A world where might makes right. A world of Jade and Gold, of Phoenix and Dragons, of Pills and Talismans, of Martial and Spiritual arts. A world where diligent training yield strength, meaning freedom. A world where loneliness means death, meaning social chains. A world still unfair, as the ones reaching the heavens are most likely born rich - be it political riches of the aristocrats, power of secret knowledges and hidden realms of clans, or lucky enough to be born one-in-a-thousand genius.
This was not the case of Quiet Word - that is, (You). Your current skill level is on par with other genius of your age. But where they were graced with secret techniques and special care, you just had lucky encounters leveraged to the best and a knack for navigating social situations.
You own a trove of techniques for such a young cultivator - more than you can study efficiently, but your strength lies in the impressive amount of Bonded Spiritual Beasts - A Phoenix spirit, a Horse spirit, a Snake spirit and a Wolf spirit. Speaking of that last one, you didn't told a world about him to anybody. As a scion of the Primordial Wolf spirit, its father warned you of its worth and how people could want to rip it away from you. Especially in such a ruthless and public environment than, say, a townwide cultivator tournament. Previously mentionned worth comes from its ability to Fuse without restriction - fusion being a secret of the higher ranking of your sect, secret you have almost completely rediscovered on your own, and freely shared with your sect-siblings (but not your masters). Alright, the Primordial Wolf might have helped you on that point.
Recently, you took the mantle of elder brother to twelve younglings; you won for the second time the local town's tournament; you get in some weird pact with a gardener and you broke through the first minor realm of second stage. All is nice and well - if you set aside your concerns regarding a certain prophetic poem including words about fated dao partner and the most-dreaded rightful fear of falling behind.
2000 after Christ´s death...Everything smells like roses. Problem is non-existant since the last Big Bang (artificially created with technology, alien kind). God begins writing a novel in shitty grammar-like (to taunt noob humans, which he created to entertain himself with). Everyone is now conscious God is actually a Devil-Like creature (non-funny one, too). The plot tickens as he needs now to present himself to the World with his True face. No more time for lies. No more abused people in the World. The war begins. It´s humans (with the Power to Speak) vs. God (which controls every Speaking Being in the Planet). Nobody knows how this will End. A dog passes by to say hello, then leaves. A lady watches the whole enterprise take place in front of her. She realizes she´s part of God´s consciousness in that whole act: a dog spoke, as well. She is not as special as she thought she was. Nobody is special after this realization, for God, himself, realized the same realization the lady had just a few minutes ago. He is know Wiser than before. As he narrates this, He also laughts out loud, because he is All-Knowing but likes to narrate silly things just to enfuriate Human Beings. He is Evil after all.
You are Kline Bueller, and you and your companions are currently facing a group of violent gang hellbent on making your life miserable and wanting you all dead.
"By the gods," Hilana practically pales at the sight of the masked men with weapons. "This is the worst possible situation we're in."
"And they are?" You ask her, nervously. Your see Hilana gripping the hilt of her weapon tightly, taking a step back
"The Scarlet Masks. They are vicious berserkers who love to fight and kill just for the sake of it. They are not pushovers." The princess shakes her head and stares at you. "We need to do something now."
The group of masked men continue to march in your direction, and Verna is still babbling nonsense, her face still having a dazed expression.
What do you do?
>Brace yourselves for a fight >Get the hell out of there >Search for any hiding places
Last time, you sorted your chickens out to have this war farm ready to launch a heist on the local criminal gang — the largest in the entire country. Meaning you recruited people (Clutz), planned on who to steal from (Titan T-Rex), and what to steal (an ancient scroll). Right now, you’re in the detail gathering process, asking people you know who are related to the criminal enterprise about anything that can be proved useful.
Onto your second call of the day, you’re talking to Mama Bodil. As a former gangster and member of the Titans. Her intel will be formidable! Hopefully, this will mark the end of this chain of phone calls, because you absolutely hate calling people in succession. Like, your disdain never translates to the talks themselves, but one day <span class="mu-i">it might</span>.
But not today, and not right now.
