A Dearth of Heroes

11:47AM
Moira Brighton's Bedroom

The doors parted as loyal knights pushed them, revealing in their wake the Lord of the house... and, until recently, the undisputed controller of the Brighton clan.

The Court had indeed been spared the massive destruction experienced in its barrier copy... but the absence of the fire elementals, the lot of them killed in action, was felt as the maids and butlers worked on ladders to hang fluorescent lanterns from dead torch sconces. They lacked a certain dignity, true... but each servant felt a sudden relief and pride as they stole glances at the redheaded man now marching towards the throne... and towards his daughter's back.

Moira had gotten changed yet again following her brief and, in some ways, unfortunate meeting with John. She now wore a modest navy-blue camisole and matching jeans. The sacred relic was in her hand, now, gripped like a worry stone; she remained fixated on the gilded, empty throne before her in a tense stance. William knew she must have heard, or even felt, his entrance; she did not turn to acknowledge him.

Between the two, Lorelei sat at her designated seat at the huge, lonely table, her fingers draped over a wordless book. "Leave us," Lord Brighton declared. Lorelei and Moira both knew his meaning and remained; the servants quickly abandoned their efforts to position the lanterns perfectly, descended their ladders, and filed out until the knights followed them, the last two closing the giant doors behind them. In twelve seconds, the massive hall had been reduced to three occupants... with the Lady the ever-present fourth. No one spoke for a time until Lord Brighton dared. "The Warden of the Spear has gone missing... though the rumors rain that such is her habit. Her caretaker claimed... that she wanted to see you." Lord Brighton looked about the empty hall. "I told them you would let them know when best to arrange such a meeting."

"What is this throne?" Moira suddenly asked.

Lord Brighton's lip wrinkled as his news was ignored. But his daughter's question carried an odd weight; he contemplated her words, but could not decipher why she of all people would ask. "It is the throne we guard... the same we've always guarded."

"A proxy of the throne," Moira clarified.

"Yes." Lord Brighton did not care for her casual tone but checked his frustration; his daughter speaking to him as an equal was hardly an affront, not now when she stood so clearly above him.

"... but not the throne of England."

Lorelei's gentle movements froze for a moment. Lord Brighton considered the throne through narrowly-slitted eyes. Neither replied.

"... then what? I know what it isn't, but... what is it? The Lady will not say."

"The Lady cannot say," Lorelei interjected.

"It is not for us to know," William offered, "except to know that it is our duty to protect it."

Moira turned, her eyes aglow with the light of the Lady. The shield shimmered in her hand but did not grow to arm her. "Is this what it was for you... for mother? An urging, a flat refusal to lie to the self... but when you want answers, sometimes the Lady is just... silent?" She looked to the tapestries upon the walls, the coat of arms of the Brighton clan, and all its histories.

"It was a service and an honor," William recited, "and it grew when appeased, and shrunk away when questioned, such that power came from loyalty to its cause and purpose... and both cause and purpose could only ever be service to the Lady by protecting what she cherishes most: the whole of mankind, civilization, and all that is righteous in us."

"Then why... let me question?" Moira looked past her father, to the door that now hid some line of knights loyally standing by. "They never question... and until now, I thought it was because of our cause, but-"

"You must shut out the heresy of that man when you contemplate Her mysteries-"

"Did you never exercise your free will?" Lord Brighton stood still at his daughter's question; they both knew the answer. More than that, the Lady refused to let her see anything but the answer. "Was it her will to keep a real daughter in the basement," she quickly declared, her words so cutting as to make her father's eyes grow wide, "to cherish her while sending me into the training grounds-"

"You will be silent." His words were like a slap to Moira; so stunned was she that he continued, "The Lady begets mercy to those who've not earned Her wrath; my 'free will' was ever still in interpreting and carrying out hers. Deanna was meant to be saved... and you should let her go with your unquestioning blessing if you let live so vile a thing near her as a violator whose very right to exist has been disavowed by the Lady."

Moira marched towards her father, her halo growing radiant, as she answered, "Then you admit it is my duty to interpret her will. Then I'll say it now: she does not damn John... she is silent, and I will interpret her silence as a welcome to decide for myself."

"Then you think yourself above the Lady when she damns a mortal soul?"

"I can barely think without the Lady being above me on my every thought," Moira hissed, now inches from her father. She stared up at him with her glowing eyes... and only now did her father notice their emotional gleam. "But on John, she is silent... so with John, at least... I can think without her presence. John... gives me a moment's peace."

Lord Brighton's nostrils flared as a shade of pink covered his features. "You speak of the Lady... as if she were unwelcome."

"I..." Moira hesitated as she met her father's eyes, gleaming with their own emotion: shame. She could not bear it and so retreated. "I’ve never communed so directly with her before... it is...”

“Incredible?”

“Terrifying.” Moira looked back to the throne, now gleaming by electric lantern light. "She has answers to almost any question or concern... and she feels so right, so perfectly correct, that... that thinking anything else feels criminal. What are my suspicions next to the righteous will of the All-Mother? It... It worries me. How do I contend?"

"You do not," William answered simply.

"I must," the Warden replied, her voice and eyes distant, "or else I'll lose what little I have left..."

