But enough about the dynamic, forward-looking realm of Furious Galaxy and back to the stodgy, rut-clinging fantasy tripe of Commandment of Hero! All they did there was wait for the next bit of Ersatz Struggle news and exchange fighting game tips, predictions, and headbutts.

“Ow! But now I will headbutt you, Crown After Crown.”

“Willing and thrilling to receive it, Solemn Declaration. Ouch!”

Open conflict broke out between factions in the dining hall, but only between Team Generic and Team Plushy, and only those two members in particular. “Is this a centaur thing?” Dasher Christmas asked, worried he had missed out on a sacred tradition of his people, but his fellow centaurs assured him such was not the case.

“If that's true, who wants to trade headbutts with me?” Trainer Eumorsedio planted his legs far apart to ready himself, but before any challengers came for his blobby buman noggin, the lighting lowered in a clear refutation of the speculation which had been growing in persuasiveness that the spinoff would max out at eight characters before downloadable content.

“Does this mean it's going to have just ten characters?”

“Maybe.”

“Boring.”

Whatever Liya's opinion, the crowd roared when the video started. New stages! The mining towns of Ganlond and the chateaus of the Tasgan Federation! The camera panned across them and gave watchers seconds to guess at the characters implied by those locations.

“Serdon and Hilliarde, eh?”

“Serdon or Vritia.”

“Prince OPblas, of course.”

“That's where Serdon's from, right?”

“There's your Hilliarde confirmation.”

“Knock 'em dead, Vritia!”

“Of course Milliondollarsarde Feablas got in.”

Countless guesses filled the air, as many in number as the wheels on a bicycle or the types of people in the world. Years later, thoughtful officers attributed to that moment their realization that sure things are the least sure of all. Cloton Zvolo appeared, and he had a guitar. And picks, and amps, and CDs, all of which he tossed out at Cadmos to the latter's discomfort. The CDs bounced, which perhaps justified their retention as a storage medium in the digital age.

“Cloton Zvolo! That's so unbelievable, I have to reexamine my entire prediction process. I'm used to being wrong, but Cloton Zvolo? Cloton Zvolo.”

Kindo nipped that sort of talk in the proverbial telling people to shut up. “Now I know you weren't there when we found out. I do hold that against you, Hyl DeMereanch. How many died because of our lack of Medics?”

“I'll say nobody. I think I can make a good case for it.”

“You're right. I don't have a prize ready, so I'll tell you right now that Cloton Zvolo is a bonafide, verified Moneymaker. I don't get it myself, but it's confirmed.”

“Huh.”

The sentiment of the host split between officers who thought the choice a little odd and those who deemed it strange enough for them to reconsider exotic ideas about the nature of reality. Was Cloton Zvolo the only real officer and the rest of them only simulacra invented by his subconscious to keep him company, a suggestion which Kint N. Bredle put forward as the only reasonable explanation for Cloton's inclusion? Or was it the case that rock was back and in a big way, but that dynamic frontmen were still cheesy and outdated?

“Now that I think about it, I was being silly. What's the point of having Serdon Miloz or Wedding Singer Vritia if they aren't going to sing? And they aren't going to sing in the middle of a fighting match. That would be disruptive.” Luau Lua showed off some of that Strategist background she had not wholly abandoned when she adopted the summery life of a Flood Champion, and in response the current Strategists pretended they had thought of it that way the entire time.

“That's a plausible theory,” Dennet said. “Was that diplomatic enough, Dosellian Urapta?”

“I'd give it a three out of five, Dennet. You forgot to attempt to get something out of it.”

Dennet shook his head. “You're right. Ahem. That's a plausible theory. Maybe we could set aside an evening and play through a bunch of games to find singing characters. While we're at it, we can place some wagers on the outcomes as well.”

“An enlivening idea! I should have listened to Rares more all these years.”

