Arknights story · Episode 13: The Whirlpool that is Passion
13-1 Across the Battlefield's Line
The Military Commission formally seizes Londinium, stirring the nations of Terra awake. The Ursus Royal Guard makes its own presence known in Victoria. Driven away by Sarkaz mercenaries, Hoederer and companions resolve to locate the Lich's Messenger, and get some information.
1 scenes, 248 lines
1. Interlude
248 linesThe Senior Professor of Classics to the Victorian National University, Samuel Seuss, once likened the ample library of Sir Cassegrain to the holly trees upon Londinium's fringes.
In these essences of knowledge, these long shadows of history, we never fail to find parallels to how we ourselves have gone, and to how we will go.
Recorded are the epics and philosophies, one by one filed away are mythologies and theories. Humble scholars fill page to page with their wisdom and diligence, each laureate poet a bookshelf to themselves.
'Someday the storm will pass, for hope can never truly die. What is formed of these accounts in ink; that is our civilization in all its pride.'
Sir Cassegrain was a decent gaolmate; we debated over many a question through our wall. The wall that was, perhaps, the sole reason our time came to an end without his realizing I was a Sarkaz; he simply took me as Victorian, one too mired in introspection at that.
I still remember his last words to me, before being dragged from that neighboring cell.
'In any time of trouble, a proud Victorian need only return there, and the winter of our discontent will once again feel not so endless after all, and the coming of spring the closest thing.'
'...Friend, you need only return there.'
You're SOL.
I tried those already. Even the paper's the good calfskin stuff—those books ain't burning.
Why call it paper if it's calfskin, anyway? Why don't we say 'writing skin' or something?
I dunno.
Screw us, this fire just ain't happening. We've got all smoke and no warm soup pot.
'Soup'... This stuff's just water with a couple stems and scraps we tossed in.
You know what, this is all their fault!
Those sneering Royal Court shitheads have us out here doing all the hard and dirty work, snatching Londiniers across to work their factories across the ENTIRE city, and they won't even give us a hot bowl of something for the trouble.
Captain said we've officially seized Londinium now.
Defense Forces got disbanded. That Lettou guy's out, the Liberi.
Well, I'm starting to regret not going with W. Goddamn loony woman.
Whatever... probably wouldn't turn out any better if I did.
What... are all these books, anyway?
Could be discount catalogs for all I care.
Why would some old Feline collect this many discount catalogs?
What is it with you and questions. Who gives a shit what goes on in a Victorian's head.
Still, never seen an old man cry his eyes out like that. Were you watching? Got his embroidered lapel all gunked up with his own snot.
......
Hey, snap out of it! Get me some more books, the fire's about to go out.
What are you doing?
Uh... reading them.
What 'reading'? You ain't literate! And all this shit's in Victorian anyway!
Well, there's pictures in here too! Look at these drawings, there's a Feline girl here giving this boy a real slap. What do you think's the deal with these two?
Cheating, I'd figure. Anything more interesting?
No, all the other pictures are dull... Just one of these things is a couple hundred pages. How many books do we have here?
And the thinner ones over there. They only put a few words on each line, so you have to keep looking down for the next one... What IS it Victorians are writing in these?
Do the lands really have that much worth writing books about?
This one, this one, and that one... all kept in these beautiful glass cases, and they're all different kinds?
Here's another possibility: Victorians are so stinking rich, they'll pay to bind their own toilet paper.
Hah. Maybe.
Why don't we have books of our own? They flip through these things so much the edges are curled...
Maybe we do. Y'know you hear how the Liches are a bunch of nutjobs who hole themselves up in libraries. No one sees 'em for years and years, that's how long.
Not that my ass cares. Hot soup to drink means more than any of that.
Yeah. The days just blend together. These books just blend together.
Even if I can't read, I know it. There's never one new thing under the sun.
A thousand years ago, we macheted people to death. Now, we've got more efficient weapons.
A thousand years in the future, we'll be flying through the sky, and using... I dunno, clouds and stars? To keep on killing and killing.
Y'know, if we put houses on the moons, plant our own food, maybe we won't have to keep fighting like this in the future? Maybe something even bigger'll happen, and everyone'll stop wanting to be up in arms?
Haha.
...*sigh*.
*yawn* Never mind, let's get that next book burning.
Sometimes I wonder if the work I'm doing is just me satisfying myself, just trying to prove to myself I'm still one of the 'awake'.
What Ines said, really. It keeps me up at night and nothing else.
After all, Kazdel's not going to be overflowing with people who can use a printing press.
