Inception: Down-going

"And thus began
Zarathustra's down-going."
-Thus Spake Zarathustra
by Friedrich Neitzche

Seryph took long walks at night, these days, rising from bed in the small hours of the morning to wander the dark streets of Khazan on his own feet. He walked alone, in silence, wearing street clothes. The night shrouded him. He didn't worry for safety, of course; where he walked, he carried his katana, and he was still more than a match for any man, living or dead. Not that any attempted to stop him. Once in a while, a street tough would melt out of the shadows, holding himself up jauntily, preening for hidden friends. Eyes daring and naive fell upon Seryph's own, the older man's dark gaze strangely hollow, softly uncaring in a way that twitched right through the retinas, dredging up dark, half-remembered dream images, nightmares and demons out of a tortured childhood.

The toughs took one look into those hollow eyes and, inevitably, backed up, slinking with their tails between their legs into the shadows from which they had sprung. He continued walking.

On his long walks under the cold, night sky, he came at times to the various city parks throughout Khazan, staring at statues of people, friends and enemies, dead and forgotten.

Tonight, the statue of Whisper in the park on the corner of 963rd stood isolated, alone and aloof from the world, cut off from buildings and roads by a jealously-enclosing wreath of trees. Spotlights flowed over its metallic grey stone, tracing along carefully carved folds in cloak and clothes, highlighting the muse's dead features. Seryph stood there alone for some time, not speaking, not so much as a muscle twitching all along his well-trained body. He looked as if he was a statue himself, a statue gazing at a statue, one made of stone, the other of something far older, far more hardened.

Wind rustled his hair like a satisfied parent. Seryph Gibbons smiled slowly, lips curving upward in a thin, wholehearted expression of gratitude, as if he had found something lost long ago. Turning away from the statue, he walked off into the darkness. After a few steps, he laughed at something secret, and began to whistle softly to himself as he strode away.

In the shadows between the trees, a bum coughed once, twice, spitting up blood into the grass. Shivering, he pulled his new, red cloak tightly around him, taking a fresh swig of gin. Both cloak and the money for the bottle had been looted off of a dead old man in the Lowtown several hours ago; he certainly hadn't needed them any more.

The bum smiled, took another long pull on the bottle, and breathed deeply the sweet summer air.

*

It fell.....

The Darkness stretched on for eternity, and yet still it fell, streaking a glowing path across soul-stealing night, the Inferno growing rapidly closer.

There are many roads to Hell. Some of them are paved with good intentions, some with bad. Some are paved with gold, some with petrified insurance salesmen. Some lead from places of power, some from back-alley slums and bordellos. However, they all lead to only one place. Once you enter the Darkness, there is only one destination.

It fell closer, closer, moving far faster than would have been possible in the earthly realms, traversing light years in milliseconds through the true vacuum, a void not of space and molecules, but of ideas, a void of the soul.

The Twin Gates loomed large before it now, approaching rapidly, Gates made of the conviction of a thousand thousand billion souls that those who were in this place, truly belonged to be there. They were harder than diamond-molded Titanium, Gates upon which the force of every army ever formed would break. The Fragment approached, closer, closer, faster, faster, looking for all the world as if it were ready to slam straight into the doors, no matter the cost to itself....

Just as it came within range, the Twin Gates swung softly open, moving just enough to permit the spark of light and something Else to pass within, into the flame. Behind it, they closed with a crash that resounded throughout the screaming, silent Darkness.

*

"Whatever else you can say about the Society for Liberty and Justice, man, this bar is stocked."

Alexander Young nodded emphatically in agreement, downing his third shot or Rylethan tequila. He slammed the shot glass down on the table hard enough to make it rattle. Aleister, sitting across from him, had to grab his own bottle of brandy to keep it from upending himself over their cards. "You can say that again." Aleister's mouth opened, but Alex held his hand up warningly, moving with the slow, careful precision of the totally drunk. "Don't. Please."

"Ahh..." Aleister nodded, taking another quick swig of brandy. "Right." With a conceding grin, he laid one hand upon the deck. "Another game, then?"

