Rebellious Daughters

3:42PM
Tricia Gorbachev’s Lab

"Of course not, you three-eyed cocksleeve! He's in fucking danger, and he needs our help! But first... he wanted us to protect... those he loved." The short, Abyssal woman spat upon the floor only ten steps from where Jacob now sat. The middle-aged Slavic man watched... and, with glassy eyes, kept flicking his vision to the telltale lump on his young daughter’s forehead.

You reported in only two weeks ago... you were so mechanical, so distant, yet seemingly satisfied with your progress and work... so how? Why?

The demonic fairy continued, "That's a short list, and they're either here, there, or at his house- fucking speaking of cocksleeves! His mother and the succubus!"

Tricia shook her head as the recording drone flew out of range. The footage snapped now to the maintenance drone cleaning the demonic spittle from the floor. That same drone now rested, deactivated, by the chemistry lab across the room. It’s brethren dotted the landscape of the lab this way: each had fluttered to the ground and deactivated as one when Jacob used the security backdoor to take control of them. Even the drone car, a mobile wireless router in its own right, had been locked once Jacob was sure it was not in motion.

Jacob’s cursed daughter spoke. "You're speaking in fragments. What is the situation?"

"I don't fucking know, alright?! He's in a barrier, the Order's trying to kill him, and he can't get out, and he can't bring us there! You need a fucking illustration too, or are we good to go?!"

"Stop shouting already," came the calm, translated voice of what Jacob assumed to be a pregnant elf from some other illusion barrier.

What madness is this...?

It was the second playthrough of these last moments for Jacob; he watched it with his human eyes while, from the scalp of the back of his head, a Learner Eye observed the bank of scrolling monitors behind him. It took each piece of information in perfectly, processed it in Jacob’s mind to be perfectly recalled for as long as he didn’t activate the Eye anew... and every private diary and report entry therein only solidified his dread as he rewatched the footage.

"We'll all go," Tricia insisted and turned to nod to each of the monsters—summons, Jacob now realized, of this John Newman in the logs—with a firmer gaze than he ever recalled the girl having. He watched as she discussed.... no, plotted an **** on the Order.

“[Pause.]” The hologram video obeyed. The lab was his, now. “[Rewind, 16 frames.]” Tricia’s head flicked past the drone’s point of view. “[Forward, 4 frames.]” Her face came full center, her eyes mid-blink... and the Eye, the damned Eye on her forehead, was mid-“blink” as well, one more eyelid shed to reveal the one beneath it. Jacob choked as he struggled to control his sorrow. The closed Eye. The Forbidden Eye. If it opened... if Tricia continued to open it again and again...

“[Close... close it.]”

The video winked out of existence. Jacob’s trembling hand reached into his coat—past the gun, that awful, heavy reminder at his side—and pulled out a polished silver flask. It wasn’t really ****, of course; he needed his nerves. But he unscrewed its cap and suckled upon it like a drunk might nurse a bottle of Walker, so **** was his need for the elixir inside. He **** it away from his lips with a cough... and felt himself grow distant from the facts and feelings that threatened to break even his long-practiced self-control. If I don’t do it... they’ll send someone else, someone strange and untrained. It has to be me... just like she said. Jacob choked on his sobbing again; the Gorbachev **** couldn’t keep it all at bay as his eyes burned.

"Well that is an impressive fuck-up."

Jacob had the gun leveled at the source of the voice as fast as his worn reflexes allowed... but he was slow enough to stop himself as he realized what he was looking at. Eye of Hate. Eye of ****. Eye of Foreboding. Two Eyes of Sickness. Four different cursed Eyes were opened on the stranger's broad forehead; each Eye was known to Jacob... but never in the same host. The fellow Gorbachev smirked at the threat of the gun as he fixed the sleeves of a smog-colored suit, and all at once Jacob realized whose company he should've expected.

The man's slicked brown hair, sickly flesh and cloudy gray-blue eyes made him seem more like a corpse than a man, but the cigarette, the arrogance, and something akin to a perverted malice gave him too much life for the illusion to last. Jacob knew this man's name, his profession, and his ugly hungers; they were strangers only by virtue of the latter's duty to stay away from his brothers and sisters. "How did you arrive so quickly?" Jacob demanded as he slowly lowered his weapon.

