//------------------------------//
// Prelude 3: The Hanged Man 
// Story: Mancala 
// by Schismatism 
//------------------------------//

When the first portal opened, it seemed like such a little thing.

The Rikti invasions, once so frequent, had been tapering off for the last long while, perhaps owing to the actions of the heroes - and, yes, villains - responsible for keeping the world together.  After all, while the villains would make use of the Rikti technology for their own ends, they had no particular desire to see the world destroyed, or, worse, subjugated by someone else.

Well, okay.  Most of them had no such desire.  There were always the loonies.

There were better targets in the universe, even the multiverse, which the Rikti could capitalize on instead.  So while the slow withdrawal of the invasion fleet had been considered a blessing to the denizens of Primal Earth, they knew another shoe was going to drop very, very soon.  

Unfortunately, that also meant everyone was looking in the wrong direction.

The shadow war, such as it were, between Prime and Praetoria had also been escalating to no small extent.  Tyrant's activities had increased in weight, his desire to subjugate the two worlds leading to a string of disasters which left no one unscathed.  While not as severe as the Calamity which had occurred some years back, the events nobody believed were at all isolated were driving people to seek shelter throughout the world, with heroes and villains joining together to push back at the site of every new omen.  Gaia's vengeance had made itself clear, the corrupted elementals streaming out en masse, wild magic breaching the veils of reality, warping, twisting.

And yet, everyone was still looking in the wrong direction there.

Excursions through time itself had been limited to those stable events, at least by Ouroboros' hand.  Nobody was stupid enough to believe that there wouldn't be rogue excursions, or even incursions, from alternate timelines; the continued existence of the Fifth Column had put paid to that.  The only question is who would be fool enough to play their hand first.  So plenty of people had their eyes on that red herring.

A dozen and a half disasters of a magnitude like that, every day of the week, every week of the year.  That was the situation on Primal Earth, and on Praetoria, and on a half a dozen other worlds.  Every one of them seemed like they would spell the ultimate destruction.  And that meant that when the portals started, everyone started to yell, and shout.  Some pointed fingers, some cast spells, some sought guidance from higher powers.

Nobody looked in the right direction.

Not one.





One started in a fight between two gangs, the Trolls and the Hellions, in Perez Park.  Really, where else could it begin?  The two had been forever vying over turf supremacy, only joining forces briefly to chase out the Circle of Thorns when the mages got too big for their britches.  Besides, fighting over drugs and power was great, but sacrificing people is just sick.

If nothing else, Jerry Bienvenue was having a fine day.  The oddly-named Hellion had taken the opportunity to lead his pack of scofflaws straight into Troll territory, a thumbing-of-the-nose which couldn't help but be answered, and answered with force.  That suited Jerry just fine.  The person who threw the first punch had the advantage, and he was certain that the Trolls, their minds riddled with holes from all those damned drugs, would happily follow them into a waiting trap.

The Trolls, to be sure, didn't have much in the way of imagination, tactical insight, or for that matter brain cells; Superadyne was a drug which encouraged none of that, to be replaced with an entirely different kind of muscle.  Nonetheless, they were possessed of a sort of brute cunning, and the trap was sprung on two sides.  A flanking position ambushed the ambushers, and so they took the fight.

Destructive as the fire and fury might have been, both sides were having quite a fine time of it: the Trolls were in their element, rampaging away, and the fire-slingers were painting the town red.  So neither side noticed, at first, when the portal - the rift, whatever it might be - opened in the middle of the festivities.

Nonetheless, once the portal became evident, both sides called a quick halt to observe the event.  Something so blatantly magical could only have come from the Circle, and so teams were quickly assembled and dispatched - in opposite directions, just in case - to root out and eliminate the interlopers.  Still, there were no Thorns around, not here.  Quite the contrary, at that moment, they were running in the opposite direction, screaming at the images in their heads.

The Troll commander, who'd eschewed his own name for the rank of 'Caliban', took position on one side of the anomaly, while Jerry took the other.  They exchanged rough nods, accepting each others' presence for the moment, then gradually circled the rift, keeping well on the other side of one another.  They certainly could notice something peculiar about this one: while most rifts opened were perpendicular to the ground, this one was askew, almost 30 degrees from the vertical.  And it seemed to be... moving, spinning even, in ways which hurt the eyes.

Curiosity killed the cat, though.  The Troll commander knew of a few ways to hurt something back, and the biggest one was, of course, brute force.  And 'brute force', to him, meant he would go up and punch it.

The rift punched back.

When the pink smoke had finally dispersed, Jerry and the remaining Trolls and Hellions set up an impromptu party around it, some of them guarding it for the sake of guarding, others sharing drinks - though not Superadyne, at least for the Hellions.  It had been an interesting day, and Jerry wanted to know what was going on.  So he set up camp, and went for a five-minute nap.

The second rift opened up inside Jerry.  Then, everyone decided, it was probably time to stop celebrating.





This is Isabella Indigo, reporting for Paragon News.

Casualties continue to mount across Paragon City as the spread of the 'Wounds', as they have now been deemed, progresses with frightening rapidity.  These tears in space, first spotted in Perez Park a week ago, have seemingly doubled and redoubled with no end in sight.  Civilians are still advised to remain indoors as researchers attempt to determine the cause of these wounds, and how to stop it.

Tyrant has stated openly that he has set aside his plans to subjugate Paragon City, and by extension Primal Earth, citing a similar event occurring on Praetoria.  His statement has been met largely with disdain, but Sister Psyche, taking the time to interview the despot, has publicly confirmed his intent.