Swallowing hard in a vain attempt to clear the tequila's sharp aftertaste from his mouth, Alex nodded. "Hell yes."

His companion slid the deck across the dark table to the automatic shuffle machine, mounted upon the hardwood surface's edge. This did not go to say, of course, that neither knew how to shuffle. Both were gamblers by trade, at least before one unfortunate accident or another had lead them to the superhero's calling, and had seen and dealt more variations on the shuffle than a normal man had hair on his head. It was precisely because they were gamblers, and treated each other with a certain degree of professional courtesy, that neither trusted the other with the cards further than they could throw a raging bull elephant. Aleister grinned as he pushed the button. "There is one problem with this hero business, though."

Alexander leaned back in his chair, raising another potent glass of the Rylethan to his lips. Atisha would have a fit when she found out what he had been drinking, he knew. Rylethan was reserved solely for Rylethan representatives, who could only mildly feel the alcoholic effects due to their twisted biology. For nearly all other species, it was one of the singly most potent narcotic beverages in the multiverse. He shook his head, one eyebrow cocked curiously. "And that would be?"

Aleister grabbed the fully shuffled pack, cut, and began to deal, the stiff, waxed paper of the playing cards slapping softly against the table, fond memories rushing through both their heads. "Chicks."

"Chicks?"

"Yeah." A momentary pause. "Game?"

"Seven card stud, aces wild."

"I'll get you this time."

"You just keep thinking that, old son. You're more suited to the rough and tumble stuff, but I'm quite happy to take whatever money you pick up through this treasure hunting of yours..." Alexander grinned, carefully organizing his hand. "Anyway, think of the fame! 'S like, gladiators, or something. Girls go for famous guys."

Aleister laughed out loud. "And can you imagine what Atisha'd do if she found out we were," he drew his nose up into the air and sniffed in mock disdain, "abusing our position like that? Hell, she'd go berserk, holy sword and all."

"Two please."

"Dealer takes three."

"As for Atisha, now... there's something I wouldn't mind getting into, know what I'm saying?" A pause. "I'll lay five."

"See it, raise you three." Aleister shook his head. "You really are a simple creature, you know. Atisha's a nun, in case you hadn't noticed."

"So?"

Michaels groaned. "She's taken, sort of."

Alex tried to push a small stack of white chips forwards, but misjudged the distance in his stupor, accidentally scattering white plastic all over the pot. "Close enough. See your eight, raise you five more." He smiled. "I know, man, I know. But still.... a body like that, it's quite a shame to waste."

"Tell me about it." Aleister's brow furrowed for a brief instant, eyes boring into his old friend's. "See your thirteen, raise you ten more." Further white chips accumulated in the previously clear space in the center of the table.

With a slight smile, Alex slid his glasses up from their perch near the tip of his nose. He clicked his tongue, eyes sliding fluidly over the faces of his own cards. "Last chance to give up, old son."

"Bugger that."

"Like I said, if you'd just give up and hand me over one of those artifacts of yours, it'd save us all a lot of time."

Aleister grinned. "Yeah, but then I wouldn't have such an excellent excuse to spend some time drinking."

"Amen to that." Alex raised his bottle in response, clinking with Aleister's shot glass directly over the ragged pile of chips. "And, I'll see your twenty-three, and double it." Two red chips and three more white joined the pile."

"Feeling a little positive, are we?"

"Why don't you just call and find out?"

"TouchÈ. And I'll see your forty-six, raise you twice that again."

"Now who's feeling positive?"

"As a wise man once said to me, why don't you just call and find out."

Nodding, Alex took another pull from the bottle. "Ha. Ha. I laugh. And double you again."

Aleister blinked, trying hard to think through the Rylethan haze. He had to be bluffing. There was no way.... "Right back at you." Two blue chips chinked onto the pile.

Before his partner could respond, he was cut off by Aleister's own long, low whistle. "Now, speaking of things I wouldn't mind getting into...."

