Godclads

Chapter 3-4 Lying

Lying used to be so much easier without ghosts leeching the truth from your memories.

Of course, finding the truth also used to be simpler as well; hard to tell what is and what’s just a planted memory when anyone with a Meta and the right sequence can mod a mid.

But that’s where the art comes in. Being a Necrojack is more than being a con artist, or a memetic engineer, or even both those things put together. Being Necrojack is about shaping belief; diving in to know what people want and twisting it to serve your needs.

-White Rab, Constructs of Deception, Page 96

3-4

Lying

Avo growled and prepared to fight for his life. There weren’t a whole lot of ways to interpret the back of an aero opening up as a friendly gesture. This was why Walton used to do the talking.

He pressed Mirrorhead, preparing his Ghost-Link, his jagged tip of trauma prepared to spring.

At least it was until something tore him through the ceiling. An impossible force seized him along the scruff of his neck, its grip piercing, slashing into him as it drew him through the reflection in the ceiling.

Panic seized him. Primal. Animal. He felt his body lurch as he crossed through an unseen threshold; pulled into a place that simply couldn’t have existed without the presence of thaumaturgy.

Or a Heaven

Thalassophobia: the fear of the deep waters. Necrojacks suffered from time to time due to the nature of the work; it wasn’t uncommon to run into a leviathan of trauma hiding between folds of seemingly unconnected memories. But even then, there was always a recourse. A way out. To cut the ghosts and part your consciousness. To hide amongst the chaos and wait.

Here, before that thing of piercing wings that gleamed, of circling bands warping its three chasm-sized eyes, Avo felt his ghost wail and his Metamind brace. No place to hide. No place to run. His wards spiked, straining before the sight. He tore his gaze away, the weight of madness lessening, but still present.

Its eldritch mass was far larger than the Sangeist–a leviathan capable of swallowing cities rather than a meager tower. Yet, as its fire burned, ebbing rising licks of unfathomable iridescence, Avo felt something deeper within it screaming a mournful note.

TWICE-WALKER, SERAPHID OF THE CHORUS

Such was its designation. Such was what it called itself. The presence of its existence tasted like a wound to Avo’s mind, a weight of naked memories of ghosts bleeding forth from it eternally, like a scar carved into the flesh of all that was.

And then, with contemptuous ease, it swallowed him.

Suddenly, he was seeing the world out of a narrow, oblong pinhole. He emerged from the reflection, his body squeezing free from the narrow confines of Mirrorhead’s skull, pulled loose by the impossible strength presiding within Syndicate Godclad’s cold fingers. Avo snapped free, thrashing instinctively, mind whirling at just what was happening. Avo fought. Thrashing. Clawing with blind animalistic rage.

All in vain.

The arm drawing across the veil was beyond any strength he could fathom. His claws tore through the outer layers of a suit but sank into the reflective material that formed the bedrock of Mirrorhead’s flesh. Where his claws dug in, they tore out, bleeding his own form as Mirrorhead twisted the attack back on themselves. Avo managed three swipes before even realizing he was mauling himself, flensing pieces of flesh off his chest.

Mirrorhead sighed. “Now that was very wise of you.”

He poured Avo back into his skull with a simple shove.

The world narrowed, growing unbearably tight. Avo felt himself pass through the threshold again, toppling out from the ceiling now. His senses spun, and he gasped as if he was surfacing from deep waters. Struggling, he found himself held over the edge of the ramp. The rain stung his body like needles. Beneath, the raging winds misted the streets below through murky sheens of neon, hiding just how long he would fall if dropped.

Nausea roiled through him. Faintly, he could hear the rain more clearly now, taste the soothing power imbued into the air.

“He didn’t lie,” Draus snarled, dragging herself across the carpet. “Pull ‘em back.”

Avo’s mind spun. What had just happened? How did–

Mirrorhead stood over him, adjusting the collar on his tattered suit in a show of raw control.. The Syndicate boss tapped his face as Avo saw his own wretched visage reflected, a soaked, pale creature in the casual grip of something far beyond.

“Reality submits to metaphysics,” Mirrorhead began. “And though I’m no Agnos–no proper theologian of the broken divines and the Heavens that once composed their bodies and manifest miracles for our cities,” Mirrorhead said, his hand turning like a lecturing theorist, “I do know a few things. Like how unlikely it is for a few mortals to overcome a golem. Even one running a Heaven as obsolete as a Sangeist.”

Lightning flashed, reflecting pale, branching scars through clouds clotted with darkness via reflection, via Mirrorhead. The gutters flowed like a rash of urban decay, of hollowed buildings dotted with little fires. “So, let’s try this again: what happened to Little Vicious? We know the Nether was disrupted at the moment of her death. We have remembrances from a few Spectators from afar confirming that the golem’s Heaven fell. We know that you ate her. And my Necrojackers didn’t detect any intrusions, so how–”

“Your N-Sec is terrible,” Avo growled out through Mirrorhead’s grip, the sheer audacity of the statement actually striking the Syndicate boss silent.

