grip on him was lost with a surprised yell. Seth peeled himself from the close call behind him. A hand rose to his heart and he dug in his nails to steady the heaving of his chest. If he ended up having a heart attack in his sleep, he was going to wake up so pissed in the Underworld.
It went without saying at this point that Seth’s momentary crush had evaporated like a fart in an industrial centrifuge, and any lovestruck notions of playing a saucy duet were replaced with the telltale jitters of flight-or-fight. With their host recently departed, the holographic stage lamps took to him instead, rotating about his head and dazzling him with harsh cyan sparks. A few experimental swings at them scared them off long enough to clear his space and his head. He needed to arm himself. A sweep of the floor revealed the twin bows sticking straight down into his jacket. It’ll do.
A hop, skip and jump over the trapdoor gauntlet placed him in front of the weapons, which he snatched up and inspected with the time he had left. The fearsome meld of garrote wire and Celestial Bronze left him wondering if it was even possible to play a violin with these monstrosities, and how awful the resulting sound would be produced. Seth couldn’t operate a manual can opener, much less a pair of twin music sabers, and his confidence diminished. Whatever the case, he felt safer knowing he had disarmed the crazy one-woman concert. When the trapdoor swung downwards and opened back up to let her disheveled form slowly rise, he steeled himself and held them by his sides. “What are you going to do without these, huh?” A disaster of a snarky line, and pretty much tempting fate to show her pull out something worse, but it was difficult to come up with snappy comments in the middle of a brawl, and he only had so much breath. He’d have plenty of time to write better material after she killed him and he repeated this process the next night.
The mask fractured briefly into a frown before correcting itself when the lamps swarmed her head with a buzz. She was seated on a large lumpy object resembling another piano – seriously? Seth was going to serenaded to death? – with several augmentations the nature of which could not be discerned. She dabbed delicately below the mask’s mouth with a handkerchief to wipe away a line of fluid dripping out then tapped the piano in front of her lovingly.
The spotlights centered back on her. She dragged her hands across the keyboard in a rapid minor scale and as if on cue, a large bronze cannon styled with treble clefs emerged from the opening top board. Cyan liquid glistened and pooled underneath the instrument-turned-siege engine. Spokes cranked outwards and wheels bound with rope affixed themselves to grounded rails.
“..Oh.”
The looming smile widened, causing the plastic to warp. The bows felt much less fearsome in his hands than they had several moments ago. White heels rammed into the pedal box and several pullies began to churn below the ground. The barrel of the cannon zeroed on his torso. “Oh.”
A beat pause followed.
“Fuck.”
Another pause.
“A cannon isn’t an instrument, you know.”
The maestra threw her fists down on the keys for a discordant wallop of sound. Pyoter Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s loudest rebuttal that cannons are, in fact, instruments, exploded out of the barrel in the form of a glitchy blob of electronic lights. Church bells rang in Seth’s brain as it collided with his upper body. Suddenly he was weightless, hitting not the ground but hurtling straight through the mountain of instruments and bursting out on the other side after boring straight through.
The ethereal projectile that had struck him melted into skin, leaving a Rorschach splotch across his dress shirt. Clamminess and a heavy, nauseating buzzing behind the eyeballs rocked him back and forth on the floor. The hole left by his trajectory through the hill began to collapse. The grand piano at the top sagged in the rapidly disappearing foundation. By the time Seth had staggered to his feet and inspected himself only to find no physical wound, the lamps had abandoned him to continue hounding their original target. So dream logic was back in full swing; good to know. That didn’t mean he wanted to take another cannonball head-on.
The assailant came into view atop the pile having recovered her blades, flawlessly cartwheeling into a triple flip and perching onto the descending piano to ride it like a runaway snowboard. She dragged a bow along her throat menacingly, her intention clear; Seth steeled against the bubbling pain descending into his stomach and wiped a spool of technicolor poison from his lips. He hurried around the pile to put more distance between himself and the ballerina of chaos, eyeing the torn top board with a dreadful resignation and tearing it free.
Speaking of ballerina… from around the pile she half-approached, half-danced in a rotating pirouette, sweeping the blades out in large circular swathes. The deadly dervish spun towards him like a top. Refusing to back down, Seth swung the nailed board hard. Their respective armaments clashed. Propping it as a makeshift shield, he held his ground and withstood the rhythmic succession of blows, each one chipping off a bit more of his bastion until a duel strike shattered the wood into pieces.
The maestra lowered her leg and stopped spinning to revel momentarily in Seth’s helplessness, tilting her head teasingly and receiving an unexpected punch to the face. She crumpled like a house of cards. Seth felt the satisfying crunch of a nose under his right hook then bounced back to roll up his sleeves and free up some elbow movement while staying light on the balls of his feet. It took a certain amount of sucker punches to the face himself before he had perfected the feint against particularly relentless bullies, and as much as he loathed the dirtiness of fisticuffs, victory took priority. He rolled his neck, because that’s what fighters did on television and it just felt natural. “Okay. Okay? Wanna dance? We can dance. Let’s dance, honey.”
Her motionless body convulsed and drew itself up on invisible puppet strings. One of her gloves fell by the wayside, and a prosthetic hand of manikin wood curled even tighter around the bow. Living doll. Not creepy at all. And her face…eugh.
A hideous spiderweb of cracked concentric circles circled the mask’s crushed nose in bullseye formation, smattered with the same noxious-smelling digital pus that reminded Seth of a leaking glowstick. A nasty memory resurfaced of six-year-old him tasting the fluid at a Fourth of July picnic and the thought of glass filaments and toxic chemicals on his tongue burned like acid. Gods only knew what it was doing to his insides right now, settling into his gut and making the lights swim around his skull.
Any hint of the mask’s smile was gone now, as well as several shards surrounding it. Through the chaos of the revolving lights he could made out a pair of lips cracked raw, curled into an animalistic snarl. From a few of the hairline fractures forming at the top, individual strands of curly brown hair and patches of the face underneath visible through the broken mesh of the fencing helmet sparkled under the glare of the lamps. The most off-putting example of body horror was only visible when the lamps were behind Seth, angling the light just right to show golden stitches sealing the mouth shut and spelling one word:
’wRoNG.’
The veneer of confidence was gone. Seth could feel the grey eyes roving up and down, drinking him in and calculating how exactly to approach him next. The words branded into the mask were illegible neon flares sending fireworks into his eyeballs. More of the sludge began to diffuse through his clothes, numbing his fear. The hazel of his irises was sapped from his eyes and poured out in large round tears and his lids drooped. A similar desaturation process took place across his face. His knees knocked and wobbled, then quickly gave out. Like a swarm of piranhas the lamps crowded around him, their digital screens sucking the colorful ink out of every available patch of hair or exposed skin.
Granny Su placed down the unopened bottle of pills on the kitchen table and folded her arms. Seth had always joked that the hard set of her mouth and lack of wrinkles at her age made her a total catch in the funeral parlor, which always earned a rare smirk. He doubted that gallows humor would weasel him out of trouble now. He shrunk from her gaze and let his eyes lose focus and his mind wander into the clouds, just so he could be anywhere but here.
Seth gasped and fell over. He shuddered involuntarily and felt the shadows of the lamps passing him by, opening up to beam their contents onto his opponent. With the spotlight back on her she bent one leg in front of the other and tilted her head back. She basked in the cacophony to allow the sensations to wash over her. Floating strings of scrawled diagrams, mathematical laws, hateful slurs, migraine-inducing swirls of gasoline invaded the nostrils. 649 became 651, then 658, 675, 677, exchanging digits and rolling through new numbers like a malfunctioning slot machine. A lamp coiled its wires around the discarded glove, slurped up more of the slurry staining it, and stretched it over the naked hand. With a twang the bladed wires now coated in the corrosive substance snapped off of the bows and wiggled uselessly.
His arms were gone. Brilliant wavy streaks of ink outlined his fingers and down to the wrinkled sleeves scrunched by the elbows, leaving the rest of him entirely transparent. Blinking rapidly and rubbing his eyes raw only made the undulating pinpricks of light sparkle harsher. The floor fell away, inducing a sense of weightlessness. Fighting the sloshing sensation in his head the demigod drew himself up, spat out a glob of digital sludge and tossed a sloppy punch through the defensive barrier of screens. The landing was weak, but the impact splattered more ink across the heavily marred façade and the killer recoiled. Her ceremony disrupted, Mara lunged forward, threw the bows away, hooked her fingers around the loop of Seth’s bowtie, pulled him close and-
Wait. Why did he know her name? Recognition sharpened his brain with photographic precision. Even under the shroud of a mangled fencing costume she was impossible to misplace. An accidental collision in front of the Athena cabin and an awkward, forgettable apology on his part was the sum of their interactions. Seth could not guess why she was here, in a music-themed fever dream, dressing like the Joker’s awkward band phase and trying to throttle the idiot in front of her. What he COULD guess, with startling clarity, was that she was about to headbutt him.
