Edward Cullen's handsome face was caught in a grimace—half relief, half despair—as his sister's prophecy played out. It saved his love life for the moment, and doomed hers in the future. That was how the script read, anyway, right up until the explosion shattered Sen's concentration and snapped him out of character.
Sen's emotions oscillated wildly—almost relief, if he was honest. He'd been on edge for days, always ready for disaster that, until now, stubbornly refused to materialise.
And annoyance. Once again, filming Kiss of the Wasp 2 was interrupted. With all this bad luck, he thought, they might start calling this Beijing movie 'that Chinese play,' the way theatre people called Macbeth 'the Scottish play.'
Well, the first time had been less luck than politics. In Sen's own words, if Aperture and China ever had to fill out a SWORD profile, they'd set their relationship status to "it's complicated." He'd gotten a lot of likes for that meme.
Aperture's worldview was always going to clash with the Party.
Aperture believed that SWORD should work the same way as real science: open to all, with data shared, experiments reproducible, and knowledge—however inconvenient—flowing freely, at least, to those who could handle it. The Party, by contrast, believed in control: of information, of technology, even of thought itself. They still wanted the benefits of SWORD, but on their terms.
It was little wonder their relationship was strained.
And then there was the matter of ideology—old communism versus capitalism.
Aperture's economists were worse than enemies: they were the kind of people who refused to play the game at all. Economics was a science, like any other. Ideology had no place in it.
The favorite party game of bored econ students and professors at Aperture Uni was to take every line from the "invisible hand" theorists of Chicago—every law of the market, every bit of faith in spontaneous order—replace the words "market" or "entrepreneur" with "Mammon," and read the results aloud in a preacher's drawl. Sen's own preacher voice had helped him both pass econ class and get laid back when he was still in college.
The effect was always enlightening—sometimes even terrifying. It made the Chicago School sound less like science and more like a megachurch.
Their second favorite game? Guess how many turbines you'd have to link to Marx's coffin to power Shanghai, if the old man could really feel how his ideas were being "implemented" by China and Russia. Helena sometimes joked it was more efficient than fusion.
Bonus points for listing all the reasons why neither state was ever remotely communist, and why—on both theory and practice—reality never lined up.
By will alone, Sen set his thoughts in motion. Now was the time for Sen the superhero—the Herald, Sen of the First Class—not the actor. He cast aside the script, Edward's every mannerism, even that old, familiar regret that Dune had finished filming three years before his career began. He'd always imagined he'd make a perfect Piter De Vries.
The new Sen calmly took stock of the situation. The first thing he did was trace the source of the explosion. It wasn't hard—one of the young male interns was already on the ground, whimpering in shock.
Sen moved quickly, but his posture showed deliberate action rather than panic. That was important. Panic spread like wildfire in situations like this, but calmness was a dousing pall of cold water.
If people believed he knew what he was doing—believed he had a plan—then chaos could be managed, at least in their eyes. What people believed mattered, because it was what they acted on. Not the truth.
Sen knelt beside the victim, masking his own worry behind a gentle, compassionate smile. He took the young man's hand and reached out with his mind—wave after wave of warmth, of calm, of gentle love. Soft as a blanket, and just as good for drawing someone back from shock.
"Shh, everything's going to be all right," Sen said, his tone carefully designed to sound kind. "Can you tell me what happened?"
The paleness of the intern's skin was already retreating, replaced by a soft blush, and his brown eyes looked almost soulful as they met Sen's. Sen didn't let it go to his head. He simply flooded the victim's bloodstream with oxytocin. He couldn't remember the young man's name—just that he was one of the Aperture University students, here as an intern for the pay and the experience. And, Sen noted, not one of his previous conquests.
"Comrade Chen," the intern replied, voice dreamy, "he just exploded."
Comrade Chen was the Communist Party's liaison to the project. If he had a first name, it was never shared with those he charmingly called "capitalist pigs." That, in fact, was his most charming trait.