“Elaborate,” Mirrorhead said, fingers tightening. Avo felt a series of cracks sound through his neck. Spots began to form in his vision. “And you better not lie to me. You lie, and I drop the flat first.” He was talking about the father. “And then our former Guard-Captain Draus. And finally, you.”

Avo breathed in as best as he could, trying to remember what Walton taught him about social deception.

It’s not about the truth. It’s about what they can conceivably believe, and what they want to believe.

What did Mirrorhead want? Good question. Avo barely knew him, but so far, every act of menace, every silent threat, or shift in tone had been dedicated to maintaining absolute control. And Avo might’ve just insinuated that his security wasn’t nearly as good as he thought.

Which meant he either just killed himself or found a way out.

Back to the truth then. See where that got him.

“Your visitor’s ghosts aren’t up to quality. Bad accretion. Emotional and thought leakage. Could feel what they felt instead of it being one way. Easy for a decent Necrojack to smuggle themselves in. Your Necros weren’t doing their jobs right. Need a better team.” Mirrorhead loosened his grip.

That was either a good sign or a very, very bad one.

“Something breached the golem’s locus. Breached it through me!” Avo blurted out. “Think…think rival Syndicate. A team.”

Mirrorhead froze and turned. “Well, why didn’t you start with that? Damn me, and damn me across each and every hell. Been ignoring the obvious all along. Scalpers. Godsdamned Scalpers.”

He tossed Avo over his shoulder like a sack of trash, uncaring as Avo cracked against the ceiling and ended up digging his claws into the velvet carpet to halt his momentum. With a simple gesture, Mirrorhead motioned for the rear doors to close, silencing the falling rain and the city below.

Gasping, nerves firing with surging adrenaline, Avo clung to the floor, staring at Mirrorhead like a feral animal. He stayed low and away from anything reflective. But though the beast wailed for him to try again, Avo knew he had about a snowflake's chance in a furnace against a Godclad when he couldn’t even physically match up against a well-chromed snuffer like Slaughterman. Or the golem for that matter. For all the might possessed by the Sangeist, it was at best a lit wick compared to the roused flame that was Mirrorhead.

If only he could get the Sangeist working again. Still at ninety percent Rend.

VENT! VENT! VENT!

“I’d like to apologize for my behavior,” Mirrorhead said, tossing his handkerchief at Avo.

Avo blinked. “What?”

Mirrorhead looked at him like he was slow. “I apologize. I was wrong.”

Paranoia spiked within Avo. The conversation was jerking, twisting in too many discordant directions too fast. It seemed the person acted just like the god that dwelled with them; chaotic, twisting. “I don’t–”

Mirrorhead strolled past Avo nonchalantly. He resumed his seated position like nothing had happened and poured himself another drink. He pointed the drink at Draus. “You bear some fault too, though. You know why, Captain Draus?”

Draus sighed, her face exhausted. “How’s that?"

“You didn’t speak up!” Mirrorhead growled. A crack snapped through the inside of the car. Glass everywhere shattered. Avo’s ears rang. Somehow, Mirrorhead had cleared the space between him and Draus in a blink. He was holding her against the walls now, fingers around her throat, blood spilling from her nose.

Avo noticed then how much bigger Draus was than Mirrorhead, even bereft of her limbs. Still, the way he held her like she was weightless felt wrong. She grinned down at him, unimpressed, amused.

“Well,” she said, spitting a globule of blood across his featureless face, “now I know your Heaven sure as shit don’t have a Domain of Strength.”

Avo saw Mirrorhead’s free hand clench. And then unclench. Sighing, he let Draus drop and strolled away from her. “In…recognition of the service you provided, I’m going to let that slide. Suppose I can’t blame you. You are measured opposition and all. Part of the Column. As such, I will respect this as an act of open hostility and not subterfuge. But you will tell me what I want to know from now on. Lest you test me. Then, I’ll have my Jackers work through that mind of yours. Know your kind doesn’t give, but you do break. Everyone breaks.”

To her credit, Draus just rolled her eyes and winked at Avo again.

He was certain. She had a death wish.

Picking up a spare cup from one of the arm trays, Mirrorhead laughed and poured himself another drink. “Besides. I do find it touching how a former Guild-Sworn soldier can find so much common ground with a subhuman monster. I can’t tell if that’s a compliment to you or degradation on her part. She was designed to snuff any threat, you know. Your kind was little more than a speed bump during the war. But something about you must’ve incurred some kind of loyalty in that brutal vessel we call a Reg.”

Striding up next to Avo, Mirrorhead paused. “Who educated you? Taught you about the Nether. Couldn’t have learned that as a feral. Dressed too nice to be a feral.”