Leaning back to protect his nose from suffering the same fate as hers, he placed his hands over the gloves and struggled to peel them off while aiming another low kick. Her knee bent reflexively to catch it and push him backwards. The two of them tumbled through a stage trapdoor, thrusting them both into a cosmic void with no floor.
Broken instruments, bundled up wads of notebook paper, stage lamps, axles, burnt tires, laptops bludgeoned by abuse, pens leaking ink rotated about themselves in an endless dance of zero gravity, illuminated by countless stars. Unable to modify their angular momentum, Seth and Mara were flung onto the closed board of a floating grand piano, a makeshift planetoid orbited by rings of dazzling numbers.
Mara scrambled on top and tightened her fingers around his throat, slamming the back of his head onto the keys twice and squeezing the breath from his lungs. He raised his legs, locked them around her waist and rolled her off, sending them spinning into the asteroid belt of household devices. Shards of splintered violins pelted them in lethal hail, Seth taking the brunt of the bombardment across his shoulders and neck. A flower petal came loose from his hair. With a desperate choked grunt he snatched the petal, focused on it and grew an abnormally large rose. He stuffed it into Mara’s face and the plant responded, wrapping around the entire mask. Her grip on his throat left him and she reached up with a furious muffled yell to clutch at her head while the flower responded to Seth’s command, enveloping her head. Forgot I could do that…
Gasping for air and still hopelessly tangled with her in their interstellar waltz, he spotted a violin and reached out.
Mara ripped the enormous rose from her crumbling mask, her breath fluctuating wildly, and received an overhead swing of the violin into her forehead. The stars blinked and were extinguished.
The mask shattered into pieces, along with the instrument, and she cried out for a split second. Seth wound up another swing with the badly damaged violin and found himself kicked away, tumbling weightlessly and slamming into the piano, where at the very least he could regain a foothold.
Mara was undergoing a metamorphosis. Large volumes of oily glowing numbers were being expelled from her system, diffusing out of her face and splotching out into the void in the pattern of spilt milk. She doubled over and coughed out ethereal shards of glass. Vertigo lurched in Seth’s stomach as the dream righted itself and the floor grew out from under him. He landed diagonally in a mat of petals and rolled over, then rose to defend himself. His fists dropped and he tilted his head in concern.
The Athena counselor had lost all will to fight, instead resorting to digging her fingers into her hair and pulling in a sobbing tantrum. She curled up on the floor and fell to her side, plucking bits of plastic that stuck to her face while color returned to her cheeks and the scarred numbers faded. She thrashed and kicked at the pieces of the mask around her, yelling obscenities at it for good measure. Seth knew the early signs of an attack and crept over, discarding the violin.
He caught her outraged fists and lowered them, prying her fingers open to stop her from pulling at her scalp.
“Enough. You’re safe. It’s gone. You’re safe.” Seth wasn’t sure where the words were coming from. He knew what sort of tactile triggers and promises made him feel the most secure when the outside stimulus became too much, so he reluctantly defaulted to that; a gentle circle being traced over the palms in simple beats of five, someone keeping his hands from clenching so his nails couldn’t dig at the scabs, syncing their breathing and lifting his head up straight for proper airflow. For the most part it seemed to be working. Mara’s body still radiated anger – the blades were uncomfortably close by. One sudden reach for them would leave him helpless to stop her from running him through. Broken tablets fell around them from the shadowy catwalk, sparked and died.
“It’s not your fault.” The platitudes were spilling out of him now, hoping she would construe her own meaning from them. At least some of it appeared to get through the fog in her eyes. With the sutures slipping off of her mouth and the harsh words melting away the grotesque distortions surrounding her had all but evaporated. They held each others’ hands for support, grounding themselves in the only ‘real’ thing around.
“This isn’t what people wear, by the way.”
Seth nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of her voice as her lips unsplit and mended. “Uh, sorry, what?”
Mara cleared her throat and poked Seth imperiously in the collar, forcing him to back off. “Seriously? Ugh- first of all, hands off. This is a military uniform. What am I, George Washington? These were typically worn by colonial generals, not musicians. And even then, this is hardly historically accurate. Even if this was just a costume, look at the contrast! No performer would wear this, even if the style vaguely resembles particular wardrobes of the aristocracy in that time period. Next time, a black dress will be more appropriate. I understand that your mind was focused more on dramatic flair and spectacle than legitimacy, but any cursory examination would reveal that you did not do the proper research for this.”
She plucked another petal from his hair and crushed it. “It’s disrespectful to throw objects onto the stage, as well. Friends and family should wait until after the performance to personally hand off the bouquet. What if someone has an allergy? What about the custodians who make an honest living, forced to clean up after a mess that didn't have to be there in the first place? Oh, and the mask? 'Music' is not 'musical theater'. Mixing the classic Sock and Buskin imagery with a purely musical event is a common fallacy. You're trying to be an author, right? Alluding to several different themes at once can seriously muddy the message you want to convey."
“Oh. Oh, wow. Please stop talking.” Seth was glad to see that she'd calmed down, especially compared to the saber-swishing demoness from before, but now he was having trouble deciding which version was worse. "..You're not even you. You are literally my own brain lecturing me. This.. this is so creepy."
“I’m just helping. Speaking of muddying themes, the stellar sequence throws off the pacing too quickly. We were only there for several seconds, and even then there are several discrepancies in such a short span; look; gravity cannot accelerate an object like a clarinet as rapidly around an object of similar mass, like the piano. In reality any circular motion induced on the clarinet. Let me find a tablet, I can illustrate the system if you're having trouble visualizing it."
"A piano does not have similar mass to a clarinet! It's like a hundred times heavier!"
"In terms of magnitude when compared to each other, yes, they're much different, but compared to the mass of the Earth and Sun, the force of gravitation exerted is nearly negligible. Where's my.. Did you break my tablet?" She ran her hand along the floor and found a snapped stylus. Whirling on him in an instant, "you did! What, did you think these things grow on trees? Apologize."
"I don't know, maybe??" Seth exploded. "Gee, SORRY. Weren't you trying to stab me a few seconds ago? Where's my apology? I refuse to believe that the real Mara is this annoying."
"The real Mara could never teach you what we're all trying to teach you. First it was Davenport... now it's me. What's the connection? You'll figure this out eventually."
The comment made him unexpectedly smile. Mara was a daughter of Athena - if the grey eyes hadn't been a dead giveaway, then he stern tirade of corrections would have been. The fierce, slightly haughty look of determination and indignation despite her bloodied nose, as if Seth was a buffoon who had just ruined a performance and not someone who had just saved her from the control of a malignant living growth infecting her mind, was strangely endearing. The question obviously ran deeper than than her lecture on historical accuracy and it gave him pause. These were supposed to teach him something? Teach him how to get clobbered, maybe. Wait.
"Davenport?" Seth shifted his weight so he was sitting on his knees. "You mean Cassie?"
Mara rolled her eyes and looked away, gesturing to the emptiness and then to Seth. "I am surrounded by intellectual mediocrity. If you aren't even smart enough to properly replicate my entire psychological profile then you probably aren't going to figure this out before it kills you, are you?"
"K-kills me??!"
"Look." Mara turned around and reached for Seth's hands to clasp them, forcing him to release his nervous grip on his own knees and placing them together. The moment was oddly intimate and uncomfortable. She leaned in, narrowing her gaze in amused disdain. "You might've done the important part, which was dispelling the nightmare. On the first try, too. Congratulations. But obviously you're going to need some help with the the rest. When you get back to the waking world..."
His heartbeat quickened.
"Let's not meet. Ever."
She pushed him in a sprawling heap on the floor and stepped back as a piano fell from the ceiling and crushed him in cartoon fashion.
Seth sat up to find himself mercifully un-crushed and stuck in a sneezing fit. A faint gray symbol of a wide-eyed owl peeled itself from his feverish forehead, drifted down like an autumn leaf and dissolved on his hands.
"Athena campers," he muttered, eyeing the clock and sinking into despair at the sight of 4:06 AM staring right back at him. "They're all nutcases. Cute nutcases. But still nutcases."
