FEAST OR FAMINE

ACT ONE: Wonderland

PART THREE: “Jabberwocky” OR “Violence for Violence is the Rule of Beasts”

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.

“I don’t much care where–” said Alice.

“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.

“–so long as I get somewhere,” Alice added as an explanation.

“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”

Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

I wake up, and like twice before I have to untangle two sets of memories, but this time I’m doing it while tied to a chair. Joy. I can feel the rope around my wrists and the hard wood frame, but I don’t open my eyes yet; I don’t want to give any signal that I’ve woken up if I can avoid it.

The memories are a little easier to separate this time, but that’s small comfort when I have some absolutely batshit revelations to deal with. Thoughts untangle, the web is unwoven, and I’m left with Reska, Homura, and myself. But those latter two, they really might be the same, like I had suspected. But at the same time, not.

The anger she burned with: I know that anger. I know that hate. It used to burn in me… but it hasn’t for years. The story Homura told, it was true; when I was a kid, I wanted my father to die. I held to my anger for so long, but with time and distance it bled away, and finally broke entirely when he sent that letter and finally made an apology I could believe.

So was it a lie? Was Homura just acting to manipulate Reska? No, she couldn’t have, because the anger was real enough to unlock her affinity for Blood. Her very real blood-boiling anger. That was magic, and old magic, something that responds to raw feeling and requires no system access.

Because that’s what it is, to have to interface with an existing user of a certain category before you’re allowed access to a set of mechanics: system access, regulated by moderators. But Homura asked no one for her magic; she reached out and seized it. She did something that I’m not entirely sure I can, and she did it burning with anger for a crime that I have forgiven.

So she’s me, but not me. She is, and she isn’t. She’s the me that I used to be. Not myself, but not somebody else. A younger me. A harsher me, still driven by spite and hatred more than anything else.

Is she a dream self, fragmented from an echo of id? Is she a bad copy, made in my image but poorly, shunted back in the history of this world? Or is she the same soul, just separated by time?

A story springs to mind: Alice in Wonderland.

Not the original story, of course, but all the modern retellings: Tim Burton’s movie, The Looking-Glass Wars, and American McGee’s Alice. See, the original is a kid’s book, and you want to court an older audience, so naturally you age Alice up and you make the story darker, but you still want to play with the old books, whether by making them canon as-is or canon with some twists. So your Alice has been to Wonderland before, but she’s forgotten, or has convinced herself it was just some childish madness, until she’s returned to a Wonderland much darker and more dangerous than her first go around.

If Homura really is the same me, just younger, then it means I’ve been to Pandaemonium before, my own personal Wonderland, and simply forgotten. I wonder: did some part of me know this, some buried fragment of subconscious, and that influenced me to take the name of Alice? Is that why Cheshire decided to take such a name? Either way, if I’m this Wonderland’s Alice…

…then that makes me the person who hurt Reska, if her narration is to be believed. I was the worst day of her life. I broke her heart, and I made her kill her father. I brought ruin to her entire world.

A broken world and a broken heart; strange magic unbound by the system I’ve been introduced to. The past, perhaps the ancient past if that magic is old magic and not just different magic. The question becomes clear: did Reska become Katoptris? Is the world of my dreams the precursor to the Labyrinth?

That would explain why I’m getting these dreams, and why they’re from Reska’s point of view rather than my past self’s, and it might mean that Katoptris herself has been sending them. If Reska is Katoptris, then is this whole excursion a form of twisted revenge? Was I dragged to this world and made to suffer as payback for something I did as Homura? Did I hurt her that badly, that she would torture me and deprive me like this? Do I deserve the pain she’s put me through, for the weight of sins I cannot remember?

“Hey, you awake yet? Don’t open your eyes, just murmur it softly.”

A familiar voice intrudes on my inner monologue, and I recognize the presence of Cheshire. Cheshire, whose name I thought to be nothing but a silly reference until just this moment. I’m even less certain I can trust her now, if she knows about my prior journey to Wonderland and is keeping it from me.

“Alice? I can tell your breathing is different, I know you’re awake. Let me know you’re listening.”

Interrogate Cheshire later, escape Averrich now. “Where am I?” I ask softly, fairly certain I know the answer.

“Averrich’s base, the headquarters of the King’s Carnival gang: it might have been a hotel at one point, I think, but it’s fairly unrecognizable now.”

“How do we get out?”

Silence. Hesitation? Then: “I’m not sure. We’re in his place of power, surrounded by his minions. I don’t think we get away from this without hearing him out first. But, he’s fae, and that means talking might actually work. They’re bound by old stories, and by the need to play with their food. Be interesting enough, be bold enough, and he’ll stay his hand.”