Chen was there as a reminder: Aperture operated here only by the sufferance of the Party—and that permission could be revoked at any moment. Thus, Chen was almost constantly disruptive. Whether it was because he genuinely disliked Aperture, or simply because that was his assignment, Sen had never cared enough to find out. It wouldn't have mattered either way.
Chen's disruptions came in small, almost ritualistic ways: flaunting his new iPhone to show the Party's preference for Apple over Aperture, making constant petty requests and minor annoyances.
Maybe it was just to frustrate people, or maybe he believed that power left unexercised would go flabby—that you had to keep it fit, like training for a bodybuilding competition.
The movie set's own paramedics arrived promptly, summoned from the on-site ambulance. Unlike Lukas, Sen could only address the psychological aspects of shock; actual injuries were best left to professionals.
Sen quietly moved to clear the area around the incident, but did not investigate further. It would be improper to do so before the official inspectors arrived. This was China, not America. His federal superhero license meant little here.
He did not want to be accused of tampering, or if he was, he wanted to make the accusation seem as unbelievable as possible. In situations like these, international diplomacy and political one-upmanship mattered far more than justice or reason.
Sen quickly organized a few volunteers to act as guards, both to prevent any tampering (if he was needed elsewhere) and as witnesses that nothing had been disturbed. Of course, he knew the Chinese authorities would likely discard or diminish their testimony, but every little bit could help in the diplomatic aftermath.
He also grabbed a few more volunteers to act as messengers. It would have been easier if he'd had his Aperture mobile, but those—with their direct satellite link to SWORD—were forbidden in China. He, and everyone else on set, had to leave theirs at the border. Only phones that used Chinese, clunky, spotty networks were allowed in-country, and those were mostly Apple iPhones or local knockoffs.
First to answer Sen's call was Rock Hudson, playing Edward's sire, Carlisle. In the nearly ten years Sen had known the older actor, Rock had made the transition from tall, dark, and handsome to full-on silver fox. Not that anyone would guess it now—the makeup artists had worked such magic that he looked to be in his late twenties. With his bearing, he truly sold the image of an ageless vampire.
The special makeup helped, too. It gave his skin an inhumanly perfect appearance, with a subtle trace of glitter that erupted under strong UV light. If there was one benefit to Aperture Productions being part of Aperture itself, it was that there was always some mad scientist eager to help invent a new special effect, simply because they could.
This particular effect involved both custom metamaterials and experimental nanoparticles, but the result was staggering. Not that Sen could actually explain how it worked—his Master's was in Performative Arts. Nanoparticles were definitely not covered in stagecraft. Although, seeing the effect, maybe that was a bit of an oversight.
"So, Comrade Chen managed to get himself blown up," Rock said, grimacing. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. The bastard told me to my face he wanted to 'cure' me with a car battery."
"You really shouldn't say things like that," Sen replied.
"Because you're not supposed to speak ill of the dead?"
Rock sounded almost genuinely confused. After so much time together, Sen couldn't easily see why. Rock had spent enough time around Aperture to know their people didn't let a little thing like dying excuse anyone from honest critique.
"No," Sen said, shaking his head. "Because the Chinese authorities will be working overtime to find scapegoats among us for this. No reason to make their job any easier."
"Are you sure it wasn't one of us?" Rock asked. "Chen didn't make any friends here."
"We're not in the Enrichment Centre. Without proper surveillance, I guess someone could think they'd get away with it," Sen said, shrugging. "But even if nobody here did, it would still be convenient for the Chinese authorities if one of us was guilty. It gives them everything they want—a propaganda story, leverage, a reason to squeeze Aperture. They couldn't ask for more."
"And it would be hardly convenient for Aperture if one of the crew was found guilty, even if they actually are," Rock countered, arms crossed.
Sen nodded, acknowledging the point, but then added, "Chinese prison is hardly the best place for rehabilitation. Besides, I think you overestimate how much Chen was hated. I found him quite useful, and I think others did too."
"Useful?" Rock asked, raising an eyebrow.
"For observation. He had quite a talent for what he was doing. And inciting hatred is as useful to an actor as inciting love. After all, one doesn't always play white hats."