Twisting around in his seat, Alex found himself grinning like a madman. There was a girl walking up to the bar, delicately beautiful face, tall, a figure that failed to be completely described by the word "generous" covered enticingly by a short, red one-piece dress. Her lips were full, walk gently swaying. He blinked once, twice, then turned back to his cards. Aleister was grinning like a madman, holding up another full shot of Rylethan in mock salute. Alex swallowed hard. "Wow."

"Yeah."

"That's the new girl, isn't it? Sarah or something?"

"Stella. That's her."

Alex's eyes narrowed slightly. There was something secret in his friend's smile, something he wasn't entirely sure he liked. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing."

"It's something."

"Okay, okay. I give. It is something."

A long pause followed. Alex took another swig of brandy. "And.....?"

Aleister smiled. "Oh, nothing."

"Come off it."

"I just happen to know that the SLJ brass managed to stick her with two tickets to the Champions' Ball."

"No shit?"

"Apparently all the rest of us 'superheroes' are too busy stopping crime, preventing vice, and all that other junk." He laughed.

"Well, old son, I happen to know that I'M not doing anything that evening." With a grin and a tip of his hat, Alex began to rise.

He had not expected Aleister to follow him. "Nor am I."

"So, we find ourselves at an impasse."

"Yeah."

"How do you want to settle this?"

A slow, shark's smile wormed its way across both faces, and they spoke in determined unison.

"Cards.'

*

Stell smiled hollowly as she settled herself down at the bar. She still hurt from her ill-fated attempt, joints and tendons flaring, and in the last night's sleep alone she had screamed herself awake three times, every nerve ending burning with remembered, terrible pain, as if molten gold had been poured into her veins instead of blood, searing and ripping fragile human organs and bones to a pile of smoking slag. No matter how hard she had tried, it had proved impossible to get back to sleep after the third remembrance, dream, or whatever it was, but it hurt too much to rise. For hours upon end she had lain there, in her bed, sheets plastered to bare skin by sweat born of fear and pain, panting for breath. With the first light, some relief had come, and by the time the sun had worked its way entirely above the false steel horizon, she had found the will to rise, and to face the world.

She didn't want to try going to sleep again, not so soon, especially if it meant the pain would return. Damn it! Why did she try such a damn fool thing? Why now, when so much was at stake?

Because, a silent voice whispered in the back of her mind. I had to know. I had to know if He had....

But He hadn't. She was still here, on Earth, or Khazan, rather, and there was nothing she could do to change that. The dim, fatalistic knowledge brought with it a subtle relaxation, dark acceptance. God, but she needed a drink. "Jimmy."

The bartender appeared by her side instantly, moving with the swift, soundless gait of his profession. "Yes, miss?" He was a tall man, old and spindly, with a bit of a limp and one large yellow glass eye. For all his age, he was one of the best bartenders around; apparently, he had been moving around the super-team bar circuit since before the SLJ was even founded. Stell still found the concept of a superhero team slightly ludicrous, especially when everyone started talking about their various powers and skills, but they were providing her with a room and board, which was quite a lot to ask in Khazan, especially now. Still and all, she was starting to wish that she had just "found" an abandoned house outside of the city to sleep in. There was just something about the repressed... optimism in this place that disturbed her.

"What kinds of wine do you have here?"

"All kinds, miss. All dimensions." With a wave of one pale, liver-spotted hand, Jimmy indicated shelves upon shelves, containing bottles of all different sizes, shapes, and colors, made of plastics, glass, or cut out of solid gemstone. Each label was different. There must have been tens of thousands of them, considering how tall the shelves were. "Shall you require a list?"

She shook her head, pursing her lips in quiet thought. "I'll take some of the Alsain Du'Forre, please. Do you have any 1709?"

"Ah, the DuForre!" A new respect dawned in his eyes, and Stell had to repress a smile. Not entirely an uneducated trollop from a backward dimension, eh, Jimmy? "Excellent choice, madam." He bowed. "Regrettably, the 1709 is a rare vintage, one we have been unable to acquire as yet."

"I see." She nodded, brows drawing together in soft consternation. "Well, then. I suppose...."

"Two glasses of X'Zrxllten Sunset, James. One for myself, one for m'Lady."

