Warner Papadopoulos

The festivities had started tentatively. Like a desert wanderer coming across an oasis and being unsure it was real. Once a few leaped, the party quickly began to roar. It held at the peak in a long-lasting climax of desperation. The Sixty partied as if it was the last night. A single moment they could be so free. Drinks flowed and cookies disappeared to the crumb. The lighting never changed, but still, the day turned to night. The partiers began to diminish, first in energy and then in numbers. Some fell victim to the comfort of couches and others wisely wandered back to their rooms. Laughter and joy had been enjoyed. It was a good day.

Grinning Warner lounged with the last embers of the Clock Party. Those last few celebratory survivors huddling together for the last of that warming cheer. Those few who were brave enough to see the party last longer, or at least to its end. The brawler had found that the Melon punch was more than tolerable with a splash of the Citrus. It might even be enjoyable, laughed the big man in his head. Of course… the change in my mind might just be a matter of quantity rather than quality. This time the laughter was out in the open. No one commented. Everyone smiled and seemed to think the laugh was for their own joke.

He felt heavy, though his lips felt too light not to smile. Warner laid in the soft sinking of the couch and looked at who had endured the night. His vision shuttered. A fuzzy glaze lay over the world. Everyone was familiar, but too indistinct to identify. A shake clarified the world just enough for him to see that Molly was gone. A memory of her whereabouts slowly rose to the surface of his mind. She had left suddenly when he returned with new drinks. It was a confusing reaction after a conversation of soft whispers. The cool-eyed girl had stiffly walked away berating herself for being too “indulgent.” Her departure had encouraged Warner to test the quality of the punch (through quantity).

His disappointment didn’t last long. It was drowned out in the warm heavy feeling that permeated his whole being. Warner scanned the faces of the people near him. Making use of his newly cleared vision. There weren’t many he recognized. The few that he did, were only in passing from when the brawler had taken part in their training. No one from the council or the raid. Ahh, I see, floated the thought. THIS is the end. Just us few who haven’t noticed the party is over. A rolling turn of his head brought the refreshment table into view. The cookies, even the nutty ones, were gone. All three punch barrels were pointed upwards to signal that they were tapped out. The party was over.

“Water,” decided Warner. He was unsure if that was out loud. Water, then sleep, he continued to himself. The couch is comfy… but I need some water to escape my well-deserved headache. Time stretched out as he focused on moving upwards and nothing changed. Finally, he rolled forward onto his feet to a tedious balance. Swaying back and forth, his heart leaped into his throat and a queasy stomach roiled. Like a pendulum, Warner stood swaying until everything calmed down.

Now that he was standing, the question occurred to him, Where to get the water...the training room… or my room. Warner nodded to the self answered question. My room is the obvious choice. He took a step forward and luckily his other foot caught him before the floor. In this stuttering manner, the brawler headed towards his bed. There was a sway or two, or a lot, but he made it to the room.

At his touch, the door opened easily. The bed was large enough to take up most of the spacious room. Warner had to cautiously shift around it to get to the sink in the bathroom. He frowned for the moment, thinking about whether to find the canteen or just drink from the faucet. A blinking glance reminded him that the punch cup was still in hand. Curiously, he took a look to see if there was any punch left. None, just a sticky dryness to be found by his finger. Shrugging, Warner filled it with water and drank until water seemed to fill him up to his eyes.

He stared into the mirror to assess. Redden eyes looked back over a failing grin. “She’s a distraction,” spoke Warner, thinking of Molly. “I let her get to me… get to me when we can’t afford it none. Lovely woman, got the looks, the spine, and those all seein’ eyes. Still can’t let her distract me. I gotta focus on the here and now. On the leadership of the Sixty. Malachi is a good man... is he a good leader though? Walks the walk, talks the talk, but can he stay strong when it gets tough? When, if… the power corrupts or breaks, I gotta be ready to pick up the slack. I can’t be giving googly eyes to her…”

Warner glared at himself as the battle raged in his skull. Affection for Molly vs. his sense of duty. The winner was long a foregone conclusion, but desire rarely dies easily or pleasantly. He filled another cup of water to top himself off. A little room above my eyes, he hollowly joked. Feeling the sloshing of the water inside, he collapsed into bed. Things passed through his mind’s eyes as fragmented thoughts. Nothing solid as the big man tried to fall asleep. The memory of Molly’s enchanting smile made an appearance. Warner held it for a moment, and then carefully pinned it to the side.

Instead, he focused on his plans for the dungeon. There’s where I make the impression, affirmed Warner. I can’t out-talk Malachi. Just ain’t in the cards... Tongue of a politician. If I gild my name in accomplishments out there, then there ain’t a thing he could do. My stock rises and his might just fade. Be better that way… I know my qualifications, but what are his? He snorted at the thought. It wasn’t hard to recognize the jealousy at the root of that thought.