((Once again I'm not super happy with how this turned out, but the show must go on. The one thing I disliked the most was the dialogue - presuming to speak for Mara felt unfair, even though this is technically a distorted version observed through the lens of Seth's psyche, and I think going forward I will be avoiding that altogether... as fun as it was to have her lecture him to death.
Enormous thanks to Mara_S0v for permission on writing a non-canon (or should I say non-CANNON, funny ha ha) interpretation of Mara. First impressions matter, as she says, and she left a striking one on me (and Seth) that I knew I wanted to explore in an admittedly dark sequence. Give Miss Lyones's own storymodes and posts a read, as many of them provided inspiration for these two segments, such as 'Blank Slate', "Experiment #1", and "Prodigy". This chapter wouldn't be possible without them.))
THE KILL LIST:
~~Chapter 1 - The Davenport Devil~~ 7 attempts ~~Chapter 2 - The Maestra~~ 1 attempt Chapter 3 - ?????? - coming soon™

Maestra 2

((You can find part 1 here!))
Seth stumbled backwards and slipped on a puddle of digital slurry. His duelist flipped the bows into icepick grip, still with that aching, fake smile, and drove them down like daggers.
Scooting back as the sabers plunged through where his shoulders had been a second ago, he sent a wild kick into one of her shins and sent the encroaching killer toppling forwards. A knee landed uncomfortably close for comfort, eliciting a startled gasp of anticipation, followed by two bows ripping through the sleeves by his elbows to staple him with his back to the ground. Not enormously keen on letting a straddling serial killer vivisect him, Seth drew his legs out from under her, bent up and planted his dress shoes into her stomach, forcing her up and off in a flailing angry ball of venom. She cracked the back of her head on the floor with an audible impact that made him feel a brief pang of sympathy, quickly overshadowed by fear.
Untangling himself from the ruined jacket skewered with bows, the unclaimed demigod climbed to his feet, sneezing in a cloud of dust and resin. The masked attacker had recovered just as quickly, forcing him to raise his arms to catch her fists in a hurry. Her superior positioning and grip slowly eased him closer to the pile of instruments while her own breathing grew heavy. The gloved fingers laced with his own, mixing sweat and sludge, and squeezed until his bones threatened to crack. Several sharp points pricked his back. They had reached the pile, where, among other things, the demolished top board of a harpsichord terminated in a minefield of wooden splinters and nails. She eased him onto the deadly speartips with sadistic slowness. Seth’s arms trembled and were moments from giving out.
A trapdoor opened unhinged beneath her, swinging inward, and swallowed her up. Her grip on him was lost with a surprised yell. Seth peeled himself from the close call behind him. A hand rose to his heart and he dug in his nails to steady the heaving of his chest. If he ended up having a heart attack in his sleep, he was going to wake up so pissed in the Underworld.
It went without saying at this point that Seth’s momentary crush had evaporated like a fart in an industrial centrifuge, and any lovestruck notions of playing a saucy duet were replaced with the telltale jitters of flight-or-fight. With their host recently departed, the holographic stage lamps took to him instead, rotating about his head and dazzling him with harsh cyan sparks. A few experimental swings at them scared them off long enough to clear his space and his head. He needed to arm himself. A sweep of the floor revealed the twin bows sticking straight down into his jacket. It’ll do.
A hop, skip and jump over the trapdoor gauntlet placed him in front of the weapons, which he snatched up and inspected with the time he had left. The fearsome meld of garrote wire and Celestial Bronze left him wondering if it was even possible to play a violin with these monstrosities, and how awful the resulting sound would be produced. Seth couldn’t operate a manual can opener, much less a pair of twin music sabers, and his confidence diminished. Whatever the case, he felt safer knowing he had disarmed the crazy one-woman concert. When the trapdoor swung downwards and opened back up to let her disheveled form slowly rise, he steeled himself and held them by his sides. “What are you going to do without these, huh?” A disaster of a snarky line, and pretty much tempting fate to show her pull out something worse, but it was difficult to come up with snappy comments in the middle of a brawl, and he only had so much breath. He’d have plenty of time to write better material after she killed him and he repeated this process the next night.
The mask fractured briefly into a frown before correcting itself when the lamps swarmed her head with a buzz. She was seated on a large lumpy object resembling another piano – seriously? Seth was going to serenaded to death? – with several augmentations the nature of which could not be discerned. She dabbed delicately below the mask’s mouth with a handkerchief to wipe away a line of fluid dripping out then tapped the piano in front of her lovingly.
The spotlights centered back on her. She dragged her hands across the keyboard in a rapid minor scale and as if on cue, a large bronze cannon styled with treble clefs emerged from the opening top board. Cyan liquid glistened and pooled underneath the instrument-turned-siege engine. Spokes cranked outwards and wheels bound with rope affixed themselves to grounded rails.
“..Oh.”
The looming smile widened, causing the plastic to warp. The bows felt much less fearsome in his hands than they had several moments ago. White heels rammed into the pedal box and several pullies began to churn below the ground. The barrel of the cannon zeroed on his torso. “Oh.”
A beat pause followed.
“Fuck.”
Another pause.
“A cannon isn’t an instrument, you know.”
The maestra threw her fists down on the keys for a discordant wallop of sound. Pyoter Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s loudest rebuttal that cannons are, in fact, instruments, exploded out of the barrel in the form of a glitchy blob of electronic lights. Church bells rang in Seth’s brain as it collided with his upper body. Suddenly he was weightless, hitting not the ground but hurtling straight through the mountain of instruments and bursting out on the other side after boring straight through.
The ethereal projectile that had struck him melted into skin, leaving a Rorschach splotch across his dress shirt. Clamminess and a heavy, nauseating buzzing behind the eyeballs rocked him back and forth on the floor. The hole left by his trajectory through the hill began to collapse. The grand piano at the top sagged in the rapidly disappearing foundation. By the time Seth had staggered to his feet and inspected himself only to find no physical wound, the lamps had abandoned him to continue hounding their original target. So dream logic was back in full swing; good to know. That didn’t mean he wanted to take another cannonball head-on.
The assailant came into view atop the pile having recovered her blades, flawlessly cartwheeling into a triple flip and perching onto the descending piano to ride it like a runaway snowboard. She dragged a bow along her throat menacingly, her intention clear; Seth steeled against the bubbling pain descending into his stomach and wiped a spool of technicolor poison from his lips. He hurried around the pile to put more distance between himself and the ballerina of chaos, eyeing the torn top board with a dreadful resignation and tearing it free.
Speaking of ballerina… from around the pile she half-approached, half-danced in a rotating pirouette, sweeping the blades out in large circular swathes. The deadly dervish spun towards him like a top. Refusing to back down, Seth swung the nailed board hard. Their respective armaments clashed. Propping it as a makeshift shield, he held his ground and withstood the rhythmic succession of blows, each one chipping off a bit more of his bastion until a duel strike shattered the wood into pieces.
The maestra lowered her leg and stopped spinning to revel momentarily in Seth’s helplessness, tilting her head teasingly and receiving an unexpected punch to the face. She crumpled like a house of cards. Seth felt the satisfying crunch of a nose under his right hook then bounced back to roll up his sleeves and free up some elbow movement while staying light on the balls of his feet. It took a certain amount of sucker punches to the face himself before he had perfected the feint against particularly relentless bullies, and as much as he loathed the dirtiness of fisticuffs, victory took priority. He rolled his neck, because that’s what fighters did on television and it just felt natural. “Okay. Okay? Wanna dance? We can dance. Let’s dance, honey.”
Her motionless body convulsed and drew itself up on invisible puppet strings. One of her gloves fell by the wayside, and a prosthetic hand of manikin wood curled even tighter around the bow. Living doll. Not creepy at all. And her face…eugh.
A hideous spiderweb of cracked concentric circles circled the mask’s crushed nose in bullseye formation, smattered with the same noxious-smelling digital pus that reminded Seth of a leaking glowstick. A nasty memory resurfaced of six-year-old him tasting the fluid at a Fourth of July picnic and the thought of glass filaments and toxic chemicals on his tongue burned like acid. Gods only knew what it was doing to his insides right now, settling into his gut and making the lights swim around his skull.
Any hint of the mask’s smile was gone now, as well as several shards surrounding it. Through the chaos of the revolving lights he could made out a pair of lips cracked raw, curled into an animalistic snarl. From a few of the hairline fractures forming at the top, individual strands of curly brown hair and patches of the face underneath visible through the broken mesh of the fencing helmet sparkled under the glare of the lamps. The most off-putting example of body horror was only visible when the lamps were behind Seth, angling the light just right to show golden stitches sealing the mouth shut and spelling one word:
’wRoNG.’
