320 Piece Pro Poker Clay Poker Set - Heavy weight clay ...

I walked in and was immediately awestruck by the ornate interior of the best casino in the world, The Barterer’s Lounge. Some players were walking around with suits and escorts while other people looked like they had not eaten for days. My cohorts? Adam, Bart, Carl, David, and Erin. We decided to have a seat at a “Texas Holdem” table with someone waiting to play. This guy looked like he had just snorted cocaine, after a 2 day bender on whiskey, but hey, “When in Rome” right? Weird thing is, this guy was in a suit and had five escorts. Five! Judging by the sheer boredom of his lady friends, this dude clearly hasn't left this table in over eight hours.
The table seats six and the rules are very clear. At a new table: The only buy-in is allowed once at the beginning of the game. But you don’t have to pay the fifteen dollar entry fee in cash or otherwise until the end of the game. If you go out, only then do you have to pay the cash. We already knew this and we had plenty of cash for a trip to the casino. Woo! Adam had been saving for, jeez, over a decade? Adam’s been family friends since as long as I can remember. Who knows how old the guy is but he’s Bart’s dad and I love them both. Carl lives next door and we do some work from home but mostly sit at home playing some consoles drinking some beer and doing neighborhood poker with David and Erin. They’re an awesome pair. We all looked at one another and visually confirmed that we had exactly fifteen dollars in cash ready for the game because once you sit down, there is no turning back. Security has a person watching every individual one to one while sitting at a table. It is kinda creepy to have someone watching over you, but hey, I know the rules.
Carl and I were already doing a visual check on this guy and figured he’s too whacked out to be a smart player in this poker game. But he can obviously afford the buy-in so we were very happy to have a few more chips to pass around between the five of us at the end of the game. “Frank, you ready?” Carl asks. “Yeah, let’s rock,” I replied. We all sat down together and the player at the table eagerly agreed to play a game with us. Once we all agreed to play together, one of the security guards powered up the dealer. The automaton started whirring up and a few sparks flew from faulty wiring that obviously hadn’t been maintained in years. But if it works for the house, it works for me.
“Sir, this is a casino,” the robot said. I replied, “Duh,” and the dealer dealt our first two private cards each. Our extra player says “Hold on a sec, I want to make a side wager. I want to put a chip in saying that the old fart loses all his money on this first hand.”
The dealer mechanically screeches “This is a side wager separate from the game’s pot.”
We all looked at each other dumbfounded. “Does this guy even know the rules of Texas Holdem?” I thought. I looked at Carl and I knew that is exactly what he was thinking too. “Yea, I’ll call that for a chip.” We all threw a chip in. But not Adam. Why would he? He still has all his chips and as long as he doesn’t do anything stupid, or even bet at all, Kevin loses that bet.
Our extra player was turning out to be a real go-getter, so I wanted to do some small-talk to bring him off the game. “Hey, My name’s Frank. Yours?”
“Kevin,” he says abruptly between the twitches of his eyelids. “Hey Kevin, nice to play with ya dude,” I reply.
Kevin immediately says, “Hold on, I’ll bet another chip that the old man goes under this hand.” Easiest call of my life. Everyone throws another chip in because old man Adam ain’t no fool when it comes to poker. All he has to do is not wager “all-in” on a losing hand and we all get a few extra chips at the end of the hand. We all toss in that chip.
“Alright let’s get on with it,” Kevin barks at the dealer. The first three cards are shown and immediately Kevin wants to do another chip that Adam goes under this hand. We all call.
I ask him, “So what do you do, Kevin?” He says with a straight face, “Well if I’m not here I’m on my jet going between my five mansions.You know what, let’s put in another chip that Ole Yeller flops on this hand.”
I knew this guy was off his rocker and we didn’t care because everyone knows we’re all good for the money or else the “barter rules” come into effect. We all had visually checked our cash before we sat down. Well I don’t actually know about Kevin but I figure he’s good for it considering his escorts had all bought themselves Wendy’s chicken tenders from the food court on Kevin’s credit card.
Play resumes and Kevin puts a few chips on the actual game of poker this time. Adam does nothing, no surprise there. But the rest of us call Kevin’s position. Who knows what each other’s dealt hands are. I only know mine. “So five mansions huh? Nice,” I say. “You do anything else for fun?”
Kevin looks at me like he wasn’t expecting such filth to speak and disgustedly replies, “Well, I like my yacht. It’s got its own docking port for a smaller yacht. So you could say I’m into water sports.” After realizing he spent even a few seconds humoring me, Kevin shouts, “Let’s do three more chips in another side pot that the old man actually literally dies during the game.”
We all chuckled pretty good at that one and threw our three chips in each. “Let’s play.” Kevin demanded. “Show the next card,” he snarled. As the card lands on the table, Kevin bets ten more chips that Adam goes all-in on a losing hand. Seeing as this is the first round of the game and we all had the same chips at buy-in, it’s a no brainer match position for 10 chips. Meanwhile Adam is stone-cold poker face and hasn’t actually put any chips in on the opening three.
“Alright 15 chips on the play,” Kevin absent-mindendly said without even looking at the card. I noticed that he hadn’t even looked at his hand because his two cards were strewn out in front of him in the original place the dealer placed them.
Everyone but Adam plays Kevin’s bet and the showdown resumes. Well, almost resumes. “And I’ll put half of my remaining chips on my initial bet that pops loses all his chips this hand,” Kevin states. And guess what we all did? We called the bet because we’re all keeping track of how many chips were initially given out and this was a no-brainer that we were all on the same pace of losing chips. Except Adam of course because he hadn’t placed any bets so far. He was ready for a few actual full games of poker. I know he had more than only the fifteen dollar pay-out fee for a single game if he lost.
“And I’ll put the rest on my other bet that the boomer literally dies during this game.” We all blankly looked at each other and threw our remaining chips on that bet. But not Adam, why would he? He’s got all his chips from not even Adam’s old but he’s not on death’s door by any means. He lifted weights professionally in his earlier years and still does cardio daily. Naturally, he doesn’t look a day over fifty.
“We have an ‘all-in’ at the table” the junkbot for a dealer said and an extra set of lights flicked on at our table. They were so bright I was getting a terrible glare from an heirloom ring I had on my finger. I rotated the rock to the inside of my finger and made a fist so the glare wouldn’t blind me.
The robot dealer plays out the last card but it doesn’t matter to Kevin or anyone else because we’re all-in. “The player who placed the initial bet shows their hand,” says the dealer.
And we all waited patiently. We sat together in silence for what seemed like forever.
Until Kevin’s casino-assigned agent realized that Kevin was too coked out to do it himself.
“A two of hearts and a seven of clubs from the initial bet maker.” The dealer continues, “There are no additional plays on the field for the bet maker. The player with the best hand wins.”
I only had a pair of three of hearts and a four of diamonds in my hand.
Carl immediately turns his cards over. “A pair of sixes with another on the table. That’s three of a kind.” We all split the earnings of the initial side bet amongst ourselves minus Adam. And since Adam still had a pulse we all split the second pot too. “This game is closed. All players must pay their cash fee for the round. If any players do not have the cash initially agreed upon to enter the game, barter rules come into effect,” the dealer said. We all reached into our pockets and put the fifteen bucks on the table. Kevin reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ten dollar bill and a half eaten chicken tender. Kevin frantically searches his other pockets for any cash on his person. “Oh shit,” Kevin muttered as his face turned pale. “I must have spent my cash last night when I was more drunk.”
I perk up a bit because I had no idea that there was even a chance to trigger the barter rule with this guy. The dealer asks, “Do you accept the remaining payment of meat to cover the remaining five dollars of this player’s entry fee?” “Hell no!” I shouted. “I want a million bucks, and one of your houses.”
Bart finally chimes in and says, “Me too. Oh yea and I want your jet.” Carl agrees and adds “And the yacht!” David says, “Don’t forget the mini-yacht too.” Erin says, “I know you have a nice car, We’ll take that too.” Kevin slumps into his chair as the dealer asks, “Are there any other terms to this agreement?” We all looked at each other and Adam added, “And an order of tendies all around. But not for Kevin.”
That was a bad move, Kevin.

Part 1, Part 3
So, up till now, we've not done much interesting. Some writing fixes here or there, some choice revisions, and a completely changed ending for one case, but nothing that interesting.
Now we go off the rails.
For this, my purposed rewrite of Turnabout Succession is so utterly immense, altering about 90% of the story in some way, along with massively recontexualizing the rest of the game, that I will have to divide it into sections. Consider this the real part of the Apollo Justice rewrite, all before it was just the small fry.
First Investigation
For starters, not even the date is the same. Rather than October 7, the case opens up on September 3, for reasons which will become very clear soon at the end.
The case opens up with Phoenix acting surprisingly busy, which confuses Apollo until Trucy explains that Phoenix has a strange tradition to head out by himself every year out into the countryside. She doesn't know why, but reassures Apollo it's no big deal (Apollo just assumes that Phoenix has a mistress).
Like in the actual game, Valant has announced that he's making a big performance, but a notable change is that he's having Trucy come along as an assistant, wanting her to start getting some professional stage experience.
With Apollo left on his lonesome, Phoenix gives him a random job, giving a package to Eldoon as a "gift". Meeting up with Eldoon, it turns out that he's planning to get back in surgery now that his old rival is dead, and maintain the family noodle business at the same time (Apollo points out that's insane). Eldoon proceeds to ask how Phoenix is doing, and relays some outsider perspective on the Wright's. After Phoenix's disbarment, he took to doing countless odd jobs around the community before settling into his job as a "pianist", and still does even now, all for zero pay. He just laughed at every struggle he had to make, never once losing the smile on his face. He was, in every way, a hero.
Returning to the office, Apollo finds it empty, only to find a mystery envelope on the desk. Reading it, Apollo finds a baffling message.
"Within the frame of the portrait, there is something to reveal. The truth of MM-4 will not be forever sealed."
The letter is signed from Akashic.
Apollo is baffled by the note, but chooses to follow the address to studio anyway. There, he encounters Klavier, who was called to the studio with the exact same note, with them both aware of who Drew Misham was. Evidently, someone wants both of them to investigate this case. Klavier himself is the same as usual, but Apollo can tell he's still shaken about what happened two months ago.
The investigation of Misham's studio is basically the same, minus Ema not being so obstinate since the Jurist system isn't a thing in this version, though she does comedically sock Klavier in the gut when he gets on her nerves one too many times. After learning about Brushel, Apollo then leaves to go find him, though, Klavier asks for Apollo to see him at his office, for...some reason.
The meeting with Valant is basically the same minus Phoenix being there, then there's essentially a merged take on the two encounters in the detention center with the introductions of Vera and Brushel. Brushel, noticeably, seems unsurprised in this version about Apollo taking up Vera's case. Here, though, he informs Apollo and Trucy of a secret compartment in Misham's studio, which he learnt about during the interview.
Returning to the studio, Apollo puts in the lock Brushel told him, and finds a series of evidence, all critical to the plot:

• The stolen art revealing Misham was an art forger. Ema confirms the police had long suspected of his criminal activities since he made the original confession seven years ago, but no long-term evidence could be found.
• A strange old photo marked from seven years ago of Drew, Vera and an older boy with a "bad face".
• A stack of letters indicating a back and forth correspondence...with Phoenix Wright.

The last one shocks Apollo and Trucy immensely, only for any attempt to contact Phoenix to end up with no answer. Returning to the office, Apollo finds another letter, this time from Phoenix, informing the two of them he's had to vanish. He assures Apollo that he believes in him, and that, no matter what, he can pull through.
That evening, Apollo visits Klavier's office, which he sees has become much neater since the Gavinners have disbanded. Klavier exchanges some pretty friendly words with Apollo, only to clam up when Apollo notes that he's acting different. Klavier, suddenly, deflates.
Klavier reveals his backstory. His and Kristoph's father was an official of law who pushed his sons to be the greatest no matter what. While he was a great man who believed in the law, Klavier admits his methods were beyond harsh, and Kristoph bore the brunt of it, which Klavier suspects it the reason he turned out the way he did. He, on the other hand, got the easy deal in life, and lived the fulfilling life both as a prosecutor and musician.
This has changed now, though. With Daryan still at large, Kavier is stuck with the reminder that, no matter what, he's not what Apollo thinks he is. He, like every other person, is weak. Weak in spirit, weak in will, and weak in motivation. Everything, he says, which he thinks Apollo is.
"You know, Herr Forehead...I think we really are opposites."
Apollo ponders Klavier's words, then decides to show Klavier what he found. Klavier is left utterly shocked when he sees the photo, as he reveals a shocking fact, that "older boy" is actually Daryan. How on earth this is possible he has no idea, Daryan never talked about his past, but the truth is unmistakable. And, if that's the truth...who knows what else exists.
Klavier, despite being the prosecutor in the case, fully believes Vera is innocent. Together, he and Apollo are going to unravel the truth, and end what began seven years prior.
First Trial
The first half of the trial is basically identical to the actual game. Apollo and Klavier cross-examine Brushel. The only difference is Klavier is far less insistent, since here he wants Apollo to prove Vera's innocence.
Where it diverges however is once we get to the "proving what Misham was poisoned with" part, where, instead of a postage stamp kept in a picture frame, what Apollo pushes for is a recently sealed letter included in the correspondence letters in the secret compartment. As explained, the chain of letters were, in order to protect their security, were always matched with specific stamps for the responder to send with. Thus, when Misham was using the stamp sent to him, he ended up poisoning himself.
Obviously, the question then becomes why the letter was in the safe, only a bit of cross-examining answers that, Brushel did it on request of a dying Misham himself, who wanted both the "secret" to be hidden while still protecting Vera. Brushel's only mistake was not realizing poison residue got on the coffee cup, meaning Vera was implicated by essentially freak chance.
With this, Vera's innocence is proven, but, realizing that he's essentially implicated Phoenix, Apollo demands that Vera now testify so to get more information. This is where we go into the fact that, as a savant, she was the one comprising the forgeries, though purely on her fathers orders. Vera insists that, despite this, he was a good person, and was only doing this to help her.
Eventually, it comes out that there was actually a secondary correspondence chain besides Phoenix, but Vera claims her father burnt all of them out of shame. Before she can confirm, however, she collapses, having fallen into a coma, and is rushed to the hospital.
Apollo is left victorious and defeated, Vera innocent yet in intensive care, and the missing Phoenix now a murder suspect.
Second Investigation
The following day, Apollo is at the bar located at Sunshine Colosseum, drinking apple juice in frustration over the situation while talking to a not exactly inebriated Ema (Ema getting wasted is canon BTW, going off a piece of official art). Phoenix is still missing and a suspect, Vera is still in a coma with the strong likelihood of death, and there's zero way of proving the alternate chain of correspondence letters even existed. He's not really interested in the performance either, seeing Valant as just a criminal showboating about getting away with what he did.
Apollo, however, does come out for the segment at the end focused exclusively on Trucy, saying it's the least he can do for what might be one of the most important days of her life. Once her part is over, however, Valant returns for the final act...and then the show is suddenly halted. Trucy suddenly appears, looking horribly pale and genuinely shaken, and Apollo soon sees why as he heads into the underground parts of the colosseum, and finds a trail of blood leading into a storeroom. Standing there, a bloody sword in his hands, is Phoenix, with Lamiroir's body having been run through.
~~
A few hours later, the situation has been clarified. Lamiroir is alive, but in critical condition, Phoenix has been arrested and is now believed to be the culprit of both murders, and Valant not only believes that whole-heartedly, but is planning to testify in court that Phoenix is the murderer.
Apollo, obviously, doesn't believe for a second that Phoenix is the culprit, but can tell despite putting on a cheerful face Trucy is clearly even more grief-stricken and broken by the situation. Heading to the detention center, Apollo confronts Phoenix about what's happened.

