The 108 Chapter 39: Many Faces

Amusingly, I think it’s my first time in a guild-approved training arena. I’ve visited the Garden’s dueling grounds before, but those are more casual and meant for students to test one another. Here, there are enchantments designed to replicate specific conditions: rocks and walls ready to pop up and the likes, but in my case it just looks like a padded cell if the padding was crystal and the inmate the size of a building. It’s tragically naked, although I can feel souls on the upper left walls where there is a concealed observation deck. 

“We will now be commencing with basic combat testing,” the voice of an examiner says from concealed speakers. He sounds nervous. No wonder, with one of the Garden’s most powerful denizens attending. 

“Sending the hound now,” he continues with a quavering voice.

A gene-modded hound soon emerges from a small side door. It’s an ugly thing of muscles and bones that looks pink and flayed — for the psychological effect I assume. I think they’d look better with long black hair and red eyes but that’s my Hound of the Baskervilles fan heart speaking. As it is, this one doesn’t look too impressive.

The puppet jumps up, maw open on a mass of slavering teeth. I strike up. The fast hit snaps the spine with the initial impact. Before the beast can fall on me I push the chest away with the butt of my staff before pinning the quivering corpse on the floor of the empty room.

“Right,” the tester says from the observation deck, “I will increase the difficulty.”

The next hound is significantly faster, showing the puppeteer’s more direct control. This one stays closer to the ground before rushing in. I take a step back and use one of the Uran technique’s receiving blows. It’s a more static defense than what the ape favors. Since we’re testing, I overload my already improved metabolism. The tip of the staff hits the puppet on the side of the head. I expect a crunch. Instead, the head explodes. Fragments of cranium and brain matter shower the floor while the carcass collapses bonelessly on the ground. Ah. 

I appreciate the moment of silence, and the shock in not just the tester but Kimera as well. Antea remains unreadable.

“Hm. Is it the right…”

“Increase the difficulty to the next level of qualifications,” Antea orders. “As a matter of fact, switch to 3 immediately.”

“Grandmaster?”

“Do as I say,” Antea replies with the voice of someone who rarely has to repeat herself.

This time, I’m facing a true monster: a sort of bipedal horror with large claws — clearly a gene modded beast, or it would be. There is no soul inside. Those are all puppets assembled by the examiner.

The beast is more careful, its operator having seen what happened to charges when faced with prepared defenses. I wonder how much is the man and how much is the sub-brain of his creation. The beast swipes — a feint. I go for the elbow and miss but still hit a bone. The next feint is faster and would never hit me so I ignore it. A mistake. The limb extends, but I’ve faced abomination before and step back at the last moment. Another counter, another bone. The operator is starting to realize I’ll win that game every time so he does what he should have done from the start: use the beast’s overwhelming strength. It lunges. I use precise attacks in long form to keep my distance, aiming for the face. 

It’s going to lunge again.

I don’t know how I know this but I’m already moving before it does. I roll to the side as it jumps, one claw catching my shoulder which helps with my roll. I’m up and striking its flank before it can recover. My wound’s already closing. The beast shrieks in pain.

“Stop,” Antea says.

The puppet freezes and withdraws through a small side gate of the arena to be reabsorbed by its creator. There is a quiet silence while I resist the urge to flip my staff around, a habit encouraged by Xan because it practices dexterity and is also super annoying to those around. I feel just a little bit smug. Steve 2.0 is a beast. I’ve never felt stronger, and that’s just with the modded baseline. Maybe I could shoot lasers from my eyes or webs from my wrists later? Surely, nothing could ruin my good mood. I mean, I am still worlds away from the strongest monsters on the station, but I’ve been here for less than ten full loops, and I can already contend with low sect guards! Yay me. Feeling chuffed.

Antea walks in the room with a smile like a cat in a basket full of mice.

Ah, shit. Excitement wells in Kimera and the examiner’s souls up above and it’s not because of me. 

“The test will now resume,” Antea tells me with a smile.

