The Gallows

Night had fallen on the village of Wensdale. Taverns and shops had been shut up, lights had been turned off, market stalls packed away. The shutter of almost every house was closed, doors had been bolted and whatever security measures were needed were in place. Even at night, the place was a village of contrasts – medieval folk on the cusp of modern enlightenment. Electric lamps lined the streets where horse and cart roamed, some villagers would be tuning in to late-night television and cheeky children would be playing games consoles under the covers. Ancient and modern lived side-by-side in non-judgmental harmony, unlike in the rest of the world where they sat on opposite sides of a fence and snarled at each other.

Another noticeable contrast was the figure standing by the gallows, watching the body swing from it.

The figure was large, not just in height, but in proportion as well. There was a person who would fit the great, obscuring coat that it wore, but this was not that person – too tight around the shoulders, too baggy about the trunk. Legs like great columns peeked out from beneath the hem of the garment, arms like tree trunks stood placidly at the person’s sides. An eerie red glow permeated from underneath the hood, aimed like fiery spotlights at the corpse that hung from its neck and illuminating the blood and puke that stained the front of it.

The body had belonged to Meredith Forsythe, the authorities had claimed. She had been hung this very afternoon, guilty of charges of fraud, grand larceny, petty theft and more than a few incidents of sexual deviancy. She’d been oddly silent and calm as she’d been lead up to the gallows, not saying so much as a single syllable as the executioner grimly fitted the noose around her neck. The only flicker of emotion, as the final rites had been read out, was a small smirk as the priest attending the execution had croaked out in his humourless drone “May all the Gods and Goddesses, from Armadon to Raijin, have mercy upon thy soul”. It had been quick and painless, the authorities had said.

The figure waited and watched, watched and waited. A crow came down onto the gallows, hopped over to the body and began pecking away at the eye sockets.

The thing about the authorities, however, was that they only knew what suited them. If there was anything that they didn’t understand, they ignored it - it was more convenient that way. They could not explain how two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, stolen by Meredith, had gone completely missing, with all possible sites turning up completely empty. They did not account for why the Duchess of the Moorlands insisted the one who had visited her in the night and charmed her silken garters off had been a tanned brunette, not the fair-skinned blonde they’d hung.

They probably would not have explained the cracking noises from within the body, either.

They explained themselves in short order.

The corpse bulged horribly, the crow squawking in fright and flapping away. The sternum tore in half and ribs snapped like breadsticks as the entire front half of Meredith Forsythe split in half like a clam shell. With a choking gasp and a gush of fluids, Amanda Dime slid out of the body she’d grown around herself and collapsed to the ground, rolling down the wooden ramp that lead to the noose and leaving a sticky trail behind her. The huge figure did not move until she’d come to a stop at the foot of the ramp, writhing in the dirt and clawing at her own throat until she found out she could breathe again.

Then it approached her with slow, measured steps, procuring a bottle of water from its pocket, and knelt down.

“Some Water, Miss Dime?” it asked. The voice rumbled like a grindstone wheel, and each word was deliberately pronounced, as if the speaker was assembling them out of instructions. 

The prone woman said nothing, but yanked the bottle from the other’s hand and practically tore the top off in her haste to unscrew the cap. That was the one issue with being a Changeling – whenever you shed a body, you felt, for the first hour or two, all the sensations your last vessel went through before you ditched it. In this case, the tightness of woven hemp constricting the windpipe, a problem that could only be solved by gulping down the entire bottle in one go, which Amanda Dime demonstrated with surprising speed.

When it was all over, she looked taller and fuller, and there was more shine to her brown-tanned skin. She yanked the bottle away from parched lips and gasped once again.

“I liked that body,” she groaned, hauling her nude form into a sitting position in the mud she’d created. “It was slim, it was active. I could do things with it!”

“I Do Not Doubt That,” rumbled the tall figure.

“And those fuckers ruined it!” Amanda practically howled, trying to stand up. But the ground was like a skating rink, and her feet slipped out from under her, throwing her onto her back with a splat. “Still,” she groaned from where she lay covered in mud, “at least we still have the money. Good job with that, by the way, Crank.”