You need to get up to speed ASAP, boy. This isn't the classroom. I'm not obligated to teach you the ropes.
You could just run your butt back to the countryside. How many more months is your internship?
I—I'm very sorry, sir, I just... wanted to be scrupulous about my writing.
'Scrupulous'? I don't want a goddamn Catastrophology thesis, I want OUR circulation beating our union friends at Kawalerielki Sports, and I want them beaten hard, 24/7!
If you're the office workers passing by the newsstand, or the intercity net news subscribers, is an essay titled 'Victoria Makes Massive Strides in Catastrophology' going to pry your cash loose?
But—don't you think 'Sarkaz Destroy Victoria!' is a little... you know, for a headline...
You think our readers want the truth? Even the Central Journal's top-tier subscribers aren't asking for the 'truth'.
You need to spoonfeed them worry, fear, feelings of superiority, sliiiightly leading emotional appeals followed by hard verdicts, and THEN they'll want more.
THEN they'll pluck cash out of their pockets. THEN you'll guarantee your goddamn job.
Who is it? You know what time it is right n—
What?!
...How long ago did that—new courier truck leave with our plates?
Half an hour ago—is—is there some kind of breaking news from Victoria?
No, you idiot! Move, we're going to the printers now! They should still be on shift! We can still make it!
I'll give the chief editor a call! You write me a new lead article ASAP! Front page material!
On what?
My informant says Viviana—The Candle Knight, Nova Knightclub, long AWOL—she's formally announcing retirement TOMORROW!
Quick, we need to be the FIRST body in ALL OF KAZIMIERZ to report on this!
Oughta prove to the GCC just which Rose Paper editorial really matters most.
Then what about Victoria and The Shard...
Who cares, boy! A million things a day happen on Terra—
And we only need the most meaningful scoops out of them all, remember that.
Call a cab already!
O—Okay!
Come to mention, sir, there'd always been unlicensed devils around here running their own taxis...
Have you noticed them kind of vanish lately?
The history of Sarkaz is the history of war itself. It is a lamentable fact, one I am loyal to.
Yet still I attempt to prove to them that slaughter aside, there are events about us worth being remembered, reflected on.
Upon this land, those events that had the luck to be written of assiduously—those can be counted on one's fingers.
And yet, even if I record these past affairs...
This isn't what we agreed on!
No stock means no stock, Tona. What you see is what you get. All Originium explosives are sold out.
And the weapons I ordered? Are you expecting us to walk into that cave teeming with Originium slugs and giant gloompincers and Heaven knows what other monsters, and just—tackle them with our bare hands?
That's your problem to deal with, not mine. Listen here, you've been cruising the entire black market for the last three weeks and managed to get, what? Half a dozen weapons? Less.
What mercenary squad could possibly snatch everything up? Are they insane? Even Solar Valley Industries couldn't possibly buy this much—
...Was it a lord ameer?
So which sadsack lord ameer got ripped off this time? I want a hint. We'll divert around.
N—No, no lord ameer. They were such a mystery, I couldn't say...
(Whisper) It was probably... the pasha. And—not just one.
It might even be—
What the hell are you feeding me? Pashas on a shopping spree at the black market? And more than one?
That's impossible. They have their own channels, and... multiple, buying weapons in huge bulk? Do you know what that even entails?
All I've got is a blind guess.
They went through several layers of middlemen, and used some foreign firms to keep their hands extra clean. Every purchase happened to be some quantity that wouldn't raise suspicion, so if someone called coincidence, it might just pass.
But who, in Sargon, could ever monopolize all this so perfectly?
......
Hey, buddy.
Got my rides and supplies sorted?
Ayup. Four cars, rations, water, tents, all good to go.
Good. Here's the cash.
When the hell did 'Spacer' get that wealthy?
No, I hear he and his band of mercs are planning to ditch Sargon. They rustled up all the money they have to head someplace else.
Columbia, probably, or Victoria? Lot more devil mercs career changing than usual, I feel like.
What for? Don't all of 'Spacer's' relatives live in Sargon? Does he not care about his old baba with the broken leg?
Who knows. I've never been able to make heads or tails of how these devils think. Maybe they're just sick enough of desert and rainforest, they want to switch up their surroundings now.
...That'd be best-case.
It's been like this recently... things just getting weird levels of complicated, left and right. Makes no sense to me at all.
—Dammit, the only thing my grandpa ever had to figure out was which leporibeast shorthorn ran the slowest and made the best dinner for us. They didn't hit this many setbacks in their time, did they?
