B3 C3 - Your Reputation Precedes You

Struggling to maintain a spell because of the number of processes it was composed of was not an unfamiliar sensation to Syl. Struggling because his flux pool just didn’t have the fuel it needed, however, was.

With the insights that he’d gained from the tools of the machines, Syl had hacked together a spare few artifacts that could make up for his thoroughly exhausted flux pool. Rather than power them himself, he had used magic from Uriel and Jennifer to charge them, but he still had to supplement the spells with his own modifications when they were active—while the artifacts provided the frame for the spell, he hadn’t gotten as much time as he would have liked, so they didn’t provide much room for more detailed modifications.

There were two types of running on empty: shallow and deep flux exhaustion. The difference between them was roughly equivalent to that of being too tired to continue sprinting and being so thoroughly drained that even raising a foot was impossible. Syl had experienced the former multiple times before, but his well was expansive enough that he’d never risked the latter until recently.

Recovering his flux from this level of exhaustion was going to take a good while, he knew, but that didn’t necessarily mean he couldn’t cast any spells. It was just that the process of doing so proved to be physically painful and a good order of magnitude slower and more difficult than it was typically, not to mention that it was likely to delay the time it took to fully recover his flux pool. To continue his running analogy, it was like trying to get back into a sprint with two broken legs.

It was still necessary. Even with both hands tied behind his back, Syl and Bianca were more capable magicians and tactical operatives than almost any other they had access to. Raw power had never been their only strength.

Right now, that meant maintaining a one-time use artifact Syl had created to replicate the effects of a twist on a master-class Indigo-class projection-type spell that conjured a temporary replica of a human limited to a small spatial confine in exchange for being visually indistinguishable from said person as well as mimicking certain aspects of their flux patterns. It was imperfect and wasn’t generally used as anything more than a propaganda tactic, but Syl and Bianca didn’t have many better ways to scout out the response that was sure to be inside this black site without being shot and cast at.

Well, they did, but they couldn’t use any of them, not at a time like this. They knew from extensive experience with certain Aurian black sites that they were built with counterintelligence measures intended specifically to prevent lesser magicians from worming their way through.

The prudence they’d exercised proved its worth when the first bullets started flying. The illusion didn’t so much as flicker as bullets passed through it, maintaining the pretense of reality.

Bianca winced at the sound of the shots, signing to Syl. I told you taking them head on would have been a bad idea.

I never argued otherwise, Syl signed back. The shield artifacts are more expensive, anyway. Keep focusing on the stealth spell.

“Cease fire!” a coarse, male voice demanded from within. He still sounded young, but it was always hard to tell when it came to magicians.

“Cease fire!” a second magician replied, confirming the command. She added on another, less formal command. “Stop shooting, you fucking morons!”

Syl arched an eyebrow at Bianca. That hadn’t been within the plan.

Bianca looked as confused as he felt. Do you recognize that voice? I’m getting deja vu.

He shrugged. I don’t remember people as well as you do.

There was usually no point in it. Friend or foe, very few people who entered Pride’s orbit survived for long.

“Am I addressing Sylvester?” the male voice asked.

In response, Syl had the illusion nod. They recognized him. That usually wasn’t good.

He closed his eyes, trying to ascertain locations and power levels of the people within. It was significantly harder to do without a perception-class spell, but Syl’s memories included a solid set of formless magic theory involving the perception of and understanding of ambient flux. It was much harder to do without hypersensitivity to it, granted, but this wasn’t the first time he had tried to reconstruct a scene he didn’t have a visual on.

“Our apologies for the mess,” the female voice added. It quivered, barely suppressed fear obvious in its timbre. “They didn’t know who you were. I assure you, it won’t happen again.”

“I do recognize that voice,” Bianca murmured. “I’m going to try something.”

Don’t get yourself killed, Syl signed.

“I’m not twelve anymore,” she replied, lips quirking up in a grin. “I’ll be right back.”

She stepped out of the cover they’d been hiding behind, dropping the stealth spell on herself.