• The Murder: Phoenix tells Apollo that in no way did he attack Lamiroir, not that there was any doubt there. As he explains, he met with Lamiroir that day with the intent of just an "important chat", only to partway into the discussion notice something "strange" in the background. He suddenly felt himself blacking out, and then, when he awoke, was holding the sword.
• Meeting With Lamiroir: Phoenix explains he vanished for the last few days because he was looking for Lamiroir. Apparently, there's a lot of people who have some kind of vested interest in her in some fashion, so going underground was the only option. Phoenix suddenly drops an oblique hint that Burshel might have the answers Apollo is looking for.
• The Letters: Apollo asks what exactly is up with the letters Phoenix was exchanging with Misham. Phoenix acts strangely evasive, before saying that such decisions are to be up to the people. Phoenix wants justice, so in void of his badge, he finds "his own ways". He's called for questioning after this.

~~
Visiting the crime scene, Ema delivers the low down on the situation. Lamiroir was stabbed through the abdomen, the weapon being one of the real swords that are used in the Trope Gramarye's acts (as is implied in canon, and explicit here, Magnifi's tricks involve the use of actual dangerous objects for authenticity). The storeroom has only one entrance/exit, and is otherwise completely inaccessible. Lamiroir's body was found on the table located in the middle of the room, with mild fractures located across her body. There's also an upper level in the storeroom accessible by a single ladder, and two strange holes in the wall on the far end, and an ornate knife which Trucy notes she doesn't recognize in the Gramarye props.
As Ema confirms, all evidence is pointing to Phoenix as the killer, but she refuses to believe that he's the culprit. Ema suddenly reveals a non-spoiler recap of the events of Rise from the Ashes explaining the actual relationship she has to Phoenix, and tells Apollo and Trucy that, no matter what, she has faith that they will be able to prove his innocence.
~~
Out on the stage, we have another meeting with Valant, giving more of the Gramarye backstory from the actual game:

• Apprentices: Magnifi made apprentices out of wayward orphans who were looking for a purpose in life, giving them a purpose in continuing his legacy. He took in many over the years, but the harsh training and genius needed to master the craft was enough to drive away everyone but those two. They were in many ways like brothers, who competed in everything, even love.
• Love: Valant gives all the basic facts about Thalassa, prompted on the basis that Trucy ultimately doesn't really remember her. He noticeably however seems to trail off when the circumstances of her death, only saying it was a "tragic accident".
• Zak Gramarye: More basic facts about Zak, he was Valant's rival and closest friend, Trucy's biological father, Magnifi's favoured heir, and Valant has no idea what happened to him.
• Phoenix: Valant bluntly says what he believes, this incident proves Phoenix is, and always has been. He is the one who scorned the Gramarye name with his deceit, stole Trucy away from her true family, and has now shown himself a vile murderer. Trucy unsurprisingly gets extremely uncomfortable about this, and Valant leaves in disgust after Apollo calls him out, saying Phoenix must have "brainwashed" her.

~~
Outside the colosseum, Apollo and Trucy run into Brushel, who says that he's heard all about the current incident. Information travels fast, and, in this case, there's a lot more truth to be seen than just the basics:

• Misham's Death: Brushel is secretive about why he lied about the true cause of Misham's death, arguing that it was his "journalistic integrity" he was defending. Apollo, despite being able to tell he's lying, realizes there's no way to get him to admit the truth.
• Lamiroir: Apollo tries to get Brushel to explain why Phoenix was trying to track down Lamiroir, and why she's so important. Brushel suddenly goes into a bizarre, unprompted tangent about the nature of the truth, asking if the Gramarye can truly be considered the lynchpin of the story unfolding right now. He does admit to knowing Phoenix, so that's something.

~~
Heading back to the office, Apollo is mulling over what they know, with Trucy admitting she always "knew" Valant's hatred of Phoenix, but didn't want to acknowledge it. Suddenly, Apollo finds a crudely written message from Akashic (despite the handwriting being completely different) hidden with a shocking piece of information, head to the Borscht Bowl Club.
Arriving at the club, Apollo is shocked to find Klavier, who is acting friendly as always, but quickly gets serious again as he admits that Vera's health not only isn't improving, it's getting worse, and chances of her survival are seeming slimmer and slimmer. More pressingly, though, he reveals why he's here, because the letter explicitly gave him a heads up that the club is where Daryan and Machi have been hiding.
The question is where, but Apollo quickly deduces it, it's the secret room from Case 1 (remember that? That's now an actual plot point). He and Klavier head inside, where Daryan is sitting there, glaring at the two of them with eyes ready to kill.
Daryan asks why the two of them are planning to do, to which Klavier says he's simply here to talk. His failure to persecute Daryan was his own failure, so here in the moment he's going to try and atone for that failure. Daryan calls Klavier a naïve moron, and just readies the gun, fully intending to shoot.
Apollo, suddenly, notices a single cocoon Daryan successfully preserved from the destruction of the guitar through a plastic wrap. Apollo realizes that, even if he was willing to throw all of it away, Daryan at least wanted to preserve a single one, which makes him reveal his motives. 12 years ago, he and his parents were in a fatal car accident, and Daryan only survived because of the Misham's being there at the time. He spent his life trying to repay his debt to them, only for "someone" to appear seven years ago and essentially take Vera's life hostage. To that purpose, Drew had to make forgeries for that person, while Daryan had the more pressing job, become "friends" with Klavier, and make sure he never found out the truth.
This continued until Vera, who always suffered from fragile health, developed Incuritus, which would likely kill her before she turned 20. Daryan, determined to save her, organized the plan to smuggle out the cocoons with Machi, acquiring the cure he needed to save her life while also appeasing the masterminds want for Lamiroir to be in the country.
Klavier is understandably shocked about all of this, saying that, if he knew, he would've tried to help. Daryan just calls him a moron, and pulls the trigger...
...Only for the bullets to harmlessly bounce off Klavier's chest. As Apollo reveals, while the two of them were negotiating, Trucy had secretly entered the room and swapped the bullets with dummies. Daryan, refusing to give in, attacks Klavier in a fit a rage, only for him to be overpowered, unable to fight with a dislocated shoulder, and is forced to the ground. Daryan has been defeated.
Machi, who's still in the room, clarifies his own motives for the smuggling, explaining that Lamiroir had remembered "something" about her old home, and her family. Due to her fame and some kind of past "agreement", however, Lamiroir was prevented from ever leaving the country except as a tour, never able to see her family again. The plan, as Daryan had convinced him of, was that selling the cure would get Machi the money needed to free her.
Klavier asks if Daryan regrets what he's done, to which he just laughs at it. He regrets nothing of what he did, and rubs it in that he never considered Klavier a friend. Klavier goes silent for a bit, and then says he will find a way to get Vera treated, and will actually help Machi find a new identity and life, acknowledging the two of them as victims of a world larger than either of them could handle. As for Daryan, he'll carry the weight of all his sins, for the rest of life.
Daryan hesitates, clearly uncertain to trust him, before deciding to just give up. If Vera survives, then his life is worth sacrificing. Apollo is left almost baffled by this act of sacrifice considering how vile Daryan had revealed himself to be, but tells Klavier that maybe that's proof that everyone is trying their own method to survive in the world.
~~
After Daryan is taken away by Klavier, Apollo and Trucy investigate the hidden room, and find a strange note of what appears to be prison escape plans of some kind, which say that it'll be easy because of everyone being "sheep". After Trucy poking around some more (because Trucy), something shocking is unveiled, another secret passage, this time leading down a much longer, windier path, before finding themselves in, of all places...the crime scene.
This leaves the two of them incredibly confused, and they go to meet Klavier at his office. Klavier is shocked at the possibility, but thinks whole-heartedly that this at the same time explains a lot, though he can prove none of it:

• Daryan: After turning himself in, Daryan explained most of his actions, but refused to give the masterminds identity. Apparently, they're so powerful that he could kill Vera the moment he spilt the beans, not that there's any way he could prove it.
• The Mastermind: Klavier admits he has no idea who could be pulling the strings behind the back of everyone. If what Daryan said is to be believed, then there's nothing they can't do. The world is their playground, their motives unknown, and their evil immense.
• Akashic: Apollo asks Daryan why he believed a random note, and he says it's because Akashic saved countless cases over the past seven years. He is the most powerful weapon the law has in the name of justice, an entity capable of defying all ideas preventing justice from being served. Apollo notes the suspicious timing of that, and makes a note of it.
• The Case: Klavier is certain that both Vera and Phoenix are innocent, and that the true mastermind is the culprit behind all these incidents. He asks Apollo to help him find the truth, saying that, without him, there's nothing that can, or could, be done. To that end, Apollo needs to confront Valant's honesty.

~~
Valant is found at his "office", which is horribly run down and filled with bottles indicating he probably has some issues he's not quite being honest about. After his extremely hostile interaction last time, Valant almost refuses to talk, but acquiesces at Trucy's request:

• Seven Years Ago: Valant continues to insist that Zak was the culprit of MM-4, and adamantly denies that he was the one at fault. He however takes far more heated the idea that Trucy was somehow taken away from him, insisting that it was his right to take care of Thalassa's daughter.
• Zak and Thalassa: Valant goes over the story of Zak and Thalassa, mentioning as well the story of Thalassa's first husband, the musician who died under odd circumstances. Thalassa never spoke much about her time with him, but he's sure they were happy.
• The Accident: Valant is hesitant to discuss any details of the accident which claimed Thalassa's life, but after some pressing admits to Magnifi's blackmail of him and Zak in the aftermath as punishment. Like the game, he frames this as a story of the dark side of a great performer, but has no way of admitting if that was a good thing or not. He does however let it slip that they never even saw her body, she vanished into thin air.

Apollo gets annoyed by Valant's obstinacy on discussing the current case, only for Trucy to find something, a letter asking him to meet the two of them "backstage", addressed by Phoenix! Why was Valant working with a man he actively hated?
~~
Apollo and Trucy meet with Phoenix yet again in the detention center. Phoenix asks Apollo if he understands the facts, to which Apollo admits he's just even more confused.

• Valant: Phoenix fully admits he sent the letter with Valant, wanting a proper discussion with him. He was surprised that Valant was willing to go along with it himself, but, since it was "for Trucy", it makes sense that he would do so.
• Trope Gramarye: Apollo asks Phoenix what exactly his feelings on the trope even are, given Valant regards him as a villain for adopting Trucy over him. Phoenix admits that he made the decision which seemed the most justified at the time, protecting the young girl from the dangerous criminal, and refuses the moralize it any more than that. He tells Trucy that, if she truly loves him, she'll be able to come to her own conclusion on the matter.
• The Disbarrment: Apollo asks if everything Phoenix is doing is because of bitterness for losing the career he stacked his entire life in. Phoenix laughs and says he's lived a life as blessed as it is cursed, so indeed he's lived a life as a whole.

Before he leaves, Phoenix drops a hint that, if he wants the truth, to give "him" the note Apollo has. Apollo questions how on earth Phoenix knows that, to which Phoenix just smiles, quotes Mia, and says he is placing his faith in the next generation.
Suddenly, Apollo gets a call from Ema, she's found Brushel, and he's willing to talk.
~~
Apollo and Trucy find Brushel talking with Ema at People Park. Brushel acts incredibly nervous and attempts to hide the truth, but, the moment Apollo shows the tipoff about Daryan to him, he cracks and begins the mother of all exposition dumps:

• Akashic: Brushel confirms that, indeed, Phoenix is Akashic, the legendary police informant said to know everything. After his disbarment, Brushel met with Phoenix, suspecting correctly that something was off about the forgery incident, and the two formed an alliance. Phoenix would gather scant bits of information through the extensive information network he had through his many connections, Brushel would investigate the goings on, and then Phoenix would inform his contacts inside the legal system of what he had learnt. Ema, as it happens, had become one of those contacts sometime after she returned from her studies, and knows plenty of other officers who trust Phoenix fully.
• Misham: After the disbarment incident, Brushel helped Phoenix track down Drew Misham, who quickly became the third key member of Akashic. Misham had developed a fascination with Phoenix's work during the trial, and thus a plan was set in place; he would take up forgery requests from clients, and leak the plans to Phoenix and Brushel on the outside via the correspondence letters. The official interview, Brushel reveals, was not the first time they had personally met, it was just the cover story in order to explain why he was there at the time of death.
• Zak Gramarye: Brushel had been a fan of the Trope since he was young, and began pursuing them after he became a journalist. While Magnifi and Valant dismissed him . After Zak disappeared, he and Phoenix worked tirelessly to track him down, but never did before he returned to the country a few months ago. The reunion, however, was short-lived, because Zak was murdered by Kristoph.
• The Murder: That night, Zak seemingly came with the intentions of a pleasant interaction, only to instead try to ruin Phoenix's career in a rigged poker game. Brushel admits he has no idea why Zak betrayed them like that, but is convinced he had a good reason.
• Thalassa Gramarye: Brushel confirms the truth, Thalassa is indeed Lamiroir. After her accident left her both blind and amnesiac, Magnifi, wanting to separate her from the life of the Gramarye, essentially sold her to the Borginian government under the basis that they would would grant her protection. She was watched constantly, and after she became famous, the control on her became explicit, as her fame became a valuable bargining chip for the fragile nation of Borginia.

