TwiLyghtSansSparkles

In this installment, we learn two important things. 1. BusDriver desperately needs a friend, someone who can share his seething hatred of his job. Someone who works food service, perhaps. 2. Calamity is a bunghole. (I like BusDriver. )

Especially if he'd already met (and somewhat liked) Remington by that point.

NO.

If we drive him insane, do you think he'll actually make CorpseMaker a fan of alicorns?

If you do, I simply must write a shipping fic where Chicago Joe and Calamity Joe leave their group of regular Joes to go and get a cup of Joe.

Maybe I'm tired and therefore focusing on the wrong thing, but am I the only one who thinks "Calamity Joe" would be an awesome Epic name?

You forgot the part where he sweeps Voidgaze into his arms and carries her off into the sunset on a horse made from McMuffins.

In his glory, Nighthound actually gains two new powers: the ability to make every man, woman, and child in the Fractured States weep for days on end, and the ability to make every hardware store selling front door locks and security systems run out of stock in ten seconds flat. A Voidgaze glory scene would be cool. Soul-crushing when the corruption set in, but cool.

I am officially scared. I don't know about Funtimes. We'll definitely see her at her angriest, but she's already powerful enough that I don't think it's necessary to show her turning entire city blocks to candy canes.

The idea has been kicked around that the CorpseMaker war is the one that finally destroys Portland, necessitating a move to other areas of Oregon. Like Astoria.

Thanks! Sadly, I've been somewhat scared of theorizing ever since JK Rowling cruelly stomped on my "Draco Malfoy is so traumatized by Voldemort that he will turn traitor, be redeemed, and go on to spend Book 7 being completely and totally AWESOME" with the aforementioned Book 7. I'm right? YAY I'm right! IN YOUR FACE, ROWLING!

Code for "But you're wrong. Lucentia actually wanted to drag him back to Astoria for a big musical number where Nighthound is beaten with crowbars." Which I would not complain about.

In "Epics of Oregon," she's classified as an Astoria Epic. Lucentia claims she came to Portland to "retrieve" her brother, as though he had been somewhere she was and she wanted him back in that place. Nighthound seemed especially passionate about causing trouble when he arrived, perhaps hinting at sick joy over newfound "freedom" from responsibility. His excessive trolling could be due to his nature, or also related to a sort of "high" he felt after his biggest trolling of all: leaving a woman he actually liked at the altar because he could. This could also be what Lucentia sought an apology for, in addition to her arm. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but that's my reasoning. Edit: Lightwards' worst nightmare.

100+ monks with the ability to perform exorcisms? Who knows? Maybe it'll work. My theory? It was Lucentia who forced him to marry(ish) Bloody Mary.

Nighthound forced into marriage (sort of)? I think it'd be safer to force him to become a monk. Vows of celibacy and all. And he'd be in close proximity to hundreds of men qualified to perform exorcisms! That settles it. Nighthound must become a monk.

0.o o.0 0.0 And then Nighthound died....and then Nighthound died....and then Nighthound died.....

Thanks Him? Bargain? Nah, he's more of the type to try and make you so terrified you stop fighting. Which usually works. Usually.

I go downstairs to make myself some tea, and when I come back up, my rep has jumped 5 points. So I go to look at my reputation to see where it all came from. After finding no answers, I return to the forums and see it's jumped almost ten points. WHERE IS IT ALL COMING FROM

I had thought Alice had made it a bit past the mechs. And some of the side streets could be in use by people trying to escape. A car affords better cover than just hoofing it.

That's just the beginning of his slontze-y-ness. (Slontzeitude?) Mail-mi wrote Reader's side of that conversation, and he gets worse. Ooohhhh, that's a good one.

