--------------------------------------------------------------------------
/
____ ___ _ ___ /
| \ | \ /\ | | /\ /\ | \ / /\
| \ | \ . | \ | |. / \_/ \ | \ \ / \
| __ \ | _ \ | | | | | | | _ \ /\ \/ /
| | \ \ | | \ \ .| | | |.| | | | \ \ / \ \ /
| | / / | |__\ | | | \| | | |\ /| |.| |__\ |/ /\ \/
| | / / | | | |\ | |.| | | |.| | | |\ / \
| |/ / .| ___ |.| |.| |.| |.| | | | | ___ /\ \/ /
| |\ \ | | .| |.| |.| |.| |.| |.| |.| | ./ |\ /
| | \ \ .| | | |.| |..\ |.| |.| |.| | | | /| | \
|_|. \__\ |_|. .|_|.|_|...\/..|_|.|_|.|_|.|_|. \|_| \
/\ \ /
Written by Christopher Willmore. / \ \ /
4cw6@qlink.queensu.ca / / \/
Based on a story by Rumiko Takahashi and /
Developed by C. Michael Schumacher / /
[Kensu: cschumac@waun.tdsnet.com] \ /
R2096 pages: http://qlink.queensu.ca/~4cw6/ \/(Logo:Armakuni)
==========================================================================
SKERIDEXTREMES, PART II: LIBERA ME DOMINE, DE MORTE AETERNA
==========================================================================
written by
Christopher Willmore
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
"When the stars are out of sight
And the moon is down
The natives are so restless tonight..."
-Jim Steinman, in 'Original Sin: Theme from _The Shadow_'
"... that the Almighty had not fixed His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!"
-William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The woman surveyed the room with timid eyes. No spectre yet, only the
smoke still rising from the piles of ash that had been spirit wards, and
the midnight tolling of the clock blending with the palpitations of her
heart in a macabre rhythm.
Under other circumstances, she might have found the beat quite
danceable.
As it was, she tried to ignore it, licked her lips, and focused her
other senses on detection. Never had she been afraid of ghosts and
bogeymen; they'd always been her friends, her playmates - others feared
them because they could not see them, and yet were affected by them.
She loved them, and they loved her back, because she could see them, and
affect them like no other could. In time, she'd learned that she could do
more than touch and comfort, that she could actually Heal, and that had
earned her their respect...
But that was in HER world, HER reality. This was a different one, a
macabre mirror image where the one who bore her name would give the bardo a
second death, and where she was not certain whether her patient would
welcome her, or fear her.
Whatever the case, she feared _it_.
An unaccustomed tremor flashed down her back as she stood up straight
and smoothed her vest. She was sure that she would feel better when she
saw her visitor. <And the spirit wards?> asked a small voice within her.
She ignored it. It wouldn't be long, now.
Maybe the ghost was - shy?
Or not.
Skeride fixed her eyes on the door in front of her, and in only a few
moments saw a copper face surrounded by luxuriant black hair melt through
it. Hands followed, then arms, and after that the rest of the body,
covered in an ornate robe of virginal white.
When she was fully in the room, the entity merely stood, and looked at
her. It was Zannen. The green eyes were unmistakable, the same as her
reality's, but where that one had liveliness, this one held a twinkling
sadness in her emerald orbs. Her mouth, too, was different - a straight
line instead of the perpetual mocking grin of the grown-up girl that
Skeride was used to.
Different, and yet the same.
It was Zannen. Her Other had not lied to her.
"You are hurt?" she asked unnecessarily. She alone of her sisters
could feel the pain of others (but ironically, not her own - the other
Skerides were a blank slate to her), and the anguish this spirit felt was
coalescing around her, an emotional miasma.
"Hurt?" The question seemed to amuse the ghost. She raised her chin
and put a finger to her temple in mock concentration. "Yes, I suppose I'm
hurt." She looked straight at Skeride, and the mockery melted into
accusatory anger. "You of all people should know that."
"I'm sorry?" That comment seemed to indicate that Zannen knew of her
abilities, but this reality's Skeride wasn't empathic - was she?
"Oh, you're _sorry_?" Zannen's voice was crisp. "_I'm_ sorry, dear,
but it won't do you much good." While she spoke, she had been slowly
advancing, and now the faces of the two were almost touching. "We are past
sorrow, or forgiveness."
"If you need healing -" Skeride concentrated and raised her hand,
intending to focus her ki into it in the mending patterns. The shade
sprang back.
"We need none of YOUR healing," she hissed. "The final death is NOT a
cure, and no matter how much you may want it to be, being dead is _not_ an
illness! Don't you see? Like you, we wish to live, to see, to feel! For
years you've been annihilating us, destroying our very essences, and those
of our friends and lovers-"
<Uh-oh.> The Healer gulped as she ran her hand through her hair. Her
white-striped hair. She was in her 'sister's' room, alone, and there was
no reason for anyone to think that the Assassin had a twin, so-
"Please believe me, I'm _not_ that kind of person!"
