Night fell, officers out on assignment returned through the gates of adamant-walled Freegate past Cadmos's outstretched hand, and the Rares hauled the tables into the dining room. “Why don't we just leave these in here?” Burmin Trivvis asked.

“They get in the way when we all run in to watch the surprise collab announcement, moron,” Tramda Olex informed him.

Later, while the Rares transported the tables, chairs, and cushions back to storage, the real rarities withdrew to their lounges before they turned right around and skulked through the keep to the alt closet. Half of them anyway, and half of 139 total officers, minus Cadmos, minus alts, made for a number too large for the fingers and toes of a humanoid counter. The artists had equipped Smidgen and Wiffle even worse in that regard. The alt closet, however, had been built to accommodate far more officers than that, though it expected them to be lined up shoulder to shoulder and belly to back. Rows and columns of inert officers, some of them base versions and others alts that failed the test of popularity, stood silent and staring like players watching ads for currency.

As cluttered with Bel Felicitous Fasdes and Tiboleus Axanders as the alt closet was, plenty of room remained for the curious officers, the go-getters, the truculent souls who had never heard of a face that deserved not to be punched. Boxer Andit of course, Skaya naturally, and Santa C. Dorenz. Aerywe Beruvo had brought along Gaelvry Bride, Rylweadh of Mercy, and Dr. Stezlinstein, whether to attend the meeting or throw an Altmas party, none but she knew. Ballroom Merilia attended and Society Page Lasva followed behind, pencil and notebook out. A notebook would be needed to record all the SRs and URs who showed, and a separate notebook with ripped pages and stains for the Rs.

Spenito Niu put his dog down and cleared his throat. “Ahem. I suggested this location because it's the one place Cadmos will never come, wholly altless as he is.”

“Hey guys, what's going on? I just came to check on the alts.”

“Nothing, Cadmos,” everyone replied.

“Really? Huh. I was afraid I was interrupting something.” Cadmos walked up and down the stored ranks. As he went, he righted a few bodies that had been leaned against the walls by workers who accepted imperfection as the natural state of the world. “I'm afraid we've been letting this room get out of control lately. There, done. Good night, guys and gals.” Saying that, he left.

“I would like to announce my intention of taking a sabbatical from the Strategist community. I clearly have remedial studying to do.” Saying that, Spenito Niu left also.

“A true Strategist knows his limits.” Mentor Tendradius Pux stepped forward and raised his rad techno-sword that only the rudest would claim looked kind of like a cheese slicer with the handle coming out of the side. Do cheese slicer blades light up and emit hums and crackles? They ought to, but most do not. “Limits are in flux, not constant! To facilitate collabs, a conduit of some sort opens between the involved properties. So our contacts in other games say. Ask your own if you have doubts.” He paused, and a few voices confirmed that they had heard the same thing from their penpals. “We don't know the details. We don't have to. The day the collab starts, the very minute, we'll be in the proximity of Cadmos. The conduit opens, we charge through, thrash HLA, seize trophies, and return. We have two weeks, but four hours should suffice.”

“Sounds great! I have a question, though.”

“You are acknowledged, Quircy Rau.”

“I don't mean to say Strategizing isn't hard, because Zims is right there, but did you really take six or so hours to come up with 'Follow Cadmos?' I think we'd all figured that one out for ourselves.” A portion of the attendees murmured agreement, and a portion of those were not fibbing.

“I'll field that.” Luerre Voine walked up beside Mentor Tendradius Pux. “You're right. That part doesn't matter. We were all playing Holy Legend Army to make sure we can take them. Suppose we decided we couldn't. We would have invented some grounds for claiming there was no way we could cross over.”

“I cannot condone telling them that.”

“Did I, in my newness, make another mistake?”

The narrowed eyes of his fellow Strategists said yes, but the bulk of the officers disagreed. “Yeesh, is Luerre 'Minor Villain' Voine the only Strategist we can trust?” Even a Rare, a mere silver, dared to say that, confident the crowd would back him up, and Dennet was not mistaken in thinking so.

“I had somehow felt they were keeping something back until Count Voine cleared everything up,” noted feeler Darlotte Glofal said. “My confidence in this affair has gone from greens to golds. If only that man were always so useful.”

“Hmph.” Luerre Voine restricted himself to that, since he, too, felt the winds blowing his way.

“Voine for president! We like Luerre!”

“We don't have a president, Lasva.”

“Times change, 'Queen' Gaelvry. Don't get too confident about how soft sits the crown.”

“I'd say that's a subject for a different conference. Question here!”

“You are acknowledged, Serdon Miloz.”

“Fighting gets you moving, no doubt, but it's not the only thing. If, don't let that 'if' get you down, if we are actually able to get into HLA, would it be all right if we held a little concert during the trophy-taking? That wouldn't be aid and comfort, would it?”

The Strategists conferred in hushed voices. Mentor Tendradius Pux turned back. “Our determination is that we can't stop you and your bandmates from rocking. Not even if we wanted to. Some of us do.”

“Right on! You'll change your minds soon. Bet on it.”

Promised battle, booty, and bass lines, those present already imagined themselves standing atop a pile of beaten crusaders, laughing. They discussed group composition, and their plans included many officers who had not come, for they could not at that moment imagine any of their fellows might not be as excited and persuaded as they. Inveterate party-poopers with red hair, a sword, and poor showings in tier lists were to be excluded, but nobody else.