“It Was My Pleasure, Miss Dime,” was the response. A massive paw of a hand was offered, and the Changeling clasped it with both of her own and hauled herself up it. Her feet found purchase on dirt not smeared with unidentifiable liquids, and soon she was standing up and looking at her massive companion with glinting, iris-less eyes.

“You still got it?”

In response, Crank reached inside his coat. There was a sound akin to a mouse trying to perform opera and a series of clicks, and then the hand probed deeper into the shadowy recesses before withdrawing. A large bag, full to almost bursting, rustled and clinked its way into the open air, and was practically snatched away by Amanda, who looked as though she might burst into crowing at any moment as she weighed it with both hands.

“Just think,” she whispered, nearly hissed with glee. “Those fucking guardsmen looking everywhere, and they never thought to look for a really tall man in a suspicious coat!”

“Everyone Knows,” droned Crank, “That Amanda Dime Works Alone.”

“Everyone is a git, Crank,” the woman responded as she handed the money back. “And some are bigger gits than others. That’s why we do this – to show the world that gits don’t deserve to swan about in fancy fucking coats and dresses, pretending to be people.”

“You Grow Bodies To Hide Your Identity, Miss Dime,” retorted Crank as he put the money back into who knows where. “Does That Not Count As Pretending To Be A Person?”

Amanda shot the man a look that could melt metal, were it capable. “Hey, at least I’m honest about it. Not like the rich folk I pick on, lying about how influential they are and their cousins being in some foreign government somewhere. They all make me want to puke, the Agaryulnaerea.”

“As You Say, Miss Dime.”

That was the funny thing about Crank. He asked questions, yes, but he never seemed to linger on them for long. He wasn’t like most sidekicks Amanda had been with, who challenged her way of thinking as though it were a personal affront to themselves or the world – they usually ended up in prison or dead, or she simply abandoned them after a quick fuck and minus their wallets. Crank just… accepted things, even though he posited the kind of questions that most human con artists would stumble to answer without um-ing and ah-ing. 

Amanda, though, was a Changeling. Concepts such as morality and philosophy didn’t enter her head very often, and when they did they fit in there like old furniture in a space station. In her experience, this meant that she could think clearly about the more immediate things, as well as some way into the future, and not get sudden changes of heart as she handed forged coins over to fat, bristle-chinned gentlemen. It was simply better to not care, sometimes.

And right now, as she looked over the sleeping town of Wensdale, the immediate situation did not look very good.

“We can’t stay here,” she muttered, an air of disappointment in her voice.

“We Cannot,” agreed Crank in his rusty growl of a voice. “The Watch Was To Come Here To Collect The Body At-“

“No,” hissed Amanda, throwing up her hands, “I mean we can’t stay here. On this fucking world. What’s left for us, Crank? We’re wanted people here, in Ardea, Todenwald’s poor as shit and full of vampires and ghouls, Barrath hates me for fucking their queen – can’t blame me, she was hot – and Ostaria hates everyone, me included. And we can’t just take a fucking boat to somewhere else, because half the kingdoms over their either want me dead or think I am, or want to melt you down!”

“I Understand,” droned Crank very patiently, “That Zindovia Is Still Open And Welcoming.”

“Yeah, if you like sand and camels.” Amanda shivered at the memory of that place – there was no way in all the hells that existed anything she did there had been worth it. Sultan’s son was rather cute, though, and by now he’d probably grown up to be a fine young man, assuming they stopped feeding him roast peacock every dinnertime. But still, that wasn’t worth all the dust storms and scorpions and palm oil. Okay, maybe the palm oil, but still…

No, she decided. There had to be something else out there. Somewhere where she – and, by extension, Crank – could make a fresh start, with a clean record and no royal soldiers out to kill them. Where she could do what she did best, to her heart’s content, and have all the excitement come back again. Walking into a town, putting on a show for the people and lining her pockets with the results. Getting caught, running away, sometimes fighting and getting away, sometimes getting thrown in prison only to escape in two days. And all the little pleasures on the side, too – the food, the booze and the sex, sometimes two at the same time and sometimes all three at once.

Oh, yes. She loved being a con artist.

“Crank,” she said slowly, after a moment. “What do you know about the Star Festival?”

Crank took a moment to respond. “The Star Festival Is Over, Miss Dime,” he rumbled. “There Is Nothing To Know.”