"And I'm not that kind of fool." Zannen looked away, a reflex from her
living days when she would not have let her enemy see her cry. "All this
time we've borne it patiently - your slaughters, your hunts. There'd be
complaints, but the Three would say that what you did was to be tolerated.
And so, we did. Even when you killed their Envoy - my great-grandmother! -
I was forced to do nothing, for the word of the Three is Law. You would
destroy, we would rebuild. That was the cycle." She paused and looked the
Healer in the eye. "That WAS the cycle."
Skeride licked her lips nervously. Now the set-up was becoming
painfully clear; she'd been a fool to fall for it. The Assassin had
somehow found out about this vengeful ghost. She planned to leave her here
as cannon-fodder, and then return to take Zannen by surprise, once the
shade thought she was dead.
This was not good.
Skeride eyed the golden dagger lying on the floor.
"I wouldn't do that, if I were you."
The Healer looked up.
"THEY wouldn't like it."
"They? Who's they?"
Zannen smiled.
"For as long as you played by the rules of your own game, we could do
nothing. Now Akane is gone - slaughtered at her prayer."
"WHAT?!?"
"It surprises you that we know? Do not let yourself think that only
because you can see ghosts, you know all of what is going on in graveyards,
Gosunkugi-san. Oh, yes, we know all about it," she taunted. "We know how
you dealt the killing blow, how you swung the dagger straight into her
forehead while she was next to her own grave and before the one of her
beloved. We know how you laughed, and how little you cared when you heard
her final words - 'Ranma, sumimasen'."
"Deity..."
"None will help you, now that you have broken their laws. Even the
Three will not be able to defend your actions. When you killed Childra
twice, once living and once dead, I- Oh? You wince at the memory? Good. It
makes it only that much more satisfying that you remember. I was beginning
to fear that you would not; after all, what is one death among thousands?
Yes, you might as well cry. Don't bother trying to hide your tears; it's
only fair that you should shed a few, after having caused so many
yourself."
Indeed, glistening drops were now rivuleting down the Healer's cheeks,
but it was not for regret of her past misdoings, for she had none, nor was
it from sorrow for her sister's malignment - she had none to spare.
Rather, it was for the grief of others that she loosed her tears. The same
aura that she'd sensed before, the same ether of distemper had grown in
intensity; it now felt like a thousand minds all pressing heavily upon her
own, exerting pressure on her skull and buffeting it with eddies of anger,
fear and sadness.
Skeride doubled over - the pain and grief were too much for her to
take. From the corner of her eyes she noticed ghostly faces melting
through the walls and floor, but it didn't surprise her.
She'd been expecting Them.
A man's voice broke the silence.
"It's appropriate that you wore white. You won't leave here alive."
The sound was familiar; it 'fit', somehow, it seemed a part of her...
Where had she... Skeride looked up, but her watery eyes turned the figure
before her into a blur. After a few blinks, the image focused and
coalesced into-
"Tofu-chan!" Skeride launched herself towards her husband, but he moved
aside and only her hand grazed his gelatinous arm.
Zannen snickered and looked at the doctor.
"Is there something you're not telling us, Ono-sensei?"
The glasses which Ono had chosen for his spectral form did not allow
one to see the eyes behind them, and his face was expressionless. He
turned towards Skeride.
"Don't you _ever_ call me that," he said, and waved his hand towards
the assembled spirits. "Look around you; this is not the time for
mockery."
The Healer looked, but did not see. Her mind was elsewhere. In that
brief moment when they'd touched, she had sensed his aura, and it was not
the one she knew. Her husband's was a dark blue one that emanated feelings
of nobility and strength; this one was the same, but corrupted. The blue
was speckled with black, and the holes were filled with a grief that would
have expanded and torn apart the last remnants of the pattern long ago, if
it weren't for a binding of anger driven by hatred. There was love there,
too, but it was a lost love - the remembered scarlet of a love that had
been taken from him.
Which meant-
"Kasumi?" she mumbled timidly, more an uttering of her thoughts than a
formal question.
Doctor Tofu turned silently away from her.
Skeride bit her lip.
"I will not live," she said.
Still with his back to her, the doctor shook his head.
Skeride scanned the room with her gaze. Around her was a mass of
silent, fallen faces. Though they did not speak, their bodies said
volumes. Their appearances were gloomy, haggard and bedraggled, each
beggarly visage a reflection of their inner selves. When one can look as
one wishes, appearances count.
These people had been hurt. A lot. They had been driven to the point
of assassination; to the point of taking a Life when it was their own lost
Life that they valued above all other things. How could she deny them now
their satisfaction? How could she dream of quelling their insurrection, of
making them understand that she was not the one they sought, but her
doppelganger from another world?
Even if she managed to escape for the moment, they would hunt her down
as her sister had them, and their pursuit would not end until their thirst
for vengeance was quenched. So long as she lived, they would not pause
long enough in their chase to listen to her explanations.
