Bound for the Styx

By Bonsart Bokel

These are the chronicles of Igraine Mortuba’s adventures in Hades: an inter-dimensional space station drifting inside the void between worlds. Once she makes her way through the Halls of Hades, she ends up in Arkology. A cobbled-together community of refugees who, after losing their respective worlds to catastrophe, are delivered to this subterranean realm by an entity known as the White Airship. Now, they must survive inside the overgrown ruins of Hades, which are home to every imaginable horror known to the multiverse. Igraine Mortuba came to this place to be healed, after which she would be free to continue her life of idleness. But before she’s offered a cure, she must prove herself to her mysterious benefactor. First, she must survive the challenging lifestyle of Arkology’s denizens, lest she’d end up in the Styx like all others who perish in this place. As Igraine gets initiated in the way of the scavs, she learns about the many opportunities the Capitol of the Multiverse has to offer. Can Igraine prove herself to a society of inter-dimensional exiles while navigating the machinations of Arkology’s Founder? Find out in Bound for the Styx.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bonsart Bokel
• Release date: Aug 31, 2023

Bonsart Bokel

ABOUT THE AUTHORBonsart Bokel is the creator of Radio Retrofuture and the Retrofuture Research Foundation on Youtube, including the Steampunk Beginners Guide documentary series. On the RRF podcast, he has interviewed over a hundred members of the Steampunk Community, including writers, and other creators. After discussing, Steampunk for nearly a decade, he thought it was time to write example stories that go beyond the typical tropes of the Steampunk genre. This became a short story series called the Association of Ishtar. A multiverse of Loveholmsian adventure and Steampunk-inspired horrors. The ambition is to create a multiverse to which various writers can contribute and in which the reader takes the place of an investigator exploring the multiverse while unlocking the secret of the Association of Ishtar.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

We die for each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention that must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.

― T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party

May 20th, 1878 

Being blinded by the ceiling lamp, Igraine was squeezing her eyes as she awoke inside her finely furnished but windowless sleeping quarters. Rubbing her face to counter the drowsiness of sleep, she recollected the incident that had occurred a few days ago. 

You thinking about Dublin? she imagined a little girl asking.

Igraine shifted her gaze toward the plush doll sitting up against the boudoir’s mirror and looked into its smiling face. Morning, Anwin.

You made 189 mad again, didn’t you?

No different from my other relationships. A shame, but I could never stand his indecisiveness.

But he shot that smuggler in Dublin.

Well, that trollop deserved it! Can you imagine? Bringing in an invasive species just to make some coins.

You made him shoot her, though, Anwin elaborated. That’s why you are so mad.

Igraine squeezed her lips together. Failing to come up with a retort, she pushed herself off the bed and headed for the sink in the corner. As the water was flowing from the faucet, she paused to look at the engraving on her left palm. A stylized depiction of a black and a silver owl, which were joined at the claws, their talons wrapped around the eye at the image’s center. Balling her hand in frustration, she concluded 189 should be glad her actions had allowed him the opportunity to shoot the bitch.

You don’t really believe that, said Anwin.

They knew the risks. They knew the Association would come after them.

Did they really?

Unless they had no idea what they were doing. In which case… After some hesitation, she blocked out the thought. It’s irrelevant. This isn’t about justice. Those plants they were smuggling, if introduced to the wild, have the potential to destroy the world’s ecosystem.

You think they knew that?

Of course not, she hissed, drying her hands with a towel. Ignorant savages. Reluctantly, Igraine looked at the wall calendar on which various days were marked with childlike drawings of suns. Those smiling faces failed to improve her mood, however. 

Is it time again?

Sighing, Igraine pulled open a drawer of her writing cabinet and stared at the leather etui contained within. As she laid the contents before her on the counter, she looked at the heavy syringe and tubes labeled P-25. Through a glass display in the side of the metal housing, she inspected the turquoise liquid contained within for impurities. Rolling up her gown’s sleeves, Igraine sat down. Then she took out a vial, inserted the syringe’s needle into one end, and, by pulling the plunger, let the barrel fill up with the fluid. Once done, she injected the needle inside her left arm and squeezed the plunger against the flange.

