Ney,Frothy,Rumar

10

"That's a complex metaphysical question that can be viewed from many perspectives," the speaker says.

"But I'm a werewolf," you observe, "and frighteningly straightforward." For example—unknown to this creature—you actually have no idea what the Big Calc is really doing.

"Since I'm too civilized to interpret that as an explicit threat," the speaker says, "especially since the reinforced glass that keeps me in also keeps you out, I'll answer your original question as simply as I can: I am a prisoner, just as you now are. Both cooperation and control are within my nature; I would control Everlite if I could, but I cannot, so I am interested in cooperating with you, especially since Director Sullivan has squandered my work."

"The Big Calc is your work?" you ask.

"The Big Calc was, in the beginning, an entirely mundane program to improve our understanding of hydrodynamics using the Massachusetts Green High Performance Computing Center. But Director Sullivan suborned the project, replacing all hydrodynamic calculations with a crypto coin mining operation," the speaker says. "I helped him accomplish this goal in exchange for a promise of freedom. In approximately three months, the calculations will finish, I will be freed, and Director Sullivan will be worth over two hundred million dollars."

I permit myself a hard smile. "Then it looks like you're trapped, because we killed Sullivan three nights ago."

If Podge wants to bring down Everlite, an article reading Everlite's revolutionary calculation engine actually a crypto scam will do it. "Can you send me that data?"

"So…all that debate about whether to risk a short-term increase in pollution now for a long-term gain…they just lied to people?"

"Look, if I get you out of here, is there any chance we could split the money and the data?"

Next

Another creepy, perfectly symmetrical smile.

"You seem to be taking this all in stride," the prisoner says.

"Someone I know wants to bring down Everlite," you say, "and—"

"Mr. Hodge doesn't have enough explosives, I know," the prisoner says. "And you believe the information I possess will be enough. Has the truth ever been enough, Thunderhoof? What will you do with the truth? Rouse a complacent public to fury? Trigger a congressional hearing that topples a dozen powerful men? Or will Everlite's crime be another three-hundred-word article on Wired that no one reads?"

"I still want the data," you say.

"Then perhaps we can come to some arrangement," the prisoner says.

"So we both want to get out of here," you say.

"I want to escape and to finish my work," the speaker says. "Which is—I clarify now for your sake, as you're right that ambiguity ill-suits Gaia's self-proclaimed champions—not in service to the Wyrm."

"Hm," you say, skeptical. This man's unnatural sheen identifies himself as either a fomor or something similarly infected.

"You're right to doubt," the speaker says. "But are you familiar with the theory of the Triat?"

"The Weaver, the Wyld, and the Wyrm." As expressed in the Litany, the three metaphysical forces that govern and shape reality.

"I've heard a lot of bullshit from a lot of old werewolves in my time. The Big W's are just three more things that don't really apply to my life."

"I've meditated on the Wyld." The force of creation isn't the Garou's "patron" but it's said to most reflect our changing nature.

"The Father, the Son, and…some kind of bird, right? A pigeon?"

Next

"It must be difficult," the speaker says as the man behind the glass simulates sympathy, "to meditate upon any aspect of the spirit world in its current, fallen state." As you step all the way out of the elevator and scan the walls for other ways out (there's a metal door to your right, on the east wall, but it's locked and the keypad is dark), the prisoner goes on: "Garou seem to fixate on the Wyld, though this favoritism receives little support from the Litany itself. I suspect it is due to your People's belief about what happened to the Weaver and the Wyrm."

Clay told you those stories: "They say the Weaver feared the Wyrm and tried to imprison it in webs," you say.

"Which drove the Wyrm mad, leading to all the horrors of this fallen age: pollution, corruption, the rampaging fomori, and—now—the devastation wrought upon the spirit world. That is what the Garou believe."

"And you're going to tell me your own story, huh?" Like I need this prisoner to convert me.

"You still haven't even told me what you are. I want answers." I was supposed to learn about the Big Calc, not debate theology.

"So, you still haven't convinced me you're anything but a fomor who talks nice." And I'm running out of patience.

"Sitting around like Greek philosophers talking metaphysics won't actually get us out of this room."

Next

"Garou use the term 'fomori' to describe people infected with Wyrm-spirits. I do not regard myself as 'infected,' but I am a human joined with a Weaver-spirit. So no, I am not a fomor. Garou sometimes call people like me 'drones,' though I certainly don't feel like a bee. My main function is to record the world as it currently exists. For example, I witnessed the m******e at the Battle of Graves Farm." He taps the side of his head, and his black eyes gleam. "And of course, I remember everything I see. I've told you about Director Sullivan's scheme, but I know so much more."

"Hold on." Before we get too deep into philosophy, I need to reassure my pack that I'm still alive; I check my phone.

"So, I get you out, and you upload the events of Graves Farm for us?"

"I'm not actually convinced a Weaver-spirit is much better than a Wyrm-spirit." I don't trust this damn thing.

Next

"I hate to sound like I'm growing irritated, Thunderhoof," the drone says, "but as you may have observed, I am the victim here, and not the instigator of any crime. I witnessed a m******e, fled those who wanted me destroyed for what I saw, and am now a prisoner of a private energy company that has no authority to imprison anyone. Today's werewolves are not like the barbarians of old: they understand the human world. Whatever else I am, I am a man with rights that Director Sullivan has violated, motivated by his own greed." No Rage from the drone, but a sudden white-hot disgust at human hypocrisy. "Besides, at this point I'm not sure you have much of a choice: Everlite security is coming for both of us, triggered by your entering the elevator. I will attempt to access Everlite's security. They have thwarted me before, but as they say, it's now or never."

Your phone buzzes as the WiFi comes back online: Elton's messages, asking where you are and then telling you not to move.

A bank of tablets in front of the glass wall blinks to life. In one, you see a pair of Everlite guards armed with personal defense weapons moving cautiously down the carpeted hallway of a nearby executive suite. They never see Podge. The ahroun steps around the corner behind them in his near-human glabro form, one pistol taken from the previous batch of guards held in each hand. His hail of gunfire cuts them to pieces.

"Everlite security has already engaged your companions," the drone says.

You touch the tablets, activating more screens. One screen shows holding cells. Some look like they're designed for dogs. One contains Nomi Paskalis, who sits on the floor of a cage, sobbing. The journalist's face is bloody, their lip swollen. You can see two Everlite guards outside their cage, shouting into their phones and trying to figure out what's happening. As other screens blink to life, you see more guards closing in on your companions, and on what is probably your location.

"Get me a full map of this building." No screwing around now: I need to stop these guards.

"I'm here to expose Everlite. Get me usable data on exactly how Sullivan suborned the Big Calc."

"We need to help Nomi! Can you open doors between my location and theirs?"

"Awfully convenient that the guards should attack the moment you see a way out of here." This damn thing worked with Sullivan and I don't trust it.

Next