Crisis In Infinite Plexes - Third Echo

v.Fallen

Dexter ordered two more salvos aimed at the latest breach in the wall, rubble exploding as the cannons' shells crashed into the charging bulk of the Demons, some of the creatures still slipping through to be met with the eponymous weapons of the Swords on the ground. Commanding the Haven forces in defence against the Demons' siege – the Arcana had unanimously elected him to the role – reminded Dex of conducting an investigation. You had limited resources - evidence analysis, witness interviews, confidential informants, suspect interrogations – or in this case the skills, talents and tech of the Staves, Swords, Cups and Coins, and you had to decide where to direct them and what to give attention to, what leads to pursue that would most likely lead you to the truth. Dexter's truth today was the survival of the people of Haven. Dex had been a decent cop, along time ago, and he was doing a better-than-decent job at directing the forces at hand, but the Demons were vicious, they were mighty, and they were many. It was not so different than the fighting he had endured at Frontline, but Frontline had fallen...

Dexter pointed with his staff to the northern tower. It was an order to Callan, who was down on the ground, in the thick of the fighting, but always watching for guidance from the commander. It was, based on the patterns of attack so far, where Dexter suspected the next surge of Demons would strike. The staff was the one that Marshal had given him, the strange man they had met in the wasteland. Dexter wondered in every spare moment what had become of him and Wraith. And he still wondered why the Arcana had sanctioned his quest – they said that they would explain once (and if) Haven was safe. Dexter was used to mysteries; the lifetimes he had spent adventuring with the Dragons had forced him to make some sort of peace with unsolved cases.

And he had made peace with death. He had certainly sent enough enemies to the grave, some more deserving than others. And since contracting the Sickness he knew that his end was coming sooner rather than later, regardless of how long he could fight off Demons. The people though, the citizens of Haven, they deserved a chance at a longer life, a better life, and so he would do what he could to give it to them.

Dexter trusted that Callan would be directing the Swords to the new position at the northern tower. He broke away from the scene below him to check in with his team. The Chief Stave gave him a quick rundown of scouting reports from the western wall. The Chief Coin rattled off a list of remaining munitions. The Chief Sword offered a brief analysis of troop distribution. The Chief Cup had a message – Arcana Seventeen wanted to see Dexter.

In her chamber in the central tower, the sounds of the battle outside faint whispers, the Arcana showed Dexter a device, a relic from the founding of Haven.

“I remember that,” Dex said. He felt tense, needed to get back to the fight, but had a sense that something important was happening here. “We had found it in the ruins, thought it was maybe a piece of a Grid.”

“And the first Seventeen kept it and passed it on to each of us who filled the role after her, as a reminder that there was a world, a world of possibilities that had existed before the coming of the Demon Army. That we may one day return to.”

Dexter nodded. He realized that he had long ago stopped dreaming of better worlds, only of survival instead, and he felt a great sadness.

The Arcana continued. “Less than an hour ago, Commander Washington, the device began receiving a signal. An audio message... I wrote down what she said, as best I could.”

Dexter took the sheet of paper, read the precise handwriting.

If I am right about what this is then the Arcana should have a similar device stored somewhere, from when Haven was founded...I have been trying to send that device a signal from this one, and now this one has received a transmission, so now I think I understand how it works... If I do and this is transmitting... Dammit, it's always so complicated... Here goes: It's Wraith, I'm with Darius... And we are at the Portal, where the Demons came from... And we received a transmission here, on our device... It was strange but he figured it out, Max did...

Dexter's eyes went wide. He kept reading, had a brief flash of memory, of reading a science fiction novel when he was a teenager.

Marshal was Max... I wonder if the Arcana knew, somehow? Max deciphered the message – he said it was from Control. That he needed to meet with Control. And then he went into the Portal...

'Of course he did,' Dexter thought with a smirk.

So if you are somehow receiving this, please get this message to Dexter or Callan or the Arcana, please let them know that something is happening... please tell them to keep fighting.

Crisis In Infinite Plexes - Second Wave

v.Western

Wraith reined in her horse.

“Why are we stopping?” Mags asked.

Some townsfolk had begun gathering at windows and doorways.

“And what's your plan?” Wraith asked her with a sneer. Marshal Wednesday Wraith was far from your typical lawbringer but she still didn't care much for bounty hunters. It was a matter of discipline, of dedication. But if Sugarcube had been friends with this one, well that counted for something.

