Dark of the Moon
Prelude

Priest: "Are you man or beast?"
Man: "Man, and like all men the beast dwells within me..."
--Clive Barker; Book of Blood





The hooded figure stood against a backdrop of the stars and remnants of a star-corpse, long since having gone nova and left its dust behind. It stood and watched the tiny things on the many spheres of rock it passed by with interest only in its objective. It didn't think of much beyond that objective; it had been prepared for the result of so much work. Time wasn't something it had to worry about, for like the water so rare in a Multiverse of solid and gas and nothing, the hooded seeker was patient.

Like the water, like the stars, it was very very patient.


Rhy'din.

The hooded one tasted the name on its tongue, spoke it in a ghostly whisper as it investigated this world. It was aware of the many forms of life, unlife, artificial life and things that should be that lived here. It was aware of the struggles it watched, though it watched those struggles with little interest. It watched the transitions, the betrayals, the victories, the beginnings.
And it watched as some became trapped in a frozen world not of their own making.

It turned around as another in robes and hood joined the first. They conversed between themselves and walked among the denizens of Rhy'din with an ease that nearly irritated them.

"This is promising."

"Promising. Annoying. The gray is too much to sift through."

"True, Companion, true. However, there are those kinds with iced over hearts. Kinds who do and do not deserve life or all of that which has come so fortuitously to them."

"And you think we shall find the one here?"

"Perhaps. If not the one, then one that will not be but a grain of sand in this sea of iniquity."

"Innocence is too malleable in a land such as this."

The first shook its head in a calm, patient kind of exasperation. They moved on through the crowds speaking to none but each other. Perhaps much like Rhy'din and its people, they only needed themselves.

"Innocence, Companion, is the one thing this hole does not give a damn about."

The second one nodded.

"This then, is in our favour."

Dark of the Moon
Phobos

"I met Murder on the way -
He had a mask like Castlereagh -
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him:

And a mighty troop around,
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord."
-The Mask of Anarchy by Percy Bysshe Shelley
_______

His head pounded mightily when he awoke; the pain not at all lessened by the darkness that surrounded him. He squinted in the dim fire-light, straining to see. Though he would find that he wished he had not, as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light and the sheer number of Jaffa came into stark relief.

A quiet groan escaped him. Well, there went any hope of escaping this place. Between his possible concussion (Should've just tried bolting for the door; probably could've made it past them) and their superior numbers, he doubted he'd get very far. That, and an escape attempt might make them decide he's not worth the trouble to keep. He had no burning desire to end up dead, despite the lack of thinking that had gotten him into this situation.

There were others around, strange figures wearing dark robes that blended well with the shadows cast over the encampment. For them, the Jaffa silenced. He did not get much opportunity to observe, however, as shortly after they appeared, he was rather harshly tossed in a cage. Only quick instinctual curling prevented him from hitting his already injured head against the hard metal bars now behind him.

"Let me go! I amn't surplus, damnit!" He growls out to his captors, shaking the door of his cage. It rather pains him to act like he's worth more than anyone else -that's just not the kind of person he is- but he needs to get away from here, get back home to Petyr and Vex and Anya. "I have a job! I have a family! Let me leave!"

That attracts their attention, all right. Those malevolent masks turn to him almost as one, and from within the confines of one, a voice speaks up. "Then you shall prove your worth."

How six words could sound so ominous, he does not know, but they chill him to his bones. With a shuddering sigh, he sinks back into his cage, to wait and wonder what sort of proof they'll require.

Dark of the Moon
Umbriel

((OOC: This post may not be suitable for younger or more sensitive readers. If depictions of dead bodies bother you, I would advise not reading any further.))

