#cohost

Ilia sat on a stool in a far corner of the workshop, unbothered by the clanging of metal as she read her book. Occasionally, she glanced up to admire Violet at work across the room, then returned her gaze to the book with a smile.

“Hey there Ilia, long time no see!” came a voice from the doorway behind her.

Ilia gently closed the book and turned around in her seat. “Oh, Orchid! It really has been a while, hasn’t it. What brings you here?”

“Just dropping by to check on you two, catch up a little,” Orchid grinned, pulling up a stool next to Ilia. “How’ve things been lately? You better be treating my sister right, y’hear?” she added with a tone of mock sternness.

“I do my best to,” Ilia replied, gazing at Violet again with a soft, warm smile. “We’ve been well. There’s been a lot more business these past few years; especially cyclemount repairs, it seems they’ve gotten quite popular. Today’s job doesn’t need any new glyphwork, so I’m just keeping Violet company, but I’ve learned more about motive glyphs in the last five years than I picked up in a century of schooling.”

Orchid chuckled. “Glad to hear it! Just don’t work yourselves too hard, ’kay? You’re getting older – or, well, Violet is…” She trailed off awkwardly. “Actually, huh. Is that a gray hair up there? Kinda hard to tell in all the gold.”

“It is.” Ilia smiled at Orchid. “Violet’s been getting a few too; they look lovely on her.”

Reznax sighed, shuffling papers around on her desk. “Look, I’m sure she’s great at what she does, I just don’t see how she fits into Lust’s mission.”

“You were the one all excited about getting a transfer in from Sleep Paralysis!” Zalga glared across the desk at her.

“Well, yeah, there’s a lot of kink potential there, exactly the sort of thing clients are looking for these days! But, this,” Reznax gestured vaguely, “really isn’t what I had in mind!”

“Blajora’s been adjusting great, she’s found a new form she likes and she’s really excited to be doing work that makes people happy!” Zalga hugged the fuzzy dark-purple shark to her side protectively.

“That’s great, but how is she qualified to be a succubus?”

“Incubus, technically, she mostly lies on top of people. And my regulars love her for aftercare, we’ve been getting way more summons since I started bringing her along for on-the-job training! She’s already gotten a bunch of solo calls too, you’ve seen the figures!”

“What does she even do?”

“Like I said, she lies on top of people, and she’s soft and heavy and warm. They find the weight really comforting.”

Reznax pinched the bridge of her nose. “This really just feels more like Sloth’s wheelhouse, don’t you think?”

“Sloth, Lust, we both do bed stuff, there’s a lot of interdisciplinary overlap! You don’t get nitpicky about jurisdiction when any of the others spend the night sleeping with someone! And being part of Lust means people know she’s nonjudgmental, it puts them at ease!”

Jess took a slow swig from the thermos flask on her hip, savoring the flavor of Von’s “House Blend”. It’d only get her so far, but it was still worlds better than the legal stuff. Tasted better, too – somehow, Von could work that ubiquitous shitty synthcaf astringency into something actually drinkable.

“I’ve got the cameras,” Nine’s voice came in over Jess’s earpiece. “One guard at the front desk, two on the inner doors, a bunch more patrolling. And… perfect, someone’s heading out. Inner doors opening in 3, 2, 1, now.”

Feeling the buzz of caffeine entering her system, Jess activated one of the chemoglyphs on the inside of her jacket, and sprung into motion as the world slowed down around her. By the time the guards and bystanders understood what they were seeing, Jess was already through the inner doors, racing three times faster than any normal human. She ran confidently down the corridors, following the directions on her visor as alarms began to blare.

"Okay, I’m up to speed now too,” said Nine, her voice sounding slightly tinny over audio codecs optimized for normal-speed human speech. “You’ve got company at the next corner. Three guards, accelerated, heavy armor. Looks a lot less breathable than your gear, I bet you can steam ’em no trouble.”

Jess gave a grunt of acknowledgement, charging another chemoglyph as she rounded the corner. An oppressive heat quickly filled the corridor. The guards opened fire, but they already seemed to be sweltering behind their masks, and their guns were standard-issue models not designed for accelerated combat. She quickly disarmed one, and shoved another out a plate-glass window; hopefully he’d gone through “cat training” for using accelerated mobility to survive falls.

They reined in their horses after a long afternoon’s ride, left them on the edge of town, wandered off to take in the sights. One horse clad in Kevlar body armor; one weighed down with panniers and satchels; one with its head ensconced in a gas mask; and one unadorned but diligently cared-for, well-fed, pelt spotless.