Doesn’t it hurt?

Be quiet, Anwin, she hissed. Just when she was about to remove the needle, she got startled by a knock on the door. 

Miss Mortuba? asked a young man on the other side. Am I disturbing you? I have a message for you, miss.

Sighing, she removed the needle from her arm. Come in.

A young man, wearing ironed black pantaloons and a matching vest, entered. Dr. Poitin liked to look professional, but the enclosed collar on his white shirt made him appear far more uptight than he was. I hope I’m not disturbing you? he asked, looking around her room. I’m afraid it’s very important. 

I was just done, she said, cleaning the puncture.

He lowered his head, almost submissively, as was his character. 

After their first meeting, Igraine had assumed it was because she was an Outsider to him. But recently, she suspected it might be a kind of affection. However, Igraine’s attention swiftly changed focus when he showed her a closed letter sealed with the all-seeing eye of RA, the Regulatory Board of Rift Related Activity.

Getting up from her chair, she grasped the letter out of his hands. After breaking the wax seal, she read it contents aloud: Associate, regarding the incident that occurred on May 15th in… Fine. She scanned the text to the bottom. The Regulatory Board of Rift Related Activity wishes to interview you. Please report to the office in The Hague in the Kingdom of the Netherlands before August 5th for debrief… I’ve been summoned to The Hague?

This is serious, affirmed Poitin. Your recent faux pas must-

I’ve done nothing wrong! Igraine said forcefully.

He stepped back. Be it as it may, miss. If you were to fall out of their graces, the Chair might have to reconsider your arrangements.

She flared her nostrils. Surely the Association would not condemn me to death. Besides, I can handle the Regulators.

He just looked at her with those frail eyes of his. Clearly, words were amassing behind his lips, but none came.

Doctor, would you be so kind as to register my departure? I’ll return the moment my business is done.

You’re sure you don’t want to enjoy the sights? It is the seat of the Dutch King.

I’ve been out and about too much. I experienced Travel’s Decay once-

Yes, you said... Poitin suddenly held his hands to his mouth when he realized he had interrupted her. Pardon me, miss. I’ll get the paperwork in order.

She just shook her head when he closed the door behind him, and glanced at her remaining supply of green capsules in the drawer. There were just fifteen left. 

You’ll have to return soon, Anwin remarked.

Let’s see if I survive The Hague first.

Can I come?

Igraine slacked her shoulders. What do you think?

May 24th, 1878, above the North Sea

Shearing across the gray surface of the English Channel in the airship, Igraine looked past the pilot’s seat through the front window. The Nimrod’s interior was Spartan, with rudimentary canvas seats on either side of the only cabin with just enough room for men to squeeze past each other. Not since the evacuation of Druid Isle had Igraine been on a Nimrod. The Ship’s engines were so silent the howling wind jerking at the canvas roofing was drowning out their noise. Despite being unconscious for most of the evacuation, this journey reopened painful memories regarding the whole affair. Just thinking about it made her scratch the itching scar tissue surrounding the socket in the back of her neck.

Meanwhile, the Nimrod was approaching the Dutch coast. It was nothing like that of England. No cliffs. Just a beach, dunes, and cities as far as the eye could see, without any mountains or hills on the horizon.

There it is, Associate, announced the pilot’s nasally voice. The pilot, dressed in a thick leather jacket wearing a checkered flat cap, was even smaller than she was, which was saying something. I can already see The Hague. I told you it would be but a jiffy in the Nimrod. Oh, Oh! The Hague! he began to sing badly. Beautiful city beyond the duh-ns…

Igraine interrupted him. That will do, monsieur. What’s helping this thing fly anyway? The balloon is just for show, right? she asked, referring to the canvas dome covering the Nimrod’s interior.