"Un damn? descendant sans lampe
Au bord d'un gouffre dont l'odeur
Trahit l'humide profondeur
D'?ternels escaliers sans rampe

Un phare ironique, infernal
Flambeau des gr?ces sataniques,
Soulagement et gloire uniques,
? La conscience dans le Mal!"
-L'Irr?m?diable by Charles Baudelaire


"Without light, the damned descends
The endless stairs with no banister,
On the edge of a chasm where
The stench reveals it's humid extents.

A flare ironic, infernal
A satanically blessed flame
The lone solace and only fame
? The awareness of doing evil!"
-The Irredeemable, Translation by the mun

_______

He had spent the past several days in sort of a numb haze, watching through the bars of his cage the activities of the Jaffa. It was readily apparent they were preparing to move the camp, and he knew why. Apparently they had been found. Someone had even attempted to free some of the prisoners, but had failed. He did not know if they had been captured or not. For their sake, whomever it was, he hoped they had not been.

Would it have mattered if they had succeeded, though? A soft, cynical voice said that it wouldn't have, that the mysterious tracker had been too late, that Renne had been dead well before anyone had finally found them. Optimism wanted to believe that Renne could still yet live, but he doubted it. From what he had seen of the Jaffa thus far, he gathered that failure to serve the Purpose meant death. It didn't matter whether it meant they died in the process of whatever the Jaffa did to bring them into service, or if their refusals meant they were killed, or if they were just plain worthless in every way to the Jaffa and so were killed. Failure to have Purpose was death.

Besides, he had seen how still Renne had been in the Jaffa's mocking embrace. Remembering that made his own thoughts seem to turn against him; he had failed to protect the imp, had failed to get him out of here, had failed his friend by getting caught in the first place. He didn't know which was worse: thinking on his own failure, or the little soft voice that wanted the Jaffa to burn for what they had done.

Actually, the latter was probably worse, between it's cynicism and destructive urgings. Especially since it didn't seem to care that magic wouldn't affect the Jaffa, as there was plenty of pre-existing fire around the camp, and all he needed to do was encourage things a little, and it wouldn't matter if some of the other captives died in the blaze because he'd probably be doing them a mercy by it. Which was so reprehensible and repulsive to him that he shuddered to think even a small part of his mind would dare come up with such things, and drew him further to think on his own failure. At least that did not make him ill at his own thoughts, no matter how upset it made him to think on it.

He was interrupted from his near fugue by the arrival of one of his captors. When had it gotten dark out? It didn't matter. Upwards he peered, until he met the malevolent red gaze of that snake-head. No sense in asking what it wanted; he'd find out soon enough what was planned for him.

"Surplus, you will begin to serve the Purpose." The damn monster was smirking at him behind that mask, he knew it. Which only made his heart sink in his chest. That tone never seemed to mean anything good.

Before he could make any protest about how he thought that he was supposed to have a chance to prove he already had a purpose, he was hauled roughly from his cage. Not that he didn't make that exact protest anyways.

"Silence!"

The tone was unlike any he had yet heard from the Jaffa, and it made his jaw snap shut of its own accord. He shuddered a bit as he was forced towards the edge of the camp, away from all the bustle of the preparation to move. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness outside the camp, he began to perceive figures moving in the distance. Recognisable immediately were the silhouettes of the Jaffa; snake heads unmistakable for anything else. The others must be Surplus, though, as far as he could tell from the dim shapes, they appeared far more cowed and beaten than those he had seen about him in the camp. The Surplus appeared to be burdened with objects of varying sizes, tossing them into what must have been a pit, as the things disappeared instead of heaping as they were dropped.

As they approached, a rotting stench filled his nostrils, making him gag. It smelled vaguely familiar, though he wasn't sure if it was just similar to something foul he had smelled before and he could not place it because of that, or if his brain was refusing to acknowledge what it was. Either way, it was revolting, and as he was forced ever nearer, he found bile rising in his throat and eyes watering a bit. How could those Surplus stand being so close to whatever it was?

Clearly they could not, as by the time they got there, the activity had finally halted and the Surplus had drawn back as far as their overseers would permit.