<So long as I live...> A thought ran through the Healer's mind, which
though at first seemed dismissively ridiculous, gained desirability with
each moment that passed.
She could always convince them _after_ she was dead.
<It's only flesh, after all.>
Her powers wouldn't dull - in fact, they might be heightened, and this
way...
<I guess that Tofu-chan and I will have that second honeymoon a few
decades ahead of schedule.>
Skeride raised her head, stood up straight and placed her hands at her
sides.
"I'm ready," she told Zannen.
The Hibiki nodded and stepped aside, as did the doctor. The crowd of
ghosts behind them also parted, opening up an impromptu tunnel to make way
for a cloaked figure - the executioner.
The hooded man walked forward with measured, heavy steps, stopping only
when he was two paces away from his intended prey. Without a word, he
reached inside his cloak and pulled a black strip from his waist, which he
snapped into a rectangular blade and raised high above the Healer's head.
* * * * *
*** SNIP ***
"Are you sure you want to go on, Skeride?"
"Yes."
"It's such beautiful long hair, it seems like such a pity to cut it..."
Skeride sighed and closed her eyes. <Why is it,> she wondered, <that no
matter what reality you're in, and no matter what you ask for, no barber
will think that you are qualified to choose your own hairstyle?> She
glared at the hairdresser's reflection in the mirror.
"I want it short. If I had wanted it long, I wouldn't have come."
"It takes time to grow."
"And apparently to cut, as well."
"Why-"
Skeride interrupted him.
"You want to know why?" she asked, swivelling her chair to face him.
"Because I don't want to lose myself. Do you know what it's like to go
around every day, seeing people who look exactly like you do?" She looked
Hikaru Gosunkugi #512 in the eye. "Don't answer that. Let's just say I've
had enough. Each day there's more of me, and each day I'm less recognised
as an individual. Instead of saying, 'there goes the third Skeride',
people glance and think, 'there goes another Skeride'. I have to be _me_,
_myself_; I have to have _my_ name known, _my_ wrath feared, and not be
mistaken for that of some perverse double. Do you understand?"
The wide-eyed barber swallowed as he tried to ignore the crimson
ki-flames that had formed about his client.
"How short should I cut it, Gosunkugi-san?"
The Assassin smiled and turned her chair back towards the mirror,
letting her night-light spell dissipate. She couldn't tell him the real
reason she'd been forced to change her appearance, but it seemed that her
ad-lib explanation would work rather nicely. If she was lucky, he might
even spread rumours.
"Mid-neck will be fine," she answered.
* * * * *
Skeride barely felt the blade as it slid between her shoulders and her
head, and it was only the sight of her face rolling on the ground in front
of her and the sound of her body crumpling to the floor that let her know
the deed was done.
The sound of a thousand ghosts cheering also helped.
The late physician unclenched her now-immaterial fists and raised her
eyes to look at Zannen.
"Are you satisfied?" she asked.
"Not quite." It was Tofu who spoke. "Death is not a punishment; it is
just a second form of life."
Skeride started. Her Tofu-chan had said those self-same words to her,
upon their wedding night.
"Now, a _second_ death..." Zannen smiled, and tapped her finger on her
temple pensively. "_That_ is punishment. Wouldn't you agree, grandfather?"
No answer from the cloaked one. "Oh, I forgot. You still have political
difficulties with this, don't you? Tsk. _You_, at least, should agree with
me, Assassin."
"I'm not the one you're looking for."
"No?"
"I don't kill bardo; I _heal_ them."
The crowd tittered, but Zannen waved them into silence.
"That," she pointed at the brass dagger lying on the ground, "is not
exactly a surgical scalpel."
Skeride hung her head.
"It isn't mine. It's my sister's."
"You have no sisters."
"I'm not from this world."
Zannen grinned.
"Not from this world, you say?"
"No. This is not my reality."
"I couldn't agree more. In fact," her eyebrows narrowed. "I'd say you
don't belong here, Skeride."
The assembly of ghosts cackled, but the Healer ignored them. She looked
up with hope in her eyes.
"You... You could send me back? To my home?"
"Of course! Hiroshi! Daisuke!" Two boys stepped forward from the mass
of spectres.
"Don't you need sheep?"
Zannen gave a quick nod of the head, and the two boys seized the
Healer's arms. She struggled to break loose of their grip, but she was new
to her form and inexperienced in its use, whereas they had channelled the
bulk of their energy into their arms to keep her immobile.
"What are you doing? Let me go! I can explain what I-"
"You can explain nothing." The Hibiki woman's voice was cold as ice.
"You are the Assassin, killer of the Dead. Skeride does not belong among
the bardo." A roar of approval followed her pronouncement. "You yourself
have set the penalty for those who twist the boundary between the living
and the dead."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
"Yes."
"We are not hypocrites," said Tofu softly. "Though you bend the very
rules you have created, we will abide by them. You will be your own judge.
After all, even a mass murderess has the right to a consistency trial." The
ghost managed a weak smile.
"I'm not the one..." said the Healer weakly. "My sister... she framed
me..."