“Second intruder!” another magician, clearly younger than both of the ones that had spoken before, shouted. “Identify yourself!”

“Shut the hell up, Clive,” the woman from before snapped. “If you screw this pooch, it’s all our heads. Scratch that, we’d be lucky if they found our heads.”

“Pardon me,” Bianca said, projecting her voice with no magic except her own vocal cords. “Is that Nethra Blackburr that I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Oh, fuck,” the man said. “They’re both here.”

“It is!” the woman—Nethra—replied, even more nervous now. “What brings you here, Crown Princess?”

“I haven’t been held that title in some years,” Bianca said. “It’s just Bianca, these days. I’m glad to see you’re doing well. Is that Light with you?”

After a moment of searching, Syl realized that he did remember these names. Nethra Blackburr had been part of SU-275. Anderson “Light” Richards had been an professional circuit competitor before being recruited for SU-398. Nethra was as decorated a master-class magician as one could be without crossing the border into strategic, while Light had made it all way to reaching that status proper before he had been scrubbed from most official records. Syl had interacted with them once or twice, but only in passing and only by chance.

“It is,” Light called out. “I can’t say I’m not happy to see you. I just wish it wasn’t here.”

Syl gave up on making out the composition of the room by sound alone, walking up closer so he could get a better sense of the events himself.

Twenty magicians, all clad head-to-toe in uniforms that were as much FCD as they were a show of conformity. They were visually indistinguishable, though they were wielding different weapons. Most had guns, rifles like the one Syl (though not his illusory copy) himself was holding, but the ones that were clearly higher-class magicians didn’t, instead relying more heavily on traditional FCDs.

Other than Nethra and Light, both of whom looked to be team leaders judging by the differences in insignia, nearly everyone had their guns leveled at Bianca. Three others had put them down, though whether that was to do with recognition or if they were just following their team leader’s orders was unclear.

“Crown Princess?” one of the faceless magicians asked. He was still leveling his gun. “As in the Crown Princess Bianca? TL, do we need to do influence protocols? She died when I was 12.”

“She didn’t die in 58 AFI,” Nethra said. “Put your gun down, Graham. You of all people should know by now not to trust who the government calls dead.”

“Not much of a government these days,” Bianca replied. “I hear it’s every faction for themselves.”

“This one’s still loyal to the king,” Light said. He didn’t even have his FCD up, his eyes still fixated on Syl’s illusory copy. “At least it was. We’re going off of last orders. I thought both of you died during the war.”

“We haven’t been advertising our presence as much,” Bianca said. “Though that changed a little recently.”

“Light,” a female magician perched behind cover with a heavy sniper rifle said, “Shouldn’t we just smoke ‘em? Nobody’s supposed to know that this place exists other than us. Nobody.”

The magician in question snorted. “You’d never get to pull the trigger.”

“There’s twenty of us,” another magician said. “Even if he’s a strategic, we’re trained for this.”

“No, you aren’t,” Light said. “Do you even know who this is?”

The silence was answer enough.

“This is Sylvester Auria and former Crown Princess Bianca,” Nethra said, shutting down another subordinate’s attempt to start speaking. “During the years leading up to the war, they were part of special unit 317.”

“Saved my ass twice,” Light added. “Once in Xinjiang, once in Middle America.”

Syl tilted his head. The copy did the same. He didn’t remember either.

“They call him the Silent Archmage in other countries,” Nethra continued. “Sometimes in ours, too, but not as much since the kingdom decided to make his life a secret. If you tried to do something that would actually hurt him, you would be dead before your spell pattern finished. I have seen him kill a dozen strategic-class magicians without moving a finger or uttering a word. He is responsible for Seattle, for Las Vegas, and for dozens of operations you don’t have the clearance to know about.”

“Hundreds,” Bianca corrected politely.

“Hundreds,” Light repeated, taking a knee. “We’re lucky they didn’t choose to come in guns blazing.”