Mags returned the look. “We ride straight on to Logollos ranch and settle up.”

Callan was studying the onlookers, trying to get a read... Were they nervous or relieved at the appearance of the ragtag posse? “I'm all for taking risks, but...” he said.

“But there's something more going on here,” Darius finished. The accounts of the duel that had lured Sugarcube's former companions to Omega Canyon, passed on by postal riders, cowboys and travelling salesmen, had all hinted at darker goings-on than a simple showdown.

“It'll take learning the truth to make this justice and not just vengeance,” Dexter said.

Mags shrugged, as if the latter was good enough for her. But she followed the group as they made for The Hanged Man Saloon.

v.Space

The Dragon suddenly lurched, the lights on the bridge flickered. The Captain steadied herself and looked to her First Officer.

“Recommend attack posture,” Comm. Washington said, his tone grim.

“Lokk?” she asked, one last time, looking for an excuse. The Lieutenant was furiously studying the transmissions from the unknown vessel, trying to interpret them, to decode them, to find any hint that they were an attempt to communicate and not a sign of aggression. With every pulse, though, their ship was taking damage.

“Chief Angellus, configure power distribution for combat mode. Commander, begin backing us off, slow and steady, with evasive manoeuvres in queue.”

Lt. Cube's voice broke in over the speakers. “Captain, the Legacy ship just one-eightied. Full-speed in the opposite direction. I'd like to take credit but we were only teasing them with target-locks.”

Magenta frowned. “Give me a full-radius Metawave scan.” It would mean diverting computing power from analyzing the mysterious pulses but Lokk obeyed the order without hesitation. His eyes widened as his screen registered the sensor sweep – the target vessel, Cube's Hangman, Wraith's Reaper, the retreating Judgement-class ship... and an approaching fleet of Ether-type Exo battlecruisers.

Before he could relay the result his peripheral screens flickered with new data. Another incoming transmission from the vessel, three-times the intensity of the last one.

v.Fallen

The Eye had eventually crashed but they had survived. The plan had worked. They crawled from the Gutter, out past Frontline, deep in the Wasteland, and saw the Demon portal.

The sky bright with falling stars. Toxic fumes swirling like dervishes. The earth itself heaving and crashing like the sea against cliffs. Orbs of green and yellow flame flickering then erupting.

At the centre of the frothing tumult, a hole of pure white, like a circular section of a painting had been scraped clean to reveal the canvas beneath.

Darius shouted over the howling, screaming winds. "Max, I'm having more of those visions! For a second we were all together again but we were superheroes! Could we be shifting again?"

Max stared at the chaos before them. There weren't any Demons, they had all marched to Haven. "I don't think so... Maybe it's a time distortion? Maybe the proximity to the portal is letting you see glimpses of our future?" He looked back to his friend, smiling. "Aw hell Darius, you know I don't really know what's going on most of the time! I just guess and try to sound clever!"

Darius smiled back. Wraith stepped between them; she was holding a jury-rigged device that they had salvaged from the Grid when they first hijacked the Eye. Wraith had been convinced that she could use it to send a signal to Haven, to let them know that the Dragons fought on, but so far she had been unsuccessful.

"Did you get it working?" Darius asked.

"I... I don't know," Wraith said. "It suddenly started receiving a transmission."

*

Now Aqua's headphones began making a strange scratching sound. Akimoto's voice getting lost in static, then a high-pitched whine. She took them off. Looked back and forth in the empty subway car.

Sometimes their car was attached to others, sometimes you could see other people in the attached cars, sometimes the windows were blurry. And sometimes, like now, there was only darkness outside the windows. Until they reached a station. Aqua hoped they reached one soon, she had to pee.

Maybe Max or Akimoto or Suki, or one of the others would be at the next station. It worked like that sometimes. She was wishing right now that she paid more attention to how things worked, but it was all pretty confusing, and she was young, and mostly she just liked the action and adventure of it all.

The door to the conductor's booth opened and Bishop's body slumped out onto the floor.

Fallen Final

"One day he was gone.

"Max had already been burnt out by the time we stormed the Temple. All the shifting, all his 'cubed' experiences, all the stress and uncertainty. Then being trapped here. Losing Maggie, again. None of us were totally surprised that he left. Dex was bitter, Wraith was angry, Callan was resigned, but none of us were surprised.