"You came for an unscheduled visitation of the problem child, started uploading her whole database to HQ, and you think they wouldn't send for me?" The man's voice was grease on the tips of fingers, and Jacob immediately loathed him. The pallid visitor took a drag of his cigarette before continuing, speaking in smoke without so much as a cough, "As for the how, well... trade secret. Sorry." The Unhallowed. An object of shame for the Opekuny... a very useful, deadly shame. Jacob knew this man to be the only one today; Tricia may have qualified as well, if she were not secretly barred from every internal organ of the Opekuny.

The Unhallowed... Brent Gorbachev. But if he was already here... then Jacob's race for reasons to spare her was moot. Tricia was already declared an enemy of the Opekuny. Soon, she'd be an enemy of the Order, as well. "I will... handle this," Jacob nearly growled.

"No, you won't... but you already knew that. You've known that for years, now, for as long as you knew this day would-"

"I will not hesitate," Jacob barked, "and I certainly will not leave her to the Unhallowed to ****!"

"****?" the Unhallowed chuckled. "On my word, the Opekuny wouldn't let me anywhere near her if I was going to toy with her. I wouldn't dream of it, not when she's a ticking timebomb! No no no... she'll be **** the whole time; it's the only way to ensure her... condition does not progress any further."

Jacob looked the man up and down, confused. "****...?" Would they have... authorized this? Would that even work?

"Of course," Brent laughed, "I mean... think of the opportunity! Between me and her, we've got a Hell of a gene mix--and our people’s blood runs quite thick through me, I promise--and her real problem is probably a freak accident... but the powerhouse kids we'd make! The Opekuny could use-"

"Kids...? What?! What are you talking about?!" Jacob's grip on his gun tightened. The enchanted bullet was still chambered... and if this Unhallowed had defenses, they would fall away before it. The implication of the fiend's words fought with the elixir for control of the furious foster father.

"You're not really a big player in this, dad, but the fact is that I've been talking to the leadership... and it's getting dangerous out here. I'm a really busy man, and I'm only a single man! There's been talk for awhile now... but I think we can fast-forward the timetables on this plan, now that she's a lost cause."

Jacob's expression darkened as he slowly processed the Unhallowed's heinous insinuations. "You can't mean to..."

"I'm trying to be polite about it, Jacob," the young man sighed, "but if you insist: I'm going to keep her **** up and comatose and fuck her full of fresh and probably Unhallowed little bastards until we've got the numbers we need... and then I'll keep-"

Jacob's hand flew up-

A fifth Eye opened on Brent's hand-

Jacob collapsed backwards into the office chair behind him, sending it rolling softly until it hit the table edge behind him. His body was still.

Brent tsk-tsked at the aged warrior as he began to skip over. "Can't believe he was about to shoot me...!" he giggled at no one in particular. With a careful touch, he pried the gun from Jacob's grip and, as he leaned in towards the man's face, confirmed the softest, barest breath escaping the old man's twice-broken nose. He was alive... barely, and comatose perhaps for weeks to come, but it would be more than long enough to let Brent find his new pet project. "You should be grateful," the Gorbachev lectured, "that I took you out before you could be branded a traitor. Don't worry: your secret's safe with me. It's only fair... since I'm taking your favorite." Brent gave Jacob a peck on the cheek as he whispered into the **** man's ear:

"The first boy I give her? I'll name him Jacob."

---

3:42PM
Brighton Dungeons, Level D, High-Security Cells

The soft, pink sheets made for impromptu walls to hide the treated, magical steel bars of the cage. The bed, brought in painstakingly by irritated Knights, had been laced up and prepped with a host of leather straps and bindings that now tightly gripped the squirming young woman to the bed. A small Bluetooth speaker played gentle, loving music to its captive audience. Before he had left on Lord Brighton's mission of some unqualified importance, Cornelius Stolt had laid out instructions to the Hospitalers to do their very best to ensure that the Slayer of the Northern Wind could neither hurt herself nor be influenced by negative surroundings.