He was shoved ahead of the Jaffa escorting him. "We require light."

Once he regained his balance, he swallowed nervously (oh God the air tastes like rotting meat are these supplies gone bad?) and sparked a flame. As the fire grew in his hand, shaped into a globe as he focused, he began to make out what was in the pit.

Supplies indeed. More along the lines of Surplus who had clearly not served the Purpose, many already having begun to decay. His eyes darted frantically over the corpses heaped in the pit: there an old woman, eyes staring unseeingly to the heavens; over there what appeared to be an elven child, body bloated in rot; closer to him what might have been a drow once before the Jaffa got their hands on them...

"Oh God..." he choked out, voice finally slipping past tense jaw and closed throat. There. There. Right there, near the top, a deep blue muzzle peeking out under another corpse... a familiar paw... "...oh God..." The sight of what can only be his friend's dead form makes his brain shut down entirely. "No no no no no no...!"

He is unaware he has moved, stumbling backwards, until he runs into the waiting hands of the Jaffa behind him.

"You will serve the Purpose. You will burn the waste." The voice comes from above his left ear, cold, but not unfeeling. It sounds mocking in his mind, as though the bastard wants to laugh at his distress.

"No! I'll nae do it!" He can't. Looking at that pit, those poor souls... children, elderly, Renne... how could he consign them to a mass grave, unmarked, mingled with the remnants of others to be abandoned and forgotten? "I'll nae!"

A series of sharp striking noises off to the right, and a torch flares up. It is used to light another, and yet another, until enough are lit that the Jaffa could easily burn the evidence of their crimes on their own. He is almost relieved, until his warden speaks once more.

"You will burn them or you will join them." The mockery is gone, replaced with calculated intent.

With despair, he stares ahead of him. He doesn't want to die, no, but he's not sure he could live with himself if he complied. The fireball in his hand goes out as he cuts off the magic fueling it, pulling away from the Jaffa behind him to stand in front of the pit. "I'm sorry, Renne..." he murmurs, "I failed ye. Forgive me this... but I canne fail Petyr an' Anya too..."

He closes his eyes tight, slipping into a combat stance, and reaches. The torches flare brilliant red in his mind, glowing heartbeats of flame, as he draws out his own fire. Not enough, not with how weak the tender mercies of the Jaffa have left him, as he brings his hands above his head to pull the magic up. When his hands drop, bringing down flame enough to immolate the corpses, the torches go out.

The Moon's Livery had been rented, then directly owned by the Baron, lent to DeMuer Exports and finally gifted to the Barony over the last three years, and for most of them she had not been a beautiful ship. With dark sails and rough-edged arcane iron jutting from the hull, she was more Leviathan than the fine lady of the sea she had once been, long ago.

But her metamorphosis had now come full circle. The Barony would continue to use her as a freighter, mostly reserving her for diplomatic missions and other deliveries of various goods as shows of charity, good will or good faith. The sails were a gorgeous white, faintly pearlescent as their enchantments sang to the ebb and flow of RhyDin's ley lines. The arcane iron had been coated and polished to a fine gleam, and lanterns and streamers dangled and fluttered in the ocean breeze. The aftermath of a party celebrating the ship's new life, and an excuse for DeMuer to rub elbows with the cross-realms elite, forging new relationships over cocktails and the kind of conversation that tested his mettle in the worst way.

The Livery was a beacon on the RhyDin waterfront. Tonight, for the first time in decades, she easily eclipsed the ships she shared the docks with.

Alain stood at the prow some minutes after the last guests departed, enjoying a cigarette and contemplating the black, choppy water stretched out before him. So far no one had moved up from belowdecks to begin clean-up; frankly, no one wished to disturb him.