She turned with a start, eyes widening, and found herself face to face with a quite... singular creature. His features were those of a man, but his skin... His skin was beautiful. There was no other way to describe it, not without descending into words beyond the comprehension of the human psyche. It was crystalline, gleaming softly in the overhead, fluorescent lights, colored a delicate bluish-silver, fading in places to a dull pink, almost glowing. She blinked. "And you would be?"

"They call me the Gent, m'Lady. Tis short for, 'Gentleman of Khazan.'"

"I see...."

*

"And another ten, on top of that." Aleister grinned.

"No way. You're bluffing."

"You ready to take that chance?"

"I'll raise you ten."

"And I'll do the same."

Alexander laughed. "You're quite confident, old son."

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?"

"All right, then.... Another five. And call." Grinning triumphantly, Alexander slapped his cards down on the table. Three queens and a pair of kings smiled up mockingly from the dark wood.

"Woah."

"I might as well go ask her now. If you'll excuse me..."

Aleister shook his head, grin widening obscenely. "Don't get your roll on yet, friend. Read 'em and weep." Alexander stared in open amazement as his friend laid down four twos atop his own hand. "Now, I think you can keep the money..." He rose to his feet swiftly, setting a black hat on his head at a jaunty angle. "I'll get the girl." Eyes swept the bar, hawk-like, searching for his lovely target.

Those same eyes widened slightly in disbelief as he scanned again. Nothing. She was gone.

Alex whistled tonelessly to himself, chips rattling and scoring the table's varnish as he slid them across to his own pile. When Aleister turned, he found his friend smiling innocently.

"You knew about this, didn't you?"

With a sly grin, Alex stretched, cat-like, leaning back in his chair, hands cupped behind his head, every muscle loose in a pose of perfect relaxation. "Not at all. Better luck next time, old son." One hand came around and fired off a quick salute.

*

Stell sighed softly, leaning upon the SLJ balcony, gaze traveling quietly across the busy Khazan cityscape. In the distance, the blaring lights of the Arena rose above it like a fiery dome, stealing the otherwise peaceful night from the stars. Shaking her head, she drained the last of the wine. "A good vintage."

"Most certainly, madam." The Gent stood to her left, one step behind, back straight as an arrow, face smooth, placid like a forest pool. His own glass was cradled in his left hand, a picture of perfect gentiality, right at his solar plexus, a few inches away from that lustrous dark evening coat.

She smiled. "You're an interesting person, Mister 'Gentleman of Khazan'."

"I strive to entertain guests to this place."

Nodding again, she brushed a strand of red-gold hair out of her face, remarking silently at the wine's rolling, golden aftertaste. It conjured up images of a distant field, in a far-away land beneath the ocean, worked by careful octopoids who distilled it only into the finest essence of their homeland. She knew, without having to ask, what the taste was: no more and no less than a portion of their planet's life force, siphoned away in the ever-present belief that, in the eternal cycle of time, whatever they gave away would return to them many times over. The Sunset contained, in miniature, an entire world.

The moment was perfect, quiet and gleaming like a diamond, and she didn't trust herself to break the gentle silence. It was a mark of the Gent's perception that he did not, either. In that timeless instant, she remembered echoes of another city, another wine, the grapes of Earth from the palace of Caesar, staring down over brilliant brazier-fires upon the eternal might of Rome. A man stood with her, short by today's standards, but five feet and five in height, well-built with ruddy youth upon his cheeks and a kind earnestness shining in his dark eyes, white pressed toga with the purple senator's strip along the hem. Several years later, and that white was stained with red, sweet, salty blood leaking out of the corners of his mouth to stain the cobbles of a forgotten alley, relinquished by history. She swallowed hard, blinking away the tears that sprung unbidden to her eyes. One droplet rolled down her cheek, caressing her lips before dropping into the chaotic infinity of Khazan's nighttime streets.

Damn. No matter how long it took, no matter how you tried, you never forgot. Old wounds never healed, just scabbed over for a while. Story of my life...

"Madame? Are you all right?"

She nodded softly, blinking away the tear which had sprung to her eye. It rolled down her cheek, and vanished into the bright darkness. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine."

"As you say."