The veneer of confidence was gone. Seth could feel the grey eyes roving up and down, drinking him in and calculating how exactly to approach him next. The words branded into the mask were illegible neon flares sending fireworks into his eyeballs. More of the sludge began to diffuse through his clothes, numbing his fear. The hazel of his irises was sapped from his eyes and poured out in large round tears and his lids drooped. A similar desaturation process took place across his face. His knees knocked and wobbled, then quickly gave out. Like a swarm of piranhas the lamps crowded around him, their digital screens sucking the colorful ink out of every available patch of hair or exposed skin.
Granny Su placed down the unopened bottle of pills on the kitchen table and folded her arms. Seth had always joked that the hard set of her mouth and lack of wrinkles at her age made her a total catch in the funeral parlor, which always earned a rare smirk. He doubted that gallows humor would weasel him out of trouble now. He shrunk from her gaze and let his eyes lose focus and his mind wander into the clouds, just so he could be anywhere but here.
Seth gasped and fell over. He shuddered involuntarily and felt the shadows of the lamps passing him by, opening up to beam their contents onto his opponent. With the spotlight back on her she bent one leg in front of the other and tilted her head back. She basked in the cacophony to allow the sensations to wash over her. Floating strings of scrawled diagrams, mathematical laws, hateful slurs, migraine-inducing swirls of gasoline invaded the nostrils. 649 became 651, then 658, 675, 677, exchanging digits and rolling through new numbers like a malfunctioning slot machine. A lamp coiled its wires around the discarded glove, slurped up more of the slurry staining it, and stretched it over the naked hand. With a twang the bladed wires now coated in the corrosive substance snapped off of the bows and wiggled uselessly.
His arms were gone. Brilliant wavy streaks of ink outlined his fingers and down to the wrinkled sleeves scrunched by the elbows, leaving the rest of him entirely transparent. Blinking rapidly and rubbing his eyes raw only made the undulating pinpricks of light sparkle harsher. The floor fell away, inducing a sense of weightlessness. Fighting the sloshing sensation in his head the demigod drew himself up, spat out a glob of digital sludge and tossed a sloppy punch through the defensive barrier of screens. The landing was weak, but the impact splattered more ink across the heavily marred façade and the killer recoiled. Her ceremony disrupted, Mara lunged forward, threw the bows away, hooked her fingers around the loop of Seth’s bowtie, pulled him close and-
Wait. Why did he know her name? Recognition sharpened his brain with photographic precision. Even under the shroud of a mangled fencing costume she was impossible to misplace. An accidental collision in front of the Athena cabin and an awkward, forgettable apology on his part was the sum of their interactions. Seth could not guess why she was here, in a music-themed fever dream, dressing like the Joker’s awkward band phase and trying to throttle the idiot in front of her. What he COULD guess, with startling clarity, was that she was about to headbutt him.
Leaning back to protect his nose from suffering the same fate as hers, he placed his hands over the gloves and struggled to peel them off while aiming another low kick. Her knee bent reflexively to catch it and push him backwards. The two of them tumbled through a stage trapdoor, thrusting them both into a cosmic void with no floor.
Broken instruments, bundled up wads of notebook paper, stage lamps, axles, burnt tires, laptops bludgeoned by abuse, pens leaking ink rotated about themselves in an endless dance of zero gravity, illuminated by countless stars. Unable to modify their angular momentum, Seth and Mara were flung onto the closed board of a floating grand piano, a makeshift planetoid orbited by rings of dazzling numbers.
Mara scrambled on top and tightened her fingers around his throat, slamming the back of his head onto the keys twice and squeezing the breath from his lungs. He raised his legs, locked them around her waist and rolled her off, sending them spinning into the asteroid belt of household devices. Shards of splintered violins pelted them in lethal hail, Seth taking the brunt of the bombardment across his shoulders and neck. A flower petal came loose from his hair. With a desperate choked grunt he snatched the petal, focused on it and grew an abnormally large rose. He stuffed it into Mara’s face and the plant responded, wrapping around the entire mask. Her grip on his throat left him and she reached up with a furious muffled yell to clutch at her head while the flower responded to Seth’s command, enveloping her head. Forgot I could do that…
Gasping for air and still hopelessly tangled with her in their interstellar waltz, he spotted a violin and reached out.
Mara ripped the enormous rose from her crumbling mask, her breath fluctuating wildly, and received an overhead swing of the violin into her forehead. The stars blinked and were extinguished.
The mask shattered into pieces, along with the instrument, and she cried out for a split second. Seth wound up another swing with the badly damaged violin and found himself kicked away, tumbling weightlessly and slamming into the piano, where at the very least he could regain a foothold.
Mara was undergoing a metamorphosis. Large volumes of oily glowing numbers were being expelled from her system, diffusing out of her face and splotching out into the void in the pattern of spilt milk. She doubled over and coughed out ethereal shards of glass. Vertigo lurched in Seth’s stomach as the dream righted itself and the floor grew out from under him. He landed diagonally in a mat of petals and rolled over, then rose to defend himself. His fists dropped and he tilted his head in concern.
The Athena counselor had lost all will to fight, instead resorting to digging her fingers into her hair and pulling in a sobbing tantrum. She curled up on the floor and fell to her side, plucking bits of plastic that stuck to her face while color returned to her cheeks and the scarred numbers faded. She thrashed and kicked at the pieces of the mask around her, yelling obscenities at it for good measure. Seth knew the early signs of an attack and crept over, discarding the violin.
He caught her outraged fists and lowered them, prying her fingers open to stop her from pulling at her scalp.
“Enough. You’re safe. It’s gone. You’re safe.” Seth wasn’t sure where the words were coming from. He knew what sort of tactile triggers and promises made him feel the most secure when the outside stimulus became too much, so he reluctantly defaulted to that; a gentle circle being traced over the palms in simple beats of five, someone keeping his hands from clenching so his nails couldn’t dig at the scabs, syncing their breathing and lifting his head up straight for proper airflow. For the most part it seemed to be working. Mara’s body still radiated anger – the blades were uncomfortably close by. One sudden reach for them would leave him helpless to stop her from running him through. Broken tablets fell around them from the shadowy catwalk, sparked and died.
“It’s not your fault.” The platitudes were spilling out of him now, hoping she would construe her own meaning from them. At least some of it appeared to get through the fog in her eyes. With the sutures slipping off of her mouth and the harsh words melting away the grotesque distortions surrounding her had all but evaporated. They held each others’ hands for support, grounding themselves in the only ‘real’ thing around.
“This isn’t what people wear, by the way.”
Seth nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of her voice as her lips unsplit and mended. “Uh, sorry, what?”
Mara cleared her throat and poked Seth imperiously in the collar, forcing him to back off. “Seriously? Ugh- first of all, hands off. This is a military uniform. What am I, George Washington? These were typically worn by colonial generals, not musicians. And even then, this is hardly historically accurate. Even if this was just a costume, look at the contrast! No performer would wear this, even if the style vaguely resembles particular wardrobes of the aristocracy in that time period. Next time, a black dress will be more appropriate. I understand that your mind was focused more on dramatic flair and spectacle than legitimacy, but any cursory examination would reveal that you did not do the proper research for this.”
She plucked another petal from his hair and crushed it. “It’s disrespectful to throw objects onto the stage, as well. Friends and family should wait until after the performance to personally hand off the bouquet. What if someone has an allergy? What about the custodians who make an honest living, forced to clean up after a mess that didn't have to be there in the first place? Oh, and the mask? 'Music' is not 'musical theater'. Mixing the classic Sock and Buskin imagery with a purely musical event is a common fallacy. You're trying to be an author, right? Alluding to several different themes at once can seriously muddy the message you're trying to convey."
“Oh. Oh, wow. Please stop talking.” Seth was glad to see that she'd calmed down, especially compared to the saber-swishing demoness from before, but now he was having trouble deciding which version was worse. "..You're not even you. You are literally my own brain lecturing me. This.. this is so creepy."
“I’m just helping. Speaking of muddying themes, the stellar sequence throws off the pacing too quickly. We were only there for several seconds, and even then there are several discrepancies in such a short span; look; gravity cannot accelerate an object like a clarinet as rapidly around an object of similar mass, like the piano. In reality any circular motion induced on the clarinet. Let me find a tablet, I can illustrate the system if you're having trouble visualizing it."