Holstered guns visible on their belt, Defend walked nervously through the streets, scanning the faces around them for any sign of aggression. They gave strangers a wide berth as they went about their errands. In their wake, townsfolk began locking doors, boarding up windows. Some hunkered down in their basements; others made sure their own guns were loaded and ready.

In the grocery store, Hoard’s fingers played across the shelves, picking out more provisions for the road ahead. As they paid for their dozen cans of soup and their large jug of distilled water, carefully packing it all into an oversized backpack, customers and clerks watched them with growing unease. They carefully counted their change and walked out the door, bell jingling cheerily. The sound seemed to snap the onlookers into action. They all rushed to the shelves, shoving and scrambling to fill carts with all the non-perishable food they could carry.

Cleanse stood at a newsstand, flipping through a magazine with nitrile-gloved hands. A panhandler approached with a tired expression, asking if they could spare a dollar. As Cleanse took in the man’s unwashed clothes, they recoiled in alarm, a look of disgust visible behind their respirator. They put back the magazine and hurried away as onlookers glared at the man, keeping their distance.

“Okay, the Hot Wheels Maneuver still needs more workshopping, but we’ll get it perfect next time.” Green stepped into the hideout through a warp in space, Red in tow. She brushed at a soot stain on the smoldering remains of her uniform, frowning as it refused to wipe off. “I think if you wait another half-second for my ring to stabilize before you launch the fireball into it, we oughta be able to – oh, hey Yellow. How’s it going?”

“Hi Green, hi Red!” Yellow put her book down on the coffee table. “It’s been good, just taking a break from practicing in the training room. I think my aim’s getting better!”

Red grinned. “Nice! Sounds like we should do another target shooting contest soon. Can’t wait to – hang on, where’s Blue?” Red scanned the room nervously.

“Oh – right! We heard about some trouble downtown, probably the Demon Emperor again. Blue went out to handle it, she said she had it covered and I should stay here to hold the fort.”

“And you let her go?!” Green shouted, horrified. “No, sorry, sorry, you’re new, our bad for not explaining. Magical Guardians rule number 7: Never let Blue go out without backup.”

“We should really actually write those all down one of these days, instead of Green just making up numbers.” Red walked over to the fridge, quickly looking over the notes stuck to the door. “Shit. Yup, Black left us hints on how we’ll have fixed this. She’s gonna have-been pissed, causality paradoxes always give her massive headaches.”

These stones have no name. They bear markings carved with care and precision, they stand neatly arranged in a perfect circle, but no trace of their origin remains to history. It’s too convenient; maybe this is where my mind betrays me again, floor crumbling under me just as the light of the exit comes into view. But it’s all I have. If any of this is real, I’ll know soon enough. I’ll know.

I take out the ritual knife, and pause for a moment, contemplating the dubious wisdom of spilling my blood for a spell that might not be real, in a place that might not be real, for a truth that might not be real… No, this is pointless to dwell on. I’m far, far past this now. My blood might not be real. All I can do is follow the plan, and hope for a miracle. In any case, I’m out of time. I see (think I see) several points of light in the distance, approaching quickly. I cut my hand, letting the blood run down the ancient stone, and begin reciting the incantation. Did I remember it right? I only had a few moments with that crumbling scroll, before the guards arrived and I had to run (if any of that really happened), but I’ve always had an excellent memory. I remember always having had an excellent memory, anyway… It’ll have to do.

Around me, the inscriptions on all seventeen standing stones begin to glow, arcs of light drawing themselves through the air around and across the circle. I continue chanting, as the lights approaching in the distance resolve themselves into human figures on levitating disks. Council Executioners, by the uniforms. So those do exist; or my imagination is taking a turn for the conspiratorial. It’s about the response I’d expect, though. After all, if this world exists, then what I think I’m doing could potentially destroy it, according to a speculative hypothesis by a man who might have lived once, as quoted by the author of a book that my memory tells me I read last month. It’s worth the risk. Or at least, there’s no way to convince myself otherwise.

BOY OF TALL HOUSE COME OUT AFTER SNOWFALL, MANY YEARS. RUN WITH HOUSEWOLF. I STEAL HIS HAT. OLDER, RIDE THROUGH FOREST IN ROARINGSHELL, OUT BEYOND TO BARREN TOWERS AND BACK. OTHER ROARINGSHELLS COME NOW, BRIGHT-EYED, HOWLING. HOUSEWOLF OLD, LONELY, HOWLING TOO. …

Harrisley gingerly puts down the leaf, covered in a fine spidery writing. “And, this is…?”

“north wind... i transsslate...“ says the Walker Amid The Pines, in a voice that is the rustling of swaying branches.