"And I was the least surprised of all, because Max had told me that he was going."

Wraith straightened in her seat, her frame tense. This was new to her, a story she hadn't yet heard. Darius glanced at her as he sipped his tea, and continued.

"He had come to believe that he was the problem, that Morganfokker was behind all of it and that he was carrying Morganfokker's signal, his sickness, with him. He thought that he had screwed up and gotten all of us trapped here. And he realized that as long as he was around we might never find our way clear of all the bad weird shit. I know, it's pretty egotistical when you think about it, but he might have been right.

"So he said that he was going underground, that he would go into hiding, use some of that weird identity magic he knew, and we would see what happened. And that he would try and find a way to make things better, and if he did he would come back. I nicknamed it the 'Once and Future Cube' plan. Make no mistake, things were still bad after he was gone - the Demons were relentless - but... Things were less weird without Max around."

Wraith was shaking her head but it was impossible to tell what she was feeling behind the mask.

"So," Marshal said. "Why did he tell you? When he didn't tell anyone else?"

"I'm not sure," Darius replied. "I've wondered about that. Why do you think he might have told me?"

Marshal considered. "The way you talk about everything, you seem to understand a bit of what it was like for Max."

Darius considered, a glimmer in his one eye. "I like to think I did. I tried to. So is that why you decided to tell me?"

"What?" Marshal blinked.

Darius smiled slightly. "You can tell me now, why you decided then to tell me about the 'Once and Future Cube'."

Marshal took a deep breath. A strange look on his face. "I... I knew..." He wasn't sure if he was making things up or remembering them. "I knew that I would need someone's help to get back."

Wraith stood up. Darius asked, "And why would you be coming back?"

"Because there was a chance... A chance to make things better."

"And what would it be?"

He thought about everything he had studied in Haven, everything he had learned from the Arcana. He thought about what he had seen in the borderlands, the ruins, the Demons. The Dragons and the stories that Darius had told him.

"If... If you could use one of the Grids to take control of an Eye... You could fly the Eye through one of the Gutters, out past Frontline... To where the Demons come from. It must be a portal. That would be your way to get out. Or shut them down. Or both. And now that the bulk of their forces have advanced on Haven..." He blinked again.

Darius grinned. "Alright Max, let's try it." Wraith nodded. "And we'll see what happens next."

Fallen Six

Previously in the Metaplex... 

“Things had gotten strange. Even stranger, I guess. And they had gotten desperate. More fragmented than ever. Things were happening out of order. Max was experiencing different versions with a different team. One of them had died but they got her back. Then another was killed. The man they called The Professor was experimenting with something they called Plexotron technology, remixing events like they were music. And another man was hunting Max, a man called Morganfokker. 

“It seemed like everywhere we went Morganfokker was waiting, and people started to get hurt. Memphis, Precious, Summer, Amber... He got to all of them. As a way to get to us. And Max thought he had figured it out. Morganfokker was able to track us through plureality because we were a convergence. Our signals were amplified because we were all in sync. So the answer was to separate.

“We needed to hide, to go our own ways. Go to dark places, dangerous places. So that Morganfokker couldn't find us. It was the only way we could keep each other safe, keep other people from being used as pawns against us. That's why we broke into the Temple, fought our way to the final chamber. The Seven Lotus Portals were our way out. It was an escape plan. 

“We would keep seeking, keep trying to find a way to fight back, and hopefully reunite someday. In the meantime, no one else would get hurt. 

“Except that when we went through the portals we all ended up here, together. Trapped. And the Demon invasion had already started. So we did what we were used to doing, teamed up and fought back. And the invasion became a war."

Darius didn't have any answers about the Eyes, the Grids, the Gutters, what the world had been like before the Demons came. The Dragons learned what they could about the rules of this reality and helped build Frontline. They helped create Haven ("How old are all of you?" "Don't get me started about time and plureality.") They helped keep the Demons back long enough for the Arcana to start forging a new world amidst the ruins of the old.