And it would also be pointless. Chen was only doing what he'd been told. Even if he were killed, the Party would just send another in his place. Anyone with even basic training in results-based methodology—like almost everyone on this crew—could see that.
They were interrupted by one of the messenger volunteers—one Sen had sent to the perimeter gate of the set.
"Sen, there's a man looking for you," the younger man said, still breathless from running.
"An inspector?" Sen asked brusquely. That was fast. Was this whole thing staged?
"I don't know. He didn't say," the messenger admitted, a bit hesitantly.
"I'll handle it," Sen said, turning to Rock. "Can I count on you to organize things here when the others arrive?"
"Sure, you can leave it to me," Rock replied.
"And if it comes to violence or a mass arrest, feel free to use that," Sen added, without explicitly naming what he meant.
"I guess saving lives matters more than a diplomatic incident," Rock said, with a satisfied note in his voice.
Sen let Rock hold onto the illusion. It was kinder than explaining that smuggling forbidden tech was a lesser problem than China having them all as hostages in all but name.
It took Sen less than a minute to reach the outer gate of the movie set, walking briskly but never appearing rushed. By projecting intent and measured calm, he prevented panic among the crew—and a few seconds lost to composure were well worth it.
He could see why the volunteer was confused. The man waiting outside was utterly nondescript, almost to the point of being forgettable.
Waiting by the gate was a man who could have walked straight out of a thousand crowded Beijing streets—average height, medium build, black hair cut short, face clean-shaven, skin just beginning to tan from spring sun. He wore a collared white shirt tucked into plain navy slacks, the sort that might pass for government-issue, but were equally common in any office or railway station. Sensible black shoes, scuffed just enough to suggest long days, not ostentation. His only accessory was a cheap plastic watch and, under one arm, a slim black cylinder—just like the one Sen's diploma had come in.
What caught Sen's attention wasn't what was there, but what wasn't. No Party lapel pin, no visible ID, not even a trace of nervous fiddling or self-importance—none of the minor tells Sen had come to expect from anyone on official business, or anyone bluffing at it. No personal accessories at all—not a keychain, no house or office badge, not even a bus pass sticking out of a pocket. The man didn't even check his watch, didn't light a cigarette, didn't pretend to read the signs posted on the wall. He simply waited, hands loosely at his sides, eyes resting on the middle distance—unbothered, as if time itself was a courtesy extended to him.
And as Sen brushed the man's mind, he found nothing but a wall—flat, featureless, impenetrable. Annoying, but perhaps not surprising. That kind of discipline was unheard of in most, but probably standard issue for anyone sent to handle Sen.
The man recognized Sen on sight—not that it meant much. Sen was famous, after all. But he didn't say a word. Instead, with almost ritual formality, he presented the cylindrical case.
Sen accepted it—carefully, cautiously. He didn't break the silence. If the man hadn't spoken by now, he wouldn't, even if Sen asked questions. Trying and failing would only signal weakness. Of course, Sen could have forced the issue with his powers, but that would have been far too aggressive at this point.
But as Sen was still registering the weight of the cylinder, the man moved—sudden and precise as a scorpion strike. From up his sleeve, he drew a razor-edged knife.
Sen leapt back, reflexes flaring, already prepared to defend himself—
But the man didn't attack. Instead, with perfect calm, he pressed the blade to his own throat and slit it open.
A split-second decision. If Sen closed the distance, he was still in range—a dying man's final, desperate trap. No time to play the hero. He threw up a hand, stopping the others from rushing in, and focused his mind. Pierce the shield. Maybe the shock of dying would shatter it faster than unconsciousness.
He gambled.
He lost.
The air was filled with the metallic smell of blood. He looked at the corpse and felt a profound nothing. A director would have hated it. They'd ask for shock, for horror—for anything other than this cold, professional void. But this wasn't a movie.
Still, it was a problem. Obvious suicide made Sen even more suspect, not less. With his powers, every time humans acted irrationally around him, he was liable to be accused.
With no other clues, Sen turned his attention to the case. It was too light to be a bomb.