"Still with the sister? A liar to the last." Zannen snorted. "I'm
disappointed in you. Usually, your deceptions are a lot more credible."
Skeride closed her eyes and hung her head. It was clear that she could
do no more to save herself.
"Those of us assembled here have all suffered some loss at your hands,
and the passing of time has only caused the wounds to fester, turning grief
into ire and desperation into a burning hatred."
<Tofu-chan and his prepared speeches,> thought Skeride grimly. <He
always overdoes them.>
The doctor waited for the tide of approving nods and murmurs to subside
before continuing.
"Were we to judge you on our own, acting only on our impulses, we would
tear your body limb by limb and absorb the pieces in pea-sized morsels, one
to a soul, to prevent its regeneration. But that would bring no
satisfaction, only revenge. Instead, we'll trust that we are in the right
and give you a more than sporting chance. This is your weapon?" He pointed
at the p'ur-bu on the floor.
"It is my sister's."
"It is your weapon. Many a time have I seen you channel energy into
it, before plunging it into some spirit's chest. Tonight, _we'll_ charge
it up." He turned to his audience. "I ask you all to think of nothing but
the basics of your loss; nothing, upon pain of exile, but the grief you
felt when first this killer touched your second lives." Then to Skeride,
"It is _this_ aura built solely from the pain you've caused, and not from
that which we of our own will have nurtured, that we will focus through the
dagger. If it is strong enough, you are destroyed. If it is weak, you
shall be hurt, but will recover."
The Healer looked up. The fight was gone from her eyes, and her face
wore a defeated expression.
"I am undone," she said.
"That's the general idea," answered Zannen, and then motioned for the
doctor to stand back.
Hiroshi and Daisuke also stepped aside, still holding their prey's
arms, and a channel cleared before and behind the Healer. The
black-cloaked executioner alone remained in the path. He picked the
p'ur-bu from where it lay and held it in the air, pointing it at Skeride's
chest. When he let go of it, it stayed in place.
"Remember," said Tofu, "nothing but that first, sharp pain."
* * * * *
Skeride the third, soon to be the second, luxuriated in the darkness
that surrounded her, for a time allowing herself nothing but to enjoy the
feel of the water streaming down her front, hair and sides. The
physicality of it all, the tingling of her skin where the shower's
pressured tear-drops fell was quite intoxicating in its own right, but it
was the symbolism of the act that she took greatest pleasure in.
She fumbled for a few moments, then found the bottle of liquid soap
nestled in between the two water taps and squirted a generous portion into
her cupped hand. Bits of shorn hair, dirt and oil were easily emulsified
as she rubbed the gel over her exterior. This filth was the trappings of
her old persona, overstained and overstrained, which she was ridding
herself of today, while the cleanser... She smiled as she heard the sound
of her 'sister' being sucked down the Collective's drain. An almost
perfect analogy, really, thought the Assassin as she gleefully continued to
wash - the Doctor was a purifier, the means by which she was renewed, but
in the end, only _she_ survived, and the besmirched suds were left to the
oblivity of an inadequate sewage system.
Of course, it wouldn't do just to _say_ she'd metamorphosed, or feel
it, especially when there were a thousand ghosts with her image deeply
etched into their memories waiting to tear her apart limb by limb if she
ever should return to her reality. Her appearance had to change; the old
Skeride 3 had to TRULY die if her plan was to come to aught. Besides
which, it was a marvellous opportunity to rid herself of any trace of her
goody two-shoes double. It sickened her to think that two such dissimilar
people, walking along different paths, could make so many of the same
cosmetic choices, and that a casual observer could mistake one for one's
antithesis.
She would not now make the same mistake.
After some more confused groping in the dark, Skeride located the
bottle of shampoo-in hair dye which she had brought with her and poured a
bit into her hand. She lathered carefully, painstaking in her effort to
remove any visual clue to her relationship with the Healer. True, all the
Skerides in the Collective had that same white streak in their hair,
because it was the same magical accident with the same follicular side
effects that had first allowed them to travel between realities, but she
did not intend to be a Skeride for much longer. Once she'd waited for the
required period and thoroughly rinsed the foam from her head, she turned
off the taps and stepped out of the shower cubicle, grabbing a towel and
flipping on the light switch on her way out.
She looked approvingly at the figure that coalesced in the mirror
before her as her eyes adjusted to the brightness.
<Not bad. Not bad at all.>
Her skin was paler than her sisters', though darker than most of the
other Gosunkugis', she had an athletic frame (firmer, she noted with pride,
than any of the other Skerides'), dark green eyes, and-
The Assassin frowned.
There was still one detail, one nagging defect - the dark lines beneath
her eyes fairly screamed her lineage. That wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at
all. She took a black paste from the makeup drawer of the bathroom cabinet
and dipped her index finger in it, smearing the substance around each eye
and teasing it into a diagonal pattern.
< There. > The woman smiled at her unfamiliar reflection.
Skeride had truly disappeared.