Ah, yes. The blimp is just a disguise. And if I were to tell ye, I would have to kill ye. Like, seriously. It's in the manual, he emphasized. I meself have a cyanide capsule in my mouth at all times.

Gustav, sighed Igraine. Has anyone ever told you, you’re talking too much?

That's no fair. I have a lonely job. If any, my passengers are mostly dragoons. You think they are a barrel o’ fun?

Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with them yet. Just seen them fight.

That's what I mean, ma’am, said Gustav. They’re not particularly men o’ culture, unlike meself, he boasted.

Igraine looked at the photos of scantily clad women in the corner of his cockpit. You have an interest in culture? she remarked incredulously.

I’ll have you know I have a keen interest in history, ma’am. Beside me, I have all the seasons of the Robin Hood audio plays performed by Henry James Montague and Maurice Barrymore.

Igraine couldn’t help but smile. Pretty sure the historical Robin Hood didn’t fight German Dukes and Barbar slavers.

I mean… what do you listen to, ma’am?

Igraine shrugged her shoulders. Many things. I like Lady Domino.

From the Shade?

She had her own series, she elaborated defensively. Once. Broadcast after 9:00 PM.

Ohh… one of those.

It wasn’t! Well… for the most part.

All I remember are the parts where she takes her clothes off.

Igraine pursed her lips. Of course you do.

I mean, why bother? You don’t even get to see it. No wonder it bombed. Oh, got to slow down, Gustav said as he decreased the Nimrod’s speed. Don’t want to scare the natives.

Leaning over the pilot’s shoulder, Igraine peered at the nation’s capital that, from this distance, reassembled a scale model of some idyllic city. Curiously, she observed the many church buildings of various vocations and periods in history. By the street grids alone, she could guess how the city had grown through the ages, from the sprawling roads at the center to the preplanned avenues of the suburbs. 

Right in the middle of the city, a Ferris wheel, surrounded by a sea of pavilions and stalls, dominated the landscape. Just her luck to be pressed for time when the carnival was in town. At least, we get to admire The Hague from the air. It looks so… It looks like it has so many stories to tell.

That it does, said Gustav. You should take the time to visit. There is nothing like it in the world.

Igraine shook her head. Can’t stay long, unfortunately. I’ve been outside too much.

What do you mean, ma’am?

She looked at him and said, You know what Travelers Decay is, Mr. Gustav?

Uh, yeah. It's what happens if you leave your Plane of Origin for too long, he said. Then he looked over his shoulder. Wait, don’t tell me you’re an Outsider? How are you still alive?

Her lips curled into a wicked grin as her glass eyes burned a bright blue. If I told you, I would have to kill you, monsieur Gustav.

The Nimrod started its final approach to an open field not that far away from the capital's center. From up high, Igraine had a good view of the parliamentary buildings, the Binnenhof, which was somewhat similar to Westminster, be it far smaller. Of course, Westminster had just been rebuilt after a large fire burned it down. The Binnenhof’s buildings, some of which dated back to the 13th century, were arranged in a rectangle that surrounded a court with a church at the center. There was a pond beside the complex that covered about the same area. For some reason, there was an unkempt island in there that didn’t seem to serve any particular purpose. And yet, it gave her the willies for no apparent reason. 

After landing, Igraine looked up that same Ferris wheel on the nearby field where music was playing.

It’s gonna be busy down there, said Gustav.

Because of the fair?

Haven’t you heard? Ütter-Krapp is demonstrating their latest attempt at building a self-propelled aircraft.

She sighed. Oh, Lord, yes, I did. It’s all they talked about on the Wavecaster. It’s in The Hague?

It’s the Netherlands, miss. Ütter-Krapp’s headquarters.

The whole country? she asked in jest.

He raised his shoulder. Might as well be, he scoffed. That whole harbor stretched about the coast is funded by Ü-K. Everyone talks about them like Ü-K is just an entertainment provider. But their main source of revenue is real estate. And the Dutch make their own, if you know what I mean.

