Not Every New Day Starts Like This...

[Silcatra]

Closed

There it is. Through the dense foliage of the ancient trees with their slimy moss and entangled roots, Silcatra could see a dilapidated building, white walls green and gray with age. There, her ever-gracious host was waiting, once again, to have her for tea. The cracking strains of an elderly man's voice reached her ears from a dingy beige tent about a hundred paces behind her, the old medic telling some poor soul that of course, their wounds could be healed. She knew how that worked; expensive, excruciating, mind-numbing pain to have the old geezer himself work on them and send them back into the jungle, fighting fit once more, or one of his clumsier apprentices could handle it cheaper...

Despite herself, Sil shuddered hard. The Hospital Tent was an agent of hell itself, or maybe it was a type of hell itself, but it was a necessary one. Better to visit hell briefly than to have to dance for the devil to regain one's freedom.

Behind her, still audible, was the murmured hush of the town. Well, not so much murmured hush as muffled groans; just to the west was the city where the zombies tended to congregate. Thankfully, today's wind was coming from the north; not only was she upwind of them, she couldn't get a whiff of the Island's - ahem - "industrial center" from the east. Thank whatever forces there might be above for small favors; Sil was not a woman who looked forward to tea time. It was more of a ritual, something she did when she got to that point.

How many times has it been, now? Two hundred? ... No, two hundred was a long time ago. Two hundred was when Jack... She shook her head, hand reaching up slowly to grasp something under her blouse. The soft metal tiing! reassured her once more that though he was gone, his love remained with her, and with everyone else he'd been forced to leave behind. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. That had been more than a year ago; a year and a half. It didn't hurt like new anymore, the edge of the pain had faded, but the scars remained. Some mornings she still woke with the ghost of his scent in her nostrils, only to remember he was never coming back and she had things to do.

Like this. And after this, there were events to plan, a teenager to check up on, friends to contact, new people to meet, a whole amusement park to inspect, candy to hand out, and advertisements to make. And that was just before bedtime. Over and over, work and work, more and more. Meet people, help them. Why? Because she was Silcatra, and she remembered being a rookie, naked and scared with nowhere to call her own and no one to call her friend. That was ten years ago, but she remembered it. Meet new people, bring them into the clan. Guide them, cherish them, teach and train them, make the Island home for them, welcoming and warm and wonderful, and then what? And then they left. Over and over. To do is to damned.

Silcatra shook her head again, trying to clear it, cleanse it from the fog of madness trying to settle over her mind. Her right hand rubbed over an eye, and she strode forward, footsteps crunching softly on fallen leaves and jutting roots that led to the low, white building. All around her were jungle monsters; she could feel them moving through the trees, could sense them around and above and even below her, but she walked without fear of them. How many thousands of their kind had she slaughtered? Hundreds upon thousands - hundreds of thousands! - she was sure. She didn't even walk with a weapon anymore; she didn't need one. No, their reality was her weapon. At her whim, a monster could be a rubber duckie or find its entire head made of glass. Her whim was their fate, and with the woman heading for tea, they didn't want to subject themselves. Not today.

The old metal door creeeaked open slowly, the musk and damp heat of the jungles giving way to the rusting smell of an old, abandoned lab, and the preternatural chill that Horatio seemed to like intimidating his guests with. She stepped in and the door BLANG!ed sharply shut behind her, a sound that she didn't even hear as she approached the rosewood door where tea would be served. How many times has it been, now? Two hundred...no, that was a long time ago. Two-ten? Two-twenty? Somewhere like that. Lot of teas. Long damn time. Such a long, long time, and so lonely, so...

"No." She spoke that clearly, and put her hand on the doorknob. If the madness was going to claim her, it could do so on its time, not hers. Here was her last chance to try and evade him, she knew that from long experience. She could go fleeing in inexplicable terror from her host and find herself shame-faced at the Tavern, mocked for her cowardice...or she could just go in, she and Horatio could kill each other savagely, like civilized people, and then she could go about her day. She turned the knob.

Almost before the door was open, a crackling BURST of energy came flying at her, forcing the thirty-two year old woman to sidestep to avoid crashing, winded and burning, into the entrance door again. "Now, now, Horatio. If you were in a mood, you should have simply hung a sign at the door saying you wouldn't like visitors at present. It would save both me and you the trouble; I'm a busy woman, you know."

Met with a glower, and nothing else, Sil got out the tea cups and a packet of fine Earl Gray to start brewing. It wasn't her favorite, but with an entity as choosy as Horatio... Well, she didn't want to come back as a blob of sentient slime. If she weren't sentient, however...

"Hey. Horatio. We've known each other a long time, haven't we?" Tea always took too long on to just brew, so with a carefully applied force of will, she hurried the process along and poured them each a cup. Two lumps of sugar for him, stirred twice; none for her. "I've been able to hear about your ups and downs, you've heard about mine...you've helped me through some trials, and hindered me through others, but it was all part of this game we play, within the rules, just how life goes. But..."