Could be us rural Sargon people just feel 'it' coming.
'It'?
Just like a shorthorn, once it gets intense, it'll knock you flat.
Even if I write of these, write of our dialects, and our recipes...
Of peasant wives' songs, of a chief courier's great drunken boasts; of romance in the trenches, of graffiti in the ruins...
These things, in the face of our suffering, pale beyond mention.
They are reduced even to an irony of sorts, seeming to inform my readers (if I even have any) that we'd be best served using violence to wrest them back.
That was never my intent. Even so, I... have no right to be serving you my verdict.
That Messenger should be here by now. Did some fanciful girl steal his heart on the way again?
I've had enough of his tardy excuses by now. Isn't there anyone who can drill into his head how much his job matters?
He won't be coming. Postal Messenger Arthur Morrison is dead.
Dead?!
Executed on grounds of treason.
T—Treason? Wh... Who in the land are you?
I'm doing my job—cooperate, and you'll make both our lives a lot easier. Tell me what you know about Arthur Morrison, please.
I—I hardly knew him, really, just that he was the only postal Messenger around who'd make the run to Londinium—my own daughter goes to university there—so him and I only exchanged the odd word.
He was a treasonist...? Was he taking Sarkaz help? My girl wrote to me how Londinium's been littered with them lately.
That wretch! I knew he was a scoundrel at the first moment! Trust him to gang up with the devils—he got what he deserved!
No.
Our comprehension is that Arthur Morrison served Ursus.
Ursus? B-But...
And you... were his coworker, Mr. Wesley Roett.
Wha—
Hah, hahah—sir, surely you must be joking! I'm a Feline born and bred—I've been planting potatoes here all my life—I couldn't speak you a word of Ursine!
There must be some misunderstanding here!
I know potatoes couldn't afford your daughter's tuition at the Victorian National University.
—
Eaaagh!
If you insist on being stubborn, I can free you of your other arm too.
Don't waste my time. No resistance of yours is meaningful.
...So, the rumors were true.
That Ursus was right! Londinium's been occupied! For the past month, I haven't gotten a single word from the place, not even the tiniest hearsay.
Those goddamned Sarkaz. They disgrace us, they murder us, they enslave us! And you, you self-professed protectors of Victoria, what have you done?
Don't you have anyone in Londinium? A dear friend, a father, a mother, a child?
Of course, of course, you're bigger than that! You get to pull them out safe, yes you do.
But us peasant class, no, we thought we could sent our children to great old Londinium, to the heart of Victoria, where surely they'd grow beyond our wildest expectations.
And now? Haha, hahah! They're laborers to the Sarkaz, slaves to them, in our own country's capital!
Those devils are turning Victoria's tempest on Victoria itself, and you people are just letting it happen!
You could never hope to grasp Victoria's motives with your shallow insight.
All you need to do is take me to your intel exchange.
As if I woul—!
Excuse me?
Ghk—rgggh—
Eugh...
An ashen lance bursts forth from his body.
The man facing him thrusts his hands out, an attempt to allay the fear of his chest being run through.
His hands, the instant they touch that deep impurity, are warped and withered.
*hiss*...
From afar comes a wracked breath, spine-chilling.
......
It's me. 'Castshire's flowers bloom for spring.'
Close all comms. If I haven't initiated contact again in fifteen minutes, abandon this town immediately.
...May I have the strength not to drown in the flowers' scent.
In the height of midsummer, he exhales frigid mist.
He cannot cower. He cannot shrink. He must establish communications with the opposite side, in Victoria's name.
Where is it?
*hiss*... *huff*...
11, 29, 1. (Code word).
He must not look back. They must not catch sight of each other. He only hopes his adversary is fully aware to abide by the rules of this little game.
He can tether a beast, but not a Poltergeist.
Snowflakes whirls about, jet black sinking into the soil of Victoria.
A long, slender shadow stretches out from underfoot. He knows. It's right behind him.
How close? His heart pounds like thunder. Black breaths clamor at his back. All around him, dead silence.
*hiss*...
(Gaulish) I need an explanation.
93. (Code word).
(Gaulish) This operation has not received Royal assent. We will not pardon any breach of authority.
(Gaulish) The treasonists have all been executed. Over.
(Gaulish) Understood. We've never met before.
*huff*...
...He's gone.
Sir Trilby Asher, our surveillance picked up—
Your surveillance picked up nothing.
The fact he could enter and leave us alive, that declares where Victoria and Ursus stand. All this needs to be reported directly to the Duke.