“Joy,” I mutter. “Another conversation with a fae for me to fuck up.”

“I know you can get us out of this. I trust in you, Allie, with every inch of my soul.”

I almost laugh, and I whisper bitterly, “If your story is really true, then you don’t have much of a choice in the matter.” And if it’s not a choice, could it ever be real?

“There’s always a choice.” She pecks me on the cheek, lips against skin for only a brief moment. “And I choose you every time.”

I am silent for a moment, thoughts heavy. I finally work up the courage to ask, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why me? If what you say you feel for me is real, then why? Meddling of the Demiurge or no, what could you possibly see in me? What could you possibly love about me?” I keep my voice low and quiet, but there’s still a dark, wretched bite to my last question.

I feel her hands on my face, her fingers feather-light against my cold porcelain skin. Her fingertips find my eyelids and gently lift, the touch somehow painless, and I stare into those gleaming cat-like eyes. Yellow and blue burn with equal world-rending intensity, swallowing me whole and holding me captive.

“Everything,” she breathes. “I love everything about you.”

I flinch, and then a new voice intrudes to say, “Ah, you’re finally awake. Good, that means we can get started.” It’s Kado’s voice, and when I glance in the direction it came from I see the gangly reaver leaning in an open doorway. “And you’re fine, just as promised.”

I glare at him as he strides over and cuts me free from the chair I’m tied to. He leaves my hands bound, annoyingly, but I probably don’t need them free to cast spells. “That’s a subjective assessment. I certainly don’t feel fine.”

“Ah, but the Weaver thinks you are, and it’s her opinion that matters,” he remarks dryly. “Now shuffle along, Maven. The boss has been kept waiting long enough.”

The reaver leads me through halls that may have once been decorated but are now stripped of all wallpaper and paint, left barren. There are plenty of doors leading to other rooms, but Kado takes me up a flight of stairs and into a large chamber, maybe ballroom-sized, where the walls are lined with animal heads and weapons on plaques. In the center of the chamber towers a throne of silver and wood and bursting vegetation, and upon that throne sits the man I can only presume to be Averrich.

The elf looks like a peacock of a man. He’s got the classic pointy ears and sharp features, swirling blue-green eyes, and dirty blonde glam rock hair that looks more hairspray than hair follicle. Atop his head rests a crown of gold bejeweled with sapphires and emeralds to match his sapphire-studded coat and emerald-embroidered boots. Aside from that, he’s wearing only an open-chested blouse and very tight beige pants; no sign of a weapon, though I have no illusions of that making him any less dangerous.

Cheshire walks beside me, presumably invisible to the senses of my captors, and she narrows her eyes at the man on the throne. “Peer at his soul,” she orders. “You need to see this.”

I blink and activate my soul sight, and the world shifts once again. The rest of the room falls away, reduced to sketchy lines and splashes of ink and charcoal. Vague shapes, the faintest impressions of pinprick color, but all of it distant and blurry, corner of my vision, as the center of my vision is taken up by the sight of Averrich’s soul.

I see a hunter. I see detailed muscles and dexterous hands. I see a bow, a knife, an axe, a spear. I see a mask of bone-porcelain in the shape of a fox’s head, eyeholes swirling with blue and green light, the only color on the page. Behind the mask and beneath his skin I can taste old stories and moonlit nights, baleful green flame and a world in pieces. This is an old soul. An ancient soul. A soul stained by a great and terrible Fall.

But there is something unnatural creeping through his soul, spreading like veins over muscle and cracks in the mask: lines of white-hot light splintering like lightning. It hurts to look at, that searing white against all that ink and charcoal. And it burns not with pain but with ecstasy, delight, pure white-hot joy.

I blink away my soul sight as the white light starts to hurt, and Cheshire whispers in my ear, “He is maddened by joy. Use that. Make him laugh.”

I take a brief glimpse around the rest of the room as Kado keeps me moving forward. My audience is small: aside from Averrich, myself, and Kado, there are only three people in the vast chamber.

Mahiri I recognize, though I note a few changed details: the eye my summons took out looks unhealthily red but far more functional than I had hoped; she’s got a pair of bulky goggles resting on her forehead, made of leather and metal and glass; and she’s traded her plain sword for one with a fancier hilt that seems decorated with carvings of animals. She doesn’t look happy to see me, to my complete and utter shock.