She looked down into her cup, taking a sip and then just cradling it. "But I'm so tired. Tired of the pointless race, tired of the ritual and the cycles of building and breaking, rebuilding and being broken. And we both know how it goes, don't we? I kill you, you kill me, we both come back and repeat the cycle all over again. And again. And again. Don't you get tired of it? No...no, I guess you wouldn't. But I am. I'm exhausted and I'm lonely and I'm old before my time. Part of my legacy is already dying - how sad, don't you think? Dead before its maker." Despite how sad it was, she didn't show much emotion on her face; all that was there for Horatio's piercing gaze was the soul-deep weariness that couldn't be cured by either sleep or cheer.

"And the most important part, yes, she's alive and will go on. And I expect it will hurt her, and I expect that were I to vanish, I would be mourned, a little and briefly, by the people whose lives I have touched. But she still has her godfather, and many people who love her and who will take care of her." Silcatra's head came up and her eyes narrowed as she listened to something, some silent accusation. "Of course I do! Do you think I wouldn't, that I could be so heartless? But Horatio..."

Silcatra grit her teeth, clenching the delicate cup almost hard enough to break it. "Horatio, each day I'm slipping further and further toward a ledge I'm not sure I can climb up from. If I fall...no...no. When I fall, when I fall... They will all have to remember me as fallen, and not a fallen hero. A fallen failure. So please...like you've done for so many before me, let my time have come, Horatio. Let it end. Let it end, Horatio."

She set the cup down on the softly shining silver platter, noting the delicate roses carefully painted onto the porcelain. “I know that it would mean my story simply fades away, until even the Narrator can’t pick the threads out to tell it anymore. All I am would be reduced to silence…but that’s better than watching it reduced to ruin even once more.” She stood, dusting off her pants and holding up a hand, eyes glowing fiercely as she gathered a roiling riot of destructive energy in her palm.

“Let this be the last time, old friend, that we meet.”


~*~*~*~

The explosion was as phenomenal as always, and as always, the cleanup crews raced into danger to pull an unconscious, badly injured contestant from amidst the ruins. But there was no contestant. They searched and scoured, frantically and until dark, but no matter their efforts…

Silcatra was gone.

[Silcatra]

The first thing to invade her consciousness was the rustle of wind through the grass and the sweet smell of the outdoors. The next thing was a low-grade headache centered right over her jaw, and then a sense of nausea. She didn’t have anything to expel, she knew that, but thank God for empty stomachs.

Then there was a sharp sense of annoyance. I know who I am. I know I’m the same as I was. Damn you, Horatio! There are plenty of others to torture!

Sitting up slowly, the olive-skinned woman ran slender fingers through her hair and adjusted her old fedora on her head. She’d have been fine if she’d been started over, unrecognizable, with no memory, no skills, scared and naked and eyes full of wonder. She’d have been fine if she was a civilian with no memory of ever being a contestant, or a leaf on a tree or a kitten, destined to be put in a basket, petted, and then fired out of a cat launcher when she got too old. But to still be Silcatra and STILL on this god-forsaken Isla -

Hold on.

Her eyes opened, green and blue-rimmed irises probing the new sights. For the first time in nearly five years, Silcatra found herself utterly bewildered. Every time she’d woken up after tea before this, she’d been in a hospital bed with a blonde woman offering both congratulations, condolences, and a memory purge that hadn’t worked after about her tenth time at tea. After that, she was casually dropped off in the town where others like her - those who manipulated the reality of their world, for good, ill, or silly - had settled. It was convenient, it was near home, and she could get train tickets there.

Why am I outside? And this… She stood up slowly, dusting herself off. A weight on her back told her she still had her basic supplies - what everyone started off with when they’d just been through tea. So she had a place to store things, something to cook with, and a few other, basic things. A check of her pocket told her she still had her cards and dice. I’m still me. But this…

Slowly, she turned around, scrutinizing her surroundings. This isn’t any jungle I recognize. What the hell? The trees were wrong; these were trees from a temperate forest, not a tropical one. The sunlight was wrong, too, whiter and cleaner and gentler and cooler than the pounding, merciless, humid heat she knew.

“Somehow…I’ve got the feeling I’m not in Kansas anymore…”

She had to find out where she was. And she had to find water. If she really wasn’t on the Island… Well, she’d always thought that it would be a painful death over the course of a few days, for someone like her. She was tied to the Island by her powers; it was simply a part of her. That she was feeling like hell didn’t to a lot to disprove her theory.