“I mean in general,” sighed Amanda with irritation. That was the other thing about Crank - you had to be specific, otherwise he didn’t understand.

There was a creaking noise from somewhere.

“It Is My Understanding,” said Crank slowly, “That The Star Festival Is The Chief Meeting Place Between The Peoples of Porphyrion And Those Called The Star People. It Is During This Time That The Two Sides Interact And Trade Vital Goods Between Each Other For The Purpose Of Building Trust, Good Will And Strong Business Ties. Occasionally, A Group Called The Kobbers Descends To The Planet To Right Some Wrongs And Save A Kingdom Or Two. The Details Are A Little Fuzzy On That One.”

There was silence as Amanda turned this over in her head. 

“And… where do these ‘Kobbers’ come from, Crank?”

“Most Appear To Originate From A Planet Called Earth, Or Terra. It Is A Highly Developed Planet, With A Technology Level Far Above Ours. It's Culture Has An Unusual Fascination With The Female Posterior, There Is A City By The Name Of Las Vegas Which Is Dedicated To The Pastime Of Gambling, And A Woman Named Celestia Canicco Is Famed For-"

But Amanda had long since tuned out her associate's rambling spiel. Did she hear that right? An entire city dedicated to gambling? Of course, she was no stranger to casinos and other luck-based shenanigans - she could still recall Brightfields and it's dazzling lights and freak shows, as well as how completely gullible the townsfolk were. They'd even fallen for the old fake diamond ring act, a ploy so old it was gathering dust with the fossils in the Natural History Museum of Orvance by now, and all for the mere chance of winning a few extra thousand gold.

But an entire city...

Something went click in the Changeling's mind, whirred, and brought up a very attractive picture. It involved elaborate disguises, silver tongues, sleight of hand and distracting attention with a flick of a wrist. Finding a good contact, gathering information, targeting the biggest and most smuggest of stuffed shirts. Sneaking in, pulling off, getting caught, running for the hills, sneaking back in to do it all again but bigger and better. And, somewhere along the line, a very handsome man or pretty girl to weasel a sneaky double-cross out of.

And this picture was captioned "Greatest Heist Ever."

"-Which I Cannot Understand, As I Do Not Find Skeletons To Be-"

"Crank." Amanda rounded on the tall figure, eyes gleaming with the excitement she hadn't felt in years. "You are going to pick me up and take me out of this miserable shithole of a village, out through the north gate, right now. Do it."

"...As You Wish, Miss Dime."

Without further comment, Crank leaned down and reached out with an arm that could crush the ribs and lungs of a man with the lightest of movements. Yet the way it picked up Amanda and hoisted her onto one massive shoulder had all the grace and care of a mother bear carrying her cubs, and the brunette reveled in the feel of the cold night air on her skin as her transport set off down the streets. The cobbles echoed with each heavy footfall from the huge unknown, yet not a single soul stirred in their houses - the Changeling was more than thankful for that.

"What Is Your Plan, Miss Dime?" came the rumble, the reverberations of Crank's voice traveling up its cargo's spine.

"Plan?" Amanda grinned at the star-dotted sky above her, seeing dollar signs and possibilities written in every glimmering pattern above her. "Who said anything about a plan?"

"You Have Not Spoken So Eagerly," comes the retort, "Nor With Such Determination Since The Great Eggplant Caper. You Must Have A Plan In Mind."

The cackle that comes from the brunette in response rings off the streetlamps. "Simple, Crank! This planet's done, finished. Nothing left for us to do or exploit. So we go to this Earth place, yeah? Fresh start, new cultures and sights to take in, no gguardsmen trying to kill us everywhere we go! And we start in this Vegas place, where everyone throws their money away so willingly they don't even care if the diamond is really a polished-"

“But Miss Dime, We Cannot Go Just Yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because You Are Naked And Covered In Mud.”

Amanda looked down at herself, noticed that Crank was right and sighed with disappointment. Where she in any other position, time or place, naked and covered in mud was something she’d be more than happy to be – especially if there was a young, impressionable prince on hand. But there wasn’t one, and her plan of getting off-planet relied on not being noticed long enough to sneak aboard a shuttle. So in this case, being naked and covered in mud was not really an option. A pity, that.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Let’s get me cleaned up and find me some clothes. Maybe I can grow a new body whilst we’re on the shuttle.”

