Charles’s mind was a swirling cesspit of pain and poison. Even his fever dreams were tinged by toxic memories and half-realized doubts, only to be ensnared by the tides of another’s fantasy, ushered to the dim melancholy of the Opera House. Among the plush seats and velvet curtains, he sat before the wheelchaired shade of the Impresario, eying the tall colonnades as wax trickled from chandeliers to the carpeted aisle. Luminous with uncanny blue flame, lamps and candles burned bright, casting a pall of smoke along the mirrors and theatrical masks. The sweaty scent of popcorn lingered in the air, reminding him of bittersweet times.
“It seems your journey leaves much to be desired,” the Impresario said.
“Yeah,” Charles managed, “that makes two of us.”
“Ruin rears its ugly head,” the Impresario clasped his wrists, “and you have done rather dismally as a surrogate to the Far Messiah—”
“Apostle. I never claimed to be the savior of this world.”
“Indeed, but you are, regrettably, the closest thing we have at the moment.”
Charles crossed his arms. “Why am I here?”
“You know,” the Impresario said, “you speak with the same indignancy as Victor once did. I never thought I’d miss it.”
Charles scoffed. The curtains rolled aside, revealing the silver screen and its flickering countdown, its footage sizzling with every beep. Eventually, a map of the continent was projected onto the theater, something out of a wartime newsreel.
“As great powers clash,” the Impresario began, “so too does the fallen one wreak havoc across the world’s nations.” A dark cloud billowed from Holy Gothica, swallowing the surrounding lands as the slide caught fire. “Soon, there will be nothing left to save.”
“Listen, if you have any suggestions, I’m all ears.”
The Impresario chuckled. “You have…’bargained’ with the Ladies of the Moon and learned an invaluable truth—Victor is still alive, albeit in the most perverse of ways. And he can be brought back. That is if you dare to brave the halls of the dead beneath the kingdom with the bloodstained history, as it were. Such is your course.”
“Hate to break it to you, but the whole world has a bloodstained history.”
“So it does,” the Impresario said, “but some nations more than others.” His hollow grin widened. “Till we meet again….”
Charles attempted to speak up, only for fog to engulf his words. He clawed towards the surface of thought, smothered by doubt and dread, until a semblance of peace befell him. Charles let the currents of dreams push and pull, taking him down odd paths along spiraling undertoes. He smiled to himself. For a fleeting moment, he felt bliss, imagining far realms of reefs and an octopus’s garden in the shade, as if poison was being drained from body and mind.
Fuck—!
Charles awoke to the sudden percussion of artillery. He was surrounded by a pair of phantom figures, voices muffled by war engines, as the wooden rafters above quivered and shook dust and debris onto his face. He coughed and tried to sit up, only to feel a stabbing pain in his chest; almost immediately, he collapsed, heaving for air.
“Looks like the antidote worked,” said a shade.
Another shell made its impact, followed by a deafening explosion. A pair of iron fingers checked the stoner’s pulse. “Feels okay. Maybe not good enough to walk. But okay.”
“I’m,” Charles managed, “f-fine.”
The pair erupted into applause, as far as he could tell. Slowly, the reality of the attic returned as Charles found himself flanked by friends—Rene and Ludwig.
“And Beatrice?” he choked.
“She,” Rene managed, “didn’t make it.”
“What?”
“We didn’t find her corpse, but there was a cave in.” Ludwig fidgeted with his knobs and iron digits. “Long story, but the Morgenshtern attacked. Best case scenario, she’s captured, but let’s be honest with ourselves….”
Rene was about to say something, but she turned away as if not willing to risk driving him over the edge of despair. Charles knew better than to pry. He wanted to panic, but in the end, he wasn’t surprised. They’d been through this before. Perhaps it was intuition, or maybe it was raw dissociation; however, Charles had a hunch that she’d hold her own.
Amadeus wouldn’t—no, he can’t….
“Ships in the fucking night.” He rolled his eyes. “Look, there’s no time to explain. What fits the description of a kingdom with a bloodstained history? Go.”