After an initial awkwardness, the call continues swimmingly…
“Hey, kid! Love to hear from you! What’s on your head?” Mama Bodil sounds like her usual composed self.
“Sorry for bothering you so early, but the thing is…” You explain the heist and the ideas behind it to Mama Bodil. “...So I was thinking if you could give us any tips or information, that’d be awesome.”
“Kid, you’re jabbering unmitigated nonsense to me. Getting those powers have melted your brain.” Mama Bodil sounds incredibly disappointed in you, your plan, and your life decisions. She has never heard something so dumb in her entire life. Vera is smiling somewhere out there in relief. Your stupidity is being prevented. “If you want to declare war on the Clan, you go head first! None of this spy flick fuckery! I’ll kick the door down with ya, if you need me.” Scratch that, Vera is having a stroke now.
“No, Mama Bodil, I think this is way cooler. Imagine their faces when we tell them about the scroll being in our hands.” You disagree with her stance.
“I can’t say I’m the one for theatrics, but I’ve never been ashamed to learn something from my kids.” Mama Bodil is changing her mind. “I’d say what you’re about to do ain’t as dangerous as the prison, but Mama is worried still. These chumps aren’t the criminals of old who prided themselves on their fighting skills, but they won’t hesitate to cut your throat. So, don’t be afraid of bailing out.”
“I will keep that in mind!” You say. “But are you implying this T-Rex guy isn’t a big deal?”
It's pouring down on the city streets of Gotham. The nighttime atmosphere harbors all kinds of unsavory types in this city. Pimps, thugs, madmen, those who do crime just to survive, and everything in between these people. You're at the theatre, just a boy. A stage play of 'The Legend of Zorro' is enacted in front of you and the rest of the surrounding audience. You felt quite sickly all day leading up to coming here, the rain and cold air hampering you on your journey to the theatre in the first place only accentuates that feeling in you. You cough and your mother rubs your hand, your father on the other side asks if you're feeling alright. Though your complexion is faint from an oncoming fever, you do your best to play it off, it doesn't work and both your parents resolve to leave the theatre.
These moments have been replayed in your never-ending nightmares as if someone was holding the loop button when you lay your head to rest.
You all make it outside and try to quickly find the fastest route to where your father parked. Crime Alley.. it has it's name like that for a reason, to go any other way around would be to risk everyone else getting sick in the process from the added time it would take to make it back. Your father and mother both hold your hand.
"It's going to be ok, Bruce. This will only take a second", they both say to you smiling.
You nod feeling a slight warmth in their reassurance. In your dazed, sleeping state, you grit your teeth. You've been through this thousands of times, this is where it all started.
Your parents, and yourself slowly trudge through this dangerous area carefully. There are some homeless in the close vicinity, but for the most part it seems safe. As you near the end, a semi-shadowed figure steps out from behind the corner of the exit to the alley.
"E-everything.." he stutters. Holding a gun up to your father with a shaking hand. His pupils are dilated, he's nervous, inexperienced.
"Ok, ok.. nothing has to happen here", your father replies. Both your parents raise their hands in the air, letting go of yours in the process.
The man looks at you for a brief second, then back at your parents. "Wayne's.. you're the goddamn Wayne's!" He shouts, perking himself up. "I w-want everything you have, money, jewels, w-whatever!" He says.
"That's fine", your father leaves one hand up and makes a reach to his side pant pocket with the other one. "This is all I ha-", a police siren wails from a nearby street. The robber is thrown into a paranoid panic.
*BANG BANG*
His handgun explodes with noise, gunning down your father first. Grunts of pain escape his mouth as he lays there on the ground. Your mother screams, going to cover you from the gun.
*BANG BANG CLICK*
Two more shots before the gun empties. Your mothers' body falls after a few brave, pride filled seconds of trying to keep her stance. The man rips her pearl necklace off her neck as she begins to hurtle towards the paved ground.
<span class="mu-s">You are <span class="mu-i">Fiona Jarnafeldt,</span> L2 Trollslayer of the Helsinki Stormwatch</span>, and today you are going to cut down a tree. The tree is equipped with a four-bore lever action shotgun with an axe for a bayonet and is attempting a mutiny, but you are going to cut it down nevertheless.