Gemethyst was watching him. Had been watching him for a while, actually. Hard man to corner, the Baron. Not that she wanted to corner him, in reality. She had a very bad feeling that he would be far worse than a cornered rat. Not that he was ratlike. Oh no. Alain was nothing short of frankly magnificent, and she was glad he had a woman. It decreased his danger rating by a huge percentage. Now that his guests had left, she felt like it would be okay to interrupt him. Before much else happened, and while he was in an introspective mood. If that is what it was. He was a very hard man to read. She stepped from the shadows of some crates that littered the wharf, and angled herself so the would see her, if he looked her way. She was in her leathers, and all but blending into the shadows around her, but for the gleam of light on her silver hair. It transmuted it to liquid metal, in effect. She spoke just loud enough for his ears to catch it. "Ahoy the ship."

It took a few moments, but once she spoke his eyes searched, adjusted to the city lights behind him, and found her standing amongst the crates. He smiled, or it looked like he smiled. "Come aboard." He adjusted his lean and put his back to the water. "I get the feeling we need to talk."

She nodded slowly, assessing that smile. She hoped it was a smile. It might not be. With him, she was not sure. Her own flickered up at him, and then she was moving. Quick and sure, she strode up the gang way and then on over to his side. She sent a quick, searching look up to his face, before letting her gaze move out over the water. "Couple things to let you know."

It was a smile, more or less. They were never one hundred per cent, his eyes telling that his mind was working over a hundred other things. But it didn't appear he was out to frighten or intimidate.

"Shoot."

"Kay....first there is a pit. Outside where the camp was, a few nights back. Its big...deep." She had to swallow for some reason, and her face grew paler than normal. She ran her tongue over suddenly dry lips. She looked like someone trying to quell nausea. "It was burned out, but.....not well enough. No. Not well enough." One hand went to her forehead to rub there. Gem stress. The other gripped the railing so hard her knuckles were white. Her voice, though, it stayed utterly controlled and normal.

He paused. His smile vanished, but he carefully schooled his expression. "How many, do you think?" Meaning the dead.

"I think......more than I can accurately guess. Saw...dozens of ..of arms." Nodding. "Legs. Bits that didn't get completely burned. It reeks. Can't miss it now, the smell is..." She didn't, she was sure, need to describe it more than that. "Anyway, the camp has split. I don't know where the majority went. I am still searching. As is Aja. She takes days, I search at night. Some other chaps, Trystan and folks he knows, they are, at night as well. He is ..close to Montgomery." Meaning relationship-wise. "The remaining camp is not big, and its got only some prisoners. I have not seen Montgomery there. I know they put a tracer on one of the Jaffa, but I don't know if its working or if they found it or not. I know that Kitty or Maranya or Petyr can tell you who is watching the tracer."



"A tracer?" He frowned darkly... sighed smoke through his nose. "Hopefully they haven't noticed it... The small camp should be easy to hit, and once we do it should discourage them from splitting their numbers any further. What did you find out about the locks there?"

"They have an outer ring of guards...and they are very, very alert. I was only barely able to pass them. The inner ring is even worse." She sighed. "The locks were too much for my picks. I have another set being made to my specifications. Thicker, harder metal. Adamantium. Broke one set. I tried acid, but got discovered before I could see if it worked." She gnawed at her bottom lip for a moment. "The creature I was trying to free...he got...killed, when they discovered me." Guilt. Could he feel it emanating from her?

"They're all doomed if we don't try," he said, "and you're trying. Remember it was the Jaffa who killed him." It came out of his mouth pretty quickly; then again, he had some experience getting people killed on the job.

"If the Jaffa were all dead or sufficiently distracted, could you break the locks?"

"I am fairly sure of it. I have obtained a really nasty acid...and I have made my sticky balls." She pulled one from a pouch to show him. It was a golfball sized affair, a malleable sphere. "That outer coating sticks to what you throw it at, which activates the acid, which then eats through. I can stick em to the locks, the bars....whatever. Also throw em at the cobraheads. Maybe make a hole big enough for someone to shoot through. I also have some deadly poison on caltrops. They are very sharp, armor-piercing sorts. Might reach up into the footgear high enough to prick em. Also, I put a trap up on the porch. Meant to activate if a heavy enough weight in metal comes across. It will deliver an electrical charge enough to knock out a tank.