"Grrr.... ehh....." Her body arched against the bindings; her clothes, a soft and fluffy set of pajamas, were in tatters from her struggling to the point that an indecent amount of flesh was now on display, though she was of no mind to even think of it, nor had she witnesses. The mattress held, albeit barely, in the otherwise completely barren room, and Kim Moon continued to scream in hate and fury as she wrestled against the professional hospital straps.

The Hospitalers had found her in this state following the **** by the two rogue mages upon their home; she had been anxious since departing from the Court--and from John Newman's party--but she had been reduced to a mad rage after the carnage, near-deaths, and battles that had played out in the Brighton Estate. That they occurred in a barrier did nothing to stop her: the **** and pain had afflicted her in precisely the way that the Hospitalers, and Cornelius, knew would occur if she were released into the open or, worse, back to her clan. The rumors of the Northern Wind were too consistent: those talented hunters of Outsiders hosting the same to study and destroy. What would a ravaged, open soul like hers take in anywhere near her home or one of her clan's dojos?

The Order could less afford the horrors that could result than the ill-wishes from holding their Slayer until they could find a way to restore her. By Cornelius' order, she was to be kept below in the prison cells, away from the rage-inducing energy above while laying far above the true evils waiting below... but unknown to Cornelius, undetected by virtue of constant exposure, was the energy of this place.

The dungeon was mere dozens of feet over the execution chamber. This was where the worst prisoners had been kept between sessions of **** before being carted away to their last, fatal meeting with the Order goons they resisted to bitter ends. None of the **** happened here, of course; Cornelius was sure that made it safer. But the echoes of hate and despair, slowly boiled into the walls by silent, brooding prisoners, now longed to escape the emotional prison that bound them... and in Kim Moon's tattered soul, they found the shelter they sought. Generously, they filled her, melted, merged, and began to rebuild the broken Kim Moon in the only way they could.

The yelling and grunts slowly eased away. Kim began to calm down as the furious energy of the Estate was slowly overcome by the remnants in this dark, ugly place. Her chest continued to heave as she caught her breath... but she was slowly catching it.

The medallion... pinged in her mind.

Kim Moon's body grew still. She looked, with wide eyes, at an unfamiliar ceiling... and in her mind's eye, the medallion spun... but its ring was different now. Murky. Burdened. It glistened instead of glimmered... but it was there, and Kim was nearly teary-eyed at its return. She eyed her surroundings, and then her bindings, as she plotted her escape.

---

3:42PM
The Research Study, Brighton Estate

Moira snapped the interface back a step... and saw a familiar face.

The handful of hours since her "meeting" with John had been stretched by her wariness of leaving him to be questioned and pressed by the Order's experts. She was promised that he would survive it, and survive it whole, and that she need only give them the day to try. It had seemed impossible at first... but her duties, even if self-inflicted, were always an enticing call.

It was the roar of her mission, now with the Lady in her mind. The Warden from India, the Warden of the Spear as she was known, was Moira's senior by only a handful of years; but her strength was already the stuff of legends, and soon Moira might even arrange a meeting with her and the Warden of the Sword in Germany, their respective duties permitting. Moira was intent on finding out the identity of the boy in the Maze... and now, burned into her mind, was his face prior to the corruption of Juniluny, the face of the boy that tripped her into a fountain in her youth... and the young, teenage trainee that was now on the study's huge computer monitor. Assym Pemmaraj. Sixteen at the time of his disappearance, lost on a routine guard duty of what was meant to be a low-interest site... only to have it plundered by unknown parties.

Moira would update the record of the incident... and now, at least, she could begin her meeting with the Warden of the Spear with condolences for her loss. Father always speaks of the Warden's duties, to learn and honor the men and women who fight for them, to cherish each as a brother or sister-in-arms. Until now, I've just... accepted their loyalty. But can I truly fulfill the duties of a Warden... beyond what the Lady tells me? She thought of those duties now: of patrolling the city, of leaving this clerical work to one servant or another… but this felt right. Perhaps more importantly, this distracted her from the pain of knowing that John was still a captive below... unharmed, but alone.