The bearded man had risen to power far faster than Warner could have predicted for someone to do in a randomly thrown together group. Sure, charisma would have put a couple of potentials up, but to bring all the early runners under his banners… even me… that is just stupefying. I want to believe in him... but ain’t a man alive I would ever trust without the measure of his quality. Is he gold or fool’s gold? I chase myself with that question. He shifted on the bed from his back to the side. Not quite willing to risk sleeping on his stomach with an uneasy belly full of water.

Frowning, he considers, Molly seems to trust Malachi. The pinned memory flares as he thinks of her. Blinding, distracting, he pushed on. She’s got a head on her shoulders, so that’s something to keep in mind. She supported him over me at least once so far… even if she seems to like my smile… Warner coughed himself awkwardly out of that in-between place before true sleep. It was time to try another position.

Now on his other side, the brawler collected his train of thought, I can’t forget that the whole council supports him and the rest of the Sixty don’t seem to mind him calling shots. No one even blinked about how the cores were given out. Even if it was fair, that’s unlike people not to say anything. They might not have had a better answer, but they would normally say somethin’. Could I be off my thinkin’ cause of the demographics? I gotta take a closer look at the sort that came to The Pit. I could be missin’ some factors. This could even out the playing field, or maybe give me an advantage. Somethin’ to work on as I push the dungeon.

“Malachi,” frowned Warner with his eyes closed. Such an odd dude. Where did he come from? I guess I should just ask where any of us came from… Damian, a natural mage… Vincent, a living swordmaster… Clarissa better shot with a bow than any I went hunting with… Who knows what other genius is gonna show up. I wonder if I could have possibly hand-picked a better team… They do give me hope though. I want to trust them… even Malachi. I wish I could… Warner settled on his back again. He started checking off things to do like counting off sheep.

His breathing settled into an easy pattern. Thoughts lost their clarity as they fragmented within the fog of sleep. It was a deep slumber, but one that was troubled by conflicting dreams. In his sleep, Warner mumbled many words and names. “Molly” and “trust” were uttered the most.

Malachi Armstong

Malachi sat patiently waiting for midnight. He watched the ticking clock face soberly and with childlike wonder. The effects of the punch had long faded as he waited to see what show the clock would put on at midnight. The noon show had been missed due to Julia. There wasn’t any feeling of regrets over how that hour had been spent. Insomnia kept him up, so the sword acolyte was determined to see the midnight showing. The menu description had promised a different cuckoo experience every hour.

The twelve o’clock cuckoo wasn't the only one he hadn’t seen yet, but it was always the grandest show for cuckoo clocks. It felt the perfect way to end the night. To see what the clock would conjure up for midnight show. He knew one was a Ratsin, which had seemed too on the nose for his tastes. Three o’clock was a chimera that breathed red flame. Six was an orc warrior that roared in victory, ax clenched in hands. Seven was an elf mage singing to a tree. Nine was of course a dragon that was followed by a crowned demon for ten and an enthroned angel for eleven. Malachi pondered what could the clockmakers have placed higher than all of that.

“It’s a beautiful clock you picked out,” praised Harken as he brought over a chair to join the chosen leader of the Sixty.

For a time, Malachi didn’t answer. Just traced the whorls of the wood with his eyes as they spiraled like the wind. Carved figures acted as islands in the scrollwork. Despite the fantasy of the cuckoo pieces, the carvings were of mundane things. Birds, foxes, and more appeared almost at random across the wood. The bearded man felt there was a pattern to it, but couldn’t quite catch it.

“I chose it because it would stand out,” explained Malachi. “That and, I have always wanted a grandfather clock. There is something elegant about them. For me at least... but I moved around a lot. Too big to take when on the move.”

“And since you are stuck here for a bit, you went ahead and got one,” smiled Harken. His skin was pulled gaunt by the act, but there was genuine cheer in those eyes. The fever normally in them seemed to have faded for the moment. Seeing that eased Malachi’s nerves.

“Yeah, plus the need for time,” confirmed Malachi. “Should help bring some normalcy to our predicament.”

“Despite there not being a bit of normalcy about the situation?” asked the priestly man.

Malachi sighed and answered, “Especially because of that. Without touchstones, people go crazy. Everyone needs a few pillars for sanity’s sake. Some are more primal than those brought by civilization. I’m sure you have felt the lack of a sun. Our only sky is a painting that shows only the perfect day. We miss out on being able to look up to the sky and at least, generally knowing the time of the day. In the Pit, we can’t even know if it is nighttime.”

“So, with a clock, you bring back a cycle of day and night,” inferred Harken. “If not a sun, you bring us time.”

“It is a small thing,” said Malachi. “A thing you can forget about even, but without it, everything will fall apart. You can live without structured time. Of course, we can, people did it long before the sundial. The issue arrives when there is nothing to divide the waking hours… When there isn’t a standardized time to sleep... Without DST, I fear we would have scattered to different sleep cycles. Limiting what we can do all together.”

“Perhaps that is one of the trials we must face,” suggested Harken. “Testing our mettle in maintaining a functioning society. “Stand together, rise together, only ruin awaits the lone and scattered.”” They both glanced at the Commandments. The words seemed to burn the mind. It wasn’t easy to forget them.