Flevoland? guessed Igraine. Also known as the Flevopolder, the artificial island was a whole new province the Dutch created out of a lake. Another monumental project largely funded by Ü-K.

 Cor-rect, said Gustav. Given the change, by the next century, England will be the west corner of the continent. Even this airship was developed with their help.

Her mouth was shaping into a forced smile as she looked at the mark on her palm. Yeah… Ü-K, she muttered. The monster you know.

So, um- got any plans? Gonna see the sights? Visit a palace? Check out the Gevangenpoort?

She shrugged. I heard the ‘grachten’ are nice.

Well, in case you want to stay longer, uhm, he said, scratching behind his ear. Remember that the Nimrod is the first prototype, and she is temperamental. So, sometimes I need a day to fix her issues. If you catch my drift.

I’ll remember that, Monsieur Gustav.

Well then. Enjoy your time in the city, miss. Be on the lookout for future visits.

I will do that. Where can I find you?

Right here. I have to stay with her at all times.

You sleep here?

As good a place as any for the likes of us.

Us, Monsieur Gustav?

Didn’t want to presume ma’am. But you look like a drifter yourself.

Igraine smiled. That ain’t a lie. Till then, Monsieur Gustav.

Later, Igraine was passing through The Hague’s crowded streets - The seat of counts and kings. An old city. A busy city. And, to the young Associate, a foreshadowing of the future.

The moment she entered the commercial district, the veneer of antiquity had evaporated. Igraine had to force her way past the many pedestrians and bicycles coming at her from all directions in streets that weren’t intended for modernity. Pedestrians and cyclists. Horse-drawn carts and electric cars. All manner of transport were competing for space on the main roads. The old canal houses that looked so picturesque in the photos had been repurposed into storefronts, whose baroque facades were rendered invisible by the illuminated signs portraying the brands of warehouses like Drees & Vroomman, Imker, Dozer, and of course, Ütter-Krapp. Music was playing through green horns on every street corner when Igraine encountered an automated street organ adorned with a colorful array of wooden figures clanking brass percussion instruments. In front, the organ player was shaking his money tin to encourage donations. Igraine gave him a ‘kwartje’ (twenty-five gilder cents), thinking there was something brave about hauling that organ up here despite popular music being played all around from modern PA systems.

After pausing at nearly every boutique, she finally reached the quieter back streets where the tightly-packed houses were built along the city’s many channels clogged with boats both for work and leisure.

After her unintentional excursions, Igraine finally reached the RA office. She could only distinguish the 17th-century exterior of the building from its neighbors by the chalkstone mural above the entrance. Igraine couldn’t help, but scoff at the all-seeing eye of RA on the blazonry - The organization’s regulators might be the supervisors of all Rift Related Activities around the world, the Association of Ishtar was its real eyes and ears. And, if need be, its sword.

Upon entering a marble hallway, she was received by the guards, who guided her through the herenhuis. They offered her a seat and a cup of tea inside a waiting room, whose dark wooden furnishing stood in stark contrast to the white walls and ornate ceiling decorated with baroque floral patterns. Sitting there, nipping her tea, she inspected the wood-carved coat-of-arms on the wall belonging to the twelve Dutch provinces. Each shield was being held by a pair of lions, except for Groningen, which was guarded by Imperial Eagles.

She looked at the heraldry of a red lion, submerged up to its waist in waves while pointlessly flailing its paws in the air. What province is that drowning lion, sir? she asked when the guard returned.

Taking his time, the guard was folding his arms behind his back as he looked up at the shield with reverence. Ah, ‘Luctor et Emergo’, miss, he cited. It’s the creed of the province of Zeeland.

I struggle and emerge? she asked, reading the translation in her eye display aloud.

It represents our ongoing struggle against the rising tides, miss. Zeeland consists of our nation’s southern islands, you see. If it wasn’t the tides endangering their shores,  it was Flemish pirates or Barbar slavers. And yet, they had flourished through everything.