Antea melds. I immediately face a towering armored man with armor made of chitin, fibrous and alien. ‘His’ arm extends to a strangely fixed polearm clearly made of the same material and bound to the forearm by a strange articulation. A shield forms just as fast, then the armored man duplicates into two, then four similar soldiers. They step forward with eerie synchronization.

I hold back a laugh. Oh, Antea. You canny she-wolf. Those are very clearly templars. A crackle along the false polearms soon confirms my strong suspicions, and the guilty delight in the two other spectators confirms they see it, as well. The false templars advance on me like one, something I have seen them do in real life against the abominations. Of course, their disabling weapons and strong defense have proven to be of limited use against the drones of the Tree of Everything, but they were never meant to face such a threat. They were always meant to disable a single strong opponent. Like me.

“Fair enough.”

I charge the rightmost of the quartet of stooges, the formation easily turning and collapsing to box me in but I veer left at the last minute, slam a polearm aside and strike at the head of the leftmost templar. Or I try. The halberd is surprisingly solid despite my stupid strength and I’m momentarily surprised. The templar lowers its head so I only score a glancing blow. It should have been enough to ring its bell. Instead, the formation pivots around its center. I step back before being hit by a wall of false steel.

Alright then.

I charge dead center. Four polearms gather at various heights so they can’t all be swept aside at the same time. I throw my staff and freeze time. Dropping the metabolic overcharge, I instead focus on my star aura. I feel myself ignite with the wan light of an undying white dwarf. It’s going to be a little difficult but I’m confident.

Time returns. The staff smashes into one of the helmets, crumpling it. Four crackling blades melt against my flanks while the shields only last long enough for me to use as a springboard. I jump over the line and punch both nearby heads. Now their tight formation works against them. While two of the soldiers collapse, I land and lunge at the one with the damaged head, planting my fist in its ribs. It feels very weird. Like trying to reach for something in a pit of hardening clay.

Got three, at least.

“Not bad,” Antea’s voice comes from nowhere in particular. “Now how about this? Proctor, open the door.”

The arena’s gate shines with the light of the changing room like a hopeful beacon. The false templars reform and multiply until they are a crowd between me and the exit. They’re not in formation yet.

She doesn’t have to explain. I leap forward, dodge a few errant strikes as I give my discarded staff a longing look. No time. The aura is still active, but the templar I try to disable locks shield with the next one and their shields flash blue, melting much more slowly. I jump over them and onto a forest of stunning blades. The aura protects me but the lightning somehow weakens it.

Dammit, how did Antea reproduce this effect? I feel like mana is being leeched from the spell.

I land feet first on a shield, twist mid air and drop the aura. I run close to the ground, through gaps. I can see the door beyond armored boots. So close!

A tower shield slams on my spine. The pain is dull but something cold spreads through my back and I spasm. It is enough. Polearms descend on me, not skewering me as I thought but forming a dense network of metal arcs crushing my limbs and my neck. The puppets remain, but Antea reappears, kneeling by my side with just a hint of mirth in her crimson eyes. I am quite restrained., I’m afraid. I so wish I could make an innuendo, but this is my girl’s rival so I need to behave.

“Ahem,” Kimera protests from the observation deck.

“Adequate,” Antea concedes. “Although I do hope you will demonstrate more flexibility as your mastery increases. Your regeneration is acceptable, but consider this: you can sacrifice limbs, articulations, it doesn’t matter. Pain is but signals, and everything can be regrown.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I promise.

Can’t wait to pop an arm out like a spooked lizard just to watch the other guy’s face when he’s just holding one floppy Steve bit. No innuendo. Antea bonks me on the head with my own staff, which I promptly recover and fold.

“That will be all for today. I will be…”

She looks back towards the entrance where Kimera struts in to stake her claim.

“Suggesting an updated training regimen,” Antea continues. “Your basics are solid. I believe you would benefit from sparring against varied opponents.”

Kimera and I watch her disappear down the corridor at high awakened speed. The examiner clears his throat before retreating as well. Kimera’s soul feels brittle.