He told Marshal about Aqua's Sacrifice, about Callan's Transformation, about Wraith's Curse, and about Dexter's Sickness. He told him about Maggie's Fall ("Dark Maggie, like Dark Willow, or Dark Phoenix I guess, if you want to go that far back - it must be a Magical Redhead trope." "I don't understand what any of that means..."). There were wins and a lot of losses. There were different theories about why they were here. Had something gone wrong with the Portals? Had Max made a mistake? Had Control tricked them? Was this what the world looked like without Morganfokker?

And then Darius told Marshal about the Disappearance of Max Cube.

Fallen Five

Whatever Frontline had been before falling to the Demon Army, it was now only ruins. There were echoes of great structures, baroque generators, fearsome towers, but now they were only more ash and corpses. Marshal wondered if that was somehow the answer to the questions that had driven him forth from the safety of Haven; that no matter what the stories said, it would all end in ruins. 

And yet Darius was still here, still alive. Wraith embraced him, the warm gesture sitting oddly on her lethal frame, somehow more honest and touching for it. She made the introductions and Darius led them below-ground, a bunker where he had hidden as the enemy had burned through the last line of hope. He spoke about conducting raids, stealthy strikes against the marching Demons, each kill one less creature that would reach Haven. Marshal couldn't see any weapons in the bunker, the tales were vague on how Darius fought. He made them tea, water boiled over a fire. Any gear sent by the Cups and Coins was gone, all of it poured into the last stand and washed away in defeat. Marshal gathered that Darius' grievous injuries were not recent; he moved deftly, prepping their drinks smoothly with one eye and one hand. He was smiling. There was a serenity in him, soft like a candle-flame. 

“I don't know,” he said, answering a question Marshal hadn't yet asked. “I guess once we all realized that we weren't going to shift anymore, that this version was our last one, I sorta made peace with things ending. I'm not saying that I gave up.” 

Wraith sipped her tea from a straw – the mask was never removed. “No you did not, my friend. You fought on.” 

“Maybe you could say,” he continued, “that I made peace with war. Some part of me always held out hope for the idea that we would all retire someday. Dex and Wraith would get married. Callan would buy the Diner. Twofeathers and I would get a cool studio apartment together, maybe make music. But the longer we were here, after everything that happened, I figured out that none of that would ever come true... But I also figured out that I didn't need it to. That the story of it was enough for me. How the idea of that version made me feel was enough to keep me fighting.” 

They were quiet for a time. Marshal said, “I don't follow what you mean by 'shift' and 'version'.”

Darius chuckled. “Speaking of stories, eh? This will be a long one, but I guess that's why you're here. And what better way to wait out the end of the world? Okay, let's start with-”

Fallen Four

Callan tensed atop the rubble. Dex took Marshal's arm. “We need to go, we have to keep moving.”

Marshal bent to retrieve his staff. “Wait, what about Darius?” In the stories of the Dragons there were always four of them. Marshal had wondered if there was some unconscious symbolism at work: four Dragons, four Agencies of Haven. The Staves, The Swords, the Cups, The Coins. Dexter, Wraith, Callan, and Darius. 

“He stayed behind,” Dex said. “He wasn't ready to leave.” 

“Could he have survived?” Marshal asked. Callan descended quietly from his perch, pointing to the left. Dex nodded at the gesture. 

“Like Wraith said, we're way past impossible. Now come on, there are more closing.” 

“No. I'm going to find Darius. I have to know.” 

“I'll tell you every damn answer to every damn question you have, once we've made it back to Haven. They have to be warned.” 

Marshal shook his head. “It's... It's not the same. I have to complete my mission. I have to see Frontline for myself. Especially if we are at the end of things.” 

Dex sighed. “Son, you will not make it there -” 

“I will take him,” Wraith said, returning from the shadows. “Callan can see you safely to Haven so they can at least be told what is coming. And you need to find out why the Arcana let this guy come out here alone. One final mystery.” 

Dex stared at Wraith. Marshal had the sense that her mask meant nothing to Dex, that he could see exactly what she was thinking and feeling. She made that same casual shrug. They both looked to Callan, who nodded. 

Marshal gave Dex his staff, an upgrade from the cane.

And so it came to be that Wraith and Marshal parted from Callan and Dex, and traveled for days through the borderlands, foraging for edible weeds and rainwater, hiding often, evading – as only a legendary Ninja could – the clusters of Demons marching towards Haven. Wraith said little. Marshal warned her that his dose of Cloak would expire soon; she began teaching him meditations that would shroud him from the Eyes. On the fourth day Marshal saw a frenzied burst of putrid colours on the horizon; Wraith told him that it was discharge from an active but corrupted Grid. By the journey's end Marshal felt toxic, he felt purged, felt broken and forged. 