* * * * *
Tofu watched with morbid interest as the Wanderer drew the dark energy
from those around him and channelled it into the Assassin's mystic dagger.
It was, in its own way, a beautiful sight. Tendrils of spiritual blackness
were surging from each bardo like the curled legs of a spider drenched in
boiling water - there was a movement to them, a fluid flow that led
straight to Ryouga in a cobweb of communal depression. The Wanderer
himself was standing straight, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in
concentration, and from his outstretched hands a perfect beam of ki energy
extended towards the levitating p'ur-bu.
The weapon changed the energy it fed on into something else,
apparently, for it glowed an emerald green as it was charged - the
brilliant colour matched the bonze of its construction well.
A beautiful sight, indeed, and made more pleasing by the obvious agony
of the intended victim. She was struggling to loose herself from her
captors' grip, but they were far more powerful than she, and whenever her
eyes hit upon the face of one of the bardo, she would shrink back as if
struck - could it be that seeing the righteous pain of those she'd wronged
frightened her? Could it be that she knew she had been wrong, that she knew
the judgement had been made and the verdict was doom?
Nothing could bring Kasumi back, but at least now no one else would
have a loved one taken away in that fashion - and there _was_ the matter of
base satisfaction...
Bestial revenge had its own attraction, especially after what Skeride
had done tonight. She had _deliberately_ imitated Kasumi. Why, he didn't
know for certain. To mock him? To gain his favour? All he knew was that
it'd fuelled an already-existing anger into a rage which he had not known
himself capable of harbouring.
Even now, her eyes were focused on him with a sickening puppy-dog
expression. Her eyelids were bulging slightly from holding in tears, her
eyebrows were drawn slightly down, and her lips were just slightly apart -
exactly how Tofu imagined Kasumi looking at him in his nightmares. A ghost
_can_ choose to sleep, and it was willingly that he bore those dismal
dreams, since it was only in that fashion in which he could see his former
wife - the ethereal wish-song of one who was himself not entirely real.
The doctor frowned. If she was trying to get him to halt the execution
by playing on his feelings, it wasn't going to work. As the glow of the
dagger reached a peak, he circled away, bowing his head.
"Shishi Houkodan!"
He heard the fatal cry, but did not turn to see. The shout was followed
by a millisecond's silence, after which a single scream exploded to
encompass the room. A sizzling sound joined it briefly, like that of
a water droplet on a red-hot griddle, and when that faded, the other was
gone as well.
For a moment, nothing, then the clang of the metal dagger dropping onto
the hardwood floor signalled the end.
It was finished.
The Wanderer didn't wait for acclamation. He walked away, going past
the doctor and dissolving into invisibility before reaching the door.
Tofu swivelled and looked, now, but saw only corpo et capita. He
stooped to pick up the molten lump which the p'ur-bu had become, then
turned to Zannen, trying to hold back his tears.
"Kasumi is avenged."
* * * * *
Hikaru Gosunkugi #212 was just about to lift a ladle to his lips when
he was interrupted by a knock at the kitchen door. He reluctantly replaced
the instrument in the pot, wiped his hands on his apron, turned down the
heat and undid the deadbolt to let in his guest.
The intruder was a slightly battered-looking #220, who was gripping his
right index finger with his left hand.
"Do you know where Skeride is?" he asked.
"Which one?"
"The Doctor." He undid his fist and let the cook look at his finger,
which was bleeding. "One of the sheep bit me."
"Can't you take care of it yourself? Here - I'll lend you a napkin..."
"What if it's rabid?"
212 frowned.
"Can sheep be mad?"
"I'm sure it was mad," answered 220. "If it hadn't been angry, it
wouldn't have attacked me."
"True," conceded the cook.
"Besides which, I was trying to get it into the bath when it grew
violent."
"Into the bath."
"Yes."
"I fail to see the con-" 212 paused as a thought suddenly struck him.
Biology wasn't his forte; he usually saw animals only when they were
skinless and compliant, but he seemed to remember something in an old
school text of his... "You _do_ have reason to worry. If it was afraid of
water-"
"Then it has hydrophobia. My point precisely. You don't have any idea
where the doctor could be?"
"Sorry, not a clue. However, I _did_ see psycho-girl heading for the
Registry a few minutes ago."
"Psycho-girl? You mean Three?"
"Who else?"
"The young one."
"Nah, she's only strange."
"She'll be a lot more than that if she continues hanging around Three
as much as she does. That woman scares me."
"You, and the rest of us."
"So... The Registry, then?" 212 nodded. "Why would she want to go
_there_?"
The cook shrugged.
"Maybe she finally got herself a proper sheep and wants to enrol it.
I don't know. In any case, she probably knows where her sister is, and
this situation of yours is rather urgent, so..."
"I see. Thank you, 220."
"Anytime," said the cook, turning back to his pot. "By the way, if you
_do_ meet the doctor, remind her to be on time for dinner. We're having her
favourite - lamb stew."