“A trial, sure, I guess,” shrugged Malachi. “It could be part of whatever is planned by whoever did it, but it could also just be something that didn’t occur to them.”

“The painting of the sky suggests otherwise,” smiled Harken with a twinkle in his eyes. “It says to me that being so far from the blue sky was a pressing concern to those that came before us.”

“Alright, that’s a fair point,” ceded Malachi. “Rising up was definitely on their minds.”

Smirking, Harken added, “I know it is certainly on mine.”

“Escape,” nodded Malachi.

“No, not really,” disagreed Harken. “Answers. That is why I seek to rise. Someone with the power to pull us out of our world is offering us Purpose. I have never come across something so miraculous. And trust me, I have tried… very hard... to find a single bit of a trace of the divine… the unexplainable… anything that wasn’t a thousand years old or from the mouth of the insane.”

“Divine…” frowned Malachi. “I’m not sure that is the word I am willing to use here. Infers a little more righteousness to the act of kidnapping than I am comfortable with.”

“In most deity myths, the trend is for a lot of unpleasant decisions made by the gods,” pointed out Harken. “Really only the Abrahamic faiths proclaim their deity is all good. Ironic that theirs is often known for the most unpleasant acts. Or at least the acts are done by their faithful.”

“That's perhaps a little biased, but I wouldn’t argue against you too hard,” smirked Malachi.

“I admit to having a personal distaste for that branch of humanity’s faiths,” grumbled Harken. His eyes flashed with distaste before focusing back on the chosen leader. “I have left my point behind, let me return to it. My fervent is not because I believe in the benevolence of this place and an unknown Purpose. I am simply in awe of what would have been necessary to bring it about. I wish to see who, why, and how they were able to act in this grand of a manner.”

“Now that, I can get behind,” agreed Malachi with a laugh. “The answers would be quite nice. Why us? They had something in mind.”

“Ahh, yes, there are several patterns to the Sixty,” reflected the priestly man. “Julia was nice enough to allow me to take a look at the Census. Age is the obvious pattern that comes immediately to mind. Neither young nor too old. Experienced. From talking to many, I noticed that most of the Sixty were successful in their lives.”

“Successful, huh?” grimaced Malachi. “What do you mean?”

“From the list and talking with people, their lives were in good places,” explained Harken. “No one seems to be jobless, criminal, or unhappy in their careers.”

“Bold claim, though I have no reason to doubt you,” replied the bearded man.

Harken looked a little taken back. “What do you mean by that? You believed someone lied in their Census?”

“Like I said, I have no reason to doubt,” explained Malachi. “Anyone could have. There isn’t really any way for us to prove them wrong. Regardless, I at least disprove this theory. I never stuck to a job or place long enough to ever call anything a career. Basically... I bummed across the world.”

“All over the world, eh?” smiled Harken. “Seems like an accomplished life to me. Traveling around the world wasn’t easy for me. Even though I had grants funding me and fellow scholars that were happy to guide me. Tell me, were you happy?”

‘Uh, hmm, most of the time,” decided Malachi. “There were lonely times, or fearful nights where I wondered what would happen to me… but most of the time, yeah I was pretty happy with my life.”

“I would say that fits my theory,” declared Harken. “Unconventional maybe, but I would argue you were successful. Traveling was once a way of life for humanity. Perhaps you just have the genes of old explorers. Those gems of humanity that couldn’t help, but wonder what’s on the other side of that mountain. We’re an extraordinary species. For all our destruction, I am proud to be one for all the wonders we perform.”

“I’ll take the compliments, but you make too much of my life,” dismissed Malachi. “I lived an easy one. I took on no responsibilities. Picked up and left whenever I wanted to see the sunrise in a new place.”

“You took on responsibilities here,” stated Harken seriously.

Grimacing, Malachi accepted, “Yes, I did do that here. Someone had to… I didn’t expect how natural it would feel. I’ve led before, but this is so much more serious than anything before. I didn’t expect how natural it would be. Makes me afraid I’m going to make mistakes. Fatal ones.”

“You will make mistakes,” said Harken, confident and voice full of wonderment. “Humans make mistakes. A lot of them, but the thing is, we never let it stop us. Our species just gets up and tries again. Even when blowing themselves up. So, yes, you’ll make mistakes… however, I don’t believe for the moment you’ll stay down. You’re too human. I trust you will stand back up.”

Malachi didn’t know what to say. The faith that poured from the priestly man was overwhelming. He was flattered enough to be stunned. Before he could summon a response, the clock struck twelve. The sound of gears came first, then trumpets broke the silence. The top of the clock unlatched to either side. A platform was revealed and shifted forward with twelve human figures led by an extra one with a sword. They shifted and danced to show off their elaborate paint jobs. Tiny fireworks shone above them in twelve waves as the trumpets blew.

Once done everything closed up and Malachi was alone. He looked for Harken, but the gaunt man was gone. The chosen leader stood up and decided it was time for some sleep. Tomorrow had come, and there was a dungeon to explore.