The world management organization known as Mother Nature's Providence organizes the world into the society it is today. This includes separation of peoples that would be alike, the minimization of automation, and a strict capacity on the population which they, through agencies like the Stormwatch, enforce through violence. This city must have no more than one million souls, and there are one hundred and eighty two thousand more than that million, living beneath the streets in squalid poverty, resorting to robbery and violence to stay alive. The public doesn't know just how many are beneath here.
But the rebel knows. His name is Zephyraut, and he is a member of the Old Oaks, a seclusive cabal of researchers that helped advance society through scientific marvels. Though they serve the order that would slaughter the overpopulation, they do so with disdain and respect for all life, and the violence has become too much for this Old Oak to bear. Zephyraut uses an Illuvatar arms platform, a tree remotely puppeteered by chemicals which manipulate the tree's fibers like muscle, serving as a stealthy and powerful military asset. With that masterpiece of military and bioengineering at his disposal, he patrols the Stormdrains of Helsinki, preaching to agents and squatters to join his cause over the radio.
The tech is top secret. MNP already sent Deathwatch assassins after him, but they failed. The last survivor could only tell Stormwatch Director Katriina Jousten that Zephyraut needs to die. Instead of informing MNP that their assassination failed and facing a brutal audit, she has decided to tackle the task herself and send the agent home with a story of success. She has unilaterally paused all Stormwatch activities before a crucial point in the offense against the squatter hive in order to deal with this problem.
There can be no more delay. It must be done soon, else Mother Nature's Providence will come to clean up every loose end they damn well please.
And you, Fiona Jarnafeldt, Level 2 agent and Category 2 citizen who hasn't the rights to start a family, are a very loose, very <span class="mu-i">disposable</span> end.
You wake with your cheek pressed to wet stone. The air is thick with rot—human and otherwise. Your mouth tastes like iron and ash, your head rings with a pain that feels… old. Heavy.
You try to sit up. Your limbs respond slowly, as if they’ve forgotten how. The world tilts. Your stomach lurches, empty. You catch yourself against the wall—rough-hewn and damp with something foul.
The smell here is ancient: mold, sweat, shit, smoke. You are not alone, though you can’t see anyone. You can barely see at all.
There’s no light. No fire. Not even the ghost of moonlight. You’re deep—deep—underground.
Somewhere nearby, a rat skitters. A chain clinks. A voice coughs. But none of it feels… familiar.
Not this place.
Not your body.
Not even your own name.
You reach for something—anything—a scrap of memory, a face, a word. Nothing comes.
No.
Not nothing. There’s something there, clawing at the edge of your mind. A flicker. A sound. A smell. A name, half-spoken in a dream.
This is part 5 of the "side quest" for "Disappearing Hogwarts". An unofficial alternate timeline based on HeadQM´s highly praised quest, Disappearing Hogwarts. Reading the original story is not exactly necessary but heavily encouraged. Created mostly as a place to wait while HeadQM was away for a while but slowly evolved into his own thing.
Quick recap so far: >Recently graduated Ravenclaw student is hired at Hogwarts as the new Caretaker. >Something dangerous and mysterious is happening. >Harry Potter is the new Headmaster of Hogwarts and extremely stressed. >Somehow, you can see ancient magic. >Peeves ripped out your foot. >Merlin himself is stuck in your head and slowly recovering his memories. Now you have to help him save the...everything from being annihilated out of existance. >Potter’s daughter also had a powerful wizard inside her head, turns out its Salazar Slytherin and he has been messing with her for years. >You have a sportsy German girlfriend. >You recently woke up from a magical coma after magical shenanigans with the corrupted version of "Faith" >You went back to Hogwarts and now Salazar decided to finally take full control of his host body and release part of an omnipotent magical beast. What will happen now? Let's find out!
Thanks to IlvermoryQM for the links! (if anyone can figure out a way to save the ".moe" threads into "thisisnotatrueending" that would be much appreciated)
Last week on Secret Weapons of the Empire, we covered the Angel-pattern Walkers. This week, we cover their arguable predecessor in Project Warden.