Besides, even though his precognition was weak, it was good enough for this sort of thing—just enough to sharpen his reflexes a little, to warm him when another actor would fumble a line, or to cheat at strip poker. If there'd been any immediate danger, he'd have felt it.
No. If there was any peril from the case, it would come later.
Inside was an old-style scroll, though clearly freshly made. Not paper—silk. Sen could tell by touch.
Drawn in red, a map of the city sprawled across the fabric. No, not ink. It had the same smell as the corpse. Blood.
It could have been animal blood, but considering how the message was delivered, Sen doubted it.
One location was circled.
This was an invitation.
Now Sen had a decision to make: accept or reject.
Staying on set was the protective move—he could prevent violence when the authorities arrived. But it meant letting the enemy set the terms, something Sen despised. It would leave him blind, and inaction might even provoke escalation.
Leaving was the gamble. He'd be abandoning his crew, and his absence could easily be spun as an admission of guilt. The invitation might be a distraction, or worse, a trap. But it was also the only way to seize the initiative. A sprung trap reveals its maker, and that information was vital. And while he might look guilty, the authorities wouldn't have a very valuable psychic to arrest on the spot.
He weighed each scenario, searching not for the safest move, but for the one that would give him the most control.
Repeating his earlier triage, Sen assigned volunteers to secure the new scene, then singled one out to act as a messenger.
After explaining where Rock and the other leaders were, Sen added, "Tell them I'm leaving. Something's come up. It's better they don't know where I'm going. Plausible deniability."
"Are you taking one of the cars?" the young woman asked. That was always the problem with volunteers—they weren't professional messengers. They asked unnecessary questions.
But there was no point in being rude or dismissive, so Sen just gave her a mysterious smile. "No. I have something better."
Sen found a quiet corner, closed his eyes, and turned his focus inward, reaching for the network of psychic bonds woven into his mindscape.
They were threads of varying strength. There were the soft, gossamer traces connected to people he had recently slept with—fading, transient, little more than echoes. Stronger than those were the steady, silver cords linking him to the other members of the First Class.
But they were nothing compared to the two permanent anchors, the ones forged in power and purpose.
The first was a lifeline stretching far away, across the globe to the Enrichment Centre in Michigan. It was the bond to his familiar, left behind as an ultimate backup, an untraceable communications channel if all else failed.
The second was close. Here, on this very set. It didn't hum with the warmth of a living mind. It was a bond of cold, sharp steel and latent power.
He reached for it.
His very own magic sword.
Lindalcar.
Translated from elf-speak, it meant Song of Glory. That was its secret name, known only to a few—the First Class, because Sen could never resist bragging to his closest friends. The one who had made it, named it, and gifted it to Sen: the Director. The singular, genius mind who had shepherded Aperture from ruin to glory. Doctor Alexander Johnson. Or Rin. Or Master. Or Magister. Or Meister. Or Mercury.
As with the sword, the Director's true names were secrets. Only those he trusted—Sen, and the handful who shared in the Great Work—were ever given more than one.
In public, Sen's sword was simply known as the Sword of the Herald, a nod to his superhero codename. In more private circles, it was called the Living Annex—not for its form, but for its function. Embedded within the crystalline matrix of the blade was a virtual replication of a key sector of the Enrichment Centre. It wasn't just data; it was a living model, populated by countless digital lives—simulated people and the robots that served them—all going about their daily routines. Sen had taken to calling them his Sims, like that game. Wherever the sword went, that sliver of the Centre's presence went with it—a sympathetic link, not just symbolic, but a metaphysical extension. The Centre's power, knowledge, and security could project outward through the sword, creating a temporary foothold—an annex—wherever Sen chose to draw upon its power.
Lindalcar was made to complement Sen—strong exactly where he was weak. Telekinesis. Well, weak compared to the others in the First Class. Sen could bend a spoon easily enough; Damien could juggle trucks.
But what mattered was that Lindalcar's innate telekinesis was powerful enough to move on its own—and more. So when Sen called, the sword answered, flying out from its hiding place in his quarters on set. No way the Chinese authorities would've let something like that into the country if they'd known; Sen had gone to some trouble to smuggle it in, and to conceal it well. But now, nothing—not distance, not doors, not custom forms—would keep it from reaching him.