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Skeride was trying to squeeze her way through a large flock
of sheep that was blocking the entrance to the Registrar's office.
"Excuse me.... Excuse me..."
"Baaaaaaaaaa!"
"So sorry... Excuse me..."
After several dozen animals, she paused.
<Why,> she asked herself, <am I apologising to _sheep_?>
She resumed her trek in efficient silence, and a few kicks and
headbutts saw her just outside the Registry door. It seemed she'd have to
wait, since someone else was currently with the Registrar.
Skeride put her ear against the door and tried to listen.
Unfortunately, the sheep made far too much noise for her to make out
anything intelligible.
Exasperated, she took an empty package of mutton jerky out of her
pocket and looked into it, making exaggerated motions to indicate her
disappointment at having run out of the snack.
Then she looked at the sheep.
Her hand wandered to the p'ur-pa in its holster at her side.
The sheep grew quiet.
With a smile, Skeride resumed her now-unimpaired eavesdropping.
'Why do you need so _many_?' asked a voice from within. The Registrar,
if she was not mistaken.
'For the progress of magic!' His client. 'These quantum sheep
experiments are _very_ animal-intensive...'
'Yes, yes, yes, I'm aware of that, but did you have to give them all
_names?_ Now I can't just automate the spell; I have to ink each one in by
hand!'
'But 105, they all have such distinct _personalities_, you see...'
'Distinct? Distinct? Every _number_ is distinct, 239! Just you try!
Fleecy number one, Fleecy number two, Fleecy number three... Count upwards
from one, and you'll never meet the same number again, so why couldn't you
just have-'
"Excuse me - " Skeride chose this moment to open the door and make
herself known. "There's something rather important I have to-"
"Baaaaa! Baaaaaa!"
The sheep, having seen the door open, were now making a beeline to
their beloved shepherd.
"Sorry," said the Registrar, looking at the animals nervously, "No time
now. I have to-"
He was interrupted by a flash of blue flame which suddenly filled the
room. For a second, as if she were standing in front of a fun-house
mirror, Skeride saw a distorted image of herself and the quantum sheep
researcher, and then the vision and the light were gone.
So were the sheep.
"Stampede!" shouted the Registrar.
The researcher shouted nothing at all, because he was too busy being
borne aloft on the backs of the mobile bovines.
105 ran out after the fleeing flock, and Skeride was left alone.
Wondering what magical mishap had caused the blue flame, and hoping it
wasn't a malfunctioning Ledger, she went over to the large book that was
sitting open on the office's desk. It wasn't just any book, it was THE
book. Early on in the history of the Collective, it had been recognised
that it was extremely awkward to engage in social activities with a group
of several dozen people who all looked, talked, and dressed alike, and had
the same name. At first they took to wearing name tags, saying, 'Hi! I'm
number ____ !', but these were not without their problems. Quite apart
from looking silly, they tended to get lost or misplaced, individuals would
forget their own numbers, and the sheep were also fond of eating the
brightly-coloured mini-placards. The situation was quite exasperating, and
after a few rather confusing parties it was decided that a magical solution
was in order. This is when the Ledger had been created. Into this book
were entered the name, number and other relevant statistics of every
Gosunkugi in the Collective (and their sheep). The magic it was imbued
with made it so that any entry made into it would instantly be imprinted in
the minds of all the Collective, so that everyone knew everybody else's
number on sight.
It was to this tome that Skeride the third now turned to, to complete
her transformation. She was pleased to see that the quill and
specially-prepared ink she needed were already out. For once, she actually
owed the sheep a favour. The Assassin turned to the appropriate page,
dipped the feather in the black liquid, and frowned. She put the pen down
and picked up a second phial - correction fluid. With the attached brush,
she carefully dabbed out the words 'Skeride 3' in her entry, and once the
excess liquid had dried, wrote in her new name - 'Sicarii'.
She always _did_ have a flair for the dramatic, she thought - 'Sicarii'
came from the Latin 'Sicarium', for 'Assassin'. She chuckled to think that
the very ghosts who thought they'd killed her had furnished the name for
her new self.
Scarcely had she set the quill down when the door cracked open. It was
220.
"Sicarii," he asked, "do you know where the Doctor is?"
The Assassin smiled. The spell had already begun to take effect.
* * * * *
The Gosunkugi Collective's dining hall was a huge construction, roughly
in the shape of an elongated horse-shoe and decorated in the European
Gothic style. There was a pair of enormous wood-and-iron doors (taken
from a cathedral in one of the more war-torn dimensions, it was rumoured)
at the front of the hall, and apart from that only two or three small
servants' entrances leading in from the kitchen. Massive oak tables filled
the room, and at each of these sat two dozen individuals on equally heavy
wood-and-wicker chairs.
One would have thought that in such an environment, with several
hundred people eating dinner at once, and with a ceiling height that was
only possible because of the Citadel's peculiar physics, it would be
impossible for one person to drown out the sound from all other
conversations.
When one deals with the Collective, one should expect the impossible.