They stood in silence for a long time, the blue man and the red woman. The myriad thousands of city lights gleamed in the depths of Stell's murky green pupils, seeming somehow distant, ancient, and sad, like pricks of starlight whose stars of origin had exploded hundreds of years ago, leaving only leftover light. Hollow.

After a time, she found the strength to speak. "Gent?" To her own ears, her voice sounded small, soft.

"Yes, M'lady?"

"There is... a thing... which I must do, soon. A dance the Society wants me to go to, and I don't know anyone... suitable. Would you mind terribly?"

He nodded understandingly, dark fabric crinkling with his bow. "I would be honored to be of service to you in that fashion, madam. Shall I see you at six of the clock on that evening?"

She smiled halfheartedly, white teeth glinting. "I think that could be arranged."

*

The bar was low-roofed, smoke-filled, and nameless, and its patrons liked it that way. It was not a place designed for human comfort, or for keeping thoughts of man's better nature in mind. There was no romanticism, no misty enchantment, no piano players. It was a place for men who tired of the outside world, farm hands and owners, country doctors, lawyers, police officers, to go when weariness became to great, and get themselves stone drunk. Once in a while, someone would stagger to their feet, perhaps take a step or two towards the door, before the thought better of it and staggered back to the safety of their stools. Light over the bar was provided by a ceiling fan light fixture, dangling from a flimsy cord.

No one spoke to the dark shadow of a man that hunched in the corner, staring silently at a full, untouched mug of beer. He was not unknown, of course. He had almost never come into the bar before, but, even when separated by miles between even the closest farms, they all knew him by face, by name. Many of the men in the bar had grown up with him, their sons went to school with his children. One in a while, a person would approach, thinking to make some gesture of consolation, an attempt, however feeble, to get in touch with whatever was left inside the man that was truly human, whatever part hurt, and bled, and ached.

None of these worthy attempts traveled far beyond the initial step. There was something about the soft quiet in which the man contemplated the full glass of beer, something soft, as if he were waiting for an unseen inevitability.

That option left closed, then, the men turned to talking amidst themselves, under the din of the television, quiet and hushed.

Ronnie Hoakes, a cattle farmer the last thirty years of his life, after returning from a brief stint in the military branch of a distant multi-corp, leaned quietly towards his friend, Jonathan Katsuo, talking in a voice that could be barely heard. "Did you hear? There were three more last night."

"Who?" Katsuo turned, one eyebrow arching inquisitively. His senses were too dulled by drink to truly understand what Ronnie had just said, but he knew that there was something important.

"The Hames, Ranulfssons, and Godrics. Fields rotted, homes burned. Only the Godrics' boy, Renfrew, survived the last one."

"God." Jonathan laughed harshly, humorlessly, and waved at the television, displaying in vivid color the events of the days' arena matches. "You'd think that they'd do something." He coughed hard then, almost doubling over, spots dancing angrily in front of his eyes. "God."

Ronnie slapped him on the back. "You choke on something?"

"No, it's just this cough that's going around. I had to go into Kipford a few days ago to get some more feed, seemed like everyone had it there."

"Yeah, I've heard there's something going around."

"That's not all I get there, though."

"Oh?"

"There's news. More people, other counties. All around, they've been getting hit by this stuff."

Ronnie turned and spat, foul dark spray of chewing tobacco missing the spittoon completely to splatter upon the whitewashed wall, already dark with similar stains. "And we sit up here, with all this... this SHIT happening to decent folk, while everybody's too distracted by this contest to even notice. When do we get interest? Who's looking for a couple of farmers dying out in the middle of nowhere?" He shook his head, hand trembling enough to cause golden beer, head and all, to slip over the lip of his mug and fall to the counter, rolling over its lip to stain his khaki pants a dark brown.

"No one." The voice was calm, cool, utterly recognizable while shakingly foreign. One by one, the inhabitants of the bar, all of whom had been listening in to some degree on Ronnie's conversation, turned their questioning stares upon Watson Taylor. He sat there, not moving a muscle, save for what was required to direct his gaze to Ronnie and Jonathan. The two men felt something inside them slink away from the piercing, naked fires of those eyes.