A small object briefly blipped on certain radars across America. It was dismissed as an error on most of them.

I'm the youngest Warden, now... and the least experienced. Perhaps even the most cloistered, I... can I truly afford to keep going to the Academy?

Springfield airspace was rapidly approached by an object traveling at 1,800 feet per second. Slower than most modern rifle bullets, it nonetheless enjoyed its supersonic speeds right until it smashed into the invisible, anti-tactical missile barrier raised over Springfield... and passed through it, reduced to a mere 600 feet per second.

Father wanted me to live a normal life, b- The shield grew off of Moira's chest as she leapt up from her chair.

The unidentified flying object pierced the smaller, denser bubble laid over the entirety of the high-class neighborhood where the Brighton Estate was built, shooting towards the study window at just over 200 miles per hour.

The spear passed through the glass as if it were water... and the shield strapped itself to its Warden's arm just in time to receive it.

The sudden rush of wind tore hundreds of books from the tall oak shelves of the study. The computer whipped into the air in an arc to crash against the opposite wall. The windows not penetrated by the spear exploded from the thunderclap of the Warden artifacts meeting, and Moira's knees nearly buckled as the holy artifact could only dampen so much of the strike. "What the f-?!"

An explosion of pink-to-violet rose petals suddenly appeared over and around the middle of the javelin that had nearly killed Moira... and as they withdrew and vanished, bronze armor and flesh appeared from under their caress. Moira stared up and wide-eyed at a stranger who was made familiar hours ago... but here and now, in her presence, Moira managed to feel an incredible calm wash over her, even as her defenses were tested.

The spear was in the stranger's grip as she landed on her feet. Moira knew it in her bones: the Warden of the Spear had attacked her... and yet, Moira knew this to be a shocking prank. Moira eyed the Spear Warden’s form: swarthy-fleshed and black-haired, but with eyes that glittered like a Caribbean waterfront, her form was both busty and muscular, beautiful and ever so slightly burly with its impressive muscles. Her armor was a collection of pieces strapped to the ends of her limbs and her bosom, leaving the black leather of her undergarment as the only strip of clothing on otherwise bared flesh. Whatever liberties of movement the outfit allowed, Moira would sooner die than dare wear it in public.

Moira shook her head as she realized who she was judging. Laksha Singh. The Warden... no. My fellow Warden... what can I even say? What kind of holy prayers are we allowed to speak in? Why wasn't I trained for this?! What do I even do?!

As Moira nearly grew dizzy, her spear-sister suddenly flashed a generous, toothy grin as she bellowed in the sort of hoity-toity King's English that Moira had spent years training herself to suppress. "Moira, dear! You're even hotter in person!"

"... I... eh?"

The Warden of the Spear tossed her javelin in the air. The weapon shrunk into a pendant and, as if guided by magnets, snapped into a tiny holster on the Indian girl's armor. Still baffled at the greeting, Moira reciprocated by shrinking her shield back into a brooch... and before she could pin it back onto her plainclothes, the muscular Warden had moved upon her. Holy-! She's fast-!

Laksha scooped the redhead in a powerful bear hug, cracking the back of the Warden of the Shield in a mostly pleasant manner. "Hahaha! Stiff as an upper lip!"

"By the Lady- put me down-!" Laksha did so... and, after kicking clear a few dozen books on the floor, laid Moira on her belly as she began to mercilessly massage, push, shove, and pop all manner of bones and muscles in the Shield Warden's body. "W-What are you--ah--doing to--oh!--to me--eeeh!"

"You're like a plank of wood with a shield attached, love! You need to loosen up! Just relax, lie down, think of England, all that."

God, her English accent is so thick, is she even from Indi-ah! What is she even popping-?!

"Be a dear and don't move your neck."

"W-Why-?!"

A loud, multi-layered crack followed Laksha's hands firmly gripping Moira's head. It was over before the Warden could begin to panic. S-She's trying to kill me-! The Lady could not convince Moira of otherwise.

"All done!" Laksha rose, again with a fellow Rose in her grip before gently putting her back on her feet.