Ah, she said, convinced it depicted a futile battle against nature.

Excuse me, miss. But the Regulator is waiting.

Oui, merci monsieur.

All mentally prepared to confront the bureaucrat, she followed the guard up to the Regulator’s office. As he opened the door for her, she straightened her back and paced into the room. But the moment she lay eyes on the Regulator - her body froze.

She gulped as the older gentleman, with reddish mutton chops and associated mustache, was observing her with his judgmental gaze while resting his right arm on a file cabinet. Monsieur Ol’Barrow? she muttered while he was tapping his prosthetic fingers.

"Good day, Miss Mortuba, I had expected you earlier.

CHAPTER ONE

THE REGULATOR

Dublin, May 17th, 1878

That night the smog had turned to a dark yellow as the city’s gas light reflected off the wet cobblestones. The veil of rain made the city's denizens stay home or seek refuge in Dublin’s many establishments. But for the man and woman who were fleeing into the alley, the weather was the least of their concerns.

While they were gasping for breath, live waltz music was playing in the background, interrupted by the occasional splashing of water as they rushed across the crooked bricks. Holding up her drenched skirt the woman was being followed by a man clenching a suitcase to his chest as if his life depended on it. 

Both were looking for a door, a crowd, or any place in which they could hide from their pursuer. But as was typical for scenarios such as these, there were no opportunities to be had.

In here, said the woman rushing up to the nearest doorstep reverberating with the tunes of brass instruments cutting through the jubilant clamor of  clientele.

Wait! The man cried, chasing her up the steps.

Just hurry! she hissed. They’re- She paused as her blood ran cold.

On the alley's far end, lamplight was reflecting off the stranger's goggles as he came striding toward them, rain dripping down a mouth guard shaped like a falcon's beak. Getting closer with every passing heartbeat, the stranger, dressed in a riding outfit, was peering at them through a single lens as the other side of his goggles was sealed off with a metal lid.

The woman grabbed her accomplice’s arm. Come on! she screeched, pulling him up the steps. After barging into the hallway, they paced toward the music. The serving personnel, who were in a rush to serve their patrons, ignored them as they entered the dance hall. There the fugitives looked about themselves as the city’s middle class was galloping through the night, energized by the brass band playing on the balcony of the second floor. Just when the fugitives were pushing their way through the crowd, a gunshot ground the festivities to a halt.

Ladies and gentleman, cried a commanding voice as the scent of sulfur was spreading through the room. The crowd swung around in unison toward the masked individual who had stepped through the front door, dressed in a three-piece suit, holding a smoking revolver up to the ceiling. Pardon me for interrupting your evening. But please, vacate the premises. Right now! This is official business. As patrons were rushing for the exit he just stood amidst the chaos adjusting the reflective goggles above his beak.

Taking advantage of the panic, the fugitive holding the suitcase blended in with the crowd and ran past the masked gentleman unnoticed, until he suddenly felt a pull at his pants’ sleeve. 

Stopped dead in his tracks, he keeled forward. In a reflex he tried to hold his precious suitcase aloft, but it slipped his grasp instead. With a loud thud the coffer broke open the moment it hit the ground, spilling its contents.

The onlookers gasped as canisters bounced around the dancefloor like marbles. 

With the taste of iron on his lips, the man was on the verge of weeping while bystanders were marveling at the alien flora illuminating the glass vials’  interior .

Everybody out, cried a woman with a voice like gravel. At the back of the crowd, the masked stranger from the alley approached the fugitives, while the metal blind over her left eye closed like a diaphragm. Those people are notorious- Coral smugglers, she stammered.

Coral? asked one bystander, gawking at the luminous plant.

The masked gentleman beside him grabbed his arm and said. It so happens that certain sea life produces some of the most powerful toxins in the world. Now, please. Get out!

When the room had emptied, only the fugitives and some personnel were left in a bewildered state of shock as the masked gentleman aimed his revolver in the woman’s general direction. It’s over, madame. This is your last chance to come quietly.