At this very moment, Hikaru Gosunkugi #242 was monopolising the
table-talk by speaking so loudly that anyone else was unable to get a word
in edgewise (or diagonally, or following the real projection of a
hypergeometric trajectory). He had droning on about rampaging sheep and
how the quantum sheep program could eventually breed all such tendencies
out of them for aeons, completely oblivious to the fact that all around him
were furtively hoping that the stampede which he so much talked about (and
which had not yet been caught) would burst through the front doors and
carry him off. The young girl next to him was particularly annoyed by his
verbosity, since she had a new acquisition which she wanted to show off.
She got her chance when the servers arrived with the dinner rolls. The
instant 242 bit into one, she tossed a lilac bubble at his throat.
"Look at what Childra brought me from Tibet!" shouted Skeride while her
neighbour tried to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre on himself and extricate
the piece of bread from his contracted oesophagus.
"What is it?" asked the other Gosunkugis at the table. They saw 242
pointing at his throat and making gagging noises, but ignored him and paid
attention to little Ske-chan, since she'd done what they'd privately wished
to do themselves all along. "Is it the clothes?" they asked. She was
wearing a blue shirt made in the old Chinese fashion, with lotus-amulet
beads in bronze instead of the usual hooks.
"Mm-hmm," nodded Skeride. "But she brought me something else, too.
Here! Look!" The girl took a bundle from her lap and undid the purple
cloth which it was wrapped in, revealing an ornately carved dagger.
There were general remarks of admiration, and honest ones. Even 242,
who by now had managed to free himself of his alimentary obstruction,
chimed in with praises of the piece. The blade was of iron and triangular,
inlaid with stylised snakes. The hilt was made of bronze, with three
boars' heads arranged symmetrically at the bottom and the grip consisting
of two almost-closed loti touching each other's petals, topped by a
complicated wicker-like arrangement of lines. Finally, the copper pommel
was in the shape of a Chinese lion's head. The craftsmanship of the weapon
was exquisite, and it was agreed by all that Skeride was lucky indeed to
have a friend who would bring her such a lovely gift.
"Where's doctor onee-san?" she asked, after everyone had examined the
object. "I want to show it to her."
"You don't know, then?" asked 155, arching an eyebrow. "It's been all
the news today. We think she's lost."
"Lost?"
A few of those present nodded, while the rest, who apparently hadn't
heard the news either, began to murmur quietly.
"No one's seen her for half the day, and they found a burnt sheep just
outside her office."
#115 threw his head back in disgust.
"That's just like her!" he said. "I've told her time and time again, if
she needs to travel, she should consult _me_. She may be a skilled healer,
but her travel magic is-"
He was cut off by little Skeride.
"A burnt sheep?" Ske-chan frowned. She didn't remember her sister
saying anything about travel. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure! What do you think is in the stew? She must have
had an emergency call."
"Even in an emergency, she should-"
The front doors to the hall opened magically and slammed against the
side walls, and the assembly tittered when they recognised the new arrival.
Or thought they recognised her.
"Sicarii..." whispered Skeride.
The Assassin was standing in the doorway in a black body-suit, dragging
a nervous-looking 220 with her left hand, and a bundle wrapped in a blanket
with her right.
She did _not_ look happy.
"Glad you could make it to dinner," said 5, one of the eldest
Gosunkugis. He had never been impressed by her theatrics. "Shouldn't you
wash up first?" he asked, pointing at the diamonds around her eyes. "I
think you have something on your face."
Sicarii ignored him, let go of her companion and walked to where her
sister was sitting. She tossed her package into the middle of the table,
upsetting a few bowls of stew in the process.
A few _people_ were upset, as well, but they were silenced with a look
that could kill a tadpole at ten paces. When they looked to 220 for help
or an explanation, he merely looked at his shoes an shuffled his feet.
Little Skeride glanced at the bundle, then at her sister. Sicarii's
face was unreadable as she nodded an assent to the unspoken question.
With some hesitation, Skeride undid the knot in the blanket-
And screamed as she saw her own severed head looking up at her.
All over the hall, Hikarus sprang from their seats and rushed to the
child, while other began to chatter in loud voices - Sicarii silenced them
all with a wave of her hand.
She pointed to the head.
"The ghosts did that to her," she said. "The woman accidentally sent
herself to my reality, and they slaughtered her."
Silence.
The Assassin's hatred of spirits was well-known, and it'd always been
thought unfounded, but this incident was forcing the Gosunkugis to eat
their words.
The noise continued to be at a minimum as the shock settled in, and the
only audible sounds were those of little Skeride's hyperventilation and
Sicarii's steady footsteps as she began her exit. When she passed her
little sister, she noticed the dagger lying next to the head, and smiled.
"You can kill ghosts with that, you know," she whispered to the
petrified girl, then walked out of the room.
The doors slammed shut behind her, and it seemed an eternity before
their reverberation ended.
* * * * *
The spirit rose as the sun set, eager to begin her nightly
perambulation. It was only at this time that she could recapture some of
her lost life, that she could feel that she existed in some form.