And so Marshal came at last to Frontline, where he met the last Dragon, Darius. 

Fallen Three

“That's impossible,” Marshal said. 

“That's cute,” Wraith said. “Look around. Do you think that word has any meaning anymore?”

“Wraith,” another voice said, a new figure entering the scene. Elderly, stooped, using a cane. “Remember this version is all he has ever known.” 

Wraith made a movement like a shrug and faded into the shadows. Callan sniffed the air and perched atop a mound of rubble, keeping watch. The old man walked over to Marshal. Extended his hand. “My name is Dex. Good to meet you.” 

The stories about Dexter Washington told of a brave peacekeeper, a warrior and leader devoted to justice and willing to break the rules to achieve it. Despite the man's age and frailty, Marshal could immediately sense the accuracy of the tales. The handshake was strong in a way that transcended muscle and bone. “I'm Marshal, of the Staves. Is it true? About Frontline?” 

Dex frowned. “It is. The last of the Swords stationed with us fell two days ago. We fought for another day, until... Well, I know 'tactical withdrawal' is just a fancy way of saying 'retreat'. But it's better than 'surrender' I guess.” 

Marshal's eyes were wide. The people of Haven lived in fear of destruction by the Demon Army. They always had. The Swords were dedicated to preventing that fate. And much of the work of the Cups and Coins went towards supporting the Swords. The losses of the soldiers that never returned from battle were keenly felt and only served to reinforce how precious and fragile the sanctuary of Haven was. And yet the threat, so permanent and omnipresent, had become almost abstracted, another story to be told but not fully believed. 

Another story that was coming true. 

Dexter sighed. “I'm sorry, son. We failed you. After everything...” And Marshal sensed that he was talking about more than losing Frontline, more than the War, maybe even more than the Fall? 

“You just saved my life,” Marshal said. Trying to give them something. 

“Why are you out here?” Dex asked. 

“I was looking for you. I was... curious. I wanted to know... I needed to know...” 

“And the Arcana let you go? Alone?” Dex looked troubled. Exchanged a glance with Callan. 

Too much was happening. The stench of Demon's blood in the air. “How, sir? How did it happen?” As if understanding the cause and effect would make it more digestible. The same reason he was out here in the borderlands in the first place? 

Dex looked both sad and angry. “Well. It turns out that Max was wrong. Wrong about Control. Wrong about Morganfokker. Wrong about everything.” 

“I don't understand. Who is Max?” 

Fallen Two

The Staves kept detailed records of all the activities in Haven. They organized and directed, they administered. They assisted and coordinated with the Arcana Council to ensure that Haven continued. And when they could they researched what they could of the world outside Haven, like investigating a crime scene or performing an autopsy. They had learned about the Eyes, they knew something of the Gutters and the Grids, and they knew about the Demons. What was still a mystery was the Fall itself; how the world had come to be this way and why. Who built the Gutters and Grids, what gave birth to the Eyes, and what started the War with the Demons. There were as many theories as Staves, and the Cups and Coins had their own, as well. The Swords had little time or inclination to speculate, but the rumours they brought back from Frontline suggested that the Dragons had answers to these questions. 

And the Dragons were real, Marshal could now see. As real as the stories about them. Callan, chest heaving, claws dripping with gore from the slaughtered Demon. The first Demon; three more had appeared from the ruins. Callan adjusted his stance, a strange mix of grace and ferocity in his movement. The Demons, sharp edges and menace, slowly spread out as they crept closer, preparing to flank their prey. Marshal quickly looked around for cover. The pistol and his staff were shaking in his hands; he knew that he should drop the staff for a better grip on the gun but couldn't bring himself to do it. There were no mantras anymore, only the hissing and scratching of the approaching monstrosities. There was no visualization anymore, only the combat unfolding before him. 