"A piano does not have similar mass to a clarinet! It's like a hundred times heavier!"
"In terms of magnitude when compared to each other, yes, they're much different, but compared to the mass of the Earth and Sun, the force of gravitation exerted is nearly negligible. Where's my.. Did you break my tablet?" She ran her hand along the floor and found a snapped stylus. Whirling on him in an instant, "you did! What, did you think these things grow on trees?"
"I don't know, maybe??" Seth exploded. "Gee, SORRY. Weren't you trying to stab me a few seconds ago? Where's my apology? I refuse to believe that the real Mara is this annoying."
"The real Mara could never teach you what we're all trying to teach you. First it was Davenport... now it's me. What's the connection? You'll figure this out eventually."
The comment made him unexpectedly smile. Mara was a daughter of Athena - if the grey eyes hadn't been a dead giveaway, then he stern tirade of corrections would have been. The fierce, slightly haughty look of determination and indigence despite her bloodied nose, as if Seth was a buffoon who had just ruined a performance and not someone who had just saved her from the control of a malignant living growth infecting her mind, was strangely endearing. The question obviously ran deeper than than her lecture on historical accuracy and it gave him pause. These were supposed to teach him something? Teach him how to get clobbered, maybe. Wait.
"Davenport?" Seth shifted his weight so he was sitting on his knees. "You mean Cassie?"
Mara rolled her eyes and looked away, gesturing to the emptiness and then to Seth. "I am surrounded by intellectual mediocrity. If you aren't even smart enough to properly replicate my entire psychological profile then you probably aren't going to figure this out before it kills you, are you?"
"K-kills me??!"
"Look." Mara turned around and reached for Seth's hands to clasp them, forcing him to release his nervous grip on his own knees and placing them together. The moment was oddly intimate and uncomfortable. She leaned in, narrowing her gaze in amused disdain. "You might've done the important part, which was dispelling the nightmare. On the first try, too. Congratulations. But obviously you're going to need some help with the the rest. When you get back to the waking world..."
His heartbeat quickened.
"Let's not meet. Ever."
She pushed him in a sprawling heap on the floor and stepped back as a piano fell from the ceiling and crushed him in cartoon fashion.
Seth sat up to find himself mercifully un-crushed and stuck in a sneezing fit. A faint gray symbol of a wide-eyed owl peeled itself from his feverish forehead, drifted down like an autumn leaf and dissolved on his hands.
"Athena campers," he muttered, eyeing the clock and sinking into despair at the sight of 4:06 AM staring right back at him. "They're all nutcases. Cute nutcases. But still nutcases."
((Once again I'm not super happy with how this turned out, but the show must go on. The one thing I disliked the most was the dialogue - presuming to speak for Mara felt unfair, even though this is technically a distorted version observed through the lens of Seth's psyche, and I think going forward I will be avoiding that altogether... as fun as it was to have her lecture him to death.
Enormous thanks to Mara_S0v for permission on writing a non-canon (or should I say non-CANNON, funny ha ha) interpretation of Mara. First impressions matter, as she says, and she left a striking one on me (and Seth) that I knew I wanted to explore in an admittedly dark sequence. Give Miss Lyones's own storymodes and posts a read, as many of them provided inspiration for these two segments, such as 'Blank Slate', "Experiment #1", and "Prodigy". This chapter wouldn't be possible without them.))
THE KILL LIST:
~~Chapter 1 - The Davenport Devil~~ 7 attempts ~~Chapter 2 - The Maestra~~ 1 attempt Chapter 3 - ?????? - coming soon™

Separatist Event Feedback Part2

I will open up again by saying thanks to all that take the time to read what I have to say, please get involved in the comment section below to keep the discussion alive and moving forward
We will start by talking about the events, breaking them down and giving my personal rating on each one.
Act of War: Solo Event
First up, the pure solo event that is usually one of the basics for people in the game during any multi day event. These are essentially your gate way drug into the event world and need to be all inclusive and provide sufficient reason and rewards to feel like they are worth your time.
I’m not sure that Scopely fully has an idea on events, like a structure and reasoning for why they are putting certain things in. Base line this is supposed to be probably the easiest part of event for all tier levels so that they feel like they can participate. Forget the whales and forget money, this particular subset event should focus primarily on that and it should not feel like a chore or a net loss to do? Can we all agree on this? I would think from a design point of view it makes the most sense, if not why not?
We started with Asia getting the event and we were hearing that level 28 Ops had a milestone of 108M points for top tier reward which was over treble that of lvl 26/27. This was brought up the last event that the brackets need addressing properly, level 28 should not be in the same bracket as lvl 39, stop being lazy and tier and balance correctly. Since the start it was then reduced to 68M and then dropped even further to 50M. Other levels also had drops in requirements, this is a common theme and needs addressing fully before you release events. It is not difficult to crunch a few numbers and work out how many level 22s are needed to get to certain requirements. I say this because for the majority of the mid tier this is the point maker as there are no level 26s or 28s to kill.
The requirements are now at a reasonable level or achievable for the majority. There are and will always be the odd player that went ahead on Ops level and will have to put in a lot more time so I’m by no means saying it’s perfect but it seems okay now.
No Trit/Dil or other resources on-top of the Bat’Leth tokens are sort of a let down, even if they were small gestures - but I understand the logic that people can spend in the store on those resources.
Rating = 6/10
Act of War: Solo Leaderboard
Designed to be a leaderboard for the “hardcore” ? Being up against everyone on the server at all levels - it’s interesting but I’m not sure it should be put as the pinnacle of rewards, or they should be more evenly spread for just getting into any of the rankings.
Unfortunately what happens time and time again is that Scopely stacks the rewards on this top three places and often the rewards are going to players that don’t actually need them. Last event gave out 10x level 30 Ship BP to first place, I’d wager money that on at least 80% of all servers the people winning that top spot already had said faction ships or close enough that it made little difference while the 99% of other players got zero BPs. Now onto this event, a huge huge chunk of tokens goes to the top - the only way to get close to a Hijacked ship is to place at the top of the event solo leaderboards, again the same players winning won’t have any need for said ships - granted they get to use the tokens for other things so it’s okay, the issue is more that you deny literally everyone else the chance to get close to what is being dangled in front of them. Consider leaderboard tiers?
Rating: 4/10
Act of War: Alliance Leaderboards
Short and sweet on this one. The rewards are token gestures and seem underwhelming on every Alliance Leaderboard event there is, you arnt making players in alliances want to contribute to this event after their solo is done if they have no intention of going for the solo leaderboard. Needs addressing and more incentives for players to focus on their alliance - this is not just applicable to this event alone.
Rating: 2/10
Act of War: PvP Solo Event
This was a good change to stop abuse of people just trading kills to cheese the event and get free rewards for just a few repair bills and completely ignored the point of the event being PvP focused.
However it appears to have turned people off from bothering with it as it’s restricted to one zone each time and the majority of players are still focused on the Solo Leaderboard. It was a nice idea but the execution is poor, how about damage done to player ships? Multiple systems? Any faction ship any system? Base destruction with faction ships? I’m not sure but something more than what is currently in play.
Rating: 3/10 (for effort and concept)
Event Store
This is a big let down. My previous feedback was that it was responded to that it was coming back bigger and better than before. Wrong
There’s multiple issues here
Uncommons/Rares not being offered in multiples - Step Backwards from previous events. More expensive also?
Officer Selection - gets changed from previous events so those that got Harrison are laughing at everyone who can’t get him this time around. Change him or allow everyone to get access to the overpowered monster.
Huge gripe. Cooldowns. This is mind boggling to try and work out why it’s even a thing, please anyone tell me from a design aspect why this needs to be included. I earn say 18K tokens per day and I’m currently only interested in two rare officers, I can’t spend 80% of my tokens because I have to wait to spend on Officers again? If I want to get multiple upgrades of Decius or so - isn’t that my choice? Can I even get a full upgrade out of him with these cool downs now? Why must I be a slave to this cooldown daily? What if I’m only able to do a few days of the event and I’m on holiday and have no phone access or don’t want to login every 24 hours just to spend the tokens I got on the first few day.
This is even more jarring because if you do some simple calculations you need 288,000 Bat Leth Tokens to get a ship which won’t be achievable.
This is restricted even further to only 3 BPs a day. So that’s 21 BPs maximum for the entire event? Please correct me if I’m wrong on ship cd as I’ve only encountered the cd on officers as I’m not wasting my tokens on 1/4 or 1/2 of a ship that has no guarantees I can earn further BPs later on when I’ve got 10 Legionary BPs sat collecting dust from the very first event.