“You did very well. Basic 3 is the level required to apply for advanced combat courses for shadows and guards, and most of our crafters pass it with a functional war form. This is a memorable performance. Come, disciple, let’s eat a celebratory meal before more practice.”

She grabs my elbow with delicate fingers. I can tell exactly what’s happening. Kimera is terrible at puppeteering, and she has precious little combat experience while Antea demonstrably proved in front of us both that she can replicate an entire templar squad and all their effects.

“You’re adorable when you’re possessive and jealous,” I tell Kimera.

“I see I may have been a little light-handed during training?” she asks very sweetly.

But I know she’s bluffing, so I just hold her hand tight. 

***

Over the next weeks, Kimera has me revert to default buff Steve and then back again to mutant Steve for the sake of practice. The fleshcrafter philosophy is simple.

“What makes us the most dangerous is not our more advanced forms,” she explains over tea, “but our warriors’ ability to switch from one to another in moments. Thank you. And a biscuit as well.”

I put down the pot before getting the box. As expected, Kimera has a sweet tooth and she can be lured away from research for degustations provided that it’s within the context of teaching.

“I was told that our regeneration is what frustrates opponents the most,” I comment.

“Resilience is one of our strengths,” she concedes, “but that is a defensive power with its own limits. A good war form user can land hits on Enderlith’s greatest weapon masters by breaking every rule of anatomy. Phage is famous for that, actually.”

She frowns.

“As for the limits, wide-range spells and soul-coated attacks offer a dangerous counter. I am told soul wounds are even carried over forms! You must remain cautious, disciple.”

I remember Raptor Mask’s terrifying attacks. Having experienced the wounds, I’m wondering if a soul awakening technique could counter the anti-healing effect. Soul-coated wounds convince the victim that the body is exactly as it should be, and that there is nothing to regenerate, but that’s because there is a lingering soul effect on the hurt area. If I could purge the remaining energy, I could reactivate my regeneration almost instantly. It’s definitely something I’ll have to learn since Lilth is a soul awakened. 

I’ll have to experiment with another soul awakened. Maybe one that isn’t Lumie though. Hmm. Not urgent. Malice isn’t a soul awakened and he is my priority. 

“Your training will continue, of course, but there is something else I would like to address,” Kimera continues.

She blushes. 

“I think it’s time we worked on mnemonic nodules. You have a very clear library by now, and the fine control to reproduce them. I’ll teach you. And then… you can also get Antea’s. I feel secure enough.”

She avoids my gaze.

“What?” she asks.

“We’re talking about tiny pockets of non-coding DNA strands used to carry memories, right?”

“Yes! Yes, as I told you.”

“Soooo why do you make it sound so intimate?”

“It’s not! It really isn’t. We are sharing those for the sake of information transmission, nothing more.”

“Kimera?”

“I said it’s fine!”

I’m a little surprised, but I know better than to push when Kimera clams up (it will never work), while I can just wait and she’ll brainlessly explain what’s going on later as part of a detailed explanation. Nodule training is simply done in her room since it requires no specific setup. There are, of course, a few issues. The nodules were originally created to carry memories between trained fleshcrafters. In theory, everyone could read those but it requires the ability to turn extremely detailed strands into neuron structures which is something that is far beyond me at the moment. What I can do is to record the nodules and then slowly rebuild them for someone else to read, a slow and daunting task.

“It will be better with practice,” Kimera assures me.

I believe her, but it looks like it will still take me three hours to rebuild ten seconds of stream of thought at this speed. Modding myself remains my main focus, however. When I’m not slowly turning between vanilla and mutant Steve, I’m either training my stealth with the Shadow Master Aren, or teaching Lumie who unexpectedly asked me to train her soul perception. 

I don’t know if this is the random effect at work or if she sees me more as a sort of teaching assistant now that I’m technically further than her in the flesh crafting curriculum. I have to say, Lumie is sweet but the fragments of memory I get from her chill me to the bone. It makes me so glad she has so many friends here, and is doing so much better. 