"Wat?"

He went on as if he had not heard, as if the name held no meaning for him. "For years, we've sat out here in the fields, living and dying while the fat cats get rich, living longer and longer by dwelling in seas of purified filth. Families die, killed by these... by these super freaks, and no one bats an eye."

"Wat, we understand-"

"No." There was no heat in the word, no flame, simply a cold denial. "Listen to me carefully, Ronnie." The stool swiveled, and suddenly he was on his feet, facing the rest of the bar patrons. "Listen to me, all of you. If you were to die today, if some demon or one of those monsters," at this point he gestured violently to the video feed from the Contest, showing two fighters locked in mortal combat, tearing violently at each other, "came to your home, killed your family, killed your children, took and killed your wife, ruined your crop, destroyed you totally, do you think those people up there would care?" He shook his head, stars shining in the black depths of his eyes. "To them, we are gnats, fleas. Honeybees without stingers, necessary and unnecessary at the same time. They feel they can just get away with this murder, with allowing these pets of theirs to destroy homes, families."

"Watson, that's not the way it is."

"No, Ronald Hoakes, that IS the way it is. You served as a military man for a while. You know. Did the powerful care about you, as men, or did they simply grow you as fighters? Did any officer you ever knew stop an action because there was a risk of death about it?"

"No, sir, that's what the military's all about."

"But the officers who gave the orders, in the end, they never saw combat. They never had to face what you faced, to them you were just figures on a piece of paper, details filled in to fit whatever they had in mind. Them, not you. These fat cats never worked a day in their lives." A single black, accusing figure jabbed up into the smoky air, it's pale skin and dark cloth glove both ragged and misbegotten. It pointed sharply towards the television set, where Lester William DuLupin LaCroix was captured in a newsbrief snapshot, frozen forever in mid-wave, a man compellingly likable, slick even in grainy black and white. "They've never had to work in the sun, never had to face up to the fact that, if they sowed bad seeds, they would grow a bad crop. And so they don't care about us, whether we live, or die. They don't care about anyone except themselves."

He paused, gaze sweeping the slowly gathering crowd, as if daring someone to speak up, to protest. No one did. A grim smile cracked his hard face, and he waited.

Not two seconds passed before Jonathan Katsuo coughed sharply, speaking in a low, rasping voice. "Well, what do you expect us to do about it, Wat? We can't change anything."

Watson shook his head slowly, smoke weaving around his dark form. Ragged, dark hair glowed like an ebony halo when lit from behind by the bar light. "We can go on as we have been, living moment to moment, rejecting the deaths of friends and family as things acceptable, as the norm. We can choose to allow these deaths, these things to go unnoticed and unavenged." The silence that followed went on forever, dark waves crashing against the shores of night.

"But," he smiled softly, voice like steel barely concealed beneath velvet, "we must realize that this IS a choice." The dark coals of his eyes swept through the crowd, and each man felt for an instant that those eyes were meant only for him, that they saw deep down into the depths of his soul, peering through private cracks and the darkest crannies. They shivered, as one. The simultaneous sense of deep trust and violation was one that would mark them for the rest of their lives, and beyond. "We can also choose another path, my friends." He held his hand up in front of his face, fingers spread, palm upturned, and swiftly crushed it into a fist. "We can choose to show these men, these rats, what becomes of sowing bad seed into the peoples of the world. We can choose to make them reap this foul crop of murder, and horror. We can show the world, all the worlds. We can MAKE them care." In their quiet eagerness, the small, expectant smiles like children just shown a new toy, he knew that he had won. "Now who's with me?" He held out his hand, open once again, inviting.

Albert Hawkins, a young man who had worked on the Godrics' farm until the day before, was the first, striding with his bold, flamboyant young man's gait across the room to lay his palm atop Watson's. The others followed, first one by one, a faint trickle that grew to a deluge, each man rising from their seats and approaching the dark, silhouetted figure. As they approached, they spoke only three words, soft and earnest. "I'm with you."

Behind dark eyes that reflected the world like obsidion mirrors, Watson Taylor and his new friend laughed.