The fugitive instead grabbed an older woman who was hiding behind the counter and pressed the end of a derringer against her head. Don’t come any closer! she warned. I’ll blow her brains out, I swear.

What? sneered the masked gentleman. Have you gone bonkers? You are not getting out of this!

They told me what you do with prisoners, she snapped back. Fuck that!

Whatever they told you, I’m certain those claims are highly exaggerated.

While the gentleman tried to defuse the situation, the female agent near the corner opened up the blind of her left eye, revealing a luminous blue light making her look like an inhuman creature from a different realm. 

244? What are you doing? scolded the gentleman when the female agent stretched out her hand as if she was reaching for the hostage-taker from across the room.

We are not police or private security, 244 said. We have no obligation to protect anyone.

The fugitive snapped her head toward her. What?

Meanwhile the hostage had turned red with fright. Please, don’t! she cried with tears in her eyes. I don’t want to die!

S

uddenly, the culprit gasped wide eyed as if alarmed. The gentleman

stepped back as she reached out her arm, aiming the pistol in his direction. 

Frozen stiff, he peered into the derringer's four muzzles. Her hand was trembling, but unyielding. However, it was he who squeezed the trigger first, and as the cock struck the bullet, the gun recoiled with an ear - rupturing bang.

The hostage taker’s head got knocked back, and within the blink of an eye, the woman lay flat on the floor.

Terrified screams from outside cut through the silence while smoke and sulfur were lingering around the room as if to announce the devil’s arrival. 

Shaking all over, the old proprietor looked over her shoulder, gasping at the sight of the blood seeping between the boards, the hole in the ceiling, and finally the weeping man crawling on the ground in agony.

Putting away his still-smoking gun, the gentleman calmly reached out to her. Madame. Are you alright?

She stared at him in disbelief until rage got the better of her. Who the hell are you people!?

He gestured for her to calm down. Not to worry. We are working with the police, he said assuringly. These fugitives are a danger to national security.

And don’t worry about the damage, said 244. You’ll be compensated.

Compensated! The woman’s face was flushed with anger. I just lost years of my life. And what about my establishment’s reputation!?

She raised her shoulders. Ehm... it was a good cause.

As if on cue, police officers barged in through the front door, weapons in hand.

The gentleman swung around with his hands in the air. Don’t worry officers. No need for panic. We are with the Association of Ishtar.

Moments later, while the police were securing the dancehall, the gentleman Associate had dragged 244 outside into the nearby alley. 

You can let go now, 244 protested while trying to break his hold.

He spun her around and tore off his mask in frustration. Blast you! he hissed, looking her dead in the eyes.

She held her distance. Wut?

 You made her point the gun, didn't you? he said, pointing at her.

244 shrugged indifferently. Does it matter? 

I just killed that woman! 

She deserved it!

That’s beside the point! he snapped. His fists were trembling as he struggled to contain his frustration. Do you even comprehend what damage you’ve just done to our reputation?

Well… you understand what needs to be done, 244 replied. Speaking of which, we need to get those samples-

Just as she was about to turn around, the associate took hold of her arm again. No! No more! he rebuked her. You’re done!

What? You can’t fire me!

I am the senior, he retorted. And I am declaring our association null and void!

She just looked at him, and said. I won’t stop my search, you know.

Oh, I know. That’s why I will report this, he said. Then you are the Chair’s problem. Now, leave before I get really angry. Then he just stared at her, waiting for 244 to make the next move.  

After a moment of hesitation, 244 nodded. Alright... she said, stepping back into the shadows. I know when I'm not wanted. And so, she walked away, to the far end of the alley. Not wanted... she mumbled. It was the story of her life, wasn't it? Well, time to head home then. The thought made her grin. Taking off her headgear, Igraine swiped back the wet strands of reddish hair sticking to her forehead. While entering the street area, she caught a glimpse of the firmament reflected on a puddle’s surface. It was a bell-shaped impression in particular that caught her attention. Looking up, Igraine  could see it through the parting clouds. Up there, drifting in the wake of the moon's orbit, was the enigmatic Elysium object; a bell-shaped body that had inspired religions, science, and futuristic lunatics alike. Since its reappearance, after a millennia-long absence, scientists and theologists had wondered about the secrets it was keeping. But Igraine Mortuba, designated Associate 244, did not. As a matter of fact, she would be returning there very soon. 