And the sight of another figure entering the scene. A woman, masked, brandishing a pair of tonfas. Marching calmly and quickly from the shadows towards the Demon on the left. By the mask she wore, carved in resemblance of the creatures she now faced, Marshal recognized her as Wraith. The Ninja. The Assassin. The left Demon halted and snapped its dripping jaws as Wraith closed, and suddenly Callan sprang forth, another growling leap, diving upon the distracted left Demon, another vicious attack. And Wraith moved in the exact same moment, launching into a series of precision cartwheels, passing directly under Callan in mid-leap and intercepting the middle Demon, catching it off-guard in the feint, landing upright with her tonfas spinning and striking. 

Here it was, happening before him, the tales of Demons and Dragons come to life. Brutal and terrifying. In a way they were easier to believe in when they were only stories. Seeing the combat before him shook Marshal to the core, his hands still shaking, the world suddenly more... Just more than he was ready for. But there was the third Demon on the right, starting to charge forward in the ruins, coming to tip the balance of the battle. Marshal dropped his staff and raised the pistol in both hands. 

The first shot was wide, the second high, and then it was too late. The distance bridged, the Demon pouncing at Wraith. Except right at that moment, Callan sank his claws into the arm of his opponent and dropped into a controlled roll that took the Demon off-balance, the roll continuing until Callan could plant his feet against the creature and kick out. Catapulting the Demon through the air to collide with the third one, knocking it off-course just as Wraith drove her tonfas into the eyes of her opponent. Tearing them free, Callan leaping, the Dragons descending on the left and right Demons, tangled and stunned. Killing blows. 

And Marshal saw that they were so much more than even the tales told of them. 

The War Mask made her voice low and metallic. “Hurry,” Wraith said, gesturing at Marshal. “We have to move. Frontline has fallen.” 

Fallen One

The zone between Haven and Frontline was quiet. Ash and the corpses of buildings. As a member of the Staves, he had never ventured this far into the ruins. If he had waited three days a Sword would have been able to escort him but for some reason he had elected to undertake the journey alone. The Arcana, after a brief and private deliberation, for some reason, had approved. He carried the staff, more symbol than weapon, his satchel, one pistol with two spare clips (a gift from the Coins). In the boiling murk of sky the jagged bulks of corrupted Eyes hovered and drifted; the injection of Cloak coursed through his bloodstream (a gift from the Cups), masking him from their cavernous gaze. He whispered the mantras taught to him by Arcana Five, wrangling his nervous neural patterns into docile shapes in case the Eyes peered into the psychic spectrum. The Swords said that they rarely did, not over the border zone, since there was little life left to see. 

It was quiet but not silent. Moaning winds, rubble settling, steel creaking. Too easy to imagine as the sounds of ghosts. He walked on, staff in hand, mantras in his mind. Until one of the ambient haunting noises became too regular to be random. Something was following him. If it wasn't a Sword patrol (still three days away) or a Coin shipment (none scheduled), then that meant it was... 

He drew the pistol, visualized the pattern that Arcana Eleven had taught him, and turned to face the direction of the noise. He had never ventured this far into the ruins. He had never seen a live Demon. The Swords were trained to fight Demons. If he had waited three days he wouldn't be alone. He wondered why he had felt the need to leave immediately. He watched the pocked and razored carapace of the creature lurch forth from the skeleton of a skyscraper. It was somehow shiny in the permanent twilight and giving off smoke like charred wood. He wondered why the Arcana had agreed to let him travel alone. He was sure that he was getting the visualization wrong, forgetting the mantras. He had read every account there was of the Swords' encounters with Demons, he had read every research paper written about them. When it moved it made a sound like poisoned lungs wheezing for their last breath. He pointed the pistol. It began to growl. 

Except the growl was not coming from the Demon. From behind him instead. Becoming a snarl, then above him, becoming a roar, and another creature leaping through the air over him towards the Demon. Claws and fangs flashing. There was a collision, the wheezing pitched up into a scream, blood suddenly erupting, a thick stench of infection. The new creature tearing and rending, smaller than the Demon but more savage, the shape of a man, almost. 

He had read all of the accounts from the Swords who had travelled to Frontline and back to Haven, their stories of the guardians there who led the forces against the Demon Army. Most of them were likely embellished, understandably exaggerated, fables for morale. The Dragons, they called them. Exactly who he was searching for. So he recognized who stood before him, over the corpse of the Demon, by description, which turned out to be true and not a tall tale after all. The Mystic Warrior, the Tiger Man. 

“You're Callan,” he said. “My name is Marshal.”