Brushel admits that he knows all this is a lot to take in, but says that Phoenix was perhaps the man who impressed him more than anyone else in the world. A man who would gladly sacrifice his own life if it was in the interest of granting justice for another. He tells Apollo and Trucy that, no matter what, it's their responsibility to carry what he started, and to, perhaps, change the world. Before he leaves, he hands Apollo something Phoenix asked him to give, a fresh locket made from the one Phoenix found on Zak's body, showing Trucy as she is now. It is the proof of everything Phoenix now fights for, and what Apollo should be fighting for as well.
~~
At sunfall, Apollo and Trucy see Thalassa on her hospital bed.
Trucy admits she barely even remembers her mother. She was only five when she "died", and she had no idea what even happened to her. The only words she can even say are that she looks peaceful now, as if the cruel nature of the world is absent in a single instance.
Apollo starts pondering the meaning of what he's even doing, if even doing this means anything.
Apollo feels a grip on his hand.
Like a miracle, even though she is near death, her hand touches his.
For seconds, a happy memory appears in the back of his mind, of a loving woman's song.
"What...what was that...?"
Suddenly, Apollo's phone rings. Answering it, it's Klavier. Talking to him, he reveals he and Ema investigated Kristoph's jail cell while he was in questioning, and found not just an identical vial of nail polish to the one that poisoned Vera, as well as a envelope identical to the correspondence letters Misham and Phoenix were using! Klavier says he's certain there's a thread behind all of this, and that the two of them are going to prove everything in court.
"Everything's in place. You ready?"
"...If I don't do this, there's no reason why I'm even alive."
"Heh, all right then. Herr Justice...let's rock."
~~~
This got too long for one post, so read Part 3 for the final trial.

Hi,
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I have been doing some research and looks like people tend to prefer 10 grams clay chips. They are used in casinos and have the best feeling.
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In the 10g clay spectrum, many casinos use the Paulson clay but imho they are horrible, are there any good looking alternatives?
We would really appreciate your opinion and comments in this matter or, if you do not want to spend the time in writing a whole post, answering in the pool if you would consider, in your experience, that any of those chips spoken about earlier are a bad purchase (0.8€ per chip the EPT ones and 0.3€ the Montecarlo´s) considering that we plan on start going to casinos once we reach the right blind levels).
As always, thank you really much =)
​
EDIT: Apparently many people found my post quite deffensive and that was never my intention, I am changing my way to say some things so there is no room for misunderstanding =)
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A widely-renowned alien historian, famous for his scathing criticism of humanity, sits with a man to discuss the countless crimes of Earth. [Remastered, rewritten story]
Part 2
​
He’s late, of course. Although, why exactly would I expect anything else from a human? I humour this man with my presence, and he doesn’t have the decency to turn up at a respectable time.
Doctor Xot sat, idly toying with his drink, fixated on the view outside of the huge domed structure that encircled the entire restaurant.
Admittedly, the man had good taste. The Eye of Asara was an infamously hard establishment to book for, usually reserved for only the richest of the elite. It was surprising enough that a human had influence to even book seats here - especially in this corner of the galaxy. The Eye, as it was commonly referred to, was situated on the very highest level of Asara’s luxury orbital retreat, and the views it provided of the gas giant itself were nothing short of breathtaking. It hung in the sky like an immense jewel – emerald green, impossibly large, with the raging storms of its surface slowly fading to nothing in a great crescent, indistinguishable from the darkness of space itself.
Xot watched a tiny moon move slowly across the planet, creeping towards its huge shadow like an insect scurrying for shelter. It was with a sudden pang of anxiety that the Doctor realised that the 'tiny' moon was likely significantly larger than his own homeworld. Shaking himself from his trance, he chirped in frustration, reaching for his datapad to reread the message he had received from this person a few days prior. After swiping for a few moments, he found it.

// MESSAGE 01349412XAAB To Dr. Khitt Xot, Professor of History for the Imperial Gheraani Institute of Xenological Studies - Greetings. I hope this message finds you well. I have been following your writings on the galactic extranet for over a year at this point, with quiet interest. I find your personal perspective on humanity grossly inaccurate, and it was to my surprise that I discovered, through one of your recent interviews, that you have never actually met with a human in a private setting. I would like to rectify that. I happen to be passing through the Asara system next week, and would be immensely grateful if you would join me for a one-to-one conversation during that time. If you truly believe that your past publications and academic work are accurate, then surely, this offer is a perfect opportunity for you to demonstrate your position. To a Terran, in person. Yours sincerely, Waylon Rhyne // 

He scrutinized the message, chewing the words carefully.
In the days before leaving for Asara, he had delighted at the thought of telling a human, an actual Terran, how foolish their collective sense of moral superiority was. How insufferably naïve they were as a cultural entity. How truly undeserved their respect on the galactic stage was. How humanity had demonstrated itself to be nothing but a violent, narrow-minded, and arrogant race, time after time.
But now? Xot found himself uncharacteristically nervous at the prospect of this confrontation – certainly, he had the principally correct view, as well the evidence to support it... but humans had demonstrated themselves to be a race of unflinching violence when countered, many times over.
Perhaps security would have been wise, thought the professor.
As the station crept into Asara’s huge shadow, his table darkened, and he shook his fur gently, strengthening his resolve.
No. I’ve dedicated my professional life to representing the countless numbers opposed to the tyranny of humanity, and I will not submit to the intimidation of this man. Oh no.
So engrossed in thought was the professor, that he failed to notice the darkness of the table was, in fact, not due to the planet at all. It was the shadow of a large figure that had been standing beside him for no less than full 30 seconds.
Waylon Rhyne had arrived.
“Professor Xot. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Rumbled Waylon.
Xot's train of thought ended abruptly, and his sharp black eyes immediately darted upwards to the towering figure. The man extended a hand towards Xot, which he knew to be a common human greeting.
“Mr. Rhyne.” Xot said coolly, extending one of his four arms, returning the handshake gently. “You’re late.”
Waylon bared his teeth as he responded. “I know, I know. My apologies. My legs aren't what they used to be, and it seems that the damned elevators only go up to the 378th level.” he said, raising his two massive arms in guilty admission.
Xot understood as well as all other beings that had to interact with them that smiling was a gesture of happiness in humans, much as it was in his own species - but it didn’t stop a shiver from going down his spine. Human teeth were huge, as hard as steel, and sharp enough to tear through skin and flesh alike – and the fact that they all loved to show them at every conceivable opportunity was one of the more common reasons that many races found humans intimidating.
“Mhm.” Xot responded, not caring to listen to the man's excuses. “I must say, when I received your message, this was... not the sort of location I expected that we would meet. How exactly did you reserve a place at such short notice, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“Hmm? Oh. The owner of this fine establishment owes me a favour. Or fifteen.” Said Waylon dismissively, taking off his coat and wrapping it around the opposing chair. He sat with a heavy groan, and for the first time, Xot properly looked at the human that had dared ask for an audience with him.
What struck him most was the sheer age of the man. He had been expecting someone significantly younger, but it was clear to even him that this man was well past his physical prime. All of the cues were there – the shock of white hair, the deep-set wrinkles that highlighted his face, the cane that lay across his lap. If he had to guess, he would place the man at around 70 standard years of age. This did little to set Xot’s nerves at ease, however – frail as Waylon might’ve been in comparison to a younger human, he towered over him, and was still undoubtedly strong enough to tear the Gheraani academic in half.
Waylon gestured to an Otegan waiter near their table, and gave him a gesture that Xot couldn’t quite place. The waiter nodded, and quickly hurried off – presumably, to pour one of Waylon’s fourteen remaining favours. They sat in silence for a moment, with only the gentle hum of the station's sophisticated nightlife filling the air.
“So.” Xot ventured.
“So.”
“You have contentions with my work.”
“That I do, professor.” Said Waylon, smiling again. “I may be biased towards humanity, and I’m certainly not an accomplished academic, as you are, but I feel that your own view on humanity is…” He stopped, unsure of what word to use.
“Misplaced.” He finished after a small pause.
Xot gave no reply, simply taking a sip of his drink carefully, continuing to stare at the man in front of him. After a time, Waylon continued.
“How many people do you have subscribed to your monthly article in the Galaxia's Publication?” Waylon asked.
“Roughly 5.2 million.” Xot replied. With a great degree of satisfaction, he watched Waylon's eyes widen slightly at the figure.
“5 million people. 5 million people, all reading your academic journals detailing, amongst many other things, the crimes that humanity has, apparently, committed against a vast number of people.”
“That is correct, yes.” Said Xot curtly, all too clearly hearing the incredulity in Walyon's tone. He carefully watched him, trying to read his expression. Was it… confusion? Frustration, perhaps? It was hard to tell.
Waylon sighed. “Well, then.” He said. “Tell me about the crimes of humanity, as you see them."
And now, thought Xot gleefully, we begin.
“Very well.” Xot said. “Humanity joined the Unified Galactic Council 115 of your years ago – approximately a century, in standardised years. Since your induction into the greater galactic community, the economic stability, and indeed, entire existence of several great galactic powers have been jeopardised, if not entirely wiped out, and this level of rampant instability can almost single-handedly be traced back to Earth. In only a few short decades after your induction, your race co-opted technology that was not yours, given to you by weaker states that used you singularly to further their own goals, and with that stolen technological prowess, saw fit to hold yourself as moral arbiters of the civilised galaxy, hell-bent on applying your own standards to the rest of the galactic population. Wars were started in the name of humanity’s great... stellar crusade. Worlds burned. Countless numbers died as a result of human interference. The battles started by humanity and its allies have been the catalyst for some of the bloodiest conflicts in over a millennium of relative galactic peace. Not only have these crimes gone unaddressed – if not praised by some powers – it makes humanity itself supremely hypocritical, given the instability, violence, and absolute barbarism of its own bloody history. Earth to this day remains divided, power split between multiple governments, marred and entrenched in its own microscopic conflicts. And, perhaps above all of this, ‘as I see it’, is that humans are responsible for the ruination of my own people. For me, humanity's unchecked behaviour is somewhat personal, and is the driving force behind my professional journey to map and document the history surrounding that period as accurately as I can. Once, the Imperium commanded a great deal of both respect and authority. Not a century since your unwarranted meddling, and it has been reduced to a husk of its former self, bound and crippled by Council restrictions that have seen my people turned slave towards and its hell-bent path towards proliferate unification. Had humanity not been inducted, the lives of a hundred million children might have been saved, and their ten billion ancestors would be alive today to experience this wondrous galaxy.”
As the professor had continued his explanation, Waylon’s eyes became progressively wider, his expression changing from one of calm expectation to that of complete disbelief. He sat quiet for a long time, his deep brown eyes staring unwaveringly into Xot's black ones.
The Otegan waiter returned and wordlessly placed a blue, smoking drink on the table, before bowing and returning to serve the other guests – all the while, Waylon did not move. Eventually, Waylon decided to speak again.
“’Crippled by restrictions that have seen my people turn slave?’ “He whispered. “You have the audacity to use that word to describe what happened to your people after the conflict?”
“That 'conflict' ended our role as a greater galactic power. It killed millions.”
“Yes, it killed millions. And it liberated billions.”
"'Liberated.'" snorted Xot dismissively. “Please, Mr. Rhyne. I have studied Earth’s history extensively for my own xeno-anthropological works. Let us not pretend that humans have not utilised the labour of lower classes when convenient to them too, no? I am well aware of your centuries-long transatlantic slave trade. I am well aware of the late-stage capitalist pursuits of the 22nd century, which was enslavement in all but name. I am well aware of the Great Pyramid of Giza, which to this day remains a monument to the supremacy of your ancient Egyptian people in their time, all those eons ago. No, let us not pretend that you're in any position to, as a human might say, throw the first stone, Mr. Rhyne.”
“How is the ancient pre-industrial history of Earth comparable to an interstellar compact of systems built and sustained by an uncountable number of slaves?” asked Waylon
“It isn't.” Said Xot simply.
"It isn- what? Said Waylon, momentarily disoriented at the apparent agreement.
"You're right", explained the professor, pouncing on the opportunity. "It isn't the same. At all. I was merely being hyperbolic. But, now that you've brought it up, I might as well elaborate.”
“Please.”
“Historic human concepts as to what precisely constitutes 'slavery' are completely different to what other species might consider to be such. In some systems, concepts of 'slavery' were actually more akin to something like a caste structure. Something your race is all too familiar with, I might add. On some worlds, mere socioeconomic disparity would be enough to consider a group trapped in effective indentured servitude. On others still, a slave would murder their brethren without a second thought to have a chance at the comparative luxury that the average human slave might have lived in. The point is, my Terran friend, that your standards behind the definition of the word are yours and yours alone. So yes, assuredly, it isn't the same - because human slaves and Gheerani vassals weren't the same. The way that your so-called 'Coalition' rushed into action betrayed the utter non-understanding of this simple fact, which I myself have personally demonstrated through a massive amount of studies over the past 60 years. My entire professional career is dedicated to detailing the actual history of inter-species vassalism and the catastrophic implications that the war had for those vassals, let alone the greater stability of galactic civilisations comprised of trillions of individuals.
“A slave is a slave is a slave, doctor. In any form. In any capacity. No matter how eloquent the justification. A contextual boot is still a boot. Oppression is not subject to your bureaucratic interpretation of morality - or at least, it shouldn't be. I won't pretend that our hands are clean in this, but surely you see that’s beside the point. The times in which humanity was structured in such a manner are the darkest periods of our history. They are a stain on our name, and our entire race utterly denounces them.”
Xot sighed, unimpressed with the response.
“And that, Waylon,” he said, “might just be why there is only one Great Pyramid in Giza.”
Waylon laughed. A harsh, biting bark that made Xot’s fur bristle unintentionally. He cursed internally at having been so easily startled, and quickly flattened it down. Waylon's laugh faded, and he turned to stare out of the great glass dome of The Eye, gently shaking his head as he did.
The sky had now truly darkened, the gargantuan planet above shading them from sunlight and allowing the sky to fill with an awe-inspiring number of stars. With their discussion now illuminated be the gentle yellow glow of the restaurant's lights, the two fell into long silence for the second time.
This time, Xot was the one to break it.
“Tell me, Rhyne,” he probed, “because truly, I am curious. Do you really believe that Earth was in any position to initiate hostilities with Gheraan? Less than 20 years on the galactic stage, with one of the bloodiest and most fractured histories ever recorded, actively trying to threaten wide-spread stability for no reason but to satiate your race’s desire for moral absolutism?”
“Moral satiation was not a factor in the actions of Earth, doctor.” Responded Waylon darkly. “Many a reason did humanity have for encouraging disassociation with Gheraan’s regime at the time.”
“Oh?” said Xot, feigning polite surprise. “Name one. Specifically.”
“Gheraan’s treatment of the Nediv, just one of your several sla- ‘vassal’ races. A population of almost a billion Nediv lived and died on Gheraan in a generations-long cycle of systemic subjugation, relegated exclusively to being forced to work the extremely hazardous jobs that kept your wondrous Imperium afloat.” Retorted Waylon, without hesitation. “Denied pay. Denied legal rights. Denied housing. Denied food to the point of mass famine. Denied self-determination. Forced to work whatever position seen fit, with either imprisonment or death as a reward for not complying. But don’t worry, doctor, I’m sure as they lay starving and tortured, they found comfort in the idea that, well, technically*,* it wasn’t outright slavery, because no-one owned them as they might a table.”