The Hague 1878, May 24th

Regulator Ol’Barrow looked down as he was pulling up a chair in front of his desk. Please, sit down, he told Igraine. 

Sure. I mean, of course. Merci, Monsieur, Igraine spoke softly, and awkwardly walked up to the chair. Anxiety was taking hold of her as the regulator slowly walked around his office, which was reminiscent of his old home in Dover. Practical, but in dire need of dusting. The springs of his office chair were creaking as Ol’Barrow situated his portly body behind the desk, which was littered with files, appliances, and even a jar stuffed with small tools. Harrumphing, he shoved his fingers together with the prostheses. Well, Miss Mortuba…

I’m an Associate now, Regulator, Igraine corrected him. Associate 244.

He took a deep breath in contemplation. This is an informal conversation, Iggy, he said, sincerely.

Something about him mentioning that name made her eyes water. What does that mean? she asked and sniffed her nose.

It means… He sighed, leaning one arm across the backrest. You are what they call a special asset to the cause. However, there is a cost-benefit analysis involved. After that last incident. Well... His grunt expressed a mixture of concern and disappointment.

So, I came here just to be told the obvious? she asked exasperated.

The springs creaked again as Ol’Barrow leaned back in his chair. Of course not. It's just that- What happened, Iggy? he sighed. From the moment you joined the Association, there have been complaints of irrational behavior. Violent outbursts. Threatening suspects, and clients without provocation…. Among other things.

And they deserved it, she retorted. The Chair knows this! They-

It was the Chair who arranged this conversation, he interrupted her calmly.

That statement sent a jolt through her chest. The Chair disagreed with her actions?

Two wrongs don’t make a right, Iggy, he said as if he was reading her mind.

I didn’t say that!

Whilst leaning forward he looked her dead in the eyes. Then what? What do you think you are doing? Are you an avenger? An arbiter who gets to decide right from wrong? Is that it, Iggy?

Igraine straightened her back in defiance of his statements. It's no different from what you’ve done!

She shrunk as Ol’Barrow slammed his sizable fist on the desk. Is that what you want to be!?

That’s not what I meant, she apologized.

Then answer my question, young lady. 

Igraine jumped out of her chair. I’m not a child!

He leaned even further over his desk and hissed. Then stop acting like one.

Igraine squeezed her hands together. I don’t have to take this, monsieur.

With a dramatic armwave he directed her to the exit. Well, there is the door! I’m not keeping you here.

She scowled at him. But then sighed in defeat, realizing if she walked away now her life on this world might be over. There was just one place in the multiverse for her left to go. She swallowed. What do you want… Regulator Ol’Barrow?

This is not what I want, he sat back in his chair. This is about you, and you alone.

I took an oath to protect this world. I plan to-

Nobody doubts that! he stopped her again. It’s how you are doing it. He took a moment to regain his composure. Remember that night, all those years ago? We had an accident with the car, he reminisced. That evening the couple was murdered… you stopped me from doing a very bad thing that night. You remember that?

How could Igraine not? It happened days before the events on Druid Isle. They were ambushed by Nyctolar; augmented revolutionaries in service of Aqrabua. Only Igraine and Ol’Barrow had survived the car crash. But Mr. Ol’Barrow would have gutted one of those cybernetic freaks with his hook, if it hadn’t been for Igraine. She had been so horrified by his wicked expression that she released a shriek that snapped him out of his blood lust. It almost got you killed, she whispered.

You are missing the point! He took a breather. "Sit down, Iggy... I’ve been where you are. It’s a path far darker than you think… So, why don’t