The stealth training came from the realization that I still have what Aren wants, but I don’t need to learn the Visage of the Meek reversal from him anymore. I guess I will be using the same coin to pay for various things, again and again and again. I don’t think I mind very much.

***

Elysion explodes slightly early. Antea and Krane came to the conclusion that there would be less damage to the station’s power structure with a deeper, narrower blast. So they sent Law servants after it. I don’t know if I should be happy that Law actually investigates the matter when someone else suggests it, or pissed off that they’re never giving it enough attention to, ya know, actually fucking stop the thing. Antea explains the impact of the explosion during one of our surprisingly common meetings.

“Even with a narrower blast, the loss is incalculable. Krane and I are exploring ways to lure key personnel away at a critical moment, but so far the effect has been minimal. The ceremony itself attracts the cream of the crop of Enderlith’s most powerful.”

“But not you,” I notice.

“Grandmaster Tenso represents us. She’s…”

Antea pauses, an amused smile tugging on the edge of her ruby lips.

“Well-suited to public representation.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s the head of our gene modding department. Tenso thrives among the elite of the patricians. Her sales efforts have led to unprecedented profits for her division. She’s a very valuable addition to our team.”

“And yet you let her die every time?” I ask, half-amused and half-horrified.

“Enderlith after the bomb has little need for profit and a great need for a more… decisive approach to decision making. Tenso favors harmony and, while valuable, it can prove a hindrance when we need to make more, ah, guild-centric decisions.”

In other words she’s too nice so Antea lets her die so they can stab their allies in the back when appropriate. Antea smiles like a happy cat. I think I should be more scared about how easily she sheds her matron persona to revert to her natural state of being a ruthless predator.

“Well, I’m glad you’re on my side.”

“Oh, you have no idea, young Prentiss. But, much like dear little Kimera, I digress. The explosion kills not just patrician and sect elders, but also the commander of Might’s first fleet freshly arrived on station. You do know how voidships work, right?”

I frown at the non sequitur.

“I remember they’re the only ones that can reliably cross the void between stars, hence the name?”

“Correct. They’re the only viable option for interstellar travel unless you’re fine spending 150 years in suspended animation. Which we cannot afford at the moment.”

“Ok?”

“The First Fleet returns right before the Town Hall inauguration. The thing is, a void ship is tied to her captain. Which means that after the captain dies…”

Antea shrugs.

“The ship becomes useless,” I conclude. “I remember there was a golden yacht in orbit as well?”

“This one belongs to the Church of Prosperity, Benevolence’s organization. It always helps during the defense of the station, but it is no warship. Without a proper one, we can’t do much against War’s avatar or, indeed, Kerentis herself. That is why preventing the explosion is key to, ah, unlocking the game.”

“And prevent the death of millions. You don’t have to convince me,” I say, perhaps a bit bitterly.

Antea winces although it was so fast, I might have been imagining it.

“Take heart, Steve. When you do prevent the explosion, you can count on Might’s full cooperation when defending the station. Why, I believe they will even back your bid for archon!”

I am a little confused.

“Wouldn’t they back Might’s avatar… oh.”

The one that disappeared.

“Irrelevant, actually,” Antea waves away. “Might made clear they wouldn’t fight for supremacy this time, meaning they’re technically for hire.”

Her smile widens.

“And we own them. What?”

“Ah, who actually makes a bid for archon and who doesn’t? Are there rules?”

Antea’s shock, this time, breaks through her composure.

“You don’t know how the game works?” she asks.

“Strange as it seems, it has been irrelevant this far.”

“Oh, dear.”