Waylon’s tone had remained light throughout, but Xot had watched the subtle changes in his face as he spoke, betraying far more powerful emotions than the human was presenting.
An opportunity, noted the professor mentally. But not one without danger.
“Ah, yes,” said Xot with a small smirk, “the Nediv. That most noble of races. You do know why the Nediv actually found their way to settling on Gheraan, don’t you?”
Waylon said nothing.
Xot continued. “Of course you do. Because some 350 years ago, the Nediv managed to successfully turn their homeworld into an irradiated asteroid field due to a prolonged nuclear civil war. And tell me, when the few survivors of that cataclysm boarded their last colony ships and travelled across the galaxy, begging for asylum, what exactly happened?”
Again, Waylon remained silent.
“Yes, that’s right!” said the professor with sarcastic gusto. “They were soundly denied by every single world that they visited. Except. For. One. Gheraa-”
“- and this is where your justification lies, is it?” snapped Waylon suddenly. “That they should actually thank you for being the ones to grant them new lands, despite the fact that it was done not out of any sense of goodwill or desire to help, but as a way to expand the horizons of the Gheraani Imperial machine by treating the entire race as a resource to expend?”
“Without Gheraani intervention, they would have died out within a single generation.” Xot countered. “Withered to nothing and drowned in a vast sea of their own failure. What, you think that we should have divided our own homeworld in two, giving half over to them? Dedicated Gheraani resources, Gheraani food, Gheraan’s water, soil, and air to them, purely because they managed to obliterate themselves in a bloody, atomic war? I think not. We made our terms clear; If you are to stay, you are to contribute to our affairs as repayment for allowing your existence within our borders. That is the agreement that the population’s forefathers made, and it is one that we upheld – forcibly, if required. You can upturn your nose at my people’s actions, Rhyne, but the simple reality of the matter is that without those actions, they wouldn’t exist at all.”
“Better to die standing than t-“ began Waylon.
“- than to live on your knees, yes, you’re a veritable poet, sir, bravo*.*” Shot Xot witheringly. “Humanity’s many elegant platitudes concerning strength of will and remaining steadfast may stroke your species’ over-inflated ego, but I doubt they would mean very much to a race struggling against its own death throes. Tell me it’s better to die free than live maltreated when at the brink of your own destruction, and then perhaps I’ll concede your words have weight. But until then? Save your breath. If the Nediv were unshackled willingly, they would have evaporated. Too weak to survive whole against an uncaring, unrelenting galaxy. They served a purpose that befit their stature as a failed race. And a century after they were released from our arrangement, look at where they are now. Both everywhere and nowhere. Existing as single townships on farmworlds, or as perhaps the owner of just another business on an endless city-world.”
They had both been getting steadily louder as the argument continued, and as Xot finished his tirade and a quiet fell again, both became acutely aware that half of the restaurant were now staring at them in awe.
“Let me surmise, Xot.” Said Waylon, controlling his volume carefully. “You think that there is a principled argument for… vassalism, to use your own term?”
“I do.” Replied the professor, choosing not to launch another offensive.
“And you think that the socioeconomic position of the Nediv, to name a single example, befit their ability as a collective?”
“Research and data concerning both the average physical constitution of the Nediv, as well as their intellectual prowess, has always indicated that, correct.”
“You view humanity’s attempts to disassociate with the Imperial regime at that time to be a result of how you were treating your vassals societally, and ultimately the catalyst for wide-spread warfare.”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” Said Waylon, an increasingly puzzled expression painting his features. “I see. I’ve just one more question.”
“Go on.”
“For what other reasons did humanity act the way it did?”
The table was hit with an immediate stillness. Though Xot did not understand the implication of the inquiry, every nerve in his body was telling him that he had just been asked a very dangerous question.
“I… there were none.” Said Xot slowly, carefully. “There are no examples of any Imperial behaviour that would have warranted such an escalating response from humanity, and by extension, the rest of galactic society. My decades of fervent searching would have shown as much.”
Waylon stared at Xot, his features absolutely unmoving, revealing nothing.
“I see.” Repeated the human.
Xot found the mystery around Waylon’s implications deeply irritating. He shifted in his seat, now comfortably agitated by the man’s behaviour.
He was about to speak when Waylon cut him off.
“My father was ten years old when we made first contact." He said quietly, turning to look at the stars and away from Xot. "That would have been… Christ, a hundred and five years ago, now.” He chuckled softly at realising the number, and turned back to meet the professor’s gaze again. “Of course, you know who we made first contact with, don’t you?”
If Xot were human, he would have rolled his eyes.
In truth, the professor himself had been very young when humanity was discovered. He was a year old when humans made first contact, 21 at the dawn of the war, and only 36 years of age when it had ended.
“The Vaesk.” Said Xot with audible disinterest.
“The Vaesk. For five full years, we remained in contact with only the Vaesk, as per Council protocol, to be educated on galactic lore. To train our ambassadors, to learn what languages we could, to develop our infrastructure as necessary for our induction into the greater galactic community. Imagine, then, the shock that my father – that Earth – received, when we learned that one of the largest and most influential galactic superpowers– the Gheraani Empire, was a state maintained by the unpaid, forced labour of another race. Slaves. A concept so utterly abhorrent to our species, so barbaric, that it had been abandoned for almost a thousand years. I still remember how my late father spoke of that moment. First contact was, and still is, the single greatest moment in all of human history. Think, doctor. Just imagine, the countless billions of children who’ve looked up at the stars from a million different worlds, each and every one wishing, hoping, that one day, they themselves might walk amongst them. A whole universe of wonder and adventure. Something that was greater, better than themselves. Imagine, then, the moment that he, a child of ten years, realised that instead we would be entering an age where slavery persisted. The look in his eyes as he described what it felt like… I’ll never forget it.”
Waylon paused, his voice tinged with sadness. Xot could tell more was coming, so he said nothing.
“Of course, the Vaesk had been born into this galactic reality so long ago that they were first confused as to why we took contention with this. Why we were being ‘problematic’ by refusing to send ambassadors, refusing to allow trade or exports to reach your systems, refusing any and all association with you. But, eventually, they began to, ah… resonate with our ideas, shall we say. The idea that freedom is a right of all sentient life, and to infringe on that freedom is…wrong. Utterly, without exception. So, in time, the Vaesk sided with us. Then, so did the Gipfeli. Then the Caairan. Even the Bosc. The louder our message became, the faster it spread. Until, eventually, we had spearheaded a coalition of systems that rivalled the strength of the combined Gheraa-.”
“A coalition that plunged 30 systems into WAR!” Xot hissed.
How could this fool be so blind? So emotionally entangled in the petty wants of a relative few, over the stability of worlds that consisted of tens of billions of people?
Waylon was unphased by the outburst.
“- of the combined Gheraani bloc, who were prepared to voice our collective concerns about the Imperium’s behaviour.” He continued. “And so, we made our requests clear. The release of all vassal races, over a ten-year period. Compensation for their treatment, ideally. The denunciation of the practise of Imperial Vassalism, and the reorganisation of worlds that depended on it. We even offered raw material and technology that would have allowed Gheraan to replace their labour sectors with robotic, industrialised alternatives, with no expectation of repayment. Ultimately, if the requests weren’t met, then we wouldn’t be able to conduct business with the Imperium in good faith. The Coalition would refuse to trade with Gheraan in all areas, and Imperial citizens wouldn’t be allowed access to any Coalition territory, which was then a sizeable chunk of charted space. Gheraan itself would face massive economic consequences through lack of trade and travel.”
“A ridiculous offer that only served to heighte-“ Xot began.
“My father was an Admiral, you know.” He joined the United Terran Space Force at 18, and by the time the wars were closing, had command of an entire UTSF fleet.” Said Waylon, not caring to hear Xot’s response. “Seems impossible, I know, but the war was a period of huge flux, and I’ve found that the impossible manifests more than you’d expect in times like that.”
Xot stopped dead in his tracks, his mind racing. He had spent the better part of 60 years becoming the foremost Gheraani expert on the war, and not once had he heard of an Admiral Rhyne.
Just who is this man?
“There was no Admiral Rhyne of the UTSF.” Said Xot, half dismissively, half with tenuous curiosity as to where this was going.
“I took my mother’s surname.” Explained Waylon. “They thought it was best that I not be associated with a commander after the war was over. My father was Titus Thoran.”
Now, it was Xot’s turn to sit in silence. Stunned, paralyzed silence. Dimly aware of Waylon closely examining his reaction, sipping his drink as he did, the utterly dumbfounded professor sat, processing what he had just been told.
“The General Thoran?” he asked quietly.
“The General Thoran.” Responded Waylon.
“The Titus Thoran that became the youngest UTSF Admiral in history, and oversaw the destruction of all 10 of the Great Houses of Nyas? Gheraan’s sister world? Crippling their government, causing it to fall into chaos?”
“The very same.” The old man’s voice was flat, emotionless. If he felt anything about this atrocity, Xot was surely unable to tell.
Xot paused. “I don’t believe you.” He said flatly, folding all four of his arms together and leaning back into his chair.
Waylon said nothing. Instead, he pulled out his own datapad from a pocket, and within seconds presented Xot with a picture of what was unmistakably himself as a young adult, standing next to an elderly and equally unmistakable Admiral Thoran, his entire chest adorned with military medals and honours.
Xot stared, astonished. After a long moment, he gave out a low pitched, stuttered whining – the equivalent of laughter. For quite some time, he sat, his arms resting on the table, whining and grunting, amused beyond words. All the while, Waylon sat, his weathered eyes watching the cackling Gheraani. Eventually, Xot composed himself.
“Gods above, Mr. Thoran,” he said, still laughing as he emphasised the surname - “I must thank you for making my job that much easier by being so very cognisant of the atrocities that the Coalition committed! Your own father was responsible for a maelstrom of chaos on Nyas that began with him beheading their government via the orbital bombardment of over 50 statesmen and stateswomen.”
Waylon seemed unfazed by this accusation. “My father left their society in chaos by removing approximately three hundred million Nediv, Vodani, and Kotharan slaves from Nyas,” he said, “immediately after the leaders of Nyas were executed for their crimes.” His tone was borderline conversational, and his expression remained as unreadable as ever.
“Crimes?” Spluttered Xot, incredulous. “Crimes? The vassals of Nyas were menial labourers! They worked in kitchens, they worked as repairmen, house servants! There were cities dedicated to housing them! THIS is the fundamental issue with humanity that I have spent my career trying to make so clear to the galactic population, Rhyne – your overbearing vanity. Can you not, for a second, comprehend the idea that a species might do something differently to the way humans have historically acted? Again, humanity might have treated their slaves as objects to be bought and sold, but the Imperium never viewed their vassals as expendable. We SAVED them, you fool. They were tools, an unfortunate tool that was strategically utilised so that an unimaginably greater number of individuals may life a better life. So blind were you to the idea that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, that you simply heard the word ‘slave’ and decided that in that single syllable, you were supplied agency enough that it justified you razing entire civilisations to DUST!”
The professor’s temper had risen dramatically as he spoke, and the last word was shouted with venom. Still, Waylon remained completely calm, still with that odd look that Xot was unable to place. What was that emotion? Sadness? Anger? He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the old man’s eyes drilling into him. He felt naked, like the man could see past his body and into soul.
This fool, he thought. This utter fool. How uneducated this man must be – the son of one of the greatest generals of the Coalition, no less – taking this inelegant bastardisation of history as nothing but absolute truth? It beggars belief that…
That the son of one of the war’s greatest generals…
One of the war’s most decorated, travelled generals…
Would
Believe
This.
Suddenly, it dawned on Xot. A terrible realisation.
This man knows something I don’t. At least, he thinks that he knows something that I don’t.
This is why Waylon was so subdued. So quiet. This was that strange look. It wasn’t frustration. It was pity. Waylon hadn’t come to discuss the actions of humanity as he saw them, he had come to provide Xot with a truth. Waylon knew this, and he felt pity for what he was about to show the professor. Xot eyed the human with a new level of caution – part of the professor still wished that it was just his physical safety that he had to fear for.
“What game are you playing, here, Rhyne?” he asked, cautiously.
The old man smiled sadly.
“Menial labourers and repairmen, eh?” he said.
Waylon reached into his coat and produced a small coin-shaped object, barely the size of a poker chip. He placed it on the table gently and slid it across to Xot. “You’re familiar with these?” He asked the professor.
Xot picked it up and examined it closely. There was no question that the item was genuine.
“I- yes, of course. Early Terran datachips. Sixty-four qubit quantum encryption, physically un-rewritable and unerasable once ascribed data. Used to hold extremely sensitive information. Military grade.”
“That was one of my father’s most valuable possessions,” Waylon explained. “We have thousands of items in our estate – trophies, you understand. Relics from battles won, battles lost, memorabilia from the war that he dedicated himself to. That little chip was the one item he treasured above all else. He had a stasis vault built, deep under the estate, singularly to house it.”
Xot flattened his fur anxiously, staring at the chip, then Waylon, and then the chip again.
“What does it contain?”
“Menial labourers and repairmen.” Said Waylon simply, taking the chip and inserting it into his datapad. Immediately, a video filled the screen.
​
Part 2
/DunsparceWrites
https://www.s-word-stories.com/

Trigger warnings re suicidal behaviours, violent behaviours, self harm, and probably a bunch of other stuff.
I don't know if 3rd person recounts are okay here, feel free to remove if not (I have it saved) and if there's a subreddit specifically for this kind of thing I'd appreciate some pointers.
This writing process is just part of my catharsis. Maybe other's can relate, I don't know if it would be helpful or not to others, there's a lot of stuff in this story I am deeply ashamed of, but I figure this is a safe space to tell my story, even if I am probably the villain in the piece.
Fade out, into bedroom, morning...
He woke with a sharp breath, eyes wide open as a sudden shock of adrenaline flooded warmly from his abdomen, igniting his senses.
He wasn’t dreaming before he woke, nor did he remember where or when he fell asleep; this would dawn on him soon. For a minute at least, he had no idea where, or even who he was.
Muffled sounds of the television floated into the room from beyond. To his side, a grey wall confronted him, virtually featureless save for a deep, dark gouge that penetrated the plaster, chiselled at least an inch deep into the breeze block beneath by some strong, angular object.
A visceral instinct clutched at the rapidly fading vestiges of oblivion, steeling his slowly awakening mind against the inevitable clarity of day.
His eyes drifted downward, almost by their own will. A trail of colourful debris spread across the grey carpeted floor. He recognised these objects as his own junk: Empty wrappers, an unfinished book (still intact), a scattering of coins, some old shopping receipts, his glasses, some odd socks, and a small handful of odds and ends.
This was stuff that he usually stashed out of sight and mind in the drawers beside his bed.
Drawers that were oddly absent from their familiar place beside his head.
Propping himself up unsteadily on his elbow, he took a more sweeping view of the room. He groaned and sighed as his gaze finally came to rest on the object of destruction.
The heavy wooden bedside table lay near the foot of the bed, its drawers spewed haphazardly across the floor, beneath what must have been a spectacular flight path the previous evening.
Like a series of lead weights, pieces of the puzzle dropped into place, flashes of memories yanking his mind to sobriety.
The drinking.
The casino.
The staircase.
The plastic bag.
The wall.
The screaming.
He quickly packed these images away, but they lay in wait beneath the surface of his awareness, poised to strike at any moment.
Rolling again onto his back, he pulled the blankets over his head and tried in vain to retreat to the safety of oblivion. Sweet, peaceful nothingness was all he desired right then and there. If some spirit had entered the room and whisked his soul off into the beyond, he’d have welcomed it without a second thought.
