Before Us

HI. MY NAME IS PROFESSOR SCRATCH. I'M A PRETENTIOUS BITCH, BLUH BLUH! I LOVE TELLING LONG-WINDED STORIES AND BOTHERING PEOPLE JUST TRYING TO LIVE THEIR LIVES, MESSING WITH THE VERY FATES THEMSELVES TO SUIT MY NEEDS!

JUST KIDDING.

I DON'T KNOW WHAT *SHE* TOLD YOU ABOUT ME, OR ANYONE, FOR THAT MATTER, BUT IT'S ALL LIES. IT'S ALL A BUNCH OF BULLSHIT.

YOU'RE NOT WEARING A WIRE, ARE YOU??

JUST CHECKING. YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO CAREFUL.

ANYWAY.

HELLO. I WON'T BE HERE FOR LONG, I'M JUST RELAYING A MESSAGE, PUTTING THINGS INTO PERSPECTIVE, SORT OF. I WISH I COULD TELL YOU THE WHOLE STORY, BUT YOU NEVER KNOW WHO COULD BE LISTENING, AND I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH TIME TO DO THAT. I MIGHT BE BACK LATER ON, I GUESS, IF THAT'S IN THE CARDS, BUT WHO THE FUCK KNOWS?

IF YOU HAVEN'T FIGURED IT OUT, YET, BY THE WAY, I'M THE MOONMAN. HI. I REALLY WISH I COULD IMPART MY REAL NAME, WHICH, BY THE WAY, I HAVE. I RESENT THAT SHITHEAD FOR GIVING ME THAT STUPID NICKNAME, BUT IT'S WHAT EVERYONE KNOWS ME BY AT THIS POINT, SO WHATEVER.

I'LL KEEP THIS SHORT.

And I guess I'll stop typing in all caps like a jackass? This is better.

I'm also basically garbage at telling stories, but here goes nothing, I guess. AHEM.

Once upon a time, long ago, in a land known as Beforus... There were twelve fated children of the mother grub who would go on to lead lives that would shape the lives of their descendants. Some were known and revered, some were lost to obscurity, but all of them led lives around which the wheel of history pivoted.

Nine of these twelve have since passed away, but three of them remain in the present day, as their work is not yet complete.

Through these twelve, we can see the fates turn, we can see the destiny of this planet, Beforus. The truth that I know was siphoned through these twelve to clear the path for the descendants that would follow them. I put this all into motion after seeing visions in my dreams of another world- Another Beforus, one that lives side-by-side with us, out of sight.

But the Pink Demon did not believe such things. She did not want to envision a world where she could not see, so she dismissed my visions as madness. The Pink Demon is driven by the gaps in her knowledge, she believes her omnipotence is complete except for these gaps. She is wrong. She can only see this world, this universe, can't imagine worlds beyond it... But I could.

She is attempting to circumvent fate. She is trying to keep this other world from us. She is trying to change the course of the future so badly that it will break. All I am trying to do is bring destiny to fruition. Sometimes I think it is tragic that I was afforded this foresight in this timeline and not the future. No matter.

Professor Scratch, as she calls herself, knows one thing about this game that she has worked so hard to bring into existence, one thing that she has never let on to anyone but me:

The Scratch.

Tragic as it may seem, this Scratch is instrumental to the future. Instrumental to everything, instrumental to the perpetuation of the entire universe, but in her short-sighted arrogance, she is trying to stop it. Even in the planet's name is this fate clear, the name that was passed down even before The Empress killed her predecessor: Before Us.

We are the ones who come before, we are the ones who will pass the torch.

But I digress. Understanding this fate is vital, as is understanding the ancestors. I hope to share their names with you, dear reader, so you may avoid the wool being pulled over your eyes by the Pink Demon who I once called "auntie."

The first of these Fated Ancestors is The Imperious Benevolence. Born millennia ago, left to rule her empire, doomed to see it crumble.

The next was The Vvagabond. Driven for his quest for love, he scoured the land, doomed to perish unrequited.

The third is The Prophet. An ancient adherent to the old ways, ways before The Empress.

The fourth was The Mechanic. A hermit who forever remained alone with his only companion.

The fifth was... Uh. Jesus, is THAT what she called herself?? The fourth was the "Punk Duchess of Spiders and Pain."

The sixth was The Prosecutor. The eternal rival of crime, an adherent to the Empress who's faith would be tested.

The seventh was The Grand-Matron. A long-suffering servant who lived for motherhood.

The eighth was Hissquatch. A misunderstood cryptid, a mute troll living wild in the jungle.

The ninth was. Uh. Me. The Moonman. You know my deal. I lived on the moon.

The tenth was The Piilot, The Empress's one true lover.

The eleventh was The Faunamancer. He who controlled lusii with his mind like you and I speak with words.

And the twelfth is the most important one of all. The reason I can relay this message at all. She is called the Mu

That's quite enough of that.

Frankly, I don't think it is cruel of me to want what I want. It certainly isn't selfish of me.

I only wish for a world beyond what we already know.

I don't see what's wrong with stopping The Scratch! I don't see what's wrong with that at all.

My Dear little Moonman would have you believe I am evil for trying to prevent the destined to come to pass, but he would raise these children, my child, to die, like lambs to the slaughter.