Getting a car wasn’t a matter of Funtimes creating one so much as watching him inspect a small sample of a hundred key tags hanging in a closet and allowing him to take the one he wanted. That was the easy part. The hard part was convincing her he would fare better in an old pickup than in a shiny new Camero. “Of course I want one,” he said when she tilted her head, sticking out her lower lip in a pout. “You’ve got no idea how bad I want one. But if any Epics see me in that, I’ll be dead in a second.” “I could put bombs on it!” Remington sighed and pocketed the pickup’s keys. “Don’t tempt me.” The elevator she created was simple, scarcely more than a box on an electronic pulley system, even if she insisted on painting it four shades of pink. Remington managed to get inside and begin his descent before she could finalize her plan to add a jelly bean dispenser, though that didn’t stop her from sharing it over the two-way radio she’d given him. “It can have every flavor anybody’d want! Pumpkin and popcorn and pineapple and pudding and--” She cut off with a long gasp. “I’ll bring some pudding to the meeting tonight! Jelly bean pudding! Altermind’s gonna love it and love the Empire and…” “Seven, right? That’s when you want me back?” She paused, as though catching up to him after running off on her tangent. “Yeah. Seven.” She giggled. “This is gonna be so amazing!” Yeah, he thought with a smile, checking his hood and sunglasses. Yeah, it is. -------------------------------------- Tom and Mary’s house, Remington’s home for the past year and a half, was unchanged from the outside. The white picket fence still stood tall, the flowerbeds free of weeds and the leaves raked. Had he simply driven past, he might not have noticed the broken window. His stomach twisted as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. Blood stained the carpet in two places, turning brown beneath shards of shattered glass. He tried not to think of what had put it there. Tried not to wonder how his in-laws, the only parents he had left, had looked. Had they begged? Threatened? Shot back? Focus. Remington turned from the bloodstains and went toward the hall, passing the kitchen. There was a faint odor of Spam in the air, but the counters were clean and the dishes washed. Anger burned his cheeks, his skin. Mary despised Spam, and Tom only kept it on hand for when fresh game was hard to find. That left Lightwards. Either he didn’t know how to cook decent food, or he was even more deranged than Remington thought. His money was on the latter. Lightwards killed his in-laws and left their blood on the carpet. He enslaved a tailor and forced him to stay awake until he nearly collapsed with exhaustion. He claimed homes and people alike as his belongings, yet he cared for one and ignored the other. Cleaned counters and left people to suffer. Focus. Remington went through the hall methodically, removing every photograph that betrayed his presence. He and Laurie on a date. He and Laurie engaged. Him alone. Laurie with a bowl of popcorn cradled on her lap and his arm draped across her shoulder. The two of them at a theme park, aiming toy rifles at a unicorn on a carousel. Every photograph bearing his image was taken down and piled on the floor. Just to be safe, he checked all three bedrooms, ending with Laurie’s—his for the past year. Like the other two, the camouflage bedspread was rumpled, as though someone had slept there recently. The taxidermied quail Laurie had named Roger was gone, along with one of his shirts—and every comic book he owned. He re-checked the closet, then the shelf, fighting panic. The comics were gone. Calvin and Hobbes. Batman. Captain America. Seditious stuff. His photograph on Laurie’s corkboard put a face to the crime. If Lightwards had taken the comics, he had been in that room, and if he had been in that room, he had seen the photograph, and if he had seen the photograph, he must have seen the other pictures. Him standing with Tom and Mary the day he became their son-in-law. Then why not kill me on sight? Lightwards claimed the house was his. Upon seeing one of its former residents, he should have shot first and asked questions later, when Remington’s transition to Warrior put him in a more talkative mood. Unless he was saving his questions for when Altermind asked him to demonstrate his power…. Funtimes wouldn’t let him. Remington comforted himself with her face, brown eyes glinting as she asked him how he knew the Sadrys. If she was willing to let him roam because of a grudge, she wouldn’t let that grudge go to waste. She would intervene. Turn that gun into a hamster and his clothes to tar. He rearranged the other pictures and ticket stubs on the corkboard to cover the hole, then piled the photograph onto the framed pictures and carried them into the cool, musty-smelling darkness of the Sadrys’ basement. Light from window wells afforded just enough to see his way. He carried the frames to a far corner, counted them, and took the same number from a cardboard box. Tom and Mary always had more pictures than they knew what to do with, so they kept the extras in the basement. He paused at one of Laurie as a teen, blonde hair pulled into a ponytail and a sweatshirt tied around her waist as she smiled beside Multnomah Falls. Her smile was so sweet. So carefree. The smile of a teen with an entire lifetime ahead of her, with no idea of what lay ahead. She couldn’t have known. Remington tucked the incriminating photographs as close to the bottom of the box as he could, leaving a few boxes stacked on top. He checked to ensure the basement looked as undisturbed as possible, then carried the pictures up to the hall. He tried to ignore the blood on the carpet. Every instinct screamed for him to wash it out, but Lightwards couldn’t know what he had done. The blood had to stay. When all signs of his existence had been erased, he left the door as he had found it and made for CorpseMaker’s territory. -------------------------------------- The Dalles, two years ago Remington and Laurie walked. They walked through falling snow and cold air, following the road at a distance. When the sky began to darken, and they could agree they had not been followed, they walked alongside the cracked asphalt until an old pickup approached. One driver. No passengers. No cloak or circlet. “Need a lift?” Remington explained what had happened as he and Laurie climbed into the cab. The speedometer never dipped below seventy. Flashing red and blue lights lit the night when they pulled into town. Police cars and UAVs surrounded a church, forming