His body shook with tremors, and the dull ache of injuries began to throb gently across his body. “Too much alcohol” he thought. “Too much fucking alcohol.”
As he lay in the dimly lit room more scraps of the previous night assailed him, little more than still images in random order. Everything else was a blackout. He felt the bruises along his arms, his head ached, his fists were swollen. Probably had a serious concussion, hence the memory loss. That and the drinking.
In his fugue state, hours passed, it seemed, before eventually his wife entered the room with a soft click of the door handle.
He held his breath.
“You awake sweetie?” she asked in a soothing, caring voice. Such kindness only served to deepen his self loathing.
He exhaled. “Mmm.”
Wordlessly, she walked over to her side of the bed and lay down, laying her soft arm across his shoulders. He winced slightly from contact with some bruises on his back that he hadn't noticed yet.
He sighed deeply again.
“Oh, lovely...” she whispered, squeezing him gently.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered back, still unsure of the exact thing he was sorry for, but he knew it was pretty bad. “I’m so sorry...”
She squeezed again, the seemingly undeserved love in her touch flooding him with a rough mix of self-hatred and a tiny spark of hope.
“The wall...” he said, groggily.
“And the stairs. And your computer...” she sighed.
He struggled to visualise the relevance of these words. “The computer?”
“You punched the screen. It just shows colourful patterns now.” She giggled, an odd counterpoint that sliced through the sombre atmosphere like breaking glass.
Why does she accept this? He thought. I’m a fucking monster.
“Oh...” he said, wondering idly what the bill of damages would be. “Are you... okay?”
She hesitated. “You didn’t hurt us. Just... broke things. And you were screaming, just screaming. The neighbours must have heard...”
_Like a wild animal. A fucking monster. _
She continued. “You were pretty hard on the girls too, you were yelling at them. They hid in their rooms.”
Like I used to, when dad used to...
“We just got out of the way. They hid their stuff. You were wrecking everything.”
“Again...” he said dejectedly.
She squeezed him with her gentle arms, and kissed the back of his neck.
“You kept hitting the walls, and punching yourself in the head. You were pulling things out of drawers looking for plastic bags. Good thing I hid those last time.”
To suffocate myself with. Like last time. I wonder if there’s any around now.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered again. “I don’t know why...”
“It’s ok...” she said, with another reassuring squeeze.
They lay in silence for a while. He couldn’t understand why he deserved her affection. How could anyone love such a beast, such a monster? Wasn’t she afraid? What if he’d turned on her? He’s a big man, slightly out of shape but still strong enough to throw a 50kg bed into a wall in a fit of rage. All he could think was that he should be locked away immediately for other people’s safety, or humanely put out of his misery as a failed experiment in evolution.
But nonetheless he felt her love recharging him, her soft breathing warm against his shoulder, chest rising and falling behind him, her gentle squeezes soothing, all of which seemed to say that everything would be okay.
While his guilt and shame seemed infinite, her love pierced through his darkness like a javelin of light, fracturing an iron curtain of self-hatred, planting a small seed of hope.
Hope.
Was hope a blessing or a curse? Was there a point to hope when it just rekindled the cycle, kept him moving on thinking life would be okay, right up until the point where he tore it all apart again? Was there any chance of things being different this time around?
Or would he just continue to spiral around the rim like a shit in a blocked toilet, waiting for death’s plunger to set him free unto the depths below?
The feeling made him uncomfortable. Hope seemed like a venomous snake slithering in the grass waiting to strike.
He turned to her and embraced her, briefly. “I love you. I’m sorry.” He said, before slowly rolling to the side of the bed and planting his feet on the plaster-strewn carpet, seeking escape from these unnerving thoughts. But a shock of pain stabbed though his foot. “Ugh! God damn it. I think I broke a toe.”
“The bathroom door...” she said.
“Really?” he sighed, testing his weight on the outside of his foot, and, figuring it would hold, rising unsteadily to his feet. The sudden change in altitude caused his head to spin, and he immediately sat back down on the bed.
Why did I kick the bathroom door? Was she in there? Why can’t I remember anything?
“So, uh...” He said, laying back down. “Why are you still with me?”
“Because I love you.” She said, resting her arm across his chest.
“I’m scared. I don’t know if it will happen again. I thought after the therapy I would be okay, but this feels worse. I don't remember anything. And the kids... I don’t want to do this to them. This is why I moved away, I wanted to give you guys a chance to be normal.”
“But then you’d be alone over there, and I’d worry.”
“But it wouldn’t be your problem.”
“I’d still care.”
“You wouldn’t have to.” He said, matter of factly. But the way she said it, he knew she was sincere.
“You’ll get help. We’ll figure it out. We’ll get through this.”
I don’t want to always be figuring it out. I don’t want to have to “get through this” and I don’t want to fuck up other people with my shit. I don't want to be that stereotype abusive husband guilting his wife into staying through suicidal threats. They deserve so much better than me, can’t she see she’d be happier without me, he thought.
“But I don’t think I can handle too much more of what happened last night.” She concluded. “It was scary.”
He remained in bed for a few more hours, before cautiously emerging from the bedroom. The TV was still on downstairs, and he saw his wife sat on the couch. The kids were still at school.
As he descended, he took mental note of the damages. The stair rail was badly damaged, bent and twisted. Scuff marks at head and fist height marked the wall at each painful step. Downstairs came into view, and he saw the Ikea chair, frame snapped in half, and his computer monitor, vivid lines and swirls of colour radiating from a fist-sized oval of shattered glass in the centre. His laptop though was curiously still working, save for a slightly bent case that he twisted back into shape.
He noticed the poker chips on the hallstand. $1300 worth. He checked his bank account, he’d "only" spent $400 at the casino, so at least he hadn't lost the rent money for the week. “Big deal.” He thought. “What does it matter now?”
In total, he figured about a thousand dollars to replace everything he’d destroyed, taking care of his “winnings”, plus some paint and plaster to fix up the walls. The stair rails though, they might need some professional work, he decided to take a look at those last.
Wordlessly, he went to the laundry. As he passed through the kitchen, he got a vivid flashback of laying there on the tiles, repeatedly smashing the back of his head at full force into the ground while his wife, or was it his daughter, begged him to stop. He shook away the thought quickly, and fetched the plaster.
We have plaster on hand. He thought wryly. This happens too often.
Going through the motions, he filled the holes and gouges in the bedroom, the bathroom door, down the stairwell, and the living room walls. Next, he fetched an allen key and dismantled the Ikea chair, stowing the pieces in the shed out the back, to be surreptitiously deposited in the garbage over the coming weeks. The monitor, too, he dropped in the large green bin outside for the next week’s collection.
After placing the bedside table back in its rightful place and a quick run around with the vacuum cleaner, only a keen eye would spot any signs of trouble the night before.
He sat beside his wife on the couch and snuggled his head into her lap. She gently stroked his hair as the TV droned on in the background.
One by one, the kids came home from school. He asked them to come over for a hug, and apologised and explained that they did nothing wrong, that he was sick in the brain and needed help. He told them he loved them dearly. They hugged him back and said they loved him too. His eldest asked if he needed an icepack for his hand.
Perhaps a dark joke about the night before was made, nervous laughter broke the tension. They ate dinner and watched TV together, all on the one couch since the Ikea chair was gone. His kids snuggled in while they sat watching a movie on Netflix, and those earlier dark thoughts of ending it all seemed to fade away.
His shame remained, as did his guilt. But each step he took to piece things back together made the shame easier to bear. He managed to repair the stair rail with some tools and elbow grease. He replaced the broken monitor. The chair could wait, it was time to get something nicer anyway. Something too heavy to lift, preferably, his wife joked at him. He saw the humour, but he didn’t laugh.
He had a beast inside of him, always reminding him of its presence, and the man and father he tried to be every day felt like a fraud. But to their minds the beast was the interloper, it was the fraud that clawed its way out from time to time, and the real man and father was the guy who spent every day fighting to hold it in. They didn’t see the daily struggle, just the man who was husband and father.
He wanted to stop fighting the beast and just be himself, no more beast, so the next day he called a psychologist and spoke with them about what happened, his fears, his history. They didn’t judge him, they said they could help, and invited him in for his first session. Screw the cost, his shit needed to be dealt with properly, by a trained professional.
Then, he emailed work, who he’d ghosted for a whole day. This was the first time he felt that couldn't make some dumb excuse and get away with it. No more "I dropped my phone in the toilet" or "I forgot about it, gosh darn I'm so busy!" So, for the first time he opened up and explained (sans the gory details) what had happened, that he had mental health issues and had had a breakdown and needed some space to recover. He dreaded the response, surely he’d be out of a job. But instead, they replied saying they would support him in any way they could, that they loved working with him, and he could take as much time as he needed to get back on track.
The world that had looked so dark and terminal 48 hours prior suddenly again seemed normal, manageable. These weren’t life-ending events. They were serious, but they could be dealt with. Life would go on, there was literally no purpose to dying over this. Maybe some real therapy would help this time, and maybe the whole family should join in at some point.
Without his wife and kids, he feared what he might have done next. Maybe the shred of hope was a lie, but it was all he had to go by, and it had to be enough to see him through to the next day.
On a direct note - I am blessed to have a wife and kids that have put up with so much and yet still support me, and I know that I have a lot of work not just to fix myself but to support my family who have witnessed me doing some truly horrible things, especially my children who should not have to grow up knowing people are capable of such levels of unbridled fury. I have arranged professional therapy with a psychologist, and hope to work towards healing myself and my family. If she decides this is too much for her and wants to leave, then I will not stop her, at the same time I will not push her to do so. I have also suggested to her that she should consider counselling with the kids if she feels she needs it. I don't know how she deals with it, honestly. I am not proud and don't glorify what I did, but I can take steps to do something about it so I hope to never have to repeat this story again.

The curtains fly open on the first note. The first sequence is fast, bombastic, all loud horns and aggressive piano. The audience under the balcony hushes all at once. From on high, Odell stood alone where the spotlight didn’t yet shine, still in her statuesque pose. Lenore and Mr. Tanner vanish behind the back curtains, scurrying along a hidden walkway, leading to the smaller theatre boxes. From a box across the foyer, eye level with Odell’s balcony, they settle in to watch. Or in Lenore’s case, to conduct the performance from the shadows like a theatre phantom. Barely there, and yet, somehow, everywhere.
The chords are complex but the tempo quickly slows it all down, as the distinct sound of jazz fills the central hall. The band of musicians is under the balcony, playing their snazzy bebop song in front of the guest elevator. Only when the melody and rhythm come to an almost-harmony does Odell step into the light.
The sight of her sends the crowd into an immediate frenzy. It takes a full minute for them to simmer down. Odell doesn’t move an inch until all but the music is quiet again.
Leisurely, she unwraps her arms from her chest. With a sharp change of key to accompany her, Odell throws out her arms like a bird spreads out its wings and then, in a dramatic mezzo-soprano, she sings.

“~Evening, Foxy Lady~” 

The instruments gently rumble under her voice, not quite drowning out the excited shrieks of the crowd. She sustains the ending syllable until the crowd quiets. Sauntering her way to the railing; the lights illuminate her out of the darkness. She’s tall; she’s sensuous. Keeping every eye on her, as is her purpose. She continues her song,

“~So nice to see you visit me Out of that dusty den Kept in lock and key~” 

Odell’s eyes, lingering on the heads of the people below, drift up. The little lady meets her gaze with a simple blank stare.
The central hall is worn by time. The walls had once been made of oak, polished steel at its edges and a high barren ceiling that made sounds resonate. But time had shredded the wood and browned the metal. The ceiling had fallen in and the holes muffled the echo. In the condition it had been in back then, not even Odell’s provocative productions could distract from the grime. Luckily, with Lenore’s expertise in construction, mechanics, and metallurgy, the repairs were perfect. She had long ago repaired the wall insulation and replaced the oak with sheets of recycled brass and steel. Each plate is cut in irregular shapes and spaced a few millimetres apart. In between each plate is what appeared to be black cement. The hall looks even better than it had in its heyday. And repairs were far from the only improvement the little lady had made.
Odell smiles at Lenore knowingly.

“~Oh, I’ve been so lonely Jewelled crown and throne, All alone Dusk to dawn Long days, cold nights~” 

Lenore shakes her cloak off of her shoulders, freeing her hands. She hesitates, but she quickly steels herself. No one in the crowd can see her from where they are. She, and her secrets, are safe. So she removes her mask, revealing copper-red hair and baggy hazel-brown eyes to no one who didn’t already know. Seeing her face, her real darling face, the singer’s smile becomes sweeter.
She and Lenore exchange the slightest of nods.

“~Poor me, poor me, Alone~” 

Lenore holds out her hands as if she’s about to play an invisible piano. Her fingers twitch. Behind Odell, the curtains begin to flutter. There is no wind but curtains rise from the floor, regardless. The fabric flaps in time with every tremble of Lenore’s hands as if the little lady was reaching across the room and ruffling them herself.

“~When it rains, when it pours Dancing in the flooded streets like the ocean shores~” 

The curtains flutter closer to Odell, reaching out as if to touch her. Odell steps on top of the banister. The crowd gasps as the curtain curl around her waist and forearms like snakes. Lenore waves her hands like a conductor, and the curtains copy each movement. The drapery outstretches from Odell’s back and suddenly, from the view of the audience, the singer has a vast pair of heavy blue wings. Her voice rises as the music readies for the drop. The ground seems to quiver, as she finally breaks into the chorus of the song.

“~And the sky~” 

The drapes broadened.

“~Bleeds~” 

The walls hum, droning like a deep drum beat.

“~Red!~” 

With the first line of the chorus; with the bounce in the tempo from the band; with a scant sweeping gesture from Lenore, the room itself came to life.
Odell leaps from the balcony and the curtains, her perfectly woken wing, carry her through the air and over the heads of the cheering crowd. She flies above the audience and they, in turn, reach their arms up at her, grasping but still out of reach. The other band members sing harmoniously in the background, raising the melody from a hum to a roar. They sing under her,

“[Bleeding red!]” 

Odell echoed them, her voice neither strained nor wobbly despite still being in nimble and bumpy flight

“~Bleeding red!~” 

The drapes throw her into the air, inciting shrieks from the crowd, then they catch her and she bounces like she’s on a trampoline. The musicians chant under her,

“[Blue and red!]” 

The curtains unfurl, grazing and caressing down her legs, waist, and chest until her dainty feet landed on the stage under the balcony. She stands on equal footing with musicians as she finishes the chorus,

“~Oh, blue and red…!~” 

For a few seconds, there’s a break in the lyrics, allowing the melody to take over for a while. With Odell safely back on her feet, it gives Lenore a second to relax. Her arms ache lightly. The drapery is an extension of her right arm, every twinge conveyed a subtle command. Her left arm has a different job.
The band didn’t have a drummer. But there’s still a new sound ringing alongside the other musicians. It came not from a person, but from the room itself. Those black cement-like lines in between the metal on the walls. Underneath the cement is tiny glass tubes spreading like nerves throughout the Theatre. They’re glowing now. Reds of several shades glow from the within walls, dim in the cracks but glinting in the brass and steel plates. It’s as if they are suddenly standing inside a giant prism, alight in only the red light wavelength. Each change of light gives off a deep sound. The Theatre itself is the drums and Lenore is the drummer. Her left hand keeps the beat.
Odell grins. Her eyes flicker from the audience, up to where Lenore and Mr. Tanner are hidden, and back down to the audience again.

“~Foxy lady, Come sit with me Oh - Wo - Oh - Wo Sing with me, Foxy Lady That old forgotten song~” 

As she sings, Odell waves her arms in rhythm and Lenore makes the room follow her lead. The curtains dance and the walls sing at the singer’s beck and call.

“~I’m so lonely Oh When the sky bleeds red Bleeding red I’m bleeding red The sky bleeds red~” 