“Perhaps not, Lua. It takes years to develop the foundations on which worthwhile proposals are built. So I imagine, at least, for I've never had a single one! Ha ha!” During that exchange between Lua and General Anstralia, Dennet and Dosellian Urapta bumped their fists that were accustomed to fightsticks and those controllers that are just buttons.

Elsewhere, as in a few feet away, Coremel alerted anyone willing to listen to some basic truths, namely that fighting game characters who throw out random items are more civilized than puppet characters but still not to be invited to a dinner party you hope not to end in a screaming argument. That said, whether randomness ruled Cloton Zvolo's item distribution required more information. He had the impression it did but allowed they might be separate moves or else follow a pattern of some sort. Who was willing to listen? Cloton Zvolo nodded at every word.

No performer wanted to follow that debut act, except Serdon Miloz, who doubtless would have loved to show up his bandmate after their fifteenth acrimonious breakup, and also everybody else. Being in the spinoff mattered more than possibly not getting an optimal reaction from the audience, and in any case, all the officers who had refused to engage in inter-ludic shenanigans retained some doubt about Cloton's actual popularity. After all, nobody they knew cared about him.

Did anybody care about the next fighter? Green eyes! Black hair and lots of it! A fashionable handbag filled with an improbably array of medical equipment and pharmaceuticals unapproved by any responsible governing body! Cadmos ate a Frankensteiner up on the big screen from the latest fighter, Darlotte Glofal.

“Chef Hinks. Did Darlotte Glofal just take my job?”

“I'm afraid so, my lord.”

“But I don't want your job! Take it back!” Darlotte assaulted Gradis, beating him with her delicate fists like Yutak Zvolo on the drums around the time when both Serdon and Cloton told him to settle down back there. Tears not yet wept sparkled at the corners of her eyes, also like Yutak Zvolo in the aforementioned situation. “My moves ought to be inspiring examples of elegance to others less fortunate so they realize anyone has the right to aim for better! That's what I want! I'll never become burly and smelly! I won't!”

“Chef Hinks, am I smelly?”

“Unfortunately not, my lord. We've had discussions about trying to sort of 'hooligan up' your image. Less shaved, smellier, smaller shirts, that kind of thing. Lady Glofal may be referring to such ideas.”

“I am! They're shocking! Outrageous! I won't do it, not even if they cancel my entry!”

“Excuse me for interrupting, but I was hoping to congratulate you on becoming the non-big-body grappler. I wasn't sure we would get one, but they couldn't have done better.” Castru turned his head and said, “Not that I've ever seen her throw anything besides a fit, you know what I mean, fellows?” but as that was intended for a different audience, Darlotte ignored it.

“Non-big body? You mean I don't have to be all bloated and terrible?”

“Have a heart, Duchess Glofal,” Gradis objected in an eminently ignorable fashion of his own.

“By no means. Look at T*** from D*** o* A****, for example. I do all the time. More than I really should, but put that aside. Half the value of the type is in the contrast.”

Darlotte sniffed and wiped away her tears. “Very well then. With intrusive surveillance cameras as my witnesses, I will strive to be as unlike Gradis P. Dorenz as possible!”

“You could never manage the other direction,” Gradis said, but ignoring him had become the thing to do that evening. Officers lined up to offer their support to Darlotte Glofal in realizing her wonderful dream. Local Fisher, Uamna, Hyl DeMereanch, Stan . . . Quille Treten . . .

“Hold your socks up.” Stan spun around to address the officer next in line. “Didn't you climb up on the Count Poitnem fortified hill?”

Quille stroked his beard. “Yes. What of it? She's more attractive.”

Stan nodded. The two Rares clasped arms in unspoken understanding, and Castru joined as well, though he had no intention of joining the new faction. King Ostros added in his arm out of nowhere.

“Now I'm sure you're on another team.”

“How could you tell? Was it the stylish sunglasses adorning my very adornable face?” King Ostros whipped off said sunglasses. “My assistance is no longer required, because Cadmos . . . has ascended.”