Sen felt the connection lock into place a moment before he opened his eyes. A silver glint flashed high in the darkening sky, resolving itself as Lindalcar dove towards him, silent and swift.
A rare, genuine smile touched Sen's lips. He timed his leap with an actor's precision, jumping not away, but up, aligning his ascent to meet the blade in mid-air. He landed on its flat side as a surfer finds a board, the sword arresting its dive and levelling out beneath him.
A surfer on a silver wave. Or, if he were to indulge in a little personal myth-making, like an immortal from a Chinese legend, riding his flying sword.
With a single, focused thought, Sen transferred the map's data to Lindalcar.
The sword couldn't talk, but it was far from mindless. Its intelligence wasn't human, or even animal. It was more like a hive: a living annex of digital lives and routines, a city in a blade. Now that Sen had given it a task, the countless Sims within were already at work. Like ants swarming over a puzzle, specialized groups snapped into motion—navigation, propulsion, energy, all breaking down the challenge and finding the optimal path.
That left Sen free to focus on other priorities: most immediately, preventing panic, and making sure the military didn't get ideas about shooting him out of the sky.
To that end, he spread a wide, subtle field of normalcy as he soared over Beijing. It wasn't invisibility—a much cruder trick. It was a mental suggestion, a gentle push that made any onlooker's brain file the sight away as ordinary background noise, about as interesting as a flock of pigeons or a passing cloud. Stage magic was always about letting people see without really seeing.
Maintaining the field of normalcy didn't require Sen's full attention; his skill left a sliver of his mind free to observe the sprawling streets of the Chinese capital.
He didn't like what he saw.
Below him, more than one crowd had clustered. Sometimes with the flashing lights of police cars and ambulances, but more often without. Even from his vantage point, he could tell they were gathered around the sites of other explosions—small pockets of chaos dotted across the city.
It seemed Comrade Chen hadn't exploded alone.
Then again, the man never did have an original bone in his body.
Since he was not being observed, Sen allowed his mouth to curl in a frown. He lived to perform, but it was sometimes liberating to show a genuine emotion.
He scanned the city again. The number of explosions was too small. A tragedy, yes—lives had undoubtedly been lost—but this wasn't the widespread, cascading disaster he had been led to expect.
Sen hadn't been idle during the tense weeks leading up to this prophesied calamity. The first step in preventing a catastrophe was to understand its potential shape, to find the system's breaking points—the political and social fault lines where the Party's rigid order could be nudged into chaos.
The problem, of course, was that such research had to be dangerously covert. Probing a nation's vulnerabilities, even with good intentions, could easily be misconstrued as espionage. It was akin to a Chinese agent approaching Aperture and saying, "Show us the weak points in the Enrichment Centre. We've heard rumours of an attack and we're just here to help. Honest," while flashing their Party membership card.
But Sen was skilled. Even under the Party's suffocating observation, he had managed to gather intelligence. His conclusion was unsettling: for all its oppressive brutality, the Chinese system was remarkably stable. Decades of iron-fisted control, combined with a new, roaring economy, had left it with very few cracks for rebellion or sabotage to take root.
Hopefully, he'd be getting some answers soon, as his target—a relic in brick and stone—came into view.
It didn't take a psychic to sense the history here. The old temple sat squat behind battered walls, its once-proud gatehouse half-buried under decades of grey paint and Communist slogans. Even now, one could catch a glimpse of dragon tiles beneath flaking plaster, the roof's curved silhouette still defying the hard lines of the factory additions welded onto its side. Trucks idled out front where pilgrims might have knelt. A cheap metal sign, "Beijing Municipal Meat Processing No. 4," hung askew over the entry, wires and grime strangling what was left of the original woodwork.
Sen let his gaze linger on the gate's guardian lions—one missing a head, the other moss-streaked and scrawled with graffiti. Even stripped of incense and colour, the place couldn't quite forget what it used to be.
Rather than the main door, Sen chose a broken second-story window. He slipped through the opening, dismounting from Lindalcar in a silent crouch and taking the inert blade in hand.