“Which Shuttle Will That Be?” asked Crank, not changing pace for an instant.

A smile cracked across Amanda Dime’s face, like a shark seeing it’s dinner being wheeled in.

“The one to Earth.”

TO BE CONTINUED

(Probably)

Crownless King: Proclamation

~EARTH ZF-035~

The location is unknown. The time is sometime in the wee hours of the morning. The temperature is too cold, even inside this huge building that, perhaps, functioned as an air hangar in a previous life. But the purpose... Some can only guess, some would rather not. All feel, however, that a monumental occasion is about to take place.

The people gathered here are many. And they all come in different varieties, that exceed the standard fare of old, young, tall, short and so on. There are some who dress like they escaped from 1930's America, smartly-dressed with tuxedo's and trilbies that wouldn't look out of place in the Godfather. Some have more elaborate costume, skull masks hidden beneath cowled hoods and heavy robes fit for a funeral procession. Yet others dress as though a science laboratory gave up on them, white coats stained with blood and other unmentionable substances. It is a mixed bag that comes today.

And each group of men, arranged in military formation, is headed by an individual who seems to represent whatever their group stands for. A young boy, glasses slipping down his face, fidgets uncomfortably in front of the scientists. The masked figures are headed by a brute of a man with red armour, a scythe slung across one shoulder. And the gangsters are lead by a young woman in an outfit that seems as though Vaudeville threw it up, complete with patriotic colours. Were Ash and Christine here, they would even recognize Ivan Vanko in his silvery armour, leading a group of what appear to be military shoulders

These are the Magpies. The criminal lords of this world, the men and women who are feared and respected across the globe. There should be seven here tonight, but a cursory glance counts only six of the infamous Ubermen present - Dallas Cohen, the Mirthful Lord, is not among them. This, however, is an uncomfortable and touchy detail for all present, a detail most of the assembled try to ignore.

For the cowled figure, emerging from a double-doorway onto the iron balcony in front, would make those who noticed pay dearly.

There is a long, uncomfortable pause as the figure walks forward, slowly and deliberately, taking it's time. The doors are set in a large alcove, the balcony itself jutting out a little way forward, and it takes a little while for the newcomer to reach the end. But when it does, all the hushed talk falls away as all eyes present turn towards this hooded apparition and the darkness that follows it like a malignant, living block of shadows.

Another pause as it surveys the crowd. Expectation hangs in the iron air like butchered pigs in a freezer - heavy and cold.

"Gentlemen," it begins, and the voice is like ice down the back of the shirt. The assembled men fidget uncomfortably, but keep their eyes on the balcony in front of them, refusing to drop their unending loyalty for a second. And those who do look away are dissuaded from it by glares from their commanding officers, Mr. Silver in particular.

"I would like to announce, firstly," continues the figure, "that Operation: Dawn's Light has been a resounding success. Nicodemus, the Destined Hero, has been confirmed as being trapped in another dimension, with no known way of returning and little motivation to do so. This gives us all the time we need to move forward with our future plans, without fear of hindrance or complications. And whilst we have had, unfortunately, to dismiss one of our own as a result of recent events, I am fully confident we are now best prepared to deliver our little...

"...surprise."

A murmur ripples through the assembled throngs of men, but dies down like a wave crashing against a beach. Where it possible to be seen, the figure seems to be grinning underneath the heavy, ornate cowl that covers most of its face. The mention of Dallas causes one or two of the Magpies to shuffle their feet, knowing full well what events their leader refers to but inwardly pretending otherwise, for their own sakes.

"However," continues the stranger, "before we begin our next phase, I would like to take some time to address a... rumor... that has been floating around the organization as of late." As it speaks, hands grip the railing in front of it as it leans forward, scrutinizing the men below it. "Some of you have, quite reasonably, come to believe that I, your Godfather... like war. I wish to dash these insane accusations to the ground like the fine china they are made from. I do not like war - on the contrary!"

"My friends... 

"I... love... war!"

Monster Mash: Round 2 Fight 3 - Mansquito vs. Mothman

Boys, girls and those of indeterminate gender, welcome back to The Monster Mash 199X!