“Riiiight. I see.” Harrisley looks over the other leaves now spread across his desk, covered in painstakingly-transcribed interviews with dryads, harvest spirits, the moon…

“So, er, this is rather embarrassing, but I’m afraid there may have been a slight miscommunication. When I said I needed a seasoned detective…”

“yessss... all four... i know them well...“

“The first thing you must understand about the Wizards of the First Age is this: the Wizards of the Second Age dubbed themselves ‘wizards’ after painstakingly assembling half-understood fragments of their art; the Wizards of the Third Age inherited the barest slivers of surviving knowledge from the Second Age, and called themselves ‘wizards’ in turn; and so it goes. Though we of the Sixth Age have seen fit to adopt the same title, we must not imagine ourselves the equals of our forebears. If the greatest and most learned among us were to seek to comprehend the magics of the First Age, they would be as an ant contemplating the gulf between galaxies.

“The second thing you must understand is that the Wizards of the First Age are not dead. The very concept may well be meaningless to them. They linger on, dormant – asleep in the deepest oceans, adrift among the stars, latent even in pattern and language. I do not believe we will ever understand by what means the Wizards of the First Age drove each other into this slumber, or how the Wizards of the Second Age created tighter seals to keep them there. What we do know is that when those seals began to falter with time, the Wizards of the Third Age designed failsafe mechanisms on absurd scales – their craft extended to the motions of the heavens, and the workings of fate itself. Every 121 years, Akwel’s Comet returns to our skies, perfectly timed to confuse the return journey of the Blue Wizard and send it wandering the far reaches of the cosmos once more. In every 72nd generation, a new Sacred Archer is born, chosen by the Bow of Ym to slay the Supplicant Titan before it can reawaken the Green Wizard on Mount Olo. The Wizards of the Third Age constructed vast cycles to perpetually forestall the return of the First, time and time again. These cycles are older than any language still spoken, and have maintained their delicate balance without fail from the Third Age until now.

“Oh, dear. That is quite a dilemma.”

Rosandra waited for As-The-Spider-Weaves-And-Weaves-Again to continue, doing her best to stay patient. Her demonic moral development research project had been slow going so far, but this could finally be the progress she needed to get her faculty advisor to take her seriously.

“The suffering of five humans facing their rapidly-impending gruesome demise is exquisite, certainly; but compared to just one who believes themself to have escaped danger, only to suddenly be marked for death… And confronted with the knowledge that another actively chose to murder them, rather than the five dying in a mere accident…” It licks its lips. “I suppose personally, I’ve always favored quality over quantity. Although – these humans who’ve all been tied up at the same train junction, are they acquainted with one another? If the one on the other track were forced to live with the guilt and isolation of being the only survivor among their group of friends, when their death alone could have saved all the others – that might well be the best of both worlds, wouldn’t it… Oh! Can I hand the lever to one of the five on the main track, force them to make the choice? But then I suppose that having control of the situation themselves could just as easily create assurance and purpose, rather than guilt and recrimination… You humans really do come up with such devious conundra!”

Rosandra, face in hands, had long since stopped taking notes. “Why am I doing this…” she groaned. “Why are you going along with this, even? Wouldn’t you rather be off pouring molten lead in people’s eyesockets, or whatever the h – whatever it is you do all day?”

Six re-emerges through the hatch onto the cramped bridge, swearing in several languages.

“How bad is it?” Anya asks, tossing over a ration pouch.

Six catches it and takes a long swig before answering. “Fucked, is how bad. That missile the Blowjob Brothers hit us with had a bio payload, one of those engineered slime molds the fucking Accordance use for sabotage ops. Kill to know how the hell the bastards got their hands on that shit… Anyway, it ate half the engine before I could vent it, plus I think some of it might’ve gotten into the fuel lines, so I’m gonna have to empty the tanks, decontaminate the fuel, flush the whole system before I can even start on repairs…” She does some quick mental math. “Five days.”

“Five days?”

“Five days for me. Anyone else, it’d take a couple weeks.”

“So we’re out, then.” Anya slumps forward in her seat, forehead against the dashboard. “Even at max speed, we’ll just barely beat the last stragglers to Eris XIII. No first-place finish, no grand prize, no money to pay off the Ocelot before he harvests my organs…” She turns her head slightly, looking at Six out of one eye. Times like this, Six always has some sort of miracle waiting in her back pocket. Maybe, just maybe…

“How much do you know about nullspace drives?”

Anya sits upright slowly. “I know they’re fast. And I know they’re ridiculously illegal in pretty much every inhabited system. Six, you didn’t –”