There were times he envied Lukas's gift for psychometry. The ability to hold an object and experience its history—as an actor, the applications were intoxicating. To pick up a historical figure's pocket watch or a famous actress's fan and instantly know their story, their posture, their very essence.
This was not one of those times.
The plant, though clearly long abandoned, reeked of something far worse than simple decay. It was the thick, coppery smell of fresh blood mingling with the damp stench of rot.
One would expect an abandoned building to be reclaimed by animals. Rodents. Birds. Something. But there was no life here.
It was eerily silent.
Until it wasn't.
A deep, dumpling voice rolled through the halls, echoing from the depths of the facility—the same direction as the stench.
"A visitor? How interesting. But are you the one I invited? Is this Sen? Come! Come! I am waiting for you."
Sen moved the muscles in his face, forming an arrogant smirk—one designed to be deliberately infuriating. When he spoke, it was with a mock-playful tone, neither too soft nor too loud. Almost conversational.
"With such a charming invitation, how could I possibly refuse?"
He waited a moment or two for a reply, but when none came, he started to walk—purposefully—toward the source of both the voice and the stench.
The deep voice echoed again, sudden and close enough to make the skin crawl. "Such confident steps. So, it must be you, Sen. I am so pleased. It has been so long since I had a witch for a meal."
This was telling. The enemy—almost certainly Vril-ya, since only they would both speak and want to eat Sen—didn't respond directly, neither to his words nor to his expressions. That meant the Vril-ya couldn't hear him, or see his face well enough to catch the smirk he'd crafted.
It ruled out several possibilities, even if they were unlikely, based on what Sen knew of their kind.
It wasn't cameras or microphones—the Vril-ya had a distaste for human technology.
It wasn't remote viewing, or some kind of precognition. Vril-ya powers tended to be rooted in the physical, rather than the metaphysical—unlike humans, who varied.
Most likely, it was some form of echoed sense. Not sound, at least not in human frequencies—maybe ultrasound, some kind of sonar. Or perhaps a kind of x-ray vision, but without the resolution to catch a subtle shift of lips or brow.
That, too, was useful to know.
"Did you appreciate my messenger?" the rumbling voice echoed again, the sound seeming to crawl along the concrete walls. "He was one of mine. His ancestors served my needs when I wore the face of a Great Khan."
Sen ignored the taunt, his footsteps steady as he moved deeper into the facility, following the stench. The interior walls were stark, painted a lifeless industrial grey. Here and there, the paint flaked away, exposing glimpses of the vibrant, forgotten temple murals beneath.
"Do you have any idea how tedious it is to impersonate a human Khan?" the voice continued, a wave of intellectual disgust coloring the tone. "To command a horde is one thing. But the wives… they expect you to touch them. To produce heirs from their soft, pliable bodies. A Vril-ya, wallowing in human flesh. Revolting. And that doesn't even touch upon the tedious matter of the children."
"So," the voice purred, "I devised a more elegant solution. A Khan must have heirs, after all. I cultivated a secret stable of handsome human men. Their purpose was simple: keep my many consorts occupied and ensure the continuation of the bloodline."
Sen caught the almost fond note in the Vril-ya's voice when he spoke of children, and nearly flinched. He didn't. He wasn't sure how much the enemy could see, and Sen refused to give him the satisfaction. Because this was no father proud of a son, but a monster reminiscing about his favorite meal. The Vril-ya had only one use for heirs: a fresh identity, when the old one wore out.
"To do their job, of course, they had to become perfect body doubles. They learned to move as I did, to mimic my voice, to disappear into a role. They became masters of disguise, of silent entry and exit. From there, it was only a small, logical step to becoming my personal cadre of assassins. A much more dignified purpose, don't you think?"
The First Class was a public spectacle—merchandise and interviews. But the war against the Vril-ya was fought in the shadows. Thus, this was only the second time Sen had knowingly faced one of the Named.
And this had to be one. No Vril-ya bragged like that unless it had the power to back it up.
Still, Sen found he preferred the Great Khan's honest disdain to the Serpent of Eden's twisted love.