More commonly known as the Core Frame, the thin, spindly figure represented a radical departure from traditional Ferrum designs.
The inception came from a design request for a fast mech able to modularly mount weapons systems from other Special Warfare Projects in development, while retaining the ability to switch between those available for adaptation to a changing battlefield.
Mired in bureaucratic hangups and competition for scarce resources, the design was rewritten no less than 14 times before construction of a prototype was even started, continuously reworked to incorporate more and more cutting edge technologies.
This culminated in a 15th and final redesign under a new project lead, the visionary Dr. Anokhin. Incorporating a new experimental piloting interface proved a double-edged sword. Even in simulators, early testing of this Man-Machine interface showed the problems that would plague Wardens throughout their whole operational life.
Pilots would commonly report fatigue, nausea, vertigo, increased numbness or loss of feelings, and bloody noses upon disconnection from the simulator. Prolonged use could result in unconsciousness, stroke, seizures, or even death.
Nevertheless, promising results pushed Project Warden forwards, even expanding the project into three separate prototypes: a scouting and recon model, a trooper model, and a close assault model.
A mandate from the highest authority to prioritize and push something to the frontline in time for the next offensive forced the project to cannibalize the recon and close assault model in favor of the ‘trooper’ design. However, it took cues from the scrapped designs in the form of the fixed Predator Jamming array, and it often carried the close assault design’s Demon Claw into battle. The former piece of technology caused the iconic crackling over communications on combat recordings of the machine.
As work intensified on finishing the Warden prototype, information was leaked to the ASF, who executed Operation Dragoon, a deep-cover commando raid into the heart of the Empire. The raid was initially considered quite successful, destroying the underground facility and capturing several high-ranking scientists, including the aforementioned Dr. Anokhin, the prototype nevertheless had been completed and moved via underground rail transport before the attack was carried out, along with design plans.
The completed prototype, nicknamed ‘Beta’, would make its debut on the southern front as part of counter-raiding forces. A series of lightning deployments against the 3rd Allied Command and Home Sector Command would be the first live-fire tests, and the ‘Thin Man’, as nicknamed by soldiers, would swiftly gain a fearsome reputation.
<span class="mu-s">Nocturne for the Damned</span> <span class="mu-s">ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 1</span>
The lamps along the street sputtered under the thickening fog, their flames dimmed to sullen embers. Windows along the boulevard glittered with light and laughter, but behind every curtained veil, a ledger was kept — invisible, meticulous, merciless.
<span class="mu-i">"Every pleasure tallied. Every deviation remembered."</span>
The mist creeps low around your boots as you walk with your collar turned high, the taste of wet stone sharp on your tongue. The gaslights sputter and hiss above, their glow struggling against the gloom, gilding the marble columns and ironwork balconies in a sickly, shifting halo.
Somewhere nearby, a musician saws a mournful tune from a battered violin. The notes drift through the fog, warping into something cracked and broken before reaching your ears. Perfume and coal smoke tangle in the air, masking the more honest scents of rot, iron, and old blood.
Carriages roll past in steady procession, wheels throwing up muddy fans of water onto the cracked stone. The passengers inside wear painted smiles and jewel-toned silks, but their eyes — when they dare to glance at you — are hollow, distant, hungry.
One carriage slows as it passes. Behind its glass, a pale figure presses her hand to the window, her fingers delicate and gloved, her expression hidden by a lacquered mask. A child's mask, you realize — frozen in a rictus grin. <span class="mu-i">"Is it warning... or farewell?"</span>
You tighten your grip on your coat and keep walking.
Above, the rooftops groan as something moves through the mist, too swift and sure to be the wind. The corner of your eye catches a glint — polished glass, perhaps a monocle — and the flutter of a long coat as a figure slips from one eave to another. Watching. Always watching.
The bells of Marrowgate sound the hour, a long, wheezing groan that shudders through the stones beneath your feet. A reminder: Curfew is near. Eyes are everywhere.
<span class="mu-i">"You are weighed,"</span> the signs say, gilt letters flowing like blood in the lamplight. <span class="mu-i">"You are watched. You are wanted."</span>