And... let's be honest, we're not looking forward to this one. We're getting reports of a lot of wanton destruction going on in downtown Beijing, and everyone at GaiaCorp is praying to gods we don't believe in that it's just another Muto, and not what we think it is. But considering our luck, it's more than likely Mothman, and it's also more than likely that our other contender is going to find him and a battle is going to start. And since that's what you guys want, we're obliged to broadcast it live anyway, regardless of the immense loss of life on the horizon.

Ugh, alright. Here it is.

Connor Hardy here, trying not to shit myself as we go live to the action...

Crownless King: The Punchline

"I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life." 
- Yann Martel, Life of Pi (2001), Chapter 56, p. 178

He couldn't remember the name of the town, nor what problem he'd solved in the first place. 

All he knew was that it was early in the morning, he was fully dressed for some reason and he had a bottle of bourbon in one hand. His head was thumping, although he'd grown used to that by now, and there was a market sale going on outside. From the window of the inn, he could see the populace engaged in the fine art of bartering - shoving, shouting and shilling, the Three S's of Commerce - and filling the air with loud, impatient voices and the clattering of goods. Even though he knew full well this was just going to join the hundreds of other market scenes he'd seen in a big blurry smear, he watched them anyway, in the detached way a dog watches lizards scurrying around.

They probably didn't even remember he was here. Typical. He'd probably put his life on the line for them again, judging from the claw marks on his torso, and they completely forgot about it over the course of a single night. Shows you exactly the kind of gratitude he got - a fleeting "thank you" party, with cake on rare occasions, a speech from a mayor, perhaps a kiss from his daughter. Thank you for saving our lives, Destined Hero, now fuck off so we can get on with our miserable lives and pretend there wasn't a horrible monster that needed killing. Nobody put up any statues or left a plaque in his name or stuff like that. He liked plaques.

Then again, the claw marks could have been from that cute girl who'd been ogling him last night. He remembered that much, at least.

He was in the middle of taking a swig from the bottle when there was a knocking sound to his right.

Puzzled, he looked towards the door, mouth full of bourbon. Then he swallowed, heaved a heavy sigh and set the bottle down on the table that stood between him and the window, when it would have been much better next to the bed. The glass, unused but taken out from force of habit, went back in the drawer to avoid aside glances and awkward questions from the visitor at his door. As he approached the door, he ran one hand through sweaty blonde locks in a futile attempt to make himself look at least presentable, just in case it was the mayor's daughter looking to throw another present his way for his earlier actions.

...Hey, maybe she left those scratches on him.

"Yes?" he asked, half mumbled, as he opened the door.

And then Mr. Silver punched him in the face.

-------

Okay, this one is gonna take some explaining...

Crownless King: The Setup 2/2

It ain't about how hard you hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward; how much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done!
- Sylvester Stallone in Rocky Balboa (2006)

No friend's a friend till [he shall] prove a friend.
- Beaumont and Fletcher, The Faithful Friends (c. 1608), Act III, scene 3, line 50.

It was definitely a cave.

Nicodemus had deduced that before he'd even seen the ground rushing up to meet him. Firstly, rock is not hollow by nature. If that were the case, then every coastline in Britain would have been swallowed up by the sea, and Mount Everest would be full of holes from all the suicidal morons trying to climb it. Secondly, there were already plenty of them in this particular area, which no doubt would make good hiding spots for the suspected murderer/thief he'd been fighting a few moments ago. Although finding the correct one would be-

"OOF!"

That was as far as he got before he hit the sand-covered floor, the impact throwing up a plume of the stuff alongside knocking the breath from his lungs. The fact that Grandius landed blade-first next to him, embedded in the sand as if in a coquettish "tah-dah" pose, served as no comfort to the blond warrior, who was alternating fighting for breath and spitting out the grit that had found its way into his mouth. Oh, yeah, and there was sand in his eyes now - a thing that, as far as Nicodemus was concerned, had occurred for the sole purpose of annoying him even further.