To the right of the elf’s throne–my right, not his right–I see a beefy trash pile of a woman. She’s got a big frame, maybe bigger than the power armor knight, and a ragged tank top shows off muscular arms. Her dark brown hair is matted in clumps, her face is dirty, and even from here I can tell that she smells like wet dog. Add that to those big amber eyes, eyes like a wolf, and my paranoid brain is immediately screaming lycanthrope.

On the other side of Averrich’s throne stands a woman who is definitely some kind of fiend, I’d wager another imp. She has deep blue skin and violet eyes with black sclera, curling horns bedecked in gold and glittering gems, jeweled ear piercings, and a pointed tongue. She wears a black-and-purple dress that leaves little to the imagination and bares both arms and legs, showing off her clawed hands and clawed feet.

When I’m close to the throne, Kado shoves me to my knees. I restrain the urge to hiss and snarl at him. Deadly situation, need to play this right. Elf gang boss whose soul has some kind of weird joy virus. Okay. Fuck. I let my gaze flick to Cheshire for a moment, trying to broadcast my need for help through just my eyes.

Cheshire’s right beside me, and she quickly says, “The fae like a mouthy brat, or at least that’s what their queen likes, and they can only deviate so much from her template. Get scrappy. Be a bitch.”

I can do that. Bratting is my specialty. I look up at Averrich and crack a forced grin. “If you’re going to tie me up and put me on my knees, at least buy a girl a drink first. I usually charge for that kind of game, but I’ll make an exception ‘cause you’re just so damn cute.”

The faerie cocks his head, raises an eyebrow, and then smirks. “Noted. Imlashi, be a dear and treat our guest.” Averrich plucks a goblet out of thin air and hands it to the blue-skinned imp, whose name I recognize from the nightclub.

Imlashi struts over to me, each move self-assured and languid. Cheshire whispers in my ear again, telling me, “This is a power move. The liquid in the goblet is harmless, but it’s made to smell poisoned so you’ll make a fool of yourself avoiding it.”

Kado slashes the bonds around my wrists, freeing my hands, and Imlashi holds out the goblet for me to take, which I do. The liquid is a bright shade of orange-red, looking like some kind of fruit juice, but the scent of bitter almonds wafts off it.

If Cheshire’s lying here, I’m dead either way. I down the whole thing in one gulp–grapefruit juice, I discover–before handing the empty goblet to Imlashi with a pleasant smile. “My favorite. Thanks.”

Imlashi takes the goblet with grace and carries it back to Averrich, who vanishes it away into presumably his throne world–which is probably how Eirdryrd pulled off that sword trick, now that I think about it.

I push off the ground and rise to my feet, unwilling to remain kneeling a moment longer. “So,” I ask. “Shall we talk? You brought me all this way and with all this effort for something, didn’t you?”

Averrich chuckles. “Spirited. Let’s test that spirit: Imlashi, do what you do best.”

The imp smiles, bows in a way that is very intentionally meant to give me an eyeful of her cleavage, and then she saunters closer to me than before and traces a finger under my chin, across my cheek, and tugs at my lower lip. “[Worship the Glorious],” she commands.

Just like the sleep spell, I feel the effect from a keen remove; I can hear the echo of the song, taste the shape and the suggestion, but it does not bind me. I feel a sense of adoration, grandeur, and all-consuming worship, but I heed no god nor master. I will the spell to disperse as easily as dismissing one of my own, and it’s gone.

Then I bite the fucker’s finger.

“Ah! You little bitch!” she shrieks, pulling her bleeding finger back and clutching at it.

I swallow a few drops of blood and grin, feeling a trickle of mana from the act. “Don’t stick your finger in a vampire’s mouth unless you want to lose that finger. But go on, do it again. I dare you.”

The imp glares at me and curls her lip for a retort, but she’s interrupted by the elf. “Report, Imlashi,” he orders her.

Imlashi smooths her dress and restores her charming smile. “Her resistances are consistent with those of a scion, as Kado reported. I believe it is safe to assume that she is, indeed, a demon.”

Averrich taps the arm of his throne and muses, “I wonder how she would fare against another scion’s influence. [Dazzle and Daze].”

A second spell slams into me, a thing of light and sound and vicious disorientation. The distance between the spell effect and the sanctity of my mind feels perilously shorter, but I grit my teeth and force it off regardless. “My will is my own,” I snarl.

The faerie chuckles. “So it is. Very well, only one more test: Imlashi, open your sight. Tell me what you see.”