Also for some reason there is Resource tokens and flat resources in non token form? Why? Only sense is if you want to spend literally every last BatLeth Token.
First positive point! Well done for putting other faction ships BPs up for purchase, this is a welcome chance to earn them outside of scraping together credits that are like gold dust! Really good addition for most people (unfortunately I can’t make use out of it as I’ve got my Cent already)
Rating: 3/10
Overall this is hugely underwhelming, I’ve not even commented on the event delays because I’m sure it’s something Scopely will work on fixing internally and everything has been said about it on Discord already. Thanks for reading, if I’ve missed out crucial issues with this event please discuss below and weigh in on the points I’ve brought across.

Completing the Matrix: October 2011 Production Notes for Doctor Who Magazine #440: It's time for a party here on page 6, because - drum roll! - it's the 100th edition of Production Notes!

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By Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, D. D. LECTURE XLVIII. (part ii.) JUDAS MACCABÆUS. Whether the narrative of the faithful Israelites in the court of Nebuchadnezzar and of Darius had been handed down from the Exile, or whether they were then produced for the first time, the practical result must have been the same. As the seven sons are the first example of the heroic testimony of martyrs' words, so the narrative of the Three Children in the Fire and of Daniel in the Lions' Den is the first glori- fication, the first canonization, so to speak, of the martyr spirit. And accordingly at this time we first find them cited as encouragements and consolations. "At this stage of its history, when Israel rises once "more, even though but for a brief period, "to the pure elevation of its noblest days, it "was fitting that the first beginning of a serious re- sistance should come about involuntarily, as it were "by a higher necessity, almost without the co-opera- "tion of human self-will and human passion; still less "with any aid of human calculation, yet by the force of "human courage and skill and perseverance, working "as if without any Divine interposition." The Psalter of Solomon had expressed its hope that an anointed or priestly hero should arise to save the people. The expectation of Daniel was that, after the monster forms of Empires, tearing and rending each other to pieces, there should arise a Deliverer in human form, "A son of man," with all the gentle and noble qualities of man. They were not deceived, Such an one was at hand. There was a priestly family known by the unusual name of its chief of four generations back, Chasmon or Asmon, "The Magnate." Its present head was ad- vanced in years, Mattathias, with five sons in the prime of life. At the beginning of the persecution the whole family retired from Jerusalem to their country residence in the town of Modin or Modein, on the slope of the hills which descend from the passes of Judæa into the plains of Philistia or Sharon. "Who can encounter the sun at midsummer? Every "one escapes and seeks a shelter. So every one fled "from the Grecian kingdom and its armies. Only the "Priest Mattathias and his sons remained faithful to "God, and the armies of Antiochus were dispersed "before them, and were exterminated." Such is almost the sole notice in the later Talmudic literature of this return of the heroic age of Israel. But the vacancy is amply filled by the treble account which the three next generations supplied. The war of independence began, as often, from a special incident. At Modin, as elsewhere through Palestine, an altar had been erected on which the inhabitants were expected to join in the Greek sacri- fices. Mattathias, who had himself indignantly re- fused to take part, was so enraged at the sight of the compliance of one of his countrymen that "his reins "trembled, neither could he forbear to show his anger "according to judgment." Both sacrificer and royal officer fell victims to this sudden outburst of indigna- tion, which the historian compares to that of he an- cient Phinehas. The die was cast. It was like the story of Wat Tyler in Kent, or of Tell in Switzerland, or of the Sicilian Vespers. Mattathias raised his war- cry of "Zeal," and of "the Covenant," and dashed with his whole family into the adjacent mountains. There they herded like wild animals in the limestone caverns, protected against the weather by the rough clothing of the Syrian peasants, taken off the backs of the white sheep or black goats on which they fed together with such roots and vegetables as they could find, so as to avoid the chance of the polluted food of the heathen. Whenever they encountered a heathen altar they destroyed it. Whenever they found a neglected child they circumcised it. Their spirit rose with the emer- gency. "The venerable leader felt his soul lifted by "the higher need above the minute precepts of the "Scribes," and determined to break the Sabbatical re- pose which had so often exposed them to ruin. "If we "shall do as our brethren have done, and fight not for "our lives and laws against the heathen, they will now "quickly root us out of the earth. Whosoever shall "come to make battle with us on the Sabbath day, we "will fight against him; neither will we die all as our "brethren that were murdered." For a moment even the rigid party of "the Chasidim" threw in their lot with the loftier patriotism of Mattathias; and when he sank under the weight of age and care, in the first year of the revolt, the whole nation joined in interring him in the ancestral tomb at Modin, which henceforth became a sacred place, to which child after child of that renowned family was borne. "If it was "a stroke of rare fortune that the insurrection thus "broke out undesignedly and was set on foot by such "a blameless character, it was no less fortunate that "he left behind him a heroic band of five sons, who "were ready to carry on the contest without an in- "stant's delay. Seldom has the world seen an in- "stance of five brothers animated by the same spirit, "and without mutual jealousy sacrificing themselves "for the same cause, of whom one only survived an- "other in order to carry it on, if possible with more "zeal and success, while not one had anything in view "but the great object for which his father had fallen." Each of the five sons succeeded in turn to the chief- tainship of the family, and each had a separate sur- name to distinguish him from the many who bore the like names amongst the Jewish people. The eldest, John, was "the Holy" or "the Lucky;" the second, "Simon," was "the Burst of Spring," or "the "Jewel;" the fourth Eleazar, was "the Beaststicker," the fifth, Jonathan, was "the Cunning." But of all these surnames, whether given in their lifetimes or afterwards from their exploits, the only one which has survived to later times and covered the whole clan with glory is that of the third brother, Judas, who, like Charles the "Martel" of the Moors, and Edward the "Malleus Scotorum," received the name of the "Ham- "mer," Maccab—possibly connected with the name of the ancestor of the family Asmon—possibly also com- memorated in the original Hebrew name of the book which described his fame—"The Avenging Rod of the Prince of the Sons of God." He it was whom Mattathias in his last moments recommended as the military leader—"as "mighty and strong from his youth up. Let "him be your captain, and fight the battle of the "people." At once he took the vacant place. At once he became the Jewish ideal of "the Happy Warrior." There was "a cheerfulness" diffused through the whole army when he appeared. His countrymen delighted to remember the stately appearance, as of an ancient giant, when he fastened on his breast-plate, or tight- ened his military sash around him, or waved his pro- tecting sword—a sword itself renowned, as we shall see, both in history and legend—over the camp of his faithful followers. They listened with delight for the loud cheer, the roar as of a young lion—the race not yet extinct in the Jordan valley—with which he snuffed out the Israelite renegades, chasing them into their recesses, and smoking or burning them out. They exulted over his victory over the three, "the many" kings. But the lasting honor which they pathetically revered as the climax of all was that with a true chiv- alry "he received such as were ready to perish." Three decisive victories in the first two year of the campaign secured his fame and his success. The first was against the Syrian general Apol- lonius, apparently near Samaria. The trophy which Judas retained of the battle was the sword of the dis- tinuished general, which he carried, as David did that of the Philistine giant, to the end of his life. And the second was in the mountains near his native place, and on the spot already ennobled by the overthrow of the Canaanite kings by Joshua, in the Pass of Beth- horon. The third and most decisive struggle brings before us in a lively form the various elements of the new war. The King was absent on an expedition into Persia, but no less than three generals, Ptolemy, Nicanor, and Gorgias, are mentioned by name under Lysias, the Governor of the whole Syrian province, and the young Antiochus,the heir of the throne. Their head-quarters were at Emmaus, "the hot "baths" in the Philistine plain; and the inter- est of the merchants in the seaport towns of Philistia was engaged by the hope of the sale of the Israelite in- surgents for slaves. In the crisis Judas led his scanty host over the mountains to the ridge of Mizpeh, the spot where Alexander had met Jaddua, where, after the Chaldæan capture of Jerusalem, the pilgrims had come to wail over the holy city. It was a mournful scene. They could see from that high, rocky platform the deserted streets, the walls and gates closed as if of a besieged town, the silent precincts of the Temple, the Greek garrison in the fortress. Before that distant presence of the holy place, to which they could gain no nearer access, the mourners came wrapt in tatters of black hair-cloth, with ashes on their heads. They spread out the copies of the Law, on which the Greeks had painted in mockery the pictures of heathen deities. They waved the sacerdotal vestments, for which there was now no use. They showed the animals and the vegetables due for first fruits and tithes. They passed