a barrier around the parking lot. Uniformed officers, police and National Guard both, approached the building with guns drawn. “This is the combined forces of The Dalles City Police and The Dalles National Guard. We have you surrounded. Place your weapons on the ground and exit the building with your hands behind your heads. If you attempt to use Epic abilities, you will be shot immediately.” Remington watched the church as the amplified voice faded to a tense silence. A pit formed in his stomach. The church door opened. A ten-year-old boy walked out, hands in the air. “That’s George.” Laurie’s hand covered her mouth. George was a student in her Sunday school class. The soldiers nearest George did not lower their weapons, but they did ask him a question to which the answer was a frantic shake of his head. He turned to answer a police officer, and the light caught on his neck. “Is that blood?” Remington couldn’t tell for sure, but the dark splotches looked uncomfortably like blood. One of the soldiers placed a hand on George’s shoulder, and the boy began to cry. That was when a cold, clipped voice boomed from behind the church’s open door. “If you prefer George as he is, you will lay down your weapons now. If you prefer to see him as his parents are, by all means continue.” George’s hand went to his throat. The soldier put his arm around the boy and began to lead him away from the church—halting a few steps later when George fell. “I said, lay down your weapons. His life is mine, and I will take it if you do not do as I say.” Another voice boomed from a squad car’s microphone. “We don’t mean any harm. Just let George go, and we can negotiate.” “I don’t negotiate with mortals.” The soldier helped George stand, checked his bloodied throat, and quickly put a cloth to it. “Sir, we will open fire. Let the boy go, and we’ll negotiate for any other hostages you have.” There was a long silence, one where the soldiers and officers stood with their guns aimed at the door and George cried quietly as a soldier checked the bleeding again. When Laurie spoke into it, Remington jumped. “We have to warn them.” She shook her head, staring wide-eyed at the scene. “The others—everyone in town—we have to tell them. Get them armed.” The pickup driver had killed the headlights some time ago. He drove slowly past the church, the standoff soon obscured by flickering blue and red lights. “Edge of town first?” Laurie nodded. “They—they’re not used to this. The cops. Probably think they’ll get it settled….” She trailed off, and Remington knew she was thinking about Portland. Portland, where police and soldiers served Epics who fought for their loyalty. Remington put his hand over hers. “They’ll get it,” he said, though he was far from convinced. “They know what they’re doing.” The guns on both sides were silent as the pickup chugged by. The engine, quiet though it was, seemed too loud. Someone would hear it. Someone would see them. The purple-cloaked Epic would hear their car and march over any second…. Lights faded out of sight as they passed the church garage, where buses and vans were kept. No one approached the truck. No headlights appeared in the rearview mirror. Remington, still holding his rifle, relaxed his grip. The engine growled as the driver stepped on the gas pedal. Clunk—chunk—clunkclunkclunk. Silence. “What happened?” Both Springfields tried to sneak a peek at the dashboard. “It—died. The engine—it just died.” He took the keys from the ignition. “Out. Everybody out.” Remington couldn’t open his door fast enough. He jumped out into the cold, helped Laurie down, and looked around. Whoever had killed the engine—whichever Epic had done it—had to be close. He didn’t want to release Laurie’s hand, but he needed both to shoot. Shoot, and run. Run as far as he could go and shoot whoever chased him. A man in a tux strode toward him. “Well, well. Remington Springfield, is it? Yes, I know you. I’ve met your parents. I’ve got them locked up in a garage.” ------------------------------------------ There were few cars on the road, but enough to disguise his trip as something innocuous. Remington matched their speed, wanting nothing more than to slam on the gas and tear off for the airport. That was where they were. The rebellion Funtimes had heard of. Remington wasn’t sure what to make of it. On the one hand, a human-led rebellion was just what Portland needed. They could succeed, if they wanted; Koschei had been defeated by similar means. On the other hand, rumors of rebellion were as common as rain, and not one managed to kill more than one High Epic or a handful of minor ones before dying or fading into obscurity. Even the Reckoners, that storied group of Epic assassins, didn’t seem to do much but sip tea and talk. Maybe they were doing something useful during those tea-sipping sessions, but until Remington saw the evidence, he would assume their activities began and ended at making tea. He cast frequent glances at the sidewalks flanking the road, but saw no Epics. No one else, either; rumors of war had driven Portlanders for shelter. So when he spotted a woman frantically clutching at her bleeding arm, he pulled over. She didn’t hold it the way she should have, pressing a strip of cloth to the injury while looking for cover, opting instead to cup it loosely as blood seeped between her fingers. Her eyes were frantic, but she didn’t seem interested in finding cover. Epics. Remington knew of only one Epic who could strip a human being of her survival instincts, and that was Lightwards. Had he left a Warrior on the block to spy out potential traitors? Her eyes, though. No Warrior had eyes like that because no Warrior was capable of fear. From what he had seen, unless Lightwards told them to cower, they would stand until a barrage of gunfire mowed them down. Remington pulled his hood up further, adjusting his sunglasses. Not a perfect disguise, but inconspicuous enough to divert attention. Approaching her might sear him into her memory, but she was bleeding. He had to take that risk. “Ma’am?” He touched her shoulder lightly, gently, hoping not to frighten her. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

One time skip coming up, then. And it's done. I had a Unicyclist segment, but I'll save it until the meeting starts….and I find an appropriate character icon.

For the time skip, did you want to post first, Kobold, or should I? I know Lightwards has to get Lucentia back to the MoNA before going ahead with the meeting.

You forgot the part where LIGHTWARDS is burned in effigy and the peasants rejoice.