Imlashi nods and peers at me intently, violet eyes burning bright. She frowns and furrows her brow, and she begins to speak. “I see… contradiction. I see fear that is bravado, anger that is calm. It’s like a storm of emotion and desire and meaning, all tangled and intertwined. It’s nearly impossible to discern her true intentions beyond the vaguest impression of ‘survive.’ I’ve never seen any defense quite like it.”

“I have,” Averrich remarks. “She is protected from your sight by a witch’s shroud. I’ve seen it thrice before, in my very long life.”

Each member of his little court reacts differently: Imlashi stiffens, Mahiri’s eyes go wide, and the possible-lycanthrope narrows her eyes. I grit my teeth, but don’t deny the claim.

“However, she is yet new to her Gift,” he continues. “I cannot tell the shape of each thread, but I can perceive the presence, and that is more than an experienced practitioner would allow me. The girl is bound in covenant to two signatures: one of Shadow, and one of Summer.”

The contract with Bashe, and the contract with Eirdryd. Damn it.

Averrich leans forward and smiles benevolently. “Now, let’s be civil about this. Tell me, girl: where is Bashekehi the Ever-Gleaming? I’ve been dying to speak with him ever since I heard he had returned.”

I blink rapidly. “What? What!? Are you fucking kidding me!? You kidnapped me over the godsdamned fucking incubus!? I DON’T EVEN LIKE THE INCUBUS!” I am boiling with rage that these absolute bastards would put me through all this nonsense just to ask me about Bashe of all people. Do I not matter? Am I not worth abducting on my own merits?

“If there is no love lost between you, then surely you would have no compunctions about selling him out,” Averrich suggests.

“Well,” I hedge, “I mean, that information has value. What are you offering?”

He smiles again and pulls a long, wicked knife out of the air. “The privilege of not having that information tortured out of you.”

I pause, processing that, and Cheshire drifts back into view to counsel, “Don’t play games over this one. Offer it as a gift.”

Her counsel seems sensible, but still I hesitate. Quite aside from the fact that I only have an educated guess about Bashe’s current location, do I really feel comfortable throwing him to the proverbial wolves? We left on bad terms, but it doesn’t feel right. So instead of following Cheshire’s advice, I try, “Hey now, isn’t that against the spirit of hospitality? Pretty sure torturing captives is a big social faux pas.”

Averrich’s face lights up, Cheshire hisses, and I immediately realize I’ve made a fumble. The elf asks, “Oh? Do you cede to my authority, then, and acknowledge yourself as under my power?”

“Uhhh nope! No, nope, not at all, definitely not, I am not doing that. However,” I stall, “you, uh, shouldn’t torture me anyways. Because–because torture is ineffective!” I seize on a point of attack and follow it through. “People will say anything under torture, absolutely anything. You stick a trained operative through a torture program and they’ll sing you twenty different tunes but not a note will be on-key. They’ll say whatever they think you want to hear.”

“And are you a trained operative, Maven Alice?” he asks, a mocking edge to his words. The knife scrapes along the side of his throne, carving a gouge.

Okay, Cheshire’s plan it is. “I offer a gift,” I blurt. “A gift of knowledge: I’m not actually sure where Bashe went, but I imagine he probably went to go mourn his dead husband and get his life sorted. If there was a grave, probably there. His old base, maybe, or his house if he had one. We left on bad terms so he didn’t tell me shit but he was pretty torn up about his dead husband and I may have pressed that button a little too hard, so yeah, that’s where I’d go if I were looking for him, which I have no intention of doing because I don’t care and he can fuck off and die, I’m not bitter.”

Averrich chuckles. “I see. Well, that’s good to know. But I admit, I led with the less interesting question. What I really want to know is… which fae put that mark on your soul? Who did you sell your name to?”

Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck! Argh, why does he have to know that level of detail? I grit my teeth and say nothing.

“Mahiri,” he says casually, and the reaver cracks her knuckles, grins, and starts advancing on me.

I take a step back, bump into Kado, and hold my hands up placatingly. “Okay, okay, jeez. Back off.”

Averrich holds up a hand and Mahiri halts, but there’s still a dangerous edge to his voice as he insists, “Answers, demon.”

I sigh. “Eirdryd. His name was Eirdryd Llewellyn.”

The dirty muscle girl with the wolf eyes growls out, “What game does he think he’s playing, sending Llewellyn so far from his territory?”

Wait, what? Is that a different “he” from Eirdryd? What the fuck is going on?

Averrich replies breezily, “The same as us, of course. Inform Kasumi all the same.” The probably-a-lycanthrope nods and hurries out of the room, disappearing down a corridor. When she’s gone, Averrich says, “Congratulations, fledgling: you just made my persons of interest list. Let’s talk.”