[Clip: Tyrant Speaks to Both Worlds]
Tyrant: It is clear that whatever the cause of these wounds, they are a threat which cannot be outmatched by the Rikti, nay, by any monster who might exist on either of our planes.  We must set aside our differences this once, for without cooperation, we can only worsen these tears in the fabric of our very reality.
[End Clip]

No response has yet been received by the remaining members of the Eight, who are still reeling after the demise of Statesman earlier this year.  Despite their shaken faith, they continue to hold a vigil against the portals, cordoning off areas and evacuating survivors from areas which have already been consumed.

A vigil has also begun in Atlas Park, outside City Hall, with candles placed to commemorate the many who have fallen victim to this calamity.

This is Isabella Indigo, signing off.





Ouroboros had seen better days.  Or millennia.  Either worked, really.

The tears in reality which had been continually opening throughout the timestream were taking their toll on the floating sanctuary, one where previously heroes and villains alike had gathered for safety and the preservation of their world.  The Menders were doing their best, but even their prodigious powers over their fortress could only slow, not stem, the tide of destruction.  Shunting the wounds out of time was one way, but it was a temporary stopgap.  Two Menders had already been lost, working themselves literally to death in a last ditch effort.

One man stood tall in the center of it, his robes stained through with sweat, his voice quiet as he muttered to himself.  Now and again, he would let out a quiet giggle, or a low moan, or a few words which weren't entirely relevant to the situation.

"This isn't one of my plots, at least.  None of my plots would ever do this.  I was never this."  Words which were pretty meaningless to anyone who would care to listen, at least on the once-shining island.

Mender Silos held fast, and continued his brutal vigil, even as his mind slipped further away.





The candlelight crowd had grown to encompass the entirety of Atlas Park.  The birthplace of so many heroes, or at least the area where so many found themselves at last, it was undeniably the safest place in the whole world, at least at the moment.  The air was thick with the sound of capes, with spellslingers warding the district against any who might cause it harm.  The looters and miscreants who would normally be breaking glass had stopped entirely, as everyone held their breath.  Everyone who cared, everyone who was anyone, everyone who was left, was here.  Except one.

A man who had grown to the highest echelon of power through the course of years was missing, as he was so often wont to be.  He couldn't be found there, or in Ouroboros, or even in the base of his small group, of his closest allies and compatriots.

He wouldn't be found in Praetoria, alongside his fellow in that world -- one who had grown rich with excess, but had finally lost himself to one of the wounds.  His brother from another world, Righteous Voice, had sacrificed himself for Tyrant to gain another few minutes.  That was all, there.

He was elsewhere, and he was looking in the right direction.





'So, here we are again,' thought Pelonius Zhintel to himself as he strolled down the path towards the source of so much pain.  'How long has it been...?'

The mutant who was missing from Atlas Park, from everywhere else, took a few steps on digitigrade claws towards his destination.  He could feel the weight of the being within on his mind, as always: a constant lust for greater power, for growth towards an impossible ideal, was the price one paid when supping from the Well.  But now, he thought to himself, it felt different.  It felt like it was laughing.

The path leading to the Well of the Furies had always been a trial, but for one accepted by the source, it was nothing but a garden path.  He carefully sidestepped the obstacles both with practice born of experience, and the guiding light of the worm in his head, the one who had destroyed Statesman and Recluse both.  The Well had been responsible for so much destruction.  Surely it had something to do with this.

When he entered the chamber, however, he stopped cold, awestruck by what he saw.

Where once the Well seemed a placid pool, inviting, in the midst of a darkened chamber, now it pulsed with light of an impossible origin.  Flesh, quivering with the drum of some hidden heart, rent in parts as all-too-familiar wounds appeared across its surface, only to disappear to somewhere else.  Somewhere, he was certain, was not too far from Atlas Park.

"What in the world...?"

'The world.'

A step backwards, a glance around, was all it took for Zhintel to realize that the voice was inside his head as much as outside.  A glob of protoplasm dripped from the side of the well, falling from another wound, and as he looked through the hole in reality, he thought he could see an eye turning to face him.

'The world's end.'

He'd heard that voice before, in part and in whole, in disjointed fragments which cried out in vengeance for all that had been done to it.  The unstoppable monster, one which could only be eliminated temporarily.  And now it had merged with the Well of the Furies.  Somehow, impossibly.

'They have finally abandoned us.'

"WHO?  Who has abandoned you?  We are still here, and we still fight for you!"

With a desparate cry, Zhintel took to the air, diving forward, but it was entirely too late.  With a soundless scream, the rents in the Well multiplied all at once, one of the Hamidon's 'eyes' bursting before him -- and then there was nothing left.





Dreams turned to ash as Pelonius Zhintel awoke in a dead land.  'Wake up.  Take stock.  Know your surroundings.'

It could very well have been the rising sun, finally peering over a pillar in the distance, which awoke him; it certainly wasn't anything else around.  The soft rustle of scales against leather merged seamlessly with the rattle of desert snakes and the whisper of an ancient wind.

'Know yourself.'

His scales had never been so pronounced - never spread from his lower legs, digitigrade though they were.  His hands, more like claws now, were covered in the golden weave, and from what little he could tell, it didn't stop there.  His slender body had become almost serpentine, yet covered by the grey fabric he had commissioned so long ago; his face, previously that of a mature gentleman, was now a long muzzle.

But he didn't feel any different from before, somehow.  Perhaps, like Stheno, he had been changed by the Well.  Perhaps not, however: its singing voice, ever echoing, called to him no longer.  Instead, there was a blessed silence, one he had desired for so many years.

"I am," he murmured, his voice unchanged from its baritone, at least as far as he could remember.  And he was, finally, alone.  What happened to the place he had been, he would have to learn... but for now, he would need to move forward.  There would be answers, somewhere.

With a graceful leap, Zhintel took to the skies and looked for the right direction.