***

I expected that the rule might not be ‘last man standing’ since Krane works with me and Vestalia, Avatar of Law, works for my colleague on the other side. The amusing aspect is that there are, in fact, no rules, but usually main competitors will gather allies and resources before other parties either go out or people fight. Avatars can just negotiate their support for candidates who mostly respect their words afterward. Then, again, there is no rule. Vrok did duels and wars in equal measure. The winner is the one who owns most of Enderlith at the end, their success announced by a male voice over a station-wide intercom. The winning avatar is then invested by the power of the 108 and becomes so powerful, they’re almost unstoppable, which doesn’t always mean that others will necessarily surrender. The last time, pirates and slavers refused to bow and resisted Vrok until the archon personally scoured the asteroid belt of their presence base by base until they were wiped out almost to the man. Vrok wasn’t the avatar of retribution for no reason. 

Waging was against the archon is still the last thing someone will do.

Another bit of trivia I learn is that avatars actually keep their powers until the next Year of Judgment, though few live that long. Ancient fuckers like Mars are the exception. Even the crustiest of elders eventually grow to a point where they just want to let go and see what comes after. It still means there could be wizened fuckers on the station who actually played in the last game. Interesting, but not immediately relevant. I guess Antea is playing the long game.

It’s still not immediately relevant but… good to know, I guess. I should consider allies recruitment even as I try to stop the bomb. 

***

Five months later.

“You know,” Kimera whispers in my arms. “I could change into… someone else. You’re friends with Lumie, right?” 

Her hair turns a delicate shade of blonde as she wags her eyebrows so I immediately make her feel with my soul how I feel about that.

“Do that and I change into Antea,” I warn.

“What?” she huffs, scandalized. “You paramour offers you darkest forbidden desires on a crystal platter, and you refuse me?”

I can feel a bit of guilt coming from her, and shame, and yet I can tell those are unrelated to the body-imitation. I pinch her puffed up cheeks.

“You’re almost sixty. Stop that.”

“Rude!”

I laugh a bit until Kimera steps away with bedroom eyes. Her strict gown turns into a flared tunic in a fashion I do not recognize. Her face becomes fuller, as do her curves until I’m seeing another version of Kimera: her as a sheltered patrician with lush, curly hair. Her soft features twist with worry.

“My lord avatar, my clan begs for your forgiveness! Is there anything I can do?”

Wow, this is so cheesy. So bad, Jesus. She lightly pulls on the tunic to reveal more of her full thighs as she turns, bashful aaaaand yeah it’s working. I’m a degenerate. All fleshcrafters are degenerates and it’s ok. Can’t wait to commit identity theft. Anyway. I draw on stored data for form 8 and grow to the proportions of a large pro wrestler. It’s almost quick enough to use in combat now, merely a second before I’m fully done. My larger hand grabs Kimera by the throat. When I lift her, her plump legs dance a little jig. It’s exciting in a way that makes me feel filthy. 

“You’ll be better on your knees,” I inform her.

For a moment, something dangerous flashes in her eyes but then the game is on and it is a fun one.

***

After we’re done, I turn on my side, away from her because her mass of modded curly hair tickles my nose. She nestles against my back. For a while, there is peace but then the emotions I felt earlier return with a vengeance. She grabs my shoulders. Her hands contract into a painful grip. I resist the urge to hiss because she slams her face against my back and I can feel something wet. Her voice is rough, and the shame that bleeds through her soul, overwhelming. After a while, she whispers.

“I can’t do it.”

I hesitate. I think I know what she’s talking about.

“The cure?” I ask.

“Yes, the cure! Yes. I can’t do it. I tried, and tried… I used three times the amount of resources I expected to spend on samples because I knew we were in a loop and I would get my allotment back, but I can’t do it. I tried everything. There is simply nothing I can use that doesn’t go past the forbidden limit. It’s impossible. The Larim worm is just too resilient.”

“Wait, what do you mean, forbidden limit?”

Impatience threatens to crush her thinning hold on her emotions. She’s trying not to yell at me. But she’s also still holding me very tightly.

“There is a… a virulence value associated with samples used in any modded micro-organism, even a cure, when said organism is a tool of extermination. We’re not trying to regulate the worm. We’re trying to eradicate it, and the cheapest way I’ve found is by using custom-crafted, toxin-producing protozoa. They’re far above the limit.”