The question speared too deep for Avo’s comfort. Mirrorhead was back on the attack now; new probing questions, peeling at who Avo was, who he thought himself to be. “Walton.”

“Walton what?”

“Just Walton,” Avo said. Walton never used a last name.

Mirrorhead nodded. “Just Walton. This Walton taught you to speak pretty well. Can you read? Write.”

And they were back to interview questions. As if he hadn’t just dangled Avo outside a moving aerovec a few seconds ago. “Standard. Low Nolo–”

“Standard’s good enough,” Mirrorhead said. “And you know how to be a Necro?” Avo nodded. “Well, I’d say whoever this Walton is, they made a man out of a ghoul.”

As far as compliments went that was probably one of the least-backhanded ones Avo received. The dull ache of prejudice was a layer of scar tissue that bled too often to even hurt. A natural response–but not a human one. Ghouls didn’t feel much about ostracization or prejudice. They weren’t social creatures. Couldn’t be, considering they were designed to infect and devour humans.

Considering the proximity between the species, psychopathy was a natural trait for a ghoul to be ingrained with. It wouldn’t do for a clade of bioformed monsters to suffer emotional turmoil when their prey cried out for mercy.

“He liked fixing broken things,” Avo said.

“We all got our…fixations.” Gathering the shards of broken glass he had in his hand, Mirrorhead tossed them through his face. Why did he do that?

“These things happen, you know,” Mirrorhead continued, motioning for Avo to sit. “In fact, until Ms. Draus admitted to things, I knew you were juking me. Don’t know why a Reg would save a ghoul. Hells. Maybe she thinks you're like a… souvenir from her olden days. Makes her nostalgic for all the others in her unit. The Orphans. Tell me, captain, I heard another of your number died last month. My condolences.”

Nearby, Avo could hear Draus’ heartbeat quickening. Mirrorhead had struck something deep with his words. Behind, the father was groaning in pain. Within Mirrorhead was all silence. No sound. No heartbeat. No scent.

Like there was nothing there.

“You’re lucky, you know that,” Mirrorhead said.

Avo grunted. “Lucky.” Lucky he had a Liminal Frame preventing the Maw from draining him empty. Lucky it could bring him back from the dead. Lucky it could tear a Heaven from a golem and graft it onto him.

So, now the big question remained: where and when did he get a Liminal Frame burned into him?

Still nothing. Like those memories had been scalped clean from his mind. Couldn’t mean anything good.

“Let’s talk about arrangements,” Mirrorhead said, startling Avo back into focus.

“Arrangements?” Avo asked, confused.

Mirrorhead waved a dismissive hand. “I own you now. Now, how I own you and how I use you can be discussed.”

Avo understood the words but found a barrier blocking his full comprehension. “You own me?”

“You’re a ghoul, consang. Might’ve had a nice master, but let’s be honest: you don’t have rights. You’re a weapon at best,” Mirrorhead laughed, “but frankly, to me, what the Low Masters made of your kind was more a…art project.”

Jaus, he’s serious. Avo’s mind was reeling. “Bought me from scavengers. Put me in a Crucible. And now…I belong to you?”

“Yes,” Mirrorhead said like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Something strange about that?”

The aerovec began to slow, and descend. A light near the rear doors flashed twice.

Mirrorhead stood straightening his monochromatic suit. The man flicked his holographic tie off.

“Follow.” Avo looked at Mirrorhead. He looked at Draus. He looked at the father, still clutching his head. “Don’t mind them. I have other designs for them. And do not mistake my statement for a request. Follow.”

The door hissed open again. The rain had weakened to a mere shower now, the haze broke enough to reveal the pulsing of distant neon and strobing lights. Clashing music echoed from distant ghosts, interspersed with exchanges of gunfire.

This was the heartbeat of the Warrens. This was how people down here lived.

“Go on,” Draus said. “Get after him.”

Avo stared at her. He didn’t know what to say. “Draus–”

She chuckled. “Shut the fuck up and get out of here. I’ll be fine, keep an eye on the flat. See about bumming some new arms and legs off these half-strands if they don’t try to torture me.” She snorted. “Be like going through basic again.”

“Ghoul.” Mirrorhead voice rumbled through the glass. He didn’t sound like he was going to ask again.

Avo wanted to say something to Draus. Offer her a promise. Something. But Mirrorhead was listening. Watching. Peering through every reflection. Every curve and bend in the room. The shackles of paranoia settled on Avo, and a new weight clung to him.

So, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he quietly extended his Ghost-Link over to her, hiding his shiv as best he could.

TRANSFERRING GHOST

GHOSTS: [34]

Lost one fragging the Specter earlier. And another, wrapping his thought-shiv in a nice little package. Confusion momentarily flashed across Draus’ features before her face flattened. He could see the twitch of a smile on her cheek.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Thanks.”

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