The band sings after her, and the crowd joins in,

“[Blue and Red]” 

Odell smirks.

“~Oh, blue and red~” 

From on high, Mr. Tanner and Lenore are still watching. Although Lenore appears idle she was, in actuality, heavily engaged. The audience only sees Odell. Odell soaring in the curtains and controlling the lights. They hear the drumbeat and somehow know in their minds that it had to be coming from her.
They would be wrong.
Lenore is as much a part of this performance as Odell is and she had all the control over the enchanted elements. But the audience didn’t need to know that. Lenore didn’t want them to. They were meant to see Odell. Only Odell. The singer is Lenore’s greatest mask.
Every once in a while, Mr. Tanner looks away from the stage and back at Lenore. Studying where her gaze lands. How Lenore’s eyes rarely stray from Lady Averill.

“~Because life is bad The stink of hash without the high; A one-night stand and an awkward goodbye While the sky bleeds red [Bleeding red] And I’m going mad [We’ve all gone mad] And if you don’t come through [Come through…] I’ll go dancing alone~” 

Odell finishes the chorus and dramatically points at the saxophone player, named Mitchell. She exclaims, “Play it, Mitch!”
Mitch prances out from under the balcony’s shadow. Backed up by the other musicians, he plays his sole. The music is erratic, each section fragmented, jarring the audience with every note. It kept them on their toes, excited for more. They improvise for a good few minutes as Odell dances around them. She dances like this is the best moment of her life, as if nothing could ever get better than this.
Lenore scrutinizes with thoughtful eyes. She doesn’t observe with the same thinly veiled desire that the audience did. For once, there was actually a certain sort of tenderness on her face. The warmth of her expression doesn’t go unnoticed by Mr. Tanner.
“She is quite the performer.” He grumbles.
Lenore blinks and appears to shake herself out of something. She answers, voice snappy “Indeed.”
The saxophone solo comes to a close and Odell takes her place back under the spotlight.

“~I’m a prisoner of war The world’s not blue anymore~” 

Odell flicks her wrists and Lenore directs the curtains to scop the singer up, lifting her back onto the balcony landing.

“~Harsh days don’t stop irking [Irking] Yet we keep on working [Working] Burned out [Burned out] Burned out [Burned out] But when it falls, It will storms Cause the sky’s not blue anymore~” 

The drumbeat rumbles as the lights go out and the curtains fall still. Odell’s eye flicker to Lenore. There is a tiny quirk on the little lady’s lips. An almost-there smile.

“~Foxy lady under the red sky Baby don’t leave me~” 

Odell reaches her arm out towards her, fingers outstretched and waiting to be clasped even though the distance between them is too great. Lenore narrows her eyes slightly.

“~Foxy lady Under the red sky The Bleeding sky Bleeding sky Bleeding red I’m Bleeding...~” 

Lenore’s hand twitches. She doesn’t reach out but her fingers do flex in the singer’s direction. That’s enough for Odell. She smiles brightly as she belts out the last line, long and proud, the band and the audience singing with her.

“~Red!~” 

And with that, the instruments play their final cords. The audience cheers as the performance come to a close and the performers take their final bows. The band then starts to play another, much calmer song. It’s like elevator music with its simple progression and repeats. They moved to the side, allowing the crowd to pile into the elevator. Odell is smiling and waving from the balcony like a crown princess to her adoring subjects.
“Thank you! Thank you! You have been a most wonderful audience!” Odell calls, “I hope you’ve enjoyed our little show but the fun’s not over yet! Please enjoy the rest of what our little Theatre has to offer and have a lovely night!”
With that, the drapery close around the balcony with a graceful sweep and the people, once again loud and rowdy, leave through the elevator. After everyone had left, the curtains lower Odell from the balcony so she can thank her band. They laugh and joke with her as they put their instruments away. They chatter about their next rehearsal, planning for new songs and improvements for the old ones, until she dismisses them for the night. Soon the central hall is quiet and empty.
An idle clap echoes through the hall, hidden behind the curtains of the balcony. The curtains part. Lenore’s hag mask is back on her face as she gives Odell a clearly sarcastic clap. The multi elevator is unlocked, she and Mr. Tanner are waiting by its open birdcage doors.
Odell smirks, her neck craning as she looks up at the balcony. She says, “Aw, darling, you’re too kind. Stop, you’re making me blush…”
Lenore clasps her hands together, “If there’s one thing you lack, Odell, it's shame. Nothing could make you blush.”
“Not quite nothing,” Odell hums, wicked smirk melting away into a heartfelt smile. “Well, that was fun! Now, how about a pint, shapeshifter?” She gestures for Lenore to send down the drapery again, which Lenore does with a roll of her eyes, “We could play cards in the Goldmine and grab a glass at the Absinthe, hmm?”
Once Odell’s feet touch the metal of the balcony floor, the curtain conceals them behind their dark blue fabric. She steps onto the elevator, towering above Lenore. The top of the little lady’s head only comes up to the singer’s shoulder. Mr. Tanner stands up to her chin.
“Are you not a little young to be drinking so much?” asks Mr. Tanner, the elevator doors slowly closing. It’s heading down to the second floor, The Absinthe House.
“Aren’t you?” Odell replies, looking down at him out of the corner of her eye.
“You are both young and I don’t recall that stopping either of you before,” Lenore says, sliding her hood back on.
“Eh, I drink it diluted anyway. Not like there’s anything else to drink in this city.” Odell shrugs and wraps her arms around the two of them, “Besides you look younger than either of us, Lenore. You being so dainty and all.”
“I prefer the term vertically impaired.”
~*~
Floor seven is the Theatre’s gambling room, called the Goldmine. It’s relatively smaller than the other rooms but it was still by no means tiny.
The middle of the room has a little stage for karaoke, professional and drunken alike. There are lavish couches and chairs circling around the big gambling tables. Every table has a different game. There’s blackjack, poker, craps, roulette, etc. The Goldmine is lit with purple and blue spotlights, giving it a bit of a foreboding air. The space has a feeling of underworldly awe, the soft lines of red glowing dimly through the walls, making it feel like you’re betting against something wicked. Something nefarious and strange. The Goldmine is filled to the brim with guests tonight and the upper part of the room and ceiling is a fog of cigar and cigarette smoke. Odell had stopped by the Goldmine to pick up a deck of cards and some poker ships before heading upstairs to meet with Lenore.
The Absinthe House, on floor two, is the bar chamber and usually the first stop for those heading to the Goldmine.
The Absinthe and the Goldmine are also the only rooms banned to children. Anyone who wanted to smoke in the Theatre had to pay a hefty fee, so only the richest patrons stayed in the Absinthe and the Goldmine. In the far corner of the room, there’s a locked door, guarded by security and off-limits to the customers. Inside is the private library for which Lenore and Odell spent most of their time together. It’s not vast or grand in appearance but it was free of smoke, private, and relatively clean. There were a dozen shelves of books and only one sitting area of which Odell and Lenore now dwelled.
“So the compound collapsed on you again,” Odell states as she lounges on the fainting couch, airing her flute of blackberry wine. She leans on the pillows with sultry laziness.
Lenore is sitting near in creaking rocking chair reading through a book with a cup of ale on the desk behind her. She had discarded her cloak and mask on the chair beside her.
“Yes.”
“Well… that sucks doesn’t it?”
Lenore scoffs. She drops her book onto the desk, none too gently, and puts a hand to her temples.
“Yes, I am quite aware of that, thank you, Odell.”
Odell sat up a little. Lenore had turned her back to the singer. She picks up her cup; she was on her second and Odell on her eighth, draining it in one heavy gulp. Odell pushes her legs over the side of her couch and stands. She looks resigned, more out of place than most were ever allowed to see her.
She shuffled over to Lenore and wringing her hands as she stands over her.
“...There’s always next time--”
“Ha!” The sound that comes out of Lenore’s throat is too bitter and rough to be called a laugh but there is some self-deprecating humour in there. “How many times have I said that in the last fourteen fucking years?”
Lenore looks away, avoiding Odell’s pitiful gaze. What use was pity for her? It accomplishes nothing and gives way to laziness, a terribly persistent disease. Odell sighs. She sits down on the armrest of Lenore’s chair, smirking slightly when the extra weight jostles the little lady. The smirk fades quickly when Lenore raises an annoyed eyebrow at her. She wasn’t surprised to see Lenore dry-eyed and brooding. Hadn’t that been the reaction she’d been getting the last ten fucking years?
Odell sits quietly letting Lenore deal with whatever she needed to deal with.
“... You know...” Odell reaches over and picks up Lenore’s book. The First Edition Advisory on Natural Talents, “There are other books in this library. I mean, you’ve read this one, like, a hundred times. I bet you could recite it from memory by now.”
Lenore looks unimpressed. Her eyes squint up at Odell, “... The absolute control of the body and the mind are not exclusive to any one individual. Natural talents are a product of the self, unique to each individual--”
Odell bursts into laughter, lightly bopping Lenore on the head with her own book, “Oh, fuck off!”
Lenore’s eyes twinkle and her smile is smug, “Chapter 2, page 19. The first chapter is completely pointless. It’s just the writer bragging about all the books he’s read, all of which I’d much rather be reading instead of his self-indulgent drivel. I could write a better book on the subject with my head stuck in a blender. Better than having it up my ass like this author.”
“Maybe you should. Write a book, I mean, not stick your head up your ass,” Lenore breathes heavily, in that way that Odell recognizes as her trying to stifle a laugh. Odell continues, “There’s probably nobody in the world who knows more about natural talents than you. I’ll help you edit it, if an idiot like me can understand it, everyone will.”
The mirth in Lenore’s eyes goes cold. Suddenly she’s all scowls again, “And yet, everything I do still ends in failure.”
Odell frowns. She bops Lenore on the head again, a little harder this time, “Horseshit. Is our Theatre a failure? Ten giant floors, you built them all with your bare hands. Hundreds of workers and hundreds of guests every single night. Does that sound like failure to you?”
The little lady is silent, glowering at her lap.
“Lenore.” Odell takes her by the chin and forces the little lady to look at her. “If you keep talking shit about my favourite foxy lady, I’ll have to deck you.”
Lenore clicks her teeth, pushing the singer’s hand away. But, Odell saw the tiny smile she’d made blossom on the little lady’s face. The singer stands, sauntering away as Lenore pours herself another half a glass of ale. She’s more thirsty than she thought she was, how long had it been since she’d drank anything?
“What do you think went wrong with your project, Lee?” Odell sprawls back in her chair, confident that Lenore’s languishing was over for the moment.
Lenore holds her finger to her chin, thinking it over, “Hmm… The compound was reacting well until the final two ingredients, I believe.”
“So maybe a substitute or different ingredient would do then?”
“No, no. That can’t be it. Those two ingredients are imperative to the project’s ultimate purpose. It just...” Lenore stands from her chair and paces around her desk. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, if you’re so certain the ingredients themselves are fine then maybe I can look into the boy that was sent to collect them. He was new, I think. Maybe he did something wrong.”
“My instructions were very precise, Odell.”
“And yet there are still people stupid enough to mess them up. I’ll look into it.”
“All right.” Lenore stops pacing. She takes out a pack of cards and chips, dealing the cards between the two of them. “So what do you say to a game of poker? I could use a few extra coins in my purse.”
“Bloody bitch...” Odell shakes her head and cradles her cards close to her chest, “I’ll give you something all right.”
~*~
Lenore is running for a straight. She has the king and the queen, a knave and a ten of spades, all she needs is the ace. It was just when she had called for another card, and Odell had slipped an ace from her stockings, that they hear a knock on the library door.
Lenore stands from her chair, taking her cards with her. Never trust Odell not to cheat at poker. She tucks herself into a nook between the library shelves while Odell calls for the person to enter. The space is barely large enough to fit a tiny drawer or an above-average sized child. It fit Lenore perfectly.
“Miss Averill?” The person timidly takes a few steps into the library. They’re wearing a simple blouse with a pin and a vest with a matching bowtie. It was one of Odell’s band members. The pianist.
“What is it, Ime?” Odell beams at her worker, all pretty smiles and steamy eyes.
“There is a letter for the Theatre, Miss.” The worker, named Imelda, sputters under the blind of Odell’s gaze. Odell uncrosses her legs and walks up to her. As she collects the letter she searches for the name of the sender. The envelope is blank but for the intended address. There isn’t even a stamp.
“Do you know who it’s from?”
“Um, not for sure Miss but...” Ime looks nervous. “An Official delivered it”
An Official. Lenore, who had been listlessly listening, perks up instantly. She peeks out from her nook, as much as she can without being spotted. She grips her cards hard enough to nearly crumple them into a ball. Slowly, she sneaks her way between the shelves towards the door.
Odell’s holding the letter, half-frozen and stupefied. An Official had been here. In their Theatre. To deliver a letter? Hastily, she collects herself. She smiles lovingly at her worker. Her lips are pulled too far towards her left cheek and her eyes didn’t crinkle enough at the sides for it to look real. She calmly dismisses Ime and the worker scurries away.
Odell is just about to open the letter when they hear another knock. Lenore, who had just walked up beside Odell, ducks once again behind a shelf although this time she was far less tolerant of the interruption.
“Yes?” Odell calls, not bothering to look up at the door.
Mr. Tanner walks in, eyes zeroing in on the shelf Lenore is hiding behind, “It’s only me, Miss Laymon”
Lenore marches out from around the corner. She doesn’t acknowledge Mr. Tanner, her eyes are glued to the piece of parchment in Odell’s hands. Looking at her Odell had to suppress a sigh, their pleasant moment of levity had been nice while it had lasted. Odell hands the letter to Lenore, who snatches it like it’s made of solid gold. Odell faced Mr. Tanner, discontented and weary.
“What is it now?” Odell mumbles.
Mr. Tanner appears mildly confused. He gazed first at Lenore, who is gripping the letter hard enough to almost tear it. His gaze turns mildly worried when she starts to pace back and forth, dropping the cards she had been holding in the process.
“My apologies, Miss, am I interrupting something...?”
“Yeah… But I don’t think anything could make it any worse either way.” Odell’s head swivels back and forth, following Lenore’s increasingly agitated form.
“... I see. I have only come to inform you that there seems to have been a series of disturbances occurring on the lower floors. Some shadowy figure is shaking up the customers.”
“All right, I’ll deal with that soon. Thanks, Mr. Tanner.”
With the dismissal, Mr. Tanner gave a small bow, one last subtle look at Lenore, and a longer look at the letter she was holding before briskly exiting the library.
“What’s the date?”
Now Odell’s concerned expression turns confused. She takes a few hesitant steps toward the now oddly calm looking Lenore. The little lady is leaning against the desk, vacant-eyed, holding the letter lightly in her left hand. The complete shift in temperament is startling.
“What?”
“The date, Odell! What is the bloody date!?” Perhaps calm is not the right word.
“July 21st...”
A smile graces Lenore’s face at that moment. If one had thought Odell’s leering grins were unsettling, then they would be petrified by the sheer malice and ruthless intention on Lenore’s face. Even Odell flinches when it turns her way.
“It seems our most esteemed rulers are in need of some entertainment for the coming of the new year.” Lenore fumes before calming again. She looks contemplative, running her fingers roughly through her hair. “It strikes one as being too convenient to be true.”
Lenore reads the letter over again. Odell cautiously, like she was approaching a wild animal, approaches her as Lenore rifles through the drawers of her desk. By the time Odell is close enough to reach for the letter, Lenore is reading the clock on the far wall while organizing her pens and paper. The clock reads 2:28 am, making it July 22nd.
“Can I..?” Odell points to the letter, crinkled in Lenore’s fist.
“Hmm?” It was only then that Lenore seems to realize that perhaps Odell was not exactly on the same page. “Oh! Yes, yes, of course.” She shoves the letter at Odell.
Odell tries in vain to smooth out the crinkles as she studies the letter.
​

“In Regards to Old Quinn City’s most esteemed Theater,
This is a request to Old Quinn City’s Theater by the superiority of our grandiose city’s ruling family, the House of Romilly, for your appearance and commission for the upcoming New Year’s Celebratory Dinner. This dinner is a most special and once in a lifetime event to celebrate not only another year of the House of Romilly’s gracious and pristine rule over our regal city but also the fifteenth anniversary of the abolishment of the cities previous, and most heinous, governors and our new cities founding.
As an obligation to honour the benevolent sacrifices and labour we have fulfilled for the benefit of you and this city’s virtuous people, we hope you will perform your duty and accede to this requisite.
With reverence of the highest esteem and consideration,
The House of Romilly”

​
For a while, Odell can’t react. Lenore is yet again a tornado, moving hot-footed around the library. She picks up the book she had been reading and went through the shelves picking up books.