Who is trying to pull wool over whose eyes, dear reader?

As I said before. You can trust me.

Let's abscond this dour topic.

==

Your name is SS. Hot diggity damn, do you love KNIVES. You're a real KNIFE ENTHUSIAST. Your collection of antique carapacian knives is so vast, you've earned yourself a nickname: The SWORD SORCERER, a name you share with the humble little storefront you operate.

Up until recently, you were the #1 right hand man to the BLACK QUEEN, known far and wide as the SUPERIOR SERVANT, but you've retired that old name. You quit a long time ago. You figured when you left, your three associates would have come with, but the turncoats stayed loyal to her. The bastards.

You drum your fingers on the counter of your shop. The SWORD SORCERER doesn't actually get much business, on account of the fact that none of your knives are actually for sale. You wouldn't part with a single one of them! The only monetary service you offer is knife-sharpening, but even this is sometimes a bust, due to your habit of stealing the knives you're meant to be sharpening.

Still, no business suits you fine. You're about to stand up to close early when you hear the jangle of the bell over the entryway.

"Welcome to the Sword Sorcerer, I'm the Sword Sorcerer. How can I-" your voice stops dead when you see who made their way into your humble shop. "You." You utter the syllable with as much malice and venom you can muster, which is saying something for a guy who generally speaks with a lot of malice and venom.

"Hey, champ," says your easygoing former compatriot. Standing before you, in the carapace, is your old right hand man, the Designated Drudge. You suppose that now HE'S the right hand man, now, as opposed to being the right hand man to the right hand man.

"Don't 'champ' me, you traitor," you sneer, crossing your arms over your apron. "You got a lotta nerve for showin' your mug around here."

"Whatever," says Drudge, lighting up a cigarette. You clear your throat, pointing to the "No Smoking" sign on the counter. A sign you regularly disregard yourself. Drudge rolls his eyes.

"Tell me what you want before I toss you out myself."

"Keep your shirt on, SS, I don't wanna be here any more than you wanna see me. I've got a message from the Boss."

You scowl. The Black Queen, no doubt. You have no idea what she might want with you.

"What makes you think I want anything to do with that broad?" you ask, taking one of your knives in your hand, testing the sharpness with a finger.

"Money," says Drudge simply.

Shit. She's got you there. Paying rent on this storefront is expensive, and you're not exactly making any cash with your business tactics. You were never much for upstanding establishments. You relent.

"Fine. What's the job?" you say, stabbing the knifepoint into the counter. Your counters are littered with pockmarks from such stabbings.

"Easy," says Drudge, withdrawing a purple envelope, sliding it to you. "Assassination. Your specialty."

Inside the envelope is a photograph, the face inside is of a person you've seen before, and you're surprised.

"Him?" you say.

"Him." Drudge responds.

You stare at the photo. It's a picture of The Clown. The asshole in the purple pajamas. One day, a while back, one of the six kids up in the towers on Derse's moon up and started moving around. Shortly after, another one of the kids floated off, never to be seen again.

"Alright," you say. You shrug. A mark's a mark, even if you do kind of like the cut of this kid's jib. "Why's the queen want to off him, anyway? Aren't the sleepers off-limits?"

Drudge chews on his unlit cigarette.

"Orders came from someone else. Someone... New."

"New?" you cock an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Lady with a big orb for a head. Wore a pink shirt. Lab coat." Drudge shrugs once more. "She said the kid's gotta go, paid the Boss up front."

You muse on this. Interesting... Things look to be heating up around here for once.

"I'll do it," you say. You take the knife from the counter, slipping it into your pocket along with the photo of the clown kid.

Drudge gives you a nod, turning to leave.

"And, hey-" he says, back turned to you. "We miss you. The Boss says you can come back and work for her again if you finish the job. Think about it."

You don't respond, watching him walk back onto the purple streets. No time to dawdle, though. You've got a clown to kill.

[The Sword Sorcerer then re-lives an encounter from Chapter 6.]

Unfortunately, the job doesn't go quite as planned. The clown got away again, and what's worse, the stupid girl got in the way, too. You sigh, holding the pajama'd cadaver in your arms. You hope you're not in trouble for this one. In the scuffle, the clown got away. Slippery little bastard.

On the bright side, when he left, he looked mighty pissed that you killed his little pal. That probably meant that next time he'd be eager to fight. Good.

In your arms, the girl coughs up... Blood? At least you think it's blood. The stuff is a weird sickly green. Looks like the job's not done quite yet, but the girl's dozed off. You set her down, withdrawing a knife.

"Sorry, kid. Got caught up in the crossfire."

You finish the job yourself, jabbing the dagger right into her heart. Something about this feels weird. Usually stabbing people gets your spirits up! But you can't help feeling dejected, knowing this girl wasn't your mark. Something about this isn't right.

For the first time in your life... You have doubts. Something's fishy. This girl didn't mean anything by saving her buddy, and even the clown is just some jackass minding his own business. Who's the new broad who ordered these kids' deaths? Something twitches in the back of your mind.

"Shit, SS, you're goin' soft..." you mutter to yourself as you take your apron out of your pocket. You slip it on, placing your dagger into the pocket on the front.

You've got to talk to the Black Queen. Get to the bottom of this.