in long procession the Nazarites with their flowing tresses, who were unable to dedicate themselves in the sanctuary. And at the close of this sorrowful ceremony there was a blast of trumpets, and the army was sifted of its timid or pre-engaged members. To the gallant remainder Judas addressed his stirring harangue. He reminded them of their ancient and their recent deliv- erances—in ancient days of the overthrow of Sen- nacherib, amongst those same hills and vales in recent days of the battle in which the comparative prowess of the Israelite and the Macedonian troops was tested by an encounter with the Celtic invaders of Asia, in which the Jews turned the fortunes of the day when the Greeks fled. The army was placed in four parts under himself and his three brothers Simon, John, and Jonathan, whilst the fifth, Eleazar, was commis- sioned to recite "the Holy Book" and to proclaim his own name as the watchword—Eleazar, "the help "of God." After these preparations, Judas descended from the hills by night, and, leaving his empty camp as a prey to Gorgias, the commander of the garrison at Jerusa- lem, suddenly attacked the forces of Nicanor at Em- maus. Once more was heard the well-known trumpet- blast of the Israelite host, and a complete rout followed. Nothing could stand the enthusiastic ardor of the in- surgents, slightly armed as they were. It was a Friday afternoon, and Judas gave the command to halt from pursuing the flying enemy. From the ridge of the mountain which overlooked the plain, the Grecian army saw the columns of smoke rising from the plains, which announced that their countrymen's camp had been stormed. The Sabbath, on whose eve the battle closed, had now set in; and as the gorgeous spoils of gold, and silver, and blue silk, and Tyrian purple were spread out, they sang the hundred and thirty-sixth Psalm—the national anthem, it may be called, of the Jewish race, which enumerate the examples of the never-ending goodness of God. It would hardly have been in keeping with the national character if this day had passed without some terrible vengeance. One of the subordinate officers was caught and slain. Cal- listhenes, who had set fire to the gateways of the Temple, they forced into a village hut and there burned him alive. Yet another victory was needed to secure their en- trance into Jerusalem. It was won in the course of the next year over Lysias himself, in the immediate vicinity of the capital, at Beth-zur— "the House of the Rock"—a fort which commanded the Idumæan border, possibly represented by the lone tower which now overhangs the stony passes on the way to Hebron. From that moment they were masters of Jerusalem. The desolation, which before could only be seen from the height of Mizpeh, they now were able to approach without impediment. The Greek garrison was still in the fortress, but the Temple was left open. They entered, and found the scene of havoc which the Syrian occupation had left. The corridors of the Priests' chambers which encircled the Temple were torn down; the gates were in ashes, the altar was disfigured, and the whole platform was overgrown as if with a mountain jungle or forest glade. It was a heart-rending spectacle. Their first impulse was to cast themselves headlong on the pave- ment, and blow the loud horns which accompanied all mournful as well as all joyous occasions—the tocsin as well as the chimes of the nation. Then, whilst the for- eign garrison was kept at bay, the warriors first began the elaborate process of cleansing the polluted place. Out of the sacerdotal tribe those were chosen who had not been compromised with the Greeks. The first ob- ject was to clear away every particle which had been touched by the unclean animals. On the 22d of Marchesvan they removed the portable altar which had been erected. On the 3d of Chisleu they re- moved the smaller altars from the court in front of the Temple, and the various Pagan statues. With the utmost care they pulled down, as it would seem, the great platform of the altar itself, from the dread lest its stone should have been polluted. But, with the scrupulosity which marked the period, they considered that stones once consecrated could never be entirely desecrated, and accordingly hid them away in a corner of the Temple (it was believed in one of the four closets of the fireroom of the Priest at the northwest corner of the Temple, there to remain till the Prophet —it may be Elijah—the solver of riddles, should come and tell what was to be done with them). How many stones of spiritual or intellectual edifices excite a like perplexed fear lest the have been so misused that they cannot be employed again—at least till some prophet comes to tell us how and when! For the in- terior of the Temple everything had to be refurnished afresh,—vessels, and candlesticks, and incense altar, and tables and curtains. At last all was completed, and on the 25th of Chisleu, the same day that three years before the profanation had occurred, the temple was re-dedicated. It was the very time, either pre- dicted or commemorated in the Book of Daniel. The three years and a half from the time of the first be- ginning of the sacrilege was over, and the rebound of the national sentiment was in proportion. It was "the feast of the dedication and it was winter," but the depth of winter could not restrain the burst of joy. From the first dawn of that day for the whole following week there were songs of joy sung with cym- bals and harps. In the Psalms ascribed to Solomon there are exulting strains which echo the words of the Evangelical Prophet and welcome the return into Jeru- salem. The smoke once more went up from the altar; the gates and even the priestly chambers were fumi- gated. The building itself was studded with golden crowns and shields, in imitation of the golden shields which in the first Temple had adorned the porch. What most lived in the recollection of the time was that the perpetual light blazed again. The golden candlestick no longer to be had. Its place was taken by an iron chandelier cased in wood. But this sufficed. It was a solemn moment when the sacred fire was once again kindled on the new altar, and from it the flame communicated to the rest of the building. As in the modern ceremony of the "Sacred Fire" in the church of the Holy Sepulchre, so this incident was wrapt in mystery and legend. The simple historical account is that they procured the light by striking the fresh unpolluted stones against each other. But later representations, going back to the like events of Nehe- miah's life, imagined some preternatural origin of the fire itself. It was further supposed that one unpolluted cruse was found which furnished the oil for the lighting of the temple during the whole week of the festival; in remembrance of which every private house was il- luminated, beginning, according to one usage, with eight candles, and decreasing as the week went on; according to the other usage, beginning with one and advancing to eight. Partly, no doubt, from these tra- ditions or (as Josephus thinks) from the returning joy of the whole nation, the festival in after days bore the name of the "Feast of Lights." This would receive a yet fuller significance in connection with another as- pect of this great day. Though latest of all the Jewish festivals, it took rank at once with the earlier holy days. It won for itself a sanctity which neither the dedication of Solomon nor of Zerubbabel had ac- quired. Both of these consecrations had been ar- ranged to coincide with the great Autumnal Feast of the Tabernacles, the most festive of the Jewish solem- nities. That season had already passed whilst the patriots were hiding in the mountains; and, therefore, if celebrated at all, had been shorn of its general gaiety, or defiled by an attempted combination with the Bacchanalian festival, to which its peculiarities lent themselves. Now, however, it was determined to make this new solemnity a repetition, as it were, of the Feast of Tabernacles. It was called in after days "The "Tabernacle Feast of the Winter;" and on this, its first occasion, there were blended with it the usual pro- cessions of that gay autumnal holiday, brandishing their woven branches—of the palm, and other trees whose evergreen foliage cheered the dull aspect of a Syrian December. And we can hardly doubt that they would, in accordance with the name of the "Feast of "Lights," add to its celebration that further charac- teristic of the Feast of Tabernacles—the illumination of the whole precincts of the Temple by two great chandeliers placed in the court, by the light of which festive dances were kept up all through the night. There was an additional propriety in the transference of the natural festival of the vintage to this new feast, because it coincided with the natural solemnity of wel- coming the first light kindled in the new year. The 25th of December was at Tyre, as at Rome in after times, celebrated as the birthday of the Sun, the Her- cules, the Melcarth of the Phœnician theology, dying on his funeral pyre, and reviving, phœnix-like, from his own ashes. It was the revival—the renewal— the Encænia of man and of nature. The Temple was the kernel of Judæa, and having won that, the Maccabæan might be said to have won everything. Still it was surrounded by a circle of enemies. Close at hand was the fortress occupied by the Syrian garrison. Against this Judas took the pre- caution—apparently for the first time in Jewish his- tory—of surrounding the whole of the Temple mount with high walls and strong towers, which remained as a permanent feature of the place. The two hostile par- ties stood entrenched in their respective positions, with- out mutual interference, lie the rival factions in Jeru- salem during the siege of Titus, or in Paris during its great insurrections. But on the further circumference there were three distinct sources of Alarm. On the south was Edom, whose territory now reached within a few miles of Jerusalem. On the east were the malignant tribes of Ammon and Moab. And on the north and west was that fringe of Grecian colonies which had been established, chiefly in the ancient Ca- naanite or Philistine cities, by the Ptolomæan or Syrian kings. The year following on the dedication of the Temple was entirely occupied with repelling the intru- sion of these hereditary enemies. The first effort of Judas was in the south against the old hereditary foe, the