Fortunately for him, sunlight was streaming plentifully through the hole in the ceiling he'd just unwillingly made. With the interior of the hollow cave illuminated, Nicodemus was able to see just enough to wipe the sand off his face and then, with his view now unobstructed, locate Grandius off to his side. Grabbing the blade by the hilt, the young man pushed the blade down into the sand, and almost immediately felt it hit something solid beneath the sand - a perfect brace to get himself back on his feet.

"The path of my life," he grumbled as he slowly and painfully hauled himself upright, "is strewn with cowpats from Chakravartin's own divine herds."

There was a hissing noise, as if in response, that made his blood run cold. And then a scrape of dry scales against rock and sand that finally did the job and made it freeze.

He looked up.

Art by Cloister

"Oh, fuck me!" he screamed, just before the Cave Naga struck.

Crownless King: The Setup 1/2

You think being a hero is fun?

I know most of the people around me do. They just won't just up about it - always going on about how amazing I am and how I'm going to defeat the evil Morpheus and save the world. Here comes the Destined Hero with his mighty sword and his party of loyal friends, here to save us! He's so sefless and heroic he'll do whatever we ask of him with no complaint, and he'll solve everyone's problems because he's nice like that! Save us, Destined Hero, and make your ancestors proud, for fate has chosen you to bear their burden for the good of the world!

Let me tell you why that's bullshit.

Jam: Origins

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Midly NSFW image has been linked in this post. Original art made by Legend20x)

-------

~Undisclosed Island in the Pacific~

All evil villains have secret bases. This is an immutable fact of the universe, in the same way that sheep bleat and the sky is blue. Doctor Vortex was no exception - he'd paid good money for his new Fortress of Doom, and he was desperate to avoid the torrid financial difficulty his previous one suffered. He'd paid off the loan early this time, and had gone to great lengths to ensure it looked the part - radar dishes, a giant freeze ray sticking out of the top and robot guards patrolling the ground 24/7. All in all, it was a place a criminal mastermind like him could call home.

All evil villains also have secret doomsday weapons, too. The freeze ray, however, was not one of them - what with most superheroes able to deflect it's beam with a mere flick of their chin nowadays, it had spent most of it's time gathering dust. On top of this, funding for anything bigger was stymied by his diamond-smuggling operations in Kenya being repeatedly foiled by animal-themed heroes with increasingly ridiculous names and costumes. Knowing full well that it was only a matter of time before the United Nations hunted him down, Vortex had figured out that what he needed was a nuclear option, a last-ditch resort that would ensure his legacy wouldn't be trampled to dust by the judgmental feet of law-abiding society.

Three whole months of planning, graft and shouting at his employees later, and he had it. It was genius. It was a miracle of science.

And it was currently slopping it's way out of the jar onto the table of the labs in Science Department V.

Outwardly, it resembled a dark blue liquid, similar in consistency and appearance (and scent) to blueberry jam. In reality, it was a cluster of thousands of nanobots, granted a small amount of self-awareness via a shared intelligence network. It's primary directive was to consume organic matter by breaking it down into it's component molecules, then convert those molecules into more nanobots of it's type, effectively growing in size. The idea was that, should the forces of justice finally get the better of him, Vortex would release it, allowing it to consume everything on his secluded island base and destroy all traces of his operation.

The idea looked good on paper. But paper is a flimsy thing that goes see-through when you rub grease on it.

The Jam, as it was informally known, was slowly slithering it's way towards a laptop computer that had been left on the table by a careless scientist who had gotten sick of entering data. Since the action of converting molecules from one type to another consumed large amounts of energy, the nanobots were also programmed to seek out sources of electricity to recharge themselves. And right now, their sensors were telling them that there was a source of electricity right up ahead, and they needed to recharge promptly after a whole day of exhausting tests that had drained their batteries.

Sadly, whilst they were very good at finding electrical sources, they hadn't been programmed to distinguish different types of outlets very well - it had been made on a budget, after all. And thus when the Jam oozed alongside the laptop and prepared to recharge, it inserted itself not into a mains socket, as it had assumed it was doing, but rather the USB port.

This is what it thought as it found itself suddenly absorbing the entirety of the Internet into itself.

All five million terabytes of it.

-------

-aaaaaaaaaaarrrrggghlblboklpbfojgidonejignjrekbgjerbadger don't care! Honey badger don't give a-

...wait, what are we on about?