"There is..something else. About me."

He looked aside at her and nodded, slightly.

"There is something I can do." She actually looked all around them, and lowered her voice, leaning in a bit. "I can channel..or weave...depends what you want to call it. Some ...its not magic. It's...elemental energy manipulation. Some patterns I know, not very many, but some of them are very potent. I could shield you, for instance, from magic and physical attacks. Or several people. But there are serious drawbacks."

"Such as?" He folded his arms, waiting for the counterpoint. He could only guess it was heavy.

"Well. It seems I am a "wild". I don't have much control or ability to do it without really hard concentration. I mean..I can be interrupted easily. If I get hit, or pushed or...even shouted at...it breaks the focus. So I can't just..do it. I have to focus for a couple minutes, and then weave the pattern. Takes about four minutes to do a thing." Too long if she is combat. Not if she is behind a line of folks, though. "Once its made, the weave stays till I dissipate it. It doesn't need further concentration." A little shift of her weight. "Also, it is dangerous. Because I am mostly untrained, it is difficult to choose the right strands. Sometimes...I can pull my own..or a bad source's. And then I drain myself. That..usually ends in death. Even so, without making that mistake, I am not much good afterwards, even doing everything right. If I do several weaves, I would have to be carried out."

"Then I'm ruling it out," Alain said with a headshake. "We need you for those locks, and even if recovery wasn't a problem, the risks are unacceptable..." He finished his cigarette and pitched it over the railing. "We'll just have to hit the Jaffa hard and fast. They won't be expecting us... and I may know a local group that can help us out."

In fact, Alain DeMuer had been holding this local group in reserve for the last three years, roughly. Trained by a talented veteran named Anastas Iskandorj, the Company K Watch had been formed as violent dissent loomed over RhyDin's second gubernatorial election.

Once the results were settled and the "no confidence" movement fizzled out, DeMuer decided not to disband them. They became regularly integrated with the other Watch units (inasmuch as the RhyDin Watch could be called integrated), adopting normal procedures and methods of funding... but to this day, they remained Alain's ace in the hole.

She nodded, and accepted his denial of her other ability for use in their attack just as if he had every right to do that. He did, in that he was the leader, as far as she was concerned. A little sigh of relief left her, because she wanted as few people to know about that as possible. "I have just found a trainer...the first time in 7 years. I start with her on Saturday. I am hoping she can help me with the exhaustion part of it. And the more dangerous areas. I gather it is not supposed to be that way, for the trained. Anyway. I stand ready to aid you however you need, Alain." She looked up at him, then, and nodded. "A local group? Excellent." She did not offer her troupe of Tor's Tuffs as they were constantly needed to guard the girls at her school. That Alain had a group did not surprise her. She had rather a high opinion of his abilities and his planning. "Don't forget that blue fellow I mentioned. He is very eager to help, and I think he will be a very good morale booster, as well. He's one of those types. Very likable. Very upbeat. Very big and strong. He doesn't even fit very well behind the bar." She chuckled as she remembered. "Very conscientious man. Grigori. I promised I would tell him when the attack it."

"If he's aware of the risks... I'm in no place to deny anyone their right to help out." Alain paused, and added, "In the end, all I can do is try to coordinate all of our efforts. All it takes is one Lone Ranger going off half-cocked..." He jerked a thumb across his neck. "...and everyone's dead. That's what we need to look out for."

She nodded her head. "Yeah...I know what you mean."

He shook his head. "Not that it sounds like that's what Grigori's going to do. I'm sure he'll be a great help."

She nodded. "He is the sort to lead a charge, you know? I think he may be a paladin. Not sure yet. Anyway. I have to get going. Need to pick up those picks, and test out some things. And sleep, if I can.