At the table, Lorelei's fingers trembled over the braille of her pages. The Seer struggled to comprehend the disharmony that reached her ears... and the beautiful unity that the Lady's vision told her was right there between father and daughter, former Warden-Lord and Warden, and reflected in every loyal, blessed soul in the mansion now celebrating their triumph over an evil invader.

The faith had never been stronger, or more fragile, in the Brighton Estate.

12:03PM
The Collide Arcade Barrier

The man wasn’t quite as Tricia remembered him, but she recalled his presence at the fight with the Smugglers all the same. His short-cut hair and tank top were virtually unchanged from last week; Tricia could swear, however, that he had grown bigger from their last meeting, and his eyes had become bestial in their intensity as he measured them. His pose remained tense even when he showed surprise at seeing Tricia. “You...? Aren’t you... the Gorbachev?”

Tricia nodded, though she was becoming as tense as the man greeting them from across a length of grassy plain.

AGGRESSOR DETECTED. BATTLE HARDENERS PREPARED; SWITCHING TO COMBAT M- COMBAT MODE INITIATION DISENGAGED.

“Hey, Baldy,” Fairy suddenly declared.

Travolta’s demeanor broke down as he glanced down at the familiar fey. How does she know- wait... that’s the monster from the battle, the one working with the new kid. She must’ve heard Rave call me that, but... “Travolta,” he corrected.

“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure it’s Baldy,” Fairy shot back. Recalling their purpose, she hesitantly added, “Glad to see you made it out alive, though.”

Travolta could barely recall any of that fight... save that he was weak and outclassed. The reminder in seeing these two, among the menagerie of weird to waltz into Collide’s secret hideout, only made him warier. His fists cracked his knuckles again. I’m not weak anymore... and I won’t let these guys threaten us, now. “Gorbachevs... aren’t you Order lapdogs? If this is a raid, you should know-”

“We’re not with the Order at the moment,” Tricia carefully interrupted, “and we apologize for the intrusion, but... we’re ****, and we’re hoping you can provide us with aid.”

Travolta raised an eyebrow at the blunt request. “‘At the moment’? What does that even mean?” Other than that they’ll be back in the Order’s roster later... and probably reveal where we are... fuck, I can’t risk it.

“He wants to kill us,” Greenpaw’s translator suddenly declared.

Travolta remained frozen as everyone stared at him. The rabbit's strange voice had spoken the truth... but how did he know? “I can’t afford anyone knowing about this place-”

“We’ve known it for days now!" Fairy spat. "If we wanted those twinkling twats to know where you slept, on the second floor on the first door to the right, we’d have just told them.” Travolta’s grimace deepened into a snarl. What the fuck? This isn’t the guy that Master's intel perceived... maybe the bias of the source... "Travolta! We! Need! Collide's! Help!"

Travolta braced for a scrap; the angry twitch in his spine was urging him on, and the weird demonic butterfly with a cute bod wasn't calming him down-

"Please... help us." Tricia's voice was small... and drilled right through the unnatural rage building in the lone Collide member.

He looked her over: no extra Eyes were apparently open on her, though the obvious lump under her skin was both disturbing and worrying. He looked again at her inhuman company: tense, even angry, but none moved as they waited for his reply. Well, I guess they really wouldn't need to go through all this if they were here to bust our asses... The last bit of rage coursing in his veins cleared... for now. "Alright... I'll hear you out. Come in and don't touch anything."

4 minutes later...

The vintage arcade cabinets were wasted on this group.

The inside of the squat building proved rather spacious with the ceiling more than high enough for Greenpaw to stand completely with his ears up and alert. The whole first floor seemed to be a single, massive chamber washed to a pearly finish by the dim lighting above. The walls had a base color of black that tried desperately to appear from beneath a havoc of sprayed depictions of the thoughts, desires, and hatreds of a former generation. The right-hand side of the arcade consumed a fourth of the room with the rows of machines, tables, and consoles. A conference room table waited on the left, ready to seat eight but currently only seating one very worried-looking, black-haired mechanic who Travolta had identified simply as "Jimmy." Spread out on the table was a small horde of what looked suspiciously like parts and plates for some kind of mechanized armor; half of them were covered in the same grease and machine oil stains that coated Jimmy's overalls and the tools that stuffed every visible pocket thereof.

Beyond Travolta, where Tricia's rag-tag posse was not allowed to travel, beckoned a metal staircase up to the second floor. Tricia gave it the odd glance as she explained their situation. "... and the last report from him was that the Order had turned on him and that we were to secure his loved ones... except..." Her words trailed off as she struggled to finish; her Eye cycled every few seconds as she remembered her worst fears for John.

"They were already taken," Fairy finished, "and now we've got to get them and John out of there before they **** him to **** with giant-cocked knights or something." Tricia stared at the hell-fairy in shock. "Sorry, that's the best **** I could've imagined for him... they're vicious cunts, generally."

"That they are," Travolta agreed. Jimmy did not join his chorus, instead doing his best to appear too busy to show his trepidation. Notably, his eyes kept drifting over Alysha... and her hate-filled gaze repeatedly put him back to work. "They're crazy, world-dominating Nazi-Christian fucks, far as I've ever been able to tell, and they cramp our style with their no-tolerance policy."

Tricia's eyes gleamed as she allowed herself a tiny mote of hope for John's rescue.