“What does that limit do?” I ask. 

“It makes the difference between a modded organism and a gene plague.”

I’m a bit surprised because I assumed gene plagues targeted, well, genes? That or targeted a certain population, thus the genes referred to the population possessing that gene. Now I realize, it doesn’t matter. The classification concerns the public perception of us. People are going to see a fleshcrafter landing on a planet, injecting a few hundred people with a compound and half a year later, an entire species will be rendered extinct. Sect leaders and security experts won’t care how the cure worked, they’ll just see that the guild decided they would remove a species from the list of the extant organisms and then, just, do it. They must know we’re capable of doing it. I’m just guessing they don’t enjoy the reminder? 

Who would even object? It’s for a good cause. I ask the obvious question.

“So, you did, in fact, do it? You designed a cure?” I say.

“None of it matters unless the cure is feasible! It can’t be too expensive, or too slow, or be forbidden! It needs to work!”

“What would it take to get the right to deploy a gene plague?” I ask.

Kimera freezes, annoyance barely kept in check. I get it. I’m trying to find a solution while what she only needs is an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on, but I can’t help it. I need to understand. If a problem can be solved with enough time, then I can solve it.

“You’re serious,” she eventually forces out.

“I know there must be a huge political cost, but… I’m the Avatar of Time.”

“You’re an initiate.”

I slowly turn to face her. She’s returned to her stoic self though her eyes remain just a little liquid. I caress her jaw but she grabs my fingers.

“I know,” I tell her, “but I’m the Avatar of Time.”

She breathes deep. She isn’t buying it.

“You’d need to petition the council and get the support of at least two grandmasters.”

“Ok.”

“Steve!”

I radiate confidence. I don’t think she’s convinced, but I am and I let her feel it.

“Only one grandmaster since I’ll become grandmaster myself, and I approve of the deployment. Come on, Kimera. What’s a gene plague between friends? Your future archon orders you to —”

She pinches my flank.

“Ow ow ow.”

“You’re impossible, my disciple,” she says, although her emotions lighten. And now it’s my turn to be difficult. And I hate it, but I need to say it. Because it’s been five months and I’ve collected several ‘modded forms’ on top of the first one but no war forms. And that isn’t right. Kimera keeps stalling, finding reasons why it should be ‘next time’.

I need to press the issue.

“Kimera, I’m going to get my first war form tomorrow.”

Perhaps it is because she already felt so sad, but there is only acceptance in her, though soon guilt returns. I think this hurts me more than any lack of confidence in my abilities.

“Kimera. We’re halfway through the year. The station is going to descend into chaos. I know you want me to take my time so I don’t mess things up, but surely I need to get started on a war form. Knowing all those different kinds of gene mods isn’t that important. My priority is the bomb, not perfect mastery over the flesh.”

She sighs.

“I know, I’m sorry. I know I was doing it, but I couldn’t help it. I… I told myself I wanted you to be perfectly ready, but I realize I’m just afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” I ask, maybe a little impatiently.

“Afraid that you’ll leave me behind.”

With those words, she jumps up the bed, grabs her lab key and leaves. She’s already halfway down the hall before I’m standing and half-dressed — I haven’t learned how to morph my own clothes yet. I hesitate. She’s not in a talking mood right now. Kimera tends to use her lab as a refuge when she needs to deal. I think giving her some space might be the right call here.

Now what? I need to ask Antea for help getting the form since I don’t have the sort of contribution points required to unlock it. It’s back to asking people to help me, I guess. I step outside and almost bump into a pale, perfect male chest with a cleavage that reaches perfectly carved abs. I feel a little violated before looking up into the amused gaze of Phage. Then I feel a little afraid.

“Disciple Prentiss. Just the… person I was looking for.”

He smiles and I get to experience what it is to be a mouse facing a python. Surely, that’s qualia. 

“It has been quite some time since you have had your modded body. Surely you should be working on the next step. Why don’t you come to my parlor and we will discuss your options?”

He smiles.

“I insist.”