Well, I always knew he wasn’t a merciful bastard. Still…gotta at least find out where he sent me to die…

Stumbling slightly, the veteran warrior chose to go west. The forest she was in only seemed to thicken to the east, so she was going to head to where it was clearer. Maybe she could find a stream to follow. Something, anything, to help her get her bearings.

Her intuition served her well enough, if not very well. While she didn’t find a fresh, flowing creek or a road, the forest eventually broke, leaving her with a view of a little rolling plains and, a bit more than a mile off, a great city. A hand lifted to wipe a cold sweat from glassy eyes. Maybe it was two great cities. Or even three.

Great. It's setting in faster than I expected. Assuming I'm just seeing one city, it's too big to be Central. Where the hell am I? … And look at the construction. Did I get dropped back in the middle ages?

A wave of nausea nearly sent her to her knees, but she held her footing, closing her eyes and breathing slowly in and out. It took a minute for the feeling to pass, and when it did, Sil adjusted her backpack, evening the load between her shoulders, and began her halting, lumbering way toward the town through the tall grass that came up past her hips. If nothing else, I can learn where I am. Hopefully they speak English...but if not...if not, there will still be people. Maybe maps. Maps would be better than people.

Less than a quarter of a way to the city, she stopped, looking up at the sky and savoring the slight breeze that rustled the grass around her and stirred her duster. Just the sensation of the air caressing her cheeks and neck was a blessing, a tiny portion shaved from her misery. Salt on the wind. Must be near the sea. Dark eyes opened, regarding with resignation the distance between them and the gates of the city, and booted feet resumed their dragging steps through the long grass and the catching burrs.

[Silcatra]

Another quarter of a mile, another eternity on legs that shook and trembled more as the sickness set in. So this is what dying off the Island feels like. Damn him... She could see a road nearby, just another hundred or so feet. She felt like if she could make it that far, the rest wouldn't be so bad; at least she wouldn't be having to fight the grass, the dancing and twitching sea of green that threatened to consume and drown her. Just another hundred feet...

But just as a wounded, solitary gazelle on the Serengeti attracts jackals to come for the easy meal, a staggering, solitary woman in the wilds of Corone attracts brigands.

"'Ey, beautiful. Whatcha got in that pack?"

She hadn't seen them at first, as they rose out of the tall grass where they'd been encamped, barely five paces away. She hadn't even felt their eyes on her, which, she would later reflect, was a telling sign of just how out of it she was. Four of them, leering at her like a hungry pack of wolves. Each stood at least half a head taller than she did, and all of them were broader, muscular. Each of them held a long knife, the iron or steel gleaming dully at her and rusting in places.

A rusty chainsaw could be downright terrifying. Rusting knives, that showed that their owners couldn't care for them properly? Not so much.

Sil slid one foot back, grounding herself (because she really needed the help), and lifted a hand, palm facing the bandits and fingers curving into a sort of claw. "Yooou morons," she slurred, "are catching me adda bad time." She paused, fighting the urge to close her eyes against a world that tilted and spun before her. "I'm a l'il lost, not feeling all that great, and am a l'il bit pissed off. So. You can just back off right now, or I can destroy you to the last molecule. S' up to you."

The bandits hesitated; in a world where spellcasters weren't unheard of and a woman half-dead on her feet was bold enough to make threats like that (whatever a "molecule" was), was likely not one to trifle with. Paragons of good and evil alike strode Althanas, sometimes clashing titanically and sometimes subjecting entire towns to their whims. Was this woman a legitimate threat?

"Get 'er," snarled the burliest of the men, a dark-haired cur with a face like thunder. "'S just a bloody wench!" As if they were dogs let off the leash, the other three bounded over the short distance between them.

Fools. She brought her focus to bear, the phenomenal willpower that had slain so many other snarling beasts, willing it to blast these bastards into oblivion... but nothing happened, and they were upon her, dull knives flashing with dangerous design.

It was luck that saved her from the first blow, a half-step back to try and process that a skill she'd used so many times had betrayed her. Not in Kansas flashed through her mind, and then she was falling back again, twisting and wobbling, almost drunkenly, evading blows that seemed to come at her in slow motion. These men weren't trained, hadn't ever even fought opponents at their own level. They were bullies, plain and simple, hunting for easy marks that passed their lair.

"Havit your way," she muttered, leaning to the side as one swiped past her and following up with a hard chop to the kidney that resulted in a satisfying yelp of pain. Her left hand reached back reflexively, unhooking the large frying pan that was strapped to her pack and bringing it to bear.

KLONG! One blade blocked, the force of the blow sending reverberations through her arm, and again her body threatened to rebel, threatened to collapse, knees weak beneath her. She wasn't fast enough to block or dodge the second attack, a lucky swipe carving a gash into her cheek and a quick backhand sending explosive pain through her jaw. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Can't go down now. Three men still were on her, with a fourth one ready to pick up whatever slack his gang left.