"Oh.....one more thing. They took out a cobrahead. Cut it open and pulled out a worm. Then they made the cobra talk...found out that camp's location, at the time, anyway. I don't know much else. Kitty, Vex, and Icer know more about that than I do."

Anger flashed through his eyes, sudden and bright, but curiosity won out in the end. "How'd they knock it out of commission?"

She pulled in a breath at that flare of anger, but that was all that showed it affected her. "I dont' know that, either, I am sorry to say. I should have asked. I was busy trying to soothe them over the fact that I had been searching for the camp, while they were, as well. They did not know about you and Sophie and me...recall? Anyway, if you see Kitty or Vex..or Anya...they can answer that better than I.

"If I do before you do, I will ask."

"This is a dangerous game, Gemethyst..." Alain turned back to the sea, folded his arms over the edge of the railing. "It's good to have allies... but the sooner we're all talking, the better, because we've been just as bad taking risks. And I don't think we'll get many more chances."

He fished out a cigarette and matches. "Have a good evening, Gem."

"Yes, Alain." To both statements. She gave him a little nod, and then turned about, disappearing into shadows before she was five feet from him. He didn't get to see her leave, beyond that, but she was indeed gone.

The Baron lit his cigarette and sighed smoke. "...Goddamnit."




((Adapted from live play between Gemethyst and Alain DeMuer. Also, as a personal note, characters' opinions are not the same as the players'. ^^ I love being a team-player, even though Alain's a grouch!))

Dark of the Moon
Enceladus

"You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain."
-Harvey Dent
_______

He breathed heavily, arms still held up and ready in a modified guard position, poised to either divert another assault or bring forth another deadly stream of flame. Eyes dark and wide with adrenaline looked unblinkingly around himself, though he did not relax even when no signs of further attack were forthcoming. He only stood down when one of the Jaffa stepped forward.

He had learned the first night of their brutal sport to not assault the Jaffa who were 'referees' of the fights. As such, no order was needed to make him grudgingly straighten from his fighting stance and accept being dragged back to where they were chained for the night.

The nights were chilly, especially as his clothes were becoming worn by the harsh conditions. He winced as he settled into a relatively comfortable position; finally aware of the newest blisters from the long days of forced marching, the bruises and cuts both new and old from the nights they were forced into a makeshift ring for what seemed to be the amusement of their captors, his own fatigue no longer cut by the rush of the fight.

He hated the fights, and not just because he disliked having to hurt those who were captives just as himself. He'd figured out rapidly that if he did not use his fire against his opponents, that he would die. The other Surplus in this group were all muscular, brawny, or otherwise large beings who he had no real hope against in the no holds barred sort of brawling the Jaffa expected from them unless he used magic. Which made him extremely unpopular, as they were expected to tend to their own wounds. Any hope he might have had of gaining allies among the surplus, even after what he had to do to the corpses, died the first time he threw flame at one of his 'companions' in the fights. Never mind that he likely would have died that very first fight had he not; the others seemed to rally together against him after that. Like they had more of a right to survive this than he.

Maybe they did. After all, they weren't constantly used by the Jaffa to dispose of the evidence of what happened at their camp sites. Unlike the first night, with the great pit, the subsequent nights were easier. Both in reality, as it was much easier to incinerate just a handful of corpses than an entire pit; and emotionally, as having already done as much to a pit, what did a few more here and there do? He'd already severely compromised his morals, already had a tar-black stain smeared on his honour, so it mattered less and less each time.