race of Esau. On the frontier of that territory was the craggy fortress commanding the pass, and from its situation called the House of the Rock (Beth-zur), al- ready contested in he battle with Lysias. This was oc- cupied by Judas as an outpost against Edom, and from this he attacked the whole of the hostile race. Now, if ever, began to be fulfilled the hope expressed in the bitterness of the Babylonian Exile, that a conqueror should return from those hated fastnesses, wading knee-deep in the blood of Edom, and with his gar- ments stained as if from the red winepress of the battle- fields of Bozra. From their entrenchments at the head or foot of the pass of Akrabbim he swept eastward and drove a tribe, terrible then, unnamed before or since "the children of Bean," into their "towers" or "peels," which, in the savage spirit of Jewish retaliation, he burned with all their occupants; and thus, still press- ing onwards, in skirmish after skirmish routed the Am- monites, under their Greek commander Timotheus, and returned in triumph. But the campaign was only half completed. The widespread magic of the name Judas is wonderfully attested by the entreaties for succor which pursued him into his brief repose at Jerusalem. One came from the Transjordanic district which he had just left, announcing that Timotheus had rallied his forces, and driven the Israelites of the district into the fortress of Dathema, of site now unknown; another, borne by messengers with their clothes torn in expression of the extremity of their distress, to announce that the Grecian settlers in the north and west had risen against the inhabitants of Galilee. In- stantly Judas made his arrangements. To the north he sent his eldest brother Simon, whose exploits are briefly told, but who succeeded in driving back the Grecian armies across the plain of Esdraelon to the very gates of Ptolemais. He himself took the ground already fa- miliar to him in the Transjordanic forests reserving for his assistance his brother "Jonathan the Cunning." As travellers now, so then, he gained the alliance of a friendly Arabian tribe. Throughout the district the in- habitants had shut themselves up for refuge in the numerous towns which of old had been renowned for the high walls which acted as defences against the Be- douins of the adjacent desert. The Greek leader had laid his plans for a simultaneous attack on all those for- tresses on the same day. But at the very moment when at early dawn the scaling ladders were planted, and the battering-rams prepared against one of the most important, there broke through the stillness of the morning the well-known trumpet-blast which the Gre- cian general recognized as the signal that the Hammer of the Gentiles was at hand, and the siege was raised, and the besiegers fled. Another flight followed on the banks of one of the mountain torrents that descend from the hills of Gilead to the Jordan. Judas dashed across the stream whilst his adversaries wavered, and down the way before him to the great sanctuary of Atargatis with the Two Horns, and there destroyed them. This was the crowning act of his series of vic- tories, gained, as we are assured, without the loss of a single Israelite, and the victor returned laden with spoil, and followed by vast masses of the Transjordanic pop- ulation. On his way, in the pride of conquest, he de- stroyed the tower of Ephron, which refused them ad- mittance. He crossed the Jordan, at the ford by which Gideon had returned from a like victorious expedition, to celebrate the Feast of the Pentecost in triumph at Je- rusalem. And, now that all was thus secured, he com- pleted his successes by one more sally into Edom, reducing the ancient Hebron, since the Exile con- verted into an Idumæan fortress, and destroyed the last stronghold of the Philistine worship at Ashdod. In the climax of the resistance of Israel there came the tidings that King Antiochus was suddenly dead. Alike in Greek and Jewish records fable gath- ered round the end of this splendid but way- ward prince. Even to his own co-religionists there was a strange significance in his sudden disap- pearance. It seemed to them as if it was a judgment for his reckless attack on the Temple of Nanea, or the Moon-Goddess, in Persia; and even one of the Jewish accounts represents him as having perished in his as- sault on the shrine. But the Hebrew historians not unnaturally connected the unexpected close of their persecutor's career with his mortification at the re- ception of the tidings of their hero's victories; and it agrees with their occasional recognition of some sparks of generous feeling in his capricious courses that they give him the credit of a death-bed repentance for his misdeeds—in the latest account even a complete re- vocation of his tyrannical edicts. It was, no doubt, the crisis of the contest. Whether the mysterious coun- sellor who, under the name of the Babylonian seer, had sketched in such minute detail the fortunes of the struggle till the moment of the desecration of the Temple, saw or foresaw the death of the persecutor is doubtful. There are in the Book of Daniel dim antici- pations of his end; but none of the frightful details with which the historians of the next generation abound. From this moment the struggle, although it still con- tinues, becomes more complicated, and its fluctuating results more difficult to follow, the more so as the ulti- mate success of the insurgents was now assured. On both sides there was the entanglement of a civil war. Alcimus, Eliakim, or Jehoiakim, with a large body of adherents, maintained his position in Jerusalem as High Priest, by the influence of the Syrian court against the Maccabæan warrior; and Antiochus, the young prince, with Lysias as his guardian, had to fight for his crown against his uncle Demetrius. But, leaving the details which obscure the main thread of the events, we may fix our attention on the conflict which raged in the closest quarters between the two rival fortresses in Jerusalem itself. The Temple mount was occupied by the insur- gents; the ancient citadel of David was occupied by the Greeks. To secure this position a vast army was sent by Lysias down the Jordan valley, which then be- sieged the Juæan outpost, already taken and retaken, of Beth-zur. It was here that a battle took place of which the unprecedented circumstances left a deep impression on the Jewish mind. It was one of the Peculiarities of Alexander's remote conquests that, during this century, for the first and last time in Western history, the Indian and African elephants were brought into play in military achievements. The Sy- rian and Alexandrian kings specially prided themselves on their display of these vast creatures. One of them had been known as "the elephant-master" on account of this passion, and had given five hundred as a wed- ding-present to his daughter. On this occasion the elephants were distributed among the army ranged, in Macedonian fashion, in phalanxes or columns. Each animal rose like a mountain from its own troop of 1,000 infantry and 500 cavalry, of which it was the centre. The creatures were roused to fury by show- ing them the red juices of grapes and mulberries. Their advance was magnificent. The attendant soldiers were dressed in chain armor, their helmets were of bright brass, their shields of brass or of gold. Huge wooden towers rose on the backs of the elephants, fastened on by vast trappings. The black Indian driver was con- spicuous on the neck of each animal, with a group of two or three soldiers round him, which the Israelites magnified into a whole troop. Those who have seen the effect even of an ordinary military escort defiling through the gray hills and tufted valleys of Judæa can imagine the effect of this vast array of splendor. When "the sun shone on the shields and helmets of gold and "brass," the whole range of the rocky ridges and of the winding glens "glistened therewith around, and shined "like blazing torches." The noise of the multitude, the tramp of the huge beasts, the very rattling of the armor and caparisons was portentious. Fantastic tradi- tions of this fight lingered in various forms—a heav- enly champion in white and gold—a charge like the spring of lions against the walls of steel—the watchword, "Victory is of God." But the sober fact was for once the small band of Judas's indomitable infantry failed in the face of such tremendous odds—not, however, before the achievement of one memorable deed. Elea- zar, the fourth of the illustrious brothers, singling out an elephant which, from its towering howdah, he imag- ined to bear the young Prince, determined to sacrifice his life. He found his way through the hostile ranks, crept under the elephant, and by one thrust brought down the enormous beast upon him—perishing, but winning by his daring act the perpetual name which he desired. He was known to the next generation as Avaran, "the Beaststicker." The next decisive move was the victory over Nica- nor, who was chosen to make an attack on Je- rusalem, from the fanatical hatred he bore against the insurgents and whose name accordingly long survived the memory of Lysias, Bacchides, Timo- theus, and the rest, who come and pass like shadows. He had already taken part in the conflict at the time of the battle of Emmaus, and a peculiar pathos is given to the history by the circumstance that of him alone amongst all their opponents at this period, there remained a tradition—difficult, perhaps, to reconcile with the hard language in which he is generally de- scribed, but quite consistent with human character— that, whatever might be his animosity against the Jewish nation, he had perhaps from admiration of the earlier prowess displayed in their first encounter, con- ceived a strong personal admiration and affection for Judas Maccabæus. The momentary consternation by which his sudden appearance checked the insurgents under Simon gave him the opportunity of opening friendly communications with Judas himself. There was a natural suspicion. But Judas came to Jerusalem, and for the first time the two foes came face to face. It was the meeting of Claverhouse and Morton.

from The History of the Jewish Church, Vol. II: From The Captivity To The Christian Era, by Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, D. D., Dean of Westminster Charles Scribner's Sons, 1879; pp. 337 - 355.
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