Intermission: Den of the Lion
The room was dark purple, polka dotted with white and black in a juggalo style. It looked like faces in any number of emotions and pains. It was not that the master of the room liked the style, it was the owner's style. Master and owner being different things, the master could not criticize, especially when he had just laid claim.
The room was scattered with chairs, couches and tables haphazardly. They were eclectic and betrayed the Owner's inability to understand taste or fashion. He could be forgiven it, due to what he was. The master did not remark on the tastelessness of that room.
He did not remark on the view. Though windows existed, they only looked out to metal mountains that were forged when one continent was forced to hold the population of the world. It was not even a good view, the buildings around it blocked over ninety percent of what was worth seeing.
The Master lounged on an uncomfortable chair and did not touch the food placed before him in a gesture of respect and politeness. There was grape faygo and Doritos, one of five chips to survive into the Empire of Man's diet. The master was used to the finest, eight hundred or greater year old blue china etched by the Ming themselves. He would never deign to eat off of a paper plate, even if he starved. The Owner did not understand his sentiment, eating is eating, but he commented not on his master's finickiness.
There was another, the Servant. He did not move. He did not comment. He merely waited for his Master's orders and cared not. He was impassive and entirely without emotion. He did not care about the paint, nor the décor, nor the windows and certainly not the food, he did not eat like human's did. He did not listen to the dark music.
The Owner manipulated a disc jockey's instruments. He knew the sickest beats, his whimsy was harsh and righteous. The bass was dropped to hell then raised to heaven. The riffs were truly mirthful. The snares were perfectly coaxed like a suckling babe coaxed milk from the breast-like shape of the discs. The discs were merely a formality and covered in a thousand buttons that each did a different thing. The master knew it not, but enjoyed the beat.
“My son... he should be beginning to leave the Equestrian system now, shouldn't he?” The question was idle, but it was serious. He did want to know. Not for his son's safety, but for the time frame that he had set out. The Owner did not pause his mimsy rhythms. The Servant grimaced.
“Within two Equestrian hours.”
The Master continued his brown study. He was not bored, not was he terribly excited. He merely said nothing. He idly flicked a Dorito at the Servant. The Servant's grim line across his face turned into a one second scowl. He did not like Doritos. It was the one thing he didn't like in this situation. The orange dust got into his leather second skin cyber-suit and caused him itches.
“Emperor, please, I do not wish to clean my second skin.”
“Bah.” He started flicking Doritos at a particularly ugly futon. He did deign to sip a little Faygo, however. The Owner grinned. That was prime capricious Faygo, from before the nuclear wars or the expansion to space. Juggalo's were less plentiful then, but that was a golden age of their music. Now things were different. They did not have the WHIMSY nor the HYSTERIA the older ones did.
“What's the time?”
“Four O'clock.” For a second, the Master ceased being what he was and was merely a man. A man with ambition who could do nothing against his nature. He desired power. He had great pride. What was humility to him? Then he ceased being either the man or master, he became the Emperor of Mankind. He became himself.
Whatever kindness was in his eyes disappeared in favor of the harsh horror of the days of old. Before the Christ died for our sins there were the ancient rulers of the world. The golden magnificence of Nebuchadnezzer was in his poise and trappings. The ancient cruelty of the Assyrian Tiglath-Pileser III were in his spirit and it gnawed at his soul. The Silvery grandeur of Cyrus and Xerxes were in his mind and his hands. The Bronze, all-conquering power of Alexander the Great was in his eyes. Finally, the Iron of Rome and all the Ceasers was in his spine. The righteous beats stopped and the Owner bowed, becoming a servant. He was adorned in red and gold in perfect mathematical sync. He was Emperor Augustus Constantin the Third. He was the master, not only of this room, but of all humanity.
He was a vizier of the old school, Juggalo though he may be. He was not dressed to a magnitude of the awe of his Emperor, but he was dressed very well in formerly royal purples. A hood covered the white and black paints. He was wearing a grin, but his mouth wore a frown. His hands were immaculately gloved in purple striped leather. His name was Tortentine.
The Servant straightened his back and became the Bodyguard. He wore the shadows like a cloak, a part of him that he did not notice. He did not touch it. He did not use it. It was merely there. His threat became apparent and the light fled from him. His power did not reside in his whimsy and his purple underwear, like Tortentine. Nor did he draw power from the very human race and the grandeur of history itself, like the Emperor did. He drew his power from his soul and his faith. If you would soul gaze into his eyes to see his true form, you would see bedrock reinforced by steel, inscribed upon it: “The heart of a king is in the hand of God. By serving the ruler you serve God.” It was Divine Right and Good that he serve the ruler, no matter what. His name was Werner.
Only one was simple, only one could be truly defined and only one bore the weight of all humanity upon his shoulders. It does not make him stoop. Werner the body-guard opened the door. The Emperor stepped out into the hallway with Tortentine only a step behind him. There were no threats for one hundred miles of metal mountain. Werner had already slain them all.
The Emperor of Humanity entered into an elevator. The cyborg handler pressed the buttons to take them to the great palace that settled above them. The walls ceased being metal and became glass. The Cyborg was blind. The three who could see beheld the rotting and rusting glories of metal mountains, the last great bastion of humanity. They beheld the great last ditch effort to have humanity live in it's own planet. They beheld blasphemy and bureaucracy equally. Then they saw the bright star that is the palace that holds the firmament of mankind.
“Sir. Do you have any intention of allowing the Ponies to colonize a planet by themselves?” Tortentine asked. He was curious, but this was one of the few places that he felt he had leave to speak and request his great master's goals he would otherwise keep secret.
“As long as I live, I will deny those animals their expansion.”