Atticus’s Notes on the Mind and Manipulation​ ​is swiftly plucked from the shelf, The First Edition Advisory on Natural Talents is tucked tight under her arm, and she had to reach high up to snag ​The Genius and Cunning of the World’s Most Notorious Dictators ​and Glassmaking from the Renaissance to Modern Day from the top shelves. Finally, she moves on to the loose stacks of paper beside the desk.
It’s an odd change of pace. Odell, usually so full of life and bustle seemed stuck in her place and graceless while Lenore, commonly static and cynical, was near excited in her efforts even with the absence of a smile to prove it. It is only when Lenore had slams a large stack of documents down with a reverberating slam that Odell snaps out of her stupor.
“That’s… that’s way too convenient,” Odell says as she clenched her fist around the letter, crumpling it.
“Exactly!” Lenore is now buried in books and loose papers. Looking at her Odell is reminded of an old Scrooge, sulking behind their huge pile of money. It was then that she decided that she definitely needs another drink.
“Odell, call one of the workers. I need every recent newspaper. The few print companies we still have are biased beyond compare but they may have some useful information snuck under all that pandering.” Lenore rambled on undeterred by Odell’s growing annoyance, “I shall take notes on any clues or motives and compare them with Atticus’s notes and my book on Dictators--”
“​Make that five more drinks.” ​Odell thinks to herself.
“—The circumstances of this invitation may just be the opening we are looking for—” Lenore's voice grows bitter as she goes on, flipping through the pages and making notes with the swiftness of a wild hummingbird.
“Worse even, if they have grown suspicious of the Theatre.” She gripped her pen in two hands and nearly snapped it in half, “Then this may be a trap. A ploy to make us vulnerable in their stronghold...” She looks up from her desk only to find that Odell has disappeared. She scans around the room frantically only to realize Odell has retaken her seat on the fainting couch, pouting.
“Odell, this is no time to dawdle! Tired as we both are we have to hold ourselves to a certain--”
“Can’t we go back to playing cards? You were winning...” Odell fusses as she lounged on her stomach. Her eggshell blue eyes glistened with mock tears as she lets the candlelight hit her face at the perfect angle so that they sparkle like stars. The little lady doesn’t fall for it.
Lenore scowls at her like a mother finding her child’s hand in the cookie jar. “Discipline leads to freedom.”
Odell crosses her arms, scowling back at her, like a child whose hand was slapped after being found in the cookie jar. “And it crushes all the fun…”
~*~
Mr. Tanner is tired.
“​But that is no reason to laze around.” ​He thinks as he stands outside the Theatres doors in the humid summer morning. Odell is on her balcony, giving her usual charismatic goodbyes to their customers. As he tries to peek over the heads of the crowd at her, however, he has to note a rare bit of fatigue in her frame. Her smiles are hollow, shrivelling behind a cloud of worry. ​What could have been in that letter...?
An old man trips on the way out, snapping Mr. Tanner out of his thoughts. Courteously, Mr. Tanner moves to steady him, getting a suspicious glance in return.
“... I am not going to pickpocket you, sir. I can assure you that.” He looks the man straight in the eye, speaking flatly as he held his arm. The old man’s eyes widened for a second until he glares and rips his arm from Mr. Tanner’s grasp. Fixing his crumpled top hat, the man sniffed and turns his nose up at the young cleaner.
“I’m sure you aren’t.” He retorts.
The rigid man walks away, and Mr. Tanner lets his eyes follow him until he was out of sight. As the man disappears on the horizon of Mr. Tanner’s vision, the cleaner allows his eyes to drift up to the long stretching structure that blocks the skyline. It’s only slightly visible over the rooftops. In reality, though, it is bigger than any other structure in the city.
The people of this city see a red-tinted sky in the morning, in the evening, and in the night. Do you think they are happy about this? About the lives they have to lead? It’s hard to say for sure. Some are bound to like it but, in most cases, they are the minority. Unfortunately for the unlucky, unsatisfied majority, there is nowhere to go. The stretch around the horizon is constant. It circles the city’s border like a snake swallowing its own tail. It is not the distant hill of a horizon that the sun falls behind each night; it is the impassable concrete of the border wall. The base of the cities cage. That structure is not only the source of the red sky. It is also the source of nearly every citizens’ misery. There is no way out.
Mr. Tanner regards the wall with his gloved hands folded neatly behind his back and coat buttoned up to his chin. His skin itches in the humid morning air. His eyes are too dry and they sting the longer he stares. The sun is on its way from the east and the moon is dimming behind the clouds.
The last guest exits the Theatre and Mr. Tanner moves to close the doors to the cities only Theatre. It is already 5:15 am and work starts at eight. He must sleep while he can and, maybe then, tomorrow will be a better day. Maybe it will be an easier day.
He is so tired it made him almost numb at times. Especially now.
The cleaner spares the horizon one last squint through the doorway as it slides shut. For the first time in a while, there is a little spark on his face. Just a little fire in his eyes. His eyes burn bleakly under the harsh rays of the sun, piercing with something powerful.
Because the structure to the west, to the east, to the north, and to the south is not just a wall. It is also where they live.

A widely-renowned alien historian, famous for his scathing criticism of humanity, sits with a man to discuss the countless crimes of Earth.
[This is a totally remastered and rewritten version of 'The Conversation'.]
Part 2
​
He’s late, of course. Although, why exactly would I expect anything else from a human? I humour this man with my presence, and he doesn’t have the decency to turn up at a respectable time.
Doctor Xot sat, idly toying with his drink, fixated on the view outside of the huge domed structure that encircled the entire restaurant.
Admittedly, the man had good taste. The Eye of Asara was an infamously hard establishment to book for, usually reserved for only the richest of the elite. It was surprising enough that a human had influence to even book seats here - especially in this corner of the galaxy. The Eye, as it was commonly referred to, was situated on the very highest level of Asara’s luxury orbital retreat, and the views it provided of the gas giant itself were nothing short of breathtaking. It hung in the sky like an immense jewel – emerald green, impossibly large, with the raging storms of its surface slowly fading to nothing in a great crescent, indistinguishable from the darkness of space itself.
Xot watched a tiny moon move slowly across the planet, creeping towards its huge shadow like an insect scurrying for shelter. It was with a sudden pang of anxiety that the Doctor realised that the 'tiny' moon was likely significantly larger than his own homeworld. Shaking himself from his trance, he chirped in frustration, reaching for his datapad to reread the message he had received from this person a few days prior. After swiping for a few moments, he found it.

// MESSAGE 01349412XAAB To Dr. Khitt Xot, Professor of History for the Imperial Gheraani Institute of Xenological Studies - Greetings. I hope this message finds you well. I have been following your writings on the galactic extranet for over a year at this point, with quiet interest. I find your personal perspective on humanity grossly inaccurate, and it was to my surprise that I discovered, through one of your recent interviews, that you have never actually met with a human in a private setting. I would like to rectify that. I happen to be passing through the Asara system next week, and would be immensely grateful if you would join me for a one-to-one conversation during that time. If you truly believe that your past publications and academic work are accurate, then surely, this offer is a perfect opportunity for you to demonstrate your position. To a Terran, in person. Yours sincerely, Waylon Rhyne // 

He scrutinized the message, chewing the words carefully.
In the days before leaving for Asara, he had delighted at the thought of telling a human, an actual Terran, how foolish their collective sense of moral superiority was. How insufferably naïve they were as a cultural entity. How truly undeserved their respect on the galactic stage was. How humanity had demonstrated itself to be nothing but a violent, narrow-minded, and arrogant race, time after time.
But now? Xot found himself uncharacteristically nervous at the prospect of this confrontation – certainly, he had the principally correct view, as well the evidence to support it... but humans had demonstrated themselves to be a race of unflinching violence when countered, many times over.
Perhaps security would have been wise, thought the professor.
As the station crept into Asara’s huge shadow, his table darkened, and he shook his fur gently, strengthening his resolve.
No. I’ve dedicated my professional life to representing the countless numbers opposed to the tyranny of humanity, and I will not submit to the intimidation of this man. Oh no.
So engrossed in thought was the professor, that he failed to notice the darkness of the table was, in fact, not due to the planet at all. It was the shadow of a large figure that had been standing beside him for no less than full 30 seconds.
Waylon Rhyne had arrived.
“Professor Xot. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Rumbled Waylon.
Xot's train of thought ended abruptly, and his sharp black eyes immediately darted upwards to the towering figure. The man extended a hand towards Xot, which he knew to be a common human greeting.
“Mr. Rhyne.” Xot said coolly, extending one of his four arms, returning the handshake gently. “You’re late.”
Waylon bared his teeth as he responded. “I know, I know. My apologies. My legs aren't what they used to be, and it seems that the damned elevators only go up to the 378th level.” he said, raising his two massive arms in guilty admission.
Xot understood as well as all other beings that had to interact with them that smiling was a gesture of happiness in humans, much as it was in his own species - but it didn’t stop a shiver from going down his spine. Human teeth were huge, as hard as steel, and sharp enough to tear through skin and flesh alike – and the fact that they all loved to show them at every conceivable opportunity was one of the more common reasons that many races found humans intimidating.
“Mhm.” Xot responded, not caring to listen to the man's excuses. “I must say, when I received your message, this was... not the sort of location I expected that we would meet. How exactly did you reserve a place at such short notice, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“Hmm? Oh. The owner of this fine establishment owes me a favour. Or fifteen.” Said Waylon dismissively, taking off his coat and wrapping it around the opposing chair. He sat with a heavy groan, and for the first time, Xot properly looked at the human that had dared ask for an audience with him.
What struck him most was the sheer age of the man. He had been expecting someone significantly younger, but it was clear to even him that this man was well past his physical prime. All of the cues were there – the shock of white hair, the deep-set wrinkles that highlighted his face, the cane that lay across his lap. If he had to guess, he would place the man at around 70 standard years of age. This did little to set Xot’s nerves at ease, however – frail as Waylon might’ve been in comparison to a younger human, he towered over him, and was still undoubtedly strong enough to tear the Gheraani academic in half.
Waylon gestured to an Otegan waiter near their table, and gave him a gesture that Xot couldn’t quite place. The waiter nodded, and quickly hurried off – presumably, to pour one of Waylon’s fourteen remaining favours. They sat in silence for a moment, with only the gentle hum of the station's sophisticated nightlife filling the air.
“So.” Xot ventured.
“So.”
“You have contentions with my work.”
“That I do, professor.” Said Waylon, smiling again. “I may be biased towards humanity, and I’m certainly not an accomplished academic, as you are, but I feel that your own view on humanity is…” He stopped, unsure of what word to use.
“Misplaced.” He finished after a small pause.
Xot gave no reply, simply taking a sip of his drink carefully, continuing to stare at the man in front of him. After a time, Waylon continued.
“How many people do you have subscribed to your monthly article in the Galaxia's Publication?” Waylon asked.
“Roughly 5.2 million.” Xot replied. With a great degree of satisfaction, he watched Waylon's eyes widen slightly at the figure.
“5 million people. 5 million people, all reading your academic journals detailing, amongst many other things, the crimes that humanity has, apparently, committed against a vast number of people.”
“That is correct, yes.” Said Xot curtly, all too clearly hearing the incredulity in Walyon's tone. He carefully watched him, trying to read his expression. Was it… confusion? Frustration, perhaps? It was hard to tell.
Waylon sighed. “Well, then.” He said. “Tell me about the crimes of humanity, as you see them."
And now, thought Xot gleefully, we begin.
“Very well.” Xot said. “Humanity joined the Unified Galactic Council 115 of your years ago – approximately a century, in standardised years. Since your induction into the greater galactic community, the economic stability, and indeed, entire existence of several great galactic powers have been jeopardised, if not entirely wiped out, and this level of rampant instability can almost single-handedly be traced back to Earth. In only a few short decades after your induction, your race co-opted technology that was not yours, given to you by weaker states that used you singularly to further their own goals, and with that stolen technological prowess, saw fit to hold yourself as moral arbiters of the civilised galaxy, hell-bent on applying your own standards to the rest of the galactic population. Wars were started in the name of humanity’s great... stellar crusade. Worlds burned. Countless numbers died as a result of human interference. The battles started by humanity and its allies have been the catalyst for some of the bloodiest conflicts in over a millennium of relative galactic peace. Not only have these crimes gone unaddressed – if not praised by some powers – it makes humanity itself supremely hypocritical, given the instability, violence, and absolute barbarism of its own bloody history. Earth to this day remains divided, power split between multiple governments, marred and entrenched in its own microscopic conflicts. And, perhaps above all of this, ‘as I see it’, is that humans are responsible for the ruination of my own people. For me, humanity's unchecked behaviour is somewhat personal, and is the driving force behind my professional journey to map and document the history surrounding that period as accurately as I can. Once, the Imperium commanded a great deal of both respect and authority. Not a century since your unwarranted meddling, and it has been reduced to a husk of its former self, bound and crippled by Council restrictions that have seen my people turned slave towards and its hell-bent path towards proliferate unification. Had humanity not been inducted, the lives of a hundred million children might have been saved, and their ten billion ancestors would be alive today to experience this wondrous galaxy.”
As the professor had continued his explanation, Waylon’s eyes became progressively wider, his expression changing from one of calm expectation to that of complete disbelief. He sat quiet for a long time, his deep brown eyes staring unwaveringly into Xot's black ones.
The Otegan waiter returned and wordlessly placed a blue, smoking drink on the table, before bowing and returning to serve the other guests – all the while, Waylon did not move. Eventually, Waylon decided to speak again.
“’Crippled by restrictions that have seen my people turn slave?’ “He whispered. “You have the audacity to use that word to describe what happened to your people after the conflict?”
“That 'conflict' ended our role as a greater galactic power. It killed millions.”
“Yes, it killed millions. And it liberated billions.”
"'Liberated.'" snorted Xot dismissively. “Please, Mr. Rhyne. I have studied Earth’s history extensively for my own xeno-anthropological works. Let us not pretend that humans have not utilised the labour of lower classes when convenient to them too, no? I am well aware of your centuries-long transatlantic slave trade. I am well aware of the late-stage capitalist pursuits of the 22nd century, which was enslavement in all but name. I am well aware of the Great Pyramid of Giza, which to this day remains a monument to the supremacy of your ancient Egyptian people in their time, all those eons ago. No, let us not pretend that you're in any position to, as a human might say, throw the first stone, Mr. Rhyne.”
“How is the ancient pre-industrial history of Earth comparable to an interstellar compact of systems built and sustained by an uncountable number of slaves?” asked Waylon
“It isn't.” Said Xot simply.
"It isn- what? Said Waylon, momentarily disoriented at the apparent agreement.
"You're right", explained the professor, pouncing on the opportunity. "It isn't the same. At all. I was merely being hyperbolic. But, now that you've brought it up, I might as well elaborate.”
“Please.”
“Historic human concepts as to what precisely constitutes 'slavery' are completely different to what other species might consider to be such. In some systems, concepts of 'slavery' were actually more akin to something like a caste structure. Something your race is all too familiar with, I might add. On some worlds, mere socioeconomic disparity would be enough to consider a group trapped in effective indentured servitude. On others still, a slave would murder their brethren without a second thought to have a chance at the comparative luxury that the average human slave might have lived in. The point is, my Terran friend, that your standards behind the definition of the word are yours and yours alone. So yes, assuredly, it isn't the same - because human slaves and Gheerani vassals weren't the same. The way that your so-called 'Coalition' rushed into action betrayed the utter non-understanding of this simple fact, which I myself have personally demonstrated through a massive amount of studies over the past 60 years. My entire professional career is dedicated to detailing the actual history of inter-species vassalism and the catastrophic implications that the war had for those vassals, let alone the greater stability of galactic civilisations comprised of trillions of individuals.