Please don’t kneel on my behalf, Syl signed, dropping the illusion and indicating to Bianca to end the stealth effect on him. It was a risk, but he judged that saving their flux was more likely to come in handy than holding up an illusion that they’d finished attacking.

A murmur passed through the members of the strike teams that hadn’t yet put their arms down as Syl’s position shifted in front of their eyes.

“I knew I recognized you,” one of the ones who’d already put his gun down said, eyeing the two of them together. “Were you in there in the City of Burning Angels?”

That was a bit fanciful of a name to describe the days that had led to the downfall of the strongholds in Los Angeles, but people always tended towards that kind of nomenclature when it came to disasters. It made an event like a paragon-class Gate break and the resultant hydrogen bombing of a nation’s own citizens sound much more palatable than a more precise description of the events.

“We were,” Bianca said. “60 AFI, was it?”

“I thought you would be older,” that same magician said. “You’re still… kids.”

“Magician’s world,” Bianca replied. “Were you there?”

“I was ten,” he said. “You saved my life. My family’s, too.”

Syl had no idea who this was.

“…really in Seattle, then…”

“…thought I recognized her…”

“…shit, it is him…”

Further murmurs filtered through the room, and it quickly became apparent that more than just the people who’d put their guns down had heard of or recognized them in some fashion when they had it explained to them.

One by one, the magicians in their room turned their FCDs away from Syl and Bianca. Most put them down entirely. The atmosphere in the room gradually morphed into a strange mixture of respect and fear. Some of the magicians who’d been so quick to shoot were now stammering out apologies.

Syl didn’t particularly care for this kind of treatment, but it was better than being shot at.

“So why are you here?” Nethra asked. “I would ask how you know this place exists, but I suppose that’s a moot point.”

The space program, Syl signed.

Nethra expelled a sigh. She had seen that one coming, it seemed, but the answer brought her no comfort.

“TL, you can read sign?” one of the other magicians asked.

“Why do you think we learned it?” Nethra asked, gesturing towards Syl. “It was standardized across special units in the years leading up to the war. Because of him.”

“The king ordered us to stop anyone that came for data,” Light said. “We’re to scuttle the place if someone we can’t stop shows up.”

Do you want to try that? Syl signed. He tapped a button hidden in his gloves, and Cassandra’s Voice formed itself, titanium links clicking and masking his lower face. I’m afraid I would have to respond.

He doubted he would be even be able to cast the strategic-class Ruin, the only spell Cassandra’s Voice could even be used for, but it wasn’t about being able to cast it or not. If they knew about him, then it was very likely they knew about one or two of his FCDs, which in turn meant that this was as understandable a threat as any.

“No,” Light said. He looked around. “Any objections?”

“Before any dumbass opens their mouth to reply to that, I should remind you that the last time I saw someone talk back to him, we had to clean him off the walls with a mop,” Nethra said.

Had that happened? Even as Pride, Syl wasn’t so petty as to murder someone just for talking back to him, but he’d developed a bit of a reputation on the battlefield. Some of that had been unearned, but he would take the stolen valor, dubious as it was, if it meant he could get through this a little more easily.

There was silence in the room.

“That’s what I thought,” Light said. “Take what you’re coming for and leave. We’ll scuttle it afterwards. The king won’t be happy with us either way, but we’ll survive this way.”

The king has fled his castle, Syl signed.

“Saw the news,” Light replied. “He visited not long after. He’s alive if not well, and that’s enough for him to be a threat.”

Then do what you must.

“We will.”

“Thank you, Light,” Bianca said. “Do try and keep your people in line. We’ll be watching.”

Both team leaders visibly shuddered at that.

“I’ll show you the way,” Nethra said. “Light, handle my squad too, please.”

The magician in question saluted.

“Follow me.” Nethra gestured, opening a door that had been hidden perfectly inside a steel wall deeper in the room.

The magicians composing some of Auria’s most elite, hidden strike teams parted to let Syl and Bianca walk through.

A surprising amount of them knelt as they walked through. Syl did not acknowledge them.

There was, after all, still a job to do.