Really, that was a thought that should have bothered him, and perhaps even as recently as a week ago, it would have. Except it didn't, not then, because it was true. When they had broken camp that morning, and he had been ordered to dispose of those who had died during the night, it had been nothing to flick fire onto the corpses, burning them entirely. There had been a brief flicker of some strange feeling he couldn't quite place; one that had whimpered about how wrong it was to not care that he was an accomplice to the Jaffa's crimes, how he should loathe this, how he should care that he was incinerating the remains of a once living being who likely was missed by relatives or friends somewhere. Yet... between the near endless marching under both hot sun and chilling rain (he preferred the sun, if only because it wasn't cold and wet and awful), the fights, and everything else that had happened since they left the initial camp, he just could not find it in himself to care about that any more. Better to use what little concern for others he could yet muster to care about what he did to those who still lived.

The fights seemed to be over for the night, as the rest of the Surplus were brought back to their chains and locked in. Once all was secure, the Jaffa left to their own posts about the camp, some stood watch and others presumably went to sleep... or whatever it was they did inside their tents. The Surplus themselves remained still, silent, until the Jaffa were all settled into their places. It was only then that they moved, and even so they shifted slowly and carefully. To do otherwise meant death, as their captors treated any sudden movement, any excess of noise, as an attempt to escape.

He laid there, curled in a tight ball, and watched as the others tended to their wounds as best they could. It was with grim satisfaction that he noted he had gained more control over his fire, as he surveyed the burns on those he had fought that night. A necessary thing, though. If he had to burn the others to save his own hide, the least he could do was control the flame so as not to cause severe, potentially fatal injury. After the first few nights, however, where some of his opponents had died under his flames, the only person it really mattered to was himself. The rest did not care to notice, spending their time in the rings doing their best to avoid his attacks and the time outside the rings avoiding him in general.

As such, he had to tend to his own wounds which, despite his increasing proficiency with his fire, were still numerous. Their numbers increased each day. For the most part, there were none that needed any sort of actual bandaging, though some cuts here and there would have done better with something protective over top. As it was, he supposed he would count himself fortunate that nothing had gotten infected yet. The worst he could say was that it was very painful to lie down, or to really do anything until he could distract his mind from the aches of his body.

The pain and the hard ground made it difficult getting to sleep, but he knew he had to at least try. No doubt tomorrow would be spent marching, as had today, yesterday, and all the yesterdays before going back... days? Weeks? He was no longer certain. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had spent that last night with Anya and Petyr in the Inn. His heart ached thinking about that, and even as he hoped someone would come to the rescue... part of him never wanted to see them again, ashamed of his own actions to save himself, afraid that none of his friends would want anything to do with him if they knew.

Dark of the Moon
Mimas

"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live."
-Norman Cousins
_______

He laid in the dark, hand idly rubbing the rather large scar running up from his right hip. There hadn't been much to do the past few days aside from think, ever since they had reached this place and he'd been thrown into this dark, cramped cell. Indeed, the only reason he had any concept of how much time had passed was a tiny window near the ceiling of his cell, barred despite being far too small for him to have any hope of escaping through.

It appeared as though the Jaffa had noticed his attacks had become more precise so as not to kill his fellow captives. At least, that was what the faint words he could occasionally make out through the walls indicated. He almost wondered what they would attempt to do to him next, but he couldn't muster the energy to care. It seemed as though his efforts to do the right thing were constantly doomed to failure. Whatever they came up with next, he only hoped he would be able to think of some way to evade whatever awful things they wanted him to do.

A flame flickered idly above his hand, while he watched. He made it dance, wove it in a thin stream over and under his fingers, careful to keep it away from his skin. All the while, his expression remained blank and distant.

The sound of speech through the door made him banish the fire so he could better hear what was being said. He discerned words about some new weapon, a living weapon. A shudder ran down his spine at the thought of what must have been done to some poor innocent to create a weapon that was alive? but it was suppressed by the thought that At least it wasn't me. There were other words, ones that hadn't quite reached his ears intelligibly, but he wasn't stupid enough to try and move closer to the door, just in case the Jaffa decided to finally enter the cell.