His friends glanced at one another, no doubt wondering if he was still detoxing in delirium. “A kingdom with a bloodstained history?” Rene repeated.
“Yeah,” Charles managed, “do you have a clue what that is?”
“Holy Gothica comes to mind,” Rene said, “however—”
“Ikana,” Ludwig interrupted, “there’s only place worse off than Holy Gothica, and that’s the New World. Lumiere’s been exploiting the nations of Khand for generations on end.”
Charles mulled this over until Holy Gothica came to mind, as distant a connection it seemed. “Makes sense. I mean, where did the immigrants in Yoshiwara come from? Why would they flee to the Imperium of all places? Still. Where’s Ikana?”
“Across the Great Sea,” Ludwig said, “it’s an isle off the coast of Khand split up by the Entente.” He looked away. “There is a reason so many people fled to the Holy Gothica. At least they’re free from the napalm and mass graves in the Imperium.”
“Can it really be any worse than Holy Gothica?” Charles asked. “I mean, the city’s about as fucked up as you can get. What could possibly—”
“Trust me,” Ludwig said. “Ikana’s endured more than the city ever will. Civilians were shot where they stood. Chemical weapons engulfed entire villages. Skull trophies in houses of death. Sorry if that offends your ‘hippie’ sensibilities, but, frankly, it should.”
It took a moment for Charles to understand where Ludwig was coming from to conquer his own knee-jerk defensiveness. In a world at war, it only made sense that colonies would be exploited to hell and back. He knew nothing of where Ludwig was from.
“Sorry,” he managed.
“No worries,” Ludwig said, as if trying to fetter a flood of monstrous memories. “But if Imperial propaganda is to be believed, then Ikana is….”
“A failed state,” Rene finished.
“And how do we get there?” Charles asked.
“Hang on,” Ludwig said, “where’s all this coming from? Haven’t seen you in a hot minute. Care to explain? Why the New World?”
Despite the blitz raging around them, Charles recounted his ventures as best he could, from his wanderings in Lumiere, an audience with the Ladies of the Moon, to his encounter with Amadeus, and was sure to state his mission to bring Victor back. Still, something didn’t sit right. Why the jungle of all places? What did it have to do with the Far Messiah?
“It feels right,” Charles said.
“Cause some swamp hags told you?” Ludwig asked.
“Yup.”
Ludwig sighed, deeply. “Pains me to admit it, but if your goal is to bring Victor back, then I suggest we catch the next ship out of here.”
“I know it sounds insane,” Charles said, “but it’s the only thing I’ve got.”
“And what exactly are we looking for? No one of us are familiar with—”
A thunderous crack cut the debate short. Roof tiles were ripped from the house and frame by raw force. Charles shambled to his feet. Though he’d sell his soul for bed and breakfast, time was running out. Lumiere was ready to fall.
“Enough,” Rene snapped, “we need to save ourselves.”
Ludwig slapped his pepper grinder into gear and led the way down the rubble-strewn streets. Charles and Rene weren’t far behind. The Underdocks were safer than the Old City, as upper piers shielded the slums from the ongoing blitz. Flaming oil spills and clattering debris forced the company to be quick on their feet. The smokestacks and shipping cranes burned as stark silhouettes against a sea on fire, littered with flotsam and jetsam, wafting with the pungent reek of gasoline. For now, they were safe from the crossfire.
“So,” Charles wheezed, “what’s the plan?”
Ludwig rolled his eyes. “Was gonna ask you the same thing.”
“Right now,” Rene drew her arms with steely clicks, “we stand at a crossroads. We can assume the worst, that Beatrice is dead, and board a ship to Khand. Or,” she glanced up at the quaking docks, “we can search for her and infiltrate the Morgenshtern—”
“Wait a sec.”
Charles spied something on the horizon—a lone fighter plane soaring across the offing, preparing to land. He half recognized the pin ups from Yoshiwara yet remained puzzled by its appearance. As the plane neared the shoreline, he caught wind of other aircraft. Against the livid moon, tiltrotors of flesh and steel emerged in hot pursuit. Gunfire wasn’t far behind.