The redhead quickly backed away from the insane visitor, her bewildered eyes searching Laksha's for some ill-intent. "Why are you doing this to me?! Did I do something wro- no, no I didn't, so why did--ooooh..." Moira rolled her shoulders and gave her neck a few testing twitches. She felt... limber, somehow. "Are... are you a chiropractor?!"

"Hah! Sure?" Laksha closed the distance again, and again her speed bewildered Moira as her hands were already on the redhead's shoulders. "So... are you two... exclusive?"

"T... Two?"

"You and the one you're in love with," Laksha bluntly declared with a plain, innocent smile. Moira's face burned as she began to stammer under the brutal **** of her foreign fellow. "No? Good!"

Moira continued to stammer until Laksha pinned her to the nearby wall. The Wardens, once half a world apart, were now lip-to-lip as the older woman's tongue explored the mouth of the younger. Moira shuddered and bucked, but the taste of the girl was hotly spiced, moist, and welcome.

The door opened as a female Knight appeared, gun in arms. The bodyguard stopped dead in the doorway to assess the blessed union of the two Wardens.

Moira stared, horrified. Laksha released the redhead’s shoulder just long enough to wave with a “Hi!”

“My Lady, I… I will advise them that you're in a... conference.” The Knight quickly withdrew and closed the door behind her.

"Hah! Rich, that one."

"N-No!" Moira suddenly shouted, shoving the Spear Warden away. "I mean yes! I mean- why- in what form is this how Wardens interact?!"

Laksha slowly gave Moira her space and, for the first time since they had met, frowned. "I'm sorry... I'm just very excited to see you, and... well it was quite the trip, and I've been randy since I started making it, you know? The more power you use, and all that... I mean, I took a red-eye here, of sorts! You understand, right?" Moira opened her mouth in a panicked gasp... and slowly realized Laksha’s meaning.

It happened to Laksha, too? Moira didn't dare assume. “Your… when you use… the Lady’s powers, you mean you grow…” Moira looked at the door before whispering, “... aroused?”

Laksha raised an eyebrow before whispering back, “Well, yes, dearie… like any old Warden. Why are we whispering?”

For the first time since she had struggled with this humiliating secret, this fact of the Golden Rose that no one spoke of and no one tutored her about... Moira realized she had someone who understood. More than that… Moira knew that Laksha’s words were true. This deviancy… this bizarre arousal… was normal. Moira wasn't a sex fiend or a masturbation addict or a weird anal lover... though the jury was out on that last one... but rather, the Golden Rose did it to her: arousing her with every use of its power, no matter how inconsequential, no matter how passive.

It had been her private shame… her humiliation to be stowed away from those in the Order. Moira had pored over the tomes studiously, ever hoping for some hint or clue as to her “affliction.” The answers were never printed. She couldn’t bear to ask her father’s advisors, nevermind her father. She had all but accepted that, for all her attempts at virtue, she was some kind of perverted monster, a freak who had twisted and perverted the Lady's blessing...

... and now, she wasn't.

Laksha covered her mouth. "Oh, darling, are you... are you going to cry? I- I didn't mean to make you cry! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please don't hate me for it! It's alright if you-" Moira rushed forward and hugged her sister as she happily burst into tears. Laksha stood in surprise as she felt tears rub into the nape of her shoulder.

"I... no one.... no one would've understood... I had no idea, I... I thought it was just something wrong with me... no one ever said anything, and I couldn't... sniff... tell anyone..." Moira quietly sobbed as she was vindicated for the first time since she was fourteen.

Laksha looked at the girl, confused... and recalled the news of the early, awful **** of the last Warden of the Shield. Of course... she grew up without her mother or her mother's guidance... no one who knew what it was like when we carry the Rose. But why not her father, then? Did they really just let her… go on without knowing? Why?! Oh, Lady help her...

"I'm... sorry, I... just got... I'm just really happy to meet you," Moira whispered with a red, tear-stained face. "I'm sorry if this isn't... how Wardens are supposed to greet each other."

Laksha Singh understood... and, finding a change of subject might lift her fellow Warden’s spirits, grinned brightly back at the redhead. "So would it be safe to say a threesome could still be in the cards?"