To go out in the daytime was too painful. The sunlight showed too
much; it revealed everything that was, while concealing her. It was
when night set in, when the deceiving drapery of darkness clouded mortal
sight, when all men were ghosts and scenery an evanescent function of the
street lamps' discs of artificial light that the gap between her
immateriality and the tangibility of substance narrowed most. Only then
could she bear to walk among the living, with which she no longer belonged.
She started floating out from her memorial, but was startled by the
appearance of two shining lilac orbs in the shadow of a crypt beside her.
The darkness parted slowly as she watched, eventually melting off
completely to reveal a girl decked in red and black, with a white streak
running down the middle of her long brown hair.
"My name is Gosunkugi Skeride," she said, "but you may call me Death."
==========================================================================
END SKERIDEXTREMES
==========================================================================
Drawings and bios of the characters are available at the following URLs:
Skeride's page: http://qlink.queensu.ca/~4cw6/skeride.htm
Sicarii's page: http://qlink.queensu.ca/~4cw6/sicarii.htm
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's notes:
I've been asked quite a few questions about Skeride - why the colour of her
eyes is purple, why the white streak in her hair, how she obtained her
hatred of ghosts and her dagger, what her standing in the Gosunkugi
Collective is...
This is my attempt to answer those questions once and for all. Please let
me know what you think! RpM's 'Gosunkugi: Generations' (available on my web
page or in the RAAC archive) is recommended reading for those who want more
background information on the Gos Collective.
I would like to thank RpM and Mike Loader for their help in the development
of this story. (RpM, in particular, _defined_ Dark Skeride's character,
and allowed me kind use of the Collective he created.)
Erin Mills is to thank for the idea of the Gosunkugi Ledger and that of the
stampeding sheep - he was also kind enough to bear my ranting on and on
about the plot of this story during innumerable phone conversations. He
was also instrumental in clearing up many of the minor inconsistencies in
between parts I and II.
And, as for the music listened to while writing this...
Schubert's last four quartets were listened to almost non-stop while
writing:
'String Quartet No. 14 in D minor, D. 810 "Death and the Maiden"'
'String Quartet No. 13 in A minor, D. 804 "Rosamunde"'
'String Quartet No. 15 in G, D. 887'
'String Quartet No. 12 in C minor, D. 703 "Quartettsatz"'
When these weren't playing, Mozart's 'Requiem' or the score to 'Romeo and
Juliet' was. :)
Two of the Skerides also have their individual themes...
Dark Skeride's is the song quoted in the intro to Part II, 'Original Sin',
from the soundtrack to the movie 'The Shadow', and the regular R2096
Skeride's theme is 'Mask', which is track 5 on Keiko Matsui's 'Dreamwalk'
CD.
On a final note, if I could do it without blowing up my web account and
getting sued by Disney, I'd have track 11 from the Hunchback of Notre Dame
soundtrack, 'Sanctuary', play whenever anyone accessed this story on the
web page. That song is as close as one can possibly come to a score for
the Doctor's death scenes. :) Even the Latin lyrics fit ('Libera me,
Domine, de morte aeterna...', or in English, 'Deliver me Lord, from death
eternal...')
A NOTE TO FFML MEMBERS IN PARTICULAR:
This story is essentially unchanged (except for a few minor stylistic
corrections) from that which I sent to the R2096 ML. The reason is that,
althought I've gotten a few very important comments on the tale (thanks,
RpM and Stargazer!), and though they're consistent, I'm not quite sure how
to put them into effect. So... I'd like to ask your opinion, if you'd be
so kind as to help me. Firstly, I've been told that 'good' Skeride (the
Doctor) accepts her fate with far too little resistance. My reason for
this is that when she thinks it's only her physical body that's going to
die, she's not particularly worried. She's married to a ghost, and she was
planning on committing suicide at some point in the future, so that the two
of them could be together for eternity, rather than having her go on to the
Heavens, leaving him on earth. Hence the 'second honeymoon' comment. When
she later realises that she's to be _eliminated_, it's too late - her new,
weak form is trapped beyond the hope of escape. With this in mind, should
I put in a small scene where she tries to run, but is stopped by the crowd
of ghosts? Secondly, my pre-readers said that 'regular' Skeride was not
excited enough when her 'sister's' head was served to her more or less on a
platter. The way I have it now (at least in my mind's eye), she's frozen
stiff in shock, and hyperventilating for the remainder of the scene. Was
that made clear enough? If it was, and it's still not sufficient, what
should her reaction be? Any and all input is very much appreciated, and
will be acknowledged in the author's notes to the RAAC post.
-Chris Willmore,
April 22, 1997
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
___________________________________________________________________________
Christopher Willmore
4cw6@qlink.queensu.ca
http://qlink.queensu.ca/~4cw6/2096a.htm
Impius Ecclesia Ukya * Interfector Beluam Ecclesia Ryougis
* Custos Tabula Nomina Franca Ecclesia Azusis *