Instead of fighting the weakness, she went with it, dropping down and whirling. Grass was mowed down and sent flying in the wake of her pan, her duster ruffled out behind her like a toreador's cape, and there was no knee safe from her wrath. BONG! DONG! TING! BANG! GLONG!

They danced back, nursing stinging kneecaps, and she stood once more as the last of the flying grass danced their way to the ground. Her whole body was shaking, wobbling, and she fought to see past the phantom lights and shades in front of her and the blackness crowding at the edge of her vision. She stood, her face a mask of viciousness even as her body threatened to drop her as she stood. The clammy sweat that had been plaguing her since she first woke now dribbled from her temples to her chin, down her nose and into her eyes, burning in the dirty cut left by the knife, and already her breath came ragged. She didn't have it in her to stand, much less to snarl, but snarl she did, glowering from beneath the shading brim of her fedora.

"C'mon! Come on! If tha's th' way you want it, I'll rip you apart! Come on! I've faced down worse'n you with nothin' but a SPORK, an' killed it and butchered it and sold the meat. Come on! I'll kill you. All four of you." She paused, not daring to take her eyes off her assailants long enough to wipe the stinging salt water out of them, and her panting breath tasted metallic in her mouth, telling her she was well past her limit. She couldn't afford that right now, and so she gripped her pan tighter.

"Come on."

[Silcatra]

Three rusting blades slipped more comfortably into their owners’ hands, three wild ruffians grinned simultaneously. This woman was no threat; drunk on delusions of grandeur, if not on some cheap whiskey, she could barely stand, much less fend them off. But she’d asked for it, and she was going to pay for their punished patellas. Even if they stood still, the raven-haired wench was on the verge of passing out.

“Now boys,” drawled a slow, almost lazy baritone from behind the quartet of bandits, “you’re about to do somethin’ rash and get yourselves into a whole heap more trouble than you ever wanted to be in.”

In retrospect, Sil would wonder how he had ever managed to sneak up on them. The man was massive, more than a foot taller than she was and as broad as two of her, and his rough homespun shirt couldn’t hide that there wasn‘t so much as a spare ounce of flesh to him. Dark brown hair hung over eyes that she couldn’t quite make out, and he ever-so-casually held the gleaming razor-edge of a scythe to the leader’s neck.

Eight feet shifted uneasily where they stood; a woman in the state of the strangely-dressed foreigner didn’t stand a chance against their combined might. She probably wouldn’t even stand a chance against a single one of them. But a man bigger and better-armed than they were was something else entirely. Was the chance at a few coin worth one or all of their lives?

The answer was no, and so four thugs returned their knives to their belts and slunk off toward the city under the watchful eye of the huge man. There would be other helpless travelers on other days. Days when there wasn’t someone out mowing hay.

Silcatra’s world tilted and wobbled so dangerously that even the slight breeze rustling through the grass threatened to shove her to the ground. She hadn’t lowered her frying pan through the whole exchange between the five men, either because she was reluctant to open her entire torso like that or because she was afraid she would fall over if she moved. Now it was pointed resolutely at the tall man whose grip had relaxed on his scythe.

“Who,” she panted, fighting her words out through the sickness, “who are -?” No, that was weak. “S-state your name,” she finally huffed, “and… and your int…intent…” a wave of vertigo sent her to one knee, and her arms went slack. The frying pan, the ferocious weapon of just minutes before, hit the ground with a dull dwooiing, and Sil found her eyes wandering over dirt, roots, and pebbles.

She didn’t have the coordination to fight this man. She didn’t even have the coordination to stand up. “Y’know what? Doesn’ matter. Doesn’ matter a damn. Do…do whatcha want.”

Habit, and habit alone, had her fumbling to clip her pan back to her pack. It was a motion she’d done so many thousands of times that she could at least manage that. The shifting and tugging at the mostly-empty bag disturbed something inside, and with a rustle and a cheep!, a green head poked out of a pocket.

The strange creature that crawled out was big enough to fit in the ragged woman’s cupped hands, with powerful hind legs, short but sturdy front legs, long ears, a bushy tail, and a face that was nothing shy of adorable. It was also the color of polished malachite and just as shiny.

Silcatra probably wouldn’t have responded to a tank barreling her down right at that moment, but the brim of her fedora tilted up a little bit as the tiny beast crawled from the big black pack and onto her shoulder. “Verdi,” she breathed. “You… what are you doing here?”

The other knee hit the ground, followed by her forearms as she lost anything resembling balance. “No…why didn’t you stay home? Why? Should have stayed with Jara. Jara needs you. Why are you still with me?”

There was a sharp chirp, almost a chastisement, and it reached out with a dainty forepaw to put a cold little hand on its master’s flushed cheek. Its next sound was soft, almost a coo, a reassurance, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“Dying, Verdi. I’m dying…and you’re stuck here.”