It was a good thing he had not moved towards the door, as the Jaffa did fling open the door. He watched with little interest as they moved closer, complied as he was ordered to his feet, told to march. Where they led him, he did not contemplate. There was little use to speculation, as doubtless it would be worse than what he had imagined.

They led him down, to a dank room where several beings were chained. "These are the useless. You will dispose of them."

That caused a small spark of rebellion to catch inside of him. "Nae. I'll na do yer dirty work fe ye." His voice grated in his throat from over a week of disuse. He tried taking a step back, only to have his shoulders firmly seized by the Jaffa to either side of him.

"See these two Surplus." They shoved, manhandled him in front of a pair chained to the wall. One an older male dwarf, the other an overly thin elven woman. "Neither serves the Purpose. We will permit you to let one live." The tone of the Jaffa seemed mockingly considerate. "Of course, if you do not wish to allow this, we will eliminate both."

He shuddered hard, eyes closed to block out the sight of the two chained in front of him. He was not able to do this, could not have committed such an atrocity no matter what. Who was he to decide whether someone lived or died? He kept his eyes closed tight, pulled back as far as he could, and resolutely ignored the noise of the two being murdered in cold blood.

They hauled him back to his cell, quite literally, even as he drew away from them, unable to find the energy, the will to flee. He didn't know how long he sat there, legs to chest, head on knees, and waited. He was numb. He felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing.

When they came back, he went with them, though it felt as if he were watching everything from behind a camera, outside of the action and not really part of it. When they put him in front of two more prisoners, a woman and what had to have been her child, he did not flinch when the lightning left his hand. He didn't do it, after all. The Jaffa caused that woman's death.

Dark of the Moon
Hydra

"Wild animals never kill for sport. Man is the only one to whom the torture and death of his fellow creatures is amusing in itself.."
--James Anthony Froude







"Prime, is it ready?"

"Almost."

"Good. Sapa Incas will arrive within the hour."

The Jaffa nodded to each other and the Prime continued his experiment. The Prime liked his work, education married to sadism. It was indeed, his perfect job and right now, with the perfect experiment, the Prime couldn't have torn himself away. He turned knobs on the left to amplify the cold in his spider's-web of a trap and crooned to the captive held within it.
He marveled at how now, the creature within responded so well to his commands. Stubborn as the thing was, it had begun to reach its breaking point and in this, the Prime celebrated.

"You are listening to me."

Renne silently nodded, moving against the freezing pain.

"Good, very good. Do you wish the cold to cease?"

He nodded again and ignored the tears that had become a constant stream down his face.

"You will do as Jaffa command."

Renne did not protest.


He wasn't dreaming now. As harsh as it had been, the tangles -- most of them -- had been straightened out into a smooth, pristine path that displayed his life. Himself. The voices floated through the cold like the echo of some snow prince from long ago and far away. He listened to them now as they told him why he was here, what Here was and who he was to listen to.
Who he owed his existence to.

Who the Surplus owed their existences to and in this, that nothing could be his.

"It is why you are here. You will serve a Purpose." He nodded to the voice, remembering and reliving. Things he'd believed, fancied, they had been elaborate dreams created by those who Mattered. It was the way of things -- Those who matter control Life, Death, Dreams and Reality. Those who mean nothing do as they are told.
Those who mean nothing are expendable.

And Renne acknowledged this of himself.


Outside, the Jaffa had begun to gather. Sapa Incas was on his way and soon, very soon, the Prime was due to reveal the latest experiment. Soon, they were to have a weapon beyond what they could create themselves at their fingertips.

An hour later, the Prime emerged from the windowless structure.

"Jaffa."

"It is done?"

"Yes. Sapa Incas, I believe, will be pleased. The abomination is as we suspected."

The group of snake-armoured creatures nodded to one another. They didn't listen to the faint sounds from within the Prime's building; sounds of a meaningless thing meant exactly that to them: Nothing. But soon, that meaningless thing was to face another kind of destiny.