After all, the Khan treated humans like livestock—to be bred and eaten. But at least it didn't honestly believe the best human qualities were to be found in Nazis.
Pushing open a heavy metal door, Sen stepped into the great hall. The overpowering scent of blood hit him like a physical blow; it would have made a lesser man gag, but Sen held tight control over his body's reflexive revolt.
He took in the scene. This had once been the main temple hall, now gutted and reworked into a meat processing plant. Ruined conveyor belts and rusted hooks filled the massive, silent space.
At the far end of the hall, under a single flickering fluorescent light, he saw it. The source of the stench.
It was a massive pile of bones rising from the floor, glistening with scraps of rotting flesh still stuck to them.
Then, the pile shifted.
Something massive writhed beneath it.
"Finally," the voice rumbled from deep within the shifting bones. "I was growing tired. It is impolite to keep a being of my stature waiting for his meal."
Sen continued his steady approach, his eyes scanning the gruesome mound. As he drew closer, the details resolved themselves with sickening clarity: human skulls, dozens of them, nested among femurs and ribs, their empty sockets staring out from the carnage.
How many had died to build this monument to hunger?
Hundreds, at least. Perhaps thousands.
"You will not find me an easy meal," Sen replied, again testing whether his adversary could hear him.
"Good. I enjoy it more when my food fights back," the voice echoed above the shifting bones. "And pleasure is all that matters—since all of this is nothing but indulgence on my part."
"Indulgence?" Sen asked.
"Yes. Don't you wonder, little witch, where are the rest of my assassins?" The voice was mocking.
"I suppose they're hidden, waiting to ambush me," Sen replied, keeping his voice steady.
"Then you would be wrong. They are outside, making sure those little sparks your detestable Jobs started end in a proper wildfire," the voice said, and then it laughed. The rumble of laughter shook the bones, sending a few skulls rolling to the floor. One stopped just in front of Sen.
"In truth, if you wanted to save people, coming here was the worst thing you could have done. After all, as we speak, my assassins are killing any reasonable moderate, any Party member who might unite or bring peace—or who's even competent enough to rise to the top early. Instead, all that will be left are the paranoid, the power-hungry, the trigger-happy Party officers. Do you know what that means, little witch?"
"A civil war," Sen said, his mouth dry with the first taste of failure. He did not like the taste.
"Not one. But many civil wars," the voice continued. "While they kill each other, I can feast in peace. But it's been so long since I tasted a proper Grand Witch. So I sent you a little invitation."
He had fallen for it. Like a greedy fish seeing the juicy worm but not the steel hook hidden within, Sen had lunged at the invitation and completely missed the true shape of the trap.
And yet, even with the benefit of hindsight, he didn't know what other choice he could have made. To ignore the summons would have meant staying blind and passive, waiting for the enemy to make the next move. That was a choice he was incapable of making.
Perhaps he could have acted sooner, then. Cultivated more contacts within the Party before this crisis began. But that path was likely a dead end as well. The Party was deeply paranoid about his psychic abilities; any outreach would have been viewed not as diplomacy, but as infiltration.
"Then I will avenge them," Sen said, his voice quiet but infused with a new, cold determination. "I will make you pay for this little… indulgence."
The pile of bones began to rumble with the sound of deep laughter. And from it, something horrific crawled into the light. It was a creature that had no place in any sane universe, something more suited to a horror movie than to real life.
First, an enormous, green, insectoid head emerged, its multifaceted eyes glittering. Then, from the collapsing pile of bones and gore, the rest of the creature uncoiled: the segmented, armored body of a giant centipede.
"Rejoice, little witch," the Vril-ya's voice echoed, not from the creature's mouth, but seemingly from the air around it. "You are witnessing something very few humans have ever seen. This technique has been used only once before, since our arrival on this world. One of our great leaders rose as the dragon Fafnir in the West. And now, there is me."
"Usually, it requires far too much biomass and Vril to be worth the effort against mere humans. But I wanted to experience it, just once, before all of you are gone and we have peace again. As I said... indulgence."