Wesley Roett was cornered and took his own life. The mission is over.
Seems to me like the Armies and the Emperor aren't on the same page.
But any action we take could succeed in bringing about their conciliation.
They haven't settled on their plans yet, but their Empire... their fear, that will make their decision for them.
Tell me—has my work fallen among the firewood too? Are all Sarkaz's lives, save for being lit aflame, devoid of any meaning?
Then why do I still insist on recording? Why do I still insist on writing?
Because while my history of war recounts our destruction time and time again...
It is my wish to leave the song of every soldier, after the fighting is over, as they turn their gazes to yonder Kazdel.
To our seven. Three cars, fifteen-plus riders. They've been following us forever, but... they're staying wary.
Following, this entire time. Just following.
Why not tell W to hang a U-turn? Maybe they'll be happy to say hi. You could get some free Londinium souvenirs.
Souvenirs? Inside that giant ball of Arts they're hand-shaping?
I'm treasuring the last few close shaves just fine, thanks.
The way these mercs are working doesn't add up. Especially the way they're hunting us. No, not hunting... they're driving us off.
They want us away from Londinium.
Aww, our high-'n'-mighty General Manfred's sparing your life, isn't that sweet of him. You sure you two didn't swear a blood oath?
Wanna take his kind advice, scoot back to Kazdel and teach some slum kiddos how to read?
......
My point is, who let you out of the Military Commission's dungeon? You were going walkies outside of Londinium's walls by the time I picked you up.
My cell was left unguarded for a while. I thought it was a trap at first, but now I think I'm in something worse.
Sure, he can be roundabout with me, hinting for me to go resolve some pain in the ass affair... but I think I'd prefer him just killing me, then. That would've been easier.
Not to mention, we still aren't sure what 'pain in the ass' we're even solving.
Then don't bother with it.
W, can you speed up a little? It's time we said goodbye to this clingy convoy of send-offs.
Yeah, my second-hander here's not gonna stand up to much abuse. Good news, though—
We just hit a minefield.
Laid half an hour earlier by yours personally.
Now, butts in seats.
This looks to me like you're just fording Bomb River.
Haha! I left them the bigger share, I promise.
Stop the car once we circle that forest ahead. From there, we'll get off and proceed on foot. A vehicle's too large of a target, and they'd catch up sooner or later anyway.
Here's hoping you DO remember where you buried every mine, W.
......
Well, hooray for us. We're all in one piece.
How's that? I did remember.
Well, a couple went off, but... uhh, you know, what was the term? 'Tectonic movement' did it.
They haven't caught up. I think we've successfully thrown them off.
We need more information. Ideally, we rendezvous with Rhodes Island ASAP. Ascalon and the Doctor are on Windermere's warship right now.
There's a few things I'm... very uneasy about.
What did you see?
It's just intuition. The less I see any problem, the more uneasy I am.
You guys met this 'Doctor'. And now they're Rhodes Island's Doctor.
...I can't give you the full verdict yet, but there's no doubt that in a sense, the Doctor has 'weakened'.
And I don't mean that in any negative way. But maybe it's not a 'weak Doctor' we need so much right now.
Hmph. You sure? Who knows if some Rhodes op will remember some random thing that happened in Chernobog, and just like that, I get a knife planted in my back?
Are you really as skeptical as you'd like to tell us, W?
Hard to say. There's an old hag kind of keeping me at arm's length from their beloved 'Doctor'.
Haha... I've just been prodded this way and that like some bug. Can't even organize a sensible military op, so all I do is sit in my front row seat and spectate the most magical city siege modern society has to offer...
...Ha. Hmph.
Chaos.
Sometimes I even have to wonder, at this point, is anyone actually conducting this battle?
The Royal Court's legions couldn't work together to save their lives. And who gives a shit about all the smallfry corps scuttling in from the four corners to try and live their dreams of Victorian vengeance?
But the ultimate mastermind here is Theresis. So this chaos has to have been planned down to the last detail.
He wasn't juggling some strategic lollapalooza. He just... set the stage.
—And now he's waiting.
As for what he's waiting for... I don't want to guess.
We can't just go braindumb and reach out to the Doctor or Dr. Kal'tsit, hoping they'll give us the orders. We suffered enough with Babel.
We need to seize the initiative. There's a... source of info that might be more open to us than ever, in our current position.
What position? The pathetic little creepy-crawlies?
Essentially. Sarkaz.
Right, and just on the off-chance—
Have either of you heard of... any method to kill a Lich?