“Edgar?” Charles helped him up. “The hell are you doing here?”
“Oh, you know,” the chocolatier wheezed, “just escaping from the ashes of my life’s work, getting shot down by flying meatballs in the process—”
“Whoa, slow down,” Charles raised his hand, “what happened?” In the relative safety of a cove, they evaded the patrols and scanned searchlights. Rene kept watch, rifle at hand, as Edgar recounted his tragedy—the raid on Xanadu and its ensuing destruction. Even Charles couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. “Jesus,” he managed, “I’m so sorry.”
Edgar sniffed, brushing the sand off his soaked slacks. “What’s done is done.”
“About time you showed up,” Ludwig spat.
The chocolatier straightened his posture. “Crass as ever. May I suggest we find somewhere safe to talk because, for lack of better words, shit’s getting real. It concerns Victor, or rather, what he’s become. And something that can change the tide of the war.”
“Amadeus?” Charles sighed. “A little late to the party, man.”
“T-that’s quite not it.” Edgar raised a shaky hand. A sputter of gunfire interrupted his indignation as battle threatened to rear its ugly head. “On another note, we should save the discussion for later. Shall we seek asylum abroad?”
“Way ahead of you,” Charles said.
“The question remains,” Rene stated, “Can you live with yourself if something happens to Beatrice? She is one of your few friends. And given how you’ve reacted to Victor’s—”
“I know,” Charles snapped, “but time’s running out. And I gotta think about what she’d want too.” It wasn’t merely a matter of who was more important. Would Beatrice be safe with Amadeus? Could he live with the blood of another on his hands? Of course not. And yet, he couldn’t just ignore the portents either. Doom was on the horizon. “Fuck it.”
“To Khand?” Ludwig asked.
Charles nodded, silently. The company sprinted across the rickety piers and came to a commercial harbor filled with cargo ships. One stood out in particular—an outdated freighter with great steam engines on the harbor’s edge, being loaded with crates and barrels of all manner of merchandise, mostly with barrels of oil and liquid azoth. The freighter was seaworthy and, if scheduling was to be believed, minutes from embarking to Khand.
“I say we commandeer a vessel and get the hell out of here,” Edgar said.
“Commandeer?” Ludwig scoffed. “Stowing away is less hassle.”
Peering around the bend, Charles heard a familiar voice, one belonging to an agent of Her Holiness’s Inquisition. “Make sure this vessel is secure,” Freidrich called, “I want every part checked for stowaways and vagrants. It’s a long way to the New World.”
Charles sighed, pressing his back against the wall. “This asshole again.”
“Who?” Ludwig mouthed.
“Long story short, I killed his sister.” Charles paused, eying the expressions of his comrades. “It’s not as bad as it sounds, trust me.”
“Scan the perimeter,” Freidrich ordered, “something stinks.”
Charles caught a whiff of his own odor; he reeked of stale weed, the perfect giveaway. With great care, he snuck about the lamplight only to duck among the posts. The stoner’s heart pounded in his chest as he habitually reached for a spliff, if only to soothe his nerves. Before he could light it and blow their cover, he saw a perfect chance.
“Hey,” Ludwig tugged at his sleeve, “just so you know, we’re counting on you.”
“Trust me, I’m well aware,” Charles said.
The bosun called, “All aboard,” as the company climbed the rickety ladder. Slowly, the burning city faded into the distance, leaving Charles haunted by his decision.
“Now what?” Edgar whispered.
“Suppose I’d better introduce myself to the captain.” Charles ran his fingers through his hair. “How do I look? Presentable?”
“Like a sketchy drug dealer,” Ludwig scoffed.
“Well, you’re not wrong.” With that, Charles emerged from the shadows, acting on a whim of charisma. “Excuse me, sir!” He jingled a bag of coins at the nearest sailor. “We’re just a couple of stowaways. Would you mind taking me to your superior officer? We come in peace.” Hands were shaken, and deals were made. “Thank you.”
Regardless, it was going to be a long voyage.