“A slave is a slave is a slave, doctor. In any form. In any capacity. No matter how eloquent the justification. A contextual boot is still a boot. Oppression is not subject to your bureaucratic interpretation of morality - or at least, it shouldn't be. I won't pretend that our hands are clean in this, but surely you see that’s beside the point. The times in which humanity was structured in such a manner are the darkest periods of our history. They are a stain on our name, and our entire race utterly denounces them.”
Xot sighed, unimpressed with the response.
“And that, Waylon,” he said, “might just be why there is only one Great Pyramid in Giza.”
Waylon laughed. A harsh, biting bark that made Xot’s fur bristle unintentionally. He cursed internally at having been so easily startled, and quickly flattened it down. Waylon's laugh faded, and he turned to stare out of the great glass dome of The Eye, gently shaking his head as he did.
The sky had now truly darkened, the gargantuan planet above shading them from sunlight and allowing the sky to fill with an awe-inspiring number of stars. With their discussion now illuminated be the gentle yellow glow of the restaurant's lights, the two fell into long silence for the second time.
This time, Xot was the one to break it.
“Tell me, Rhyne,” he probed, “because truly, I am curious. Do you really believe that Earth was in any position to initiate hostilities with Gheraan? Less than 20 years on the galactic stage, with one of the bloodiest and most fractured histories ever recorded, actively trying to threaten wide-spread stability for no reason but to satiate your race’s desire for moral absolutism?”
“Moral satiation was not a factor in the actions of Earth, doctor.” Responded Waylon darkly. “Many a reason did humanity have for encouraging disassociation with Gheraan’s regime at the time.”
“Oh?” said Xot, feigning polite surprise. “Name one. Specifically.”
“Gheraan’s treatment of the Nediv, just one of your several sla- ‘vassal’ races. A population of almost a billion Nediv lived and died on Gheraan in a generations-long cycle of systemic subjugation, relegated exclusively to being forced to work the extremely hazardous jobs that kept your wondrous Imperium afloat.” Retorted Waylon, without hesitation. “Denied pay. Denied legal rights. Denied housing. Denied food to the point of mass famine. Denied self-determination. Forced to work whatever position seen fit, with either imprisonment or death as a reward for not complying. But don’t worry, doctor, I’m sure as they lay starving and tortured, they found comfort in the idea that, well, technically*,* it wasn’t outright slavery, because no-one owned them as they might a table.”
Waylon’s tone had remained light throughout, but Xot had watched the subtle changes in his face as he spoke, betraying far more powerful emotions than the human was presenting.
An opportunity, noted the professor mentally. But not one without danger.
“Ah, yes,” said Xot with a small smirk, “the Nediv. That most noble of races. You do know why the Nediv actually found their way to settling on Gheraan, don’t you?”
Waylon said nothing.
Xot continued. “Of course you do. Because some 350 years ago, the Nediv managed to successfully turn their homeworld into an irradiated asteroid field due to a prolonged nuclear civil war. And tell me, when the few survivors of that cataclysm boarded their last colony ships and travelled across the galaxy, begging for asylum, what exactly happened?”
Again, Waylon remained silent.
“Yes, that’s right!” said the professor with sarcastic gusto. “They were soundly denied by every single world that they visited. Except. For. One. Gheraa-”
“- and this is where your justification lies, is it?” snapped Waylon suddenly. “That they should actually thank you for being the ones to grant them new lands, despite the fact that it was done not out of any sense of goodwill or desire to help, but as a way to expand the horizons of the Gheraani Imperial machine by treating the entire race as a resource to expend?”
“Without Gheraani intervention, they would have died out within a single generation.” Xot countered. “Withered to nothing and drowned in a vast sea of their own failure. What, you think that we should have divided our own homeworld in two, giving half over to them? Dedicated Gheraani resources, Gheraani food, Gheraan’s water, soil, and air to them, purely because they managed to obliterate themselves in a bloody, atomic war? I think not. We made our terms clear; If you are to stay, you are to contribute to our affairs as repayment for allowing your existence within our borders. That is the agreement that the population’s forefathers made, and it is one that we upheld – forcibly, if required. You can upturn your nose at my people’s actions, Rhyne, but the simple reality of the matter is that without those actions, they wouldn’t exist at all.”
“Better to die standing than t-“ began Waylon.
“- than to live on your knees, yes, you’re a veritable poet, sir, bravo*.*” Shot Xot witheringly. “Humanity’s many elegant platitudes concerning strength of will and remaining steadfast may stroke your species’ over-inflated ego, but I doubt they would mean very much to a race struggling against its own death throes. Tell me it’s better to die free than live maltreated when at the brink of your own destruction, and then perhaps I’ll concede your words have weight. But until then? Save your breath. If the Nediv were unshackled willingly, they would have evaporated. Too weak to survive whole against an uncaring, unrelenting galaxy. They served a purpose that befit their stature as a failed race. And a century after they were released from our arrangement, look at where they are now. Both everywhere and nowhere. Existing as single townships on farmworlds, or as perhaps the owner of just another business on an endless city-world.”
They had both been getting steadily louder as the argument continued, and as Xot finished his tirade and a quiet fell again, both became acutely aware that half of the restaurant were now staring at them in awe.
“Let me surmise, Xot.” Said Waylon, controlling his volume carefully. “You think that there is a principled argument for… vassalism, to use your own term?”
“I do.” Replied the professor, choosing not to launch another offensive.
“And you think that the socioeconomic position of the Nediv, to name a single example, befit their ability as a collective?”
“Research and data concerning both the average physical constitution of the Nediv, as well as their intellectual prowess, has always indicated that, correct.”
“You view humanity’s attempts to disassociate with the Imperial regime at that time to be a result of how you were treating your vassals societally, and ultimately the catalyst for wide-spread warfare.”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” Said Waylon, an increasingly puzzled expression painting his features. “I see. I’ve just one more question.”
“Go on.”
“For what other reasons did humanity act the way it did?”
The table was hit with an immediate stillness. Though Xot did not understand the implication of the inquiry, every nerve in his body was telling him that he had just been asked a very dangerous question.
“I… there were none.” Said Xot slowly, carefully. “There are no examples of any Imperial behaviour that would have warranted such an escalating response from humanity, and by extension, the rest of galactic society. My decades of fervent searching would have shown as much.”
Waylon stared at Xot, his features absolutely unmoving, revealing nothing.
“I see.” Repeated the human.
Xot found the mystery around Waylon’s implications deeply irritating. He shifted in his seat, now comfortably agitated by the man’s behaviour.
He was about to speak when Waylon cut him off.
“My father was ten years old when we made first contact." He said quietly, turning to look at the stars and away from Xot. "That would have been… Christ, a hundred and five years ago, now.” He chuckled softly at realising the number, and turned back to meet the professor’s gaze again. “Of course, you know who we made first contact with, don’t you?”
If Xot were human, he would have rolled his eyes.
In truth, the professor himself had been very young when humanity was discovered. He was a year old when humans made first contact, 21 at the dawn of the war, and only 36 years of age when it had ended.
“The Vaesk.” Said Xot with audible disinterest.
“The Vaesk. For five full years, we remained in contact with only the Vaesk, as per Council protocol, to be educated on galactic lore. To train our ambassadors, to learn what languages we could, to develop our infrastructure as necessary for our induction into the greater galactic community. Imagine, then, the shock that my father – that Earth – received, when we learned that one of the largest and most influential galactic superpowers– the Gheraani Empire, was a state maintained by the unpaid, forced labour of another race. Slaves. A concept so utterly abhorrent to our species, so barbaric, that it had been abandoned for almost a thousand years. I still remember how my late father spoke of that moment. First contact was, and still is, the single greatest moment in all of human history. Think, doctor. Just imagine, the countless billions of children who’ve looked up at the stars from a million different worlds, each and every one wishing, hoping, that one day, they themselves might walk amongst them. A whole universe of wonder and adventure. Something that was greater, better than themselves. Imagine, then, the moment that he, a child of ten years, realised that instead we would be entering an age where slavery persisted. The look in his eyes as he described what it felt like… I’ll never forget it.”
Waylon paused, his voice tinged with sadness. Xot could tell more was coming, so he said nothing.
“Of course, the Vaesk had been born into this galactic reality so long ago that they were first confused as to why we took contention with this. Why we were being ‘problematic’ by refusing to send ambassadors, refusing to allow trade or exports to reach your systems, refusing any and all association with you. But, eventually, they began to, ah… resonate with our ideas, shall we say. The idea that freedom is a right of all sentient life, and to infringe on that freedom is…wrong. Utterly, without exception. So, in time, the Vaesk sided with us. Then, so did the Gipfeli. Then the Caairan. Even the Bosc. The louder our message became, the faster it spread. Until, eventually, we had spearheaded a coalition of systems that rivalled the strength of the combined Gheraa-.”
“A coalition that plunged 30 systems into WAR!” Xot hissed.
How could this fool be so blind? So emotionally entangled in the petty wants of a relative few, over the stability of worlds that consisted of tens of billions of people?
Waylon was unphased by the outburst.
“- of the combined Gheraani bloc, who were prepared to voice our collective concerns about the Imperium’s behaviour.” He continued. “And so, we made our requests clear. The release of all vassal races, over a ten-year period. Compensation for their treatment, ideally. The denunciation of the practise of Imperial Vassalism, and the reorganisation of worlds that depended on it. We even offered raw material and technology that would have allowed Gheraan to replace their labour sectors with robotic, industrialised alternatives, with no expectation of repayment. Ultimately, if the requests weren’t met, then we wouldn’t be able to conduct business with the Imperium in good faith. The Coalition would refuse to trade with Gheraan in all areas, and Imperial citizens wouldn’t be allowed access to any Coalition territory, which was then a sizeable chunk of charted space. Gheraan itself would face massive economic consequences through lack of trade and travel.”
“A ridiculous offer that only served to heighte-“ Xot began.
“My father was an Admiral, you know.” He joined the United Terran Space Force at 18, and by the time the wars were closing, had command of an entire UTSF fleet.” Said Waylon, not caring to hear Xot’s response. “Seems impossible, I know, but the war was a period of huge flux, and I’ve found that the impossible manifests more than you’d expect in times like that.”
Xot stopped dead in his tracks, his mind racing. He had spent the better part of 60 years becoming the foremost Gheraani expert on the war, and not once had he heard of an Admiral Rhyne.
Just who is this man?
“There was no Admiral Rhyne of the UTSF.” Said Xot, half dismissively, half with tenuous curiosity as to where this was going.
“I took my mother’s surname.” Explained Waylon. “They thought it was best that I not be associated with a commander after the war was over. My father was Titus Thoran.”
Now, it was Xot’s turn to sit in silence. Stunned, paralyzed silence. Dimly aware of Waylon closely examining his reaction, sipping his drink as he did, the utterly dumbfounded professor sat, processing what he had just been told.
“The General Thoran?” he asked quietly.
“The General Thoran.” Responded Waylon.
“The Titus Thoran that became the youngest UTSF Admiral in history, and oversaw the destruction of all 10 of the Great Houses of Nyas? Gheraan’s sister world? Crippling their government, causing it to fall into chaos?”
“The very same.” The old man’s voice was flat, emotionless. If he felt anything about this atrocity, Xot was surely unable to tell.
Xot paused. “I don’t believe you.” He said flatly, folding all four of his arms together and leaning back into his chair.
Waylon said nothing. Instead, he pulled out his own datapad from a pocket, and within seconds presented Xot with a picture of what was unmistakably himself as a young adult, standing next to an elderly and equally unmistakable Admiral Thoran, his entire chest adorned with military medals and honours.
Xot stared, astonished. After a long moment, he gave out a low pitched, stuttered whining – the equivalent of laughter. For quite some time, he sat, his arms resting on the table, whining and grunting, amused beyond words. All the while, Waylon sat, his weathered eyes watching the cackling Gheraani. Eventually, Xot composed himself.
“Gods above, Mr. Thoran,” he said, still laughing as he emphasised the surname - “I must thank you for making my job that much easier by being so very cognisant of the atrocities that the Coalition committed! Your own father was responsible for a maelstrom of chaos on Nyas that began with him beheading their government via the orbital bombardment of over 50 statesmen and stateswomen.”
Waylon seemed unfazed by this accusation. “My father left their society in chaos by removing approximately three hundred million Nediv, Vodani, and Kotharan slaves from Nyas,” he said, “immediately after the leaders of Nyas were executed for their crimes.” His tone was borderline conversational, and his expression remained as unreadable as ever.
“Crimes?” Spluttered Xot, incredulous. “Crimes? The vassals of Nyas were menial labourers! They worked in kitchens, they worked as repairmen, house servants! There were cities dedicated to housing them! THIS is the fundamental issue with humanity that I have spent my career trying to make so clear to the galactic population, Rhyne – your overbearing vanity. Can you not, for a second, comprehend the idea that a species might do something differently to the way humans have historically acted? Again, humanity might have treated their slaves as objects to be bought and sold, but the Imperium never viewed their vassals as expendable. We SAVED them, you fool. They were tools, an unfortunate tool that was strategically utilised so that an unimaginably greater number of individuals may life a better life. So blind were you to the idea that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, that you simply heard the word ‘slave’ and decided that in that single syllable, you were supplied agency enough that it justified you razing entire civilisations to DUST!”
The professor’s temper had risen dramatically as he spoke, and the last word was shouted with venom. Still, Waylon remained completely calm, still with that odd look that Xot was unable to place. What was that emotion? Sadness? Anger? He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the old man’s eyes drilling into him. He felt naked, like the man could see past his body and into soul.
This fool, he thought. This utter fool. How uneducated this man must be – the son of one of the greatest generals of the Coalition, no less – taking this inelegant bastardisation of history as nothing but absolute truth? It beggars belief that…
That the son of one of the war’s greatest generals…
One of the war’s most decorated, travelled generals…
Would
Believe
This.
Suddenly, it dawned on Xot. A terrible realisation.
This man knows something I don’t. At least, he thinks that he knows something that I don’t.
This is why Waylon was so subdued. So quiet. This was that strange look. It wasn’t frustration. It was pity. Waylon hadn’t come to discuss the actions of humanity as he saw them, he had come to provide Xot with a truth. Waylon knew this, and he felt pity for what he was about to show the professor. Xot eyed the human with a new level of caution – part of the professor still wished that it was just his physical safety that he had to fear for.
“What game are you playing, here, Rhyne?” he asked, cautiously.
The old man smiled sadly.
“Menial labourers and repairmen, eh?” he said.
Waylon reached into his coat and produced a small coin-shaped object, barely the size of a poker chip. He placed it on the table gently and slid it across to Xot. “You’re familiar with these?” He asked the professor.
Xot picked it up and examined it closely. There was no question that the item was genuine.
“I- yes, of course. Early Terran datachips. Sixty-four qubit quantum encryption, physically un-rewritable and unerasable once ascribed data. Used to hold extremely sensitive information. Military grade.”
“That was one of my father’s most valuable possessions,” Waylon explained. “We have thousands of items in our estate – trophies, you understand. Relics from battles won, battles lost, memorabilia from the war that he dedicated himself to. That little chip was the one item he treasured above all else. He had a stasis vault built, deep under the estate, singularly to house it.”
Xot flattened his fur anxiously, staring at the chip, then Waylon, and then the chip again.
“What does it contain?”
“Menial labourers and repairmen.” Said Waylon simply, taking the chip and inserting it into his datapad. Immediately, a video filled the screen.
​
Part 2
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