“The Dark World: lifting a curse on a wing and a prayer!”
The voyage to Rajani was neither easy nor pleasant. Several members of the crew felt their “contract” had been violated when Amy forced them away from Tigris and back to their duties, and the rest expressed several degrees of concern now that they had what looked like a new member. By far the worst offense was the forcible extraction: Amy said it herself that everyone had the choice to come and go as they liked, and it was obvious several women wished to stay on Tigris. Most of the crew was mature enough to understand their contemporaries made that choice for all the wrong reasons—it was a paradise of endless, uncontrollable sex, and anyone with half a mind knows that too much of a good thing can be fatal. Marsa and Alala were quick to point out that it was because of this insatiable sexual appetite that Felinis technology was so far behind. They were literally too busy with the joy of intimacy to concentrate on much else.
“I know I had no right to rob them of their willpower,” Amy confided to Rachel as she paced around her room (her foot was feeling almost normal at the moment). “But I felt it was not their true, deep, ultimate desire to stay there. All living creatures are faced with temptation, and temptation always comes in the form of something we want, and not anything we really need. A starving man is tempted to steal, but never by the food itself. A woman wronged by her lover is tempted by revenge, but never reconciliation. Yes…and I have been tempted too. More often than not, I’ve failed the tests. I understand perfectly well what they were going through. If only I had somebody to pull me away from those traps I had faced…”
“You’ve got me,” Rachel answered cheerfully. Amy’s face glowed with love.
“Yes, but you’re an Ifritah. Your kind is not tempted. You’re merely an elemental force acting on primal urges or instinct. When you want something, you pull it from another space and make it yours. For all your power, you’re incapable of telling me I’m right or wrong, and since you are my servant, you would believe everything I told you and would act upon it until it really became true. That’s one of the reasons why I’ve asked you to keep your powers in check. Well, that’s enough of that,” she said with a more relaxed smile. “They’ll get over it soon, and besides, the promise of treasures to come will help clear their heads. My thoughts are concerned about our next destination.”
“The world with the curse, you mean. Master Amy, I could remove it if you want me to. It would be faster and more effective than anything Marsa could throw at it.”
“Yes, you’re right, but please restrain yourself. This is Marsa Rosemont’s duty, not yours.” She sighed deeply and sat on her bed, shifting all her weight onto the left foot. The injury was acting up sharply, as it always did, and Amy’s fingers clawed at her sheets as she shivered, wide-eyed. As powerful as Rachel was, even she could not heal this affliction—but she did know of the cure.
“Should I call Dr. Fujiwara?”
“No, I’m all right. It was just temporary.”
“I wish I could help you, Master Amy.” She looked up and smiled.
“You’ve helped enough, my friend. They will handle the rest.”
……
Even though Chandra had enlisted as the ship’s cook, she spent more time in other women’s bedrooms than the kitchen, so it was up to several other culinary specialists to pick up the slack. Rebecca Hill was the first to roll up her sleeves and do something about the food issue, mostly out of impatience and lack of any other vital roles. She was an unmatched weapons modifier and frequented Kyrie’s lab and Eve’s garage every day, but she was looking for a change of pace, and being a backup chef seemed the next best thing. She had once saved her own life by cooking a meal for the dread pirate warlord Gallows McGirk, so surely to goodness she could keep two-dozen women fed.
Kate Shepherd stepped in and struck a fragile friendship with Rebecca. She had learned long ago to fend for herself, since her parents were unreliable and her living conditions were squalid, and came in handy as an aide. Fuuka Fujiwara was a refreshing sight in the kitchen as well, and despite her meek nature and frail figure, she took the role of a big sister very seriously, and looked out for the shier crewmembers. She even talked about her guilty pleasure, a form of entertainment called “anime”, something the people of Gaia once had a passion for.
“This actually reminds me of an episode of Martian Successor Nadesico,” she giggled as she stirred and chopped and kneaded. “There were about five or six female characters all trying to cook for this one poor man, and they all failed miserably. There was one who successfully satisfied his appetite, but it turned out she just wanted to die with him.”
“You’ve got some weird tastes, doc,” Kate muttered. Fuuka tittered bashfully.
“I’d like to think we all enjoy something that makes us…unique. But could you please do me a favor?”
“Uh, sure, what?”
“Please call me Fuji-san!”
Pause. Blink, blink.
“Uh, I don’t think that’s gonna happen in this life.”
“You’re not being nice,” Fuji-san sighed.
Despite its foreboding moniker, Rajani was not the dark world the crew had envisioned. It had its day and its night like most other planets, and the overall feeling one got while wandering through it was not entirely sinister. The people were poor but tough, and they all had a quiet, grave outlook on life, as though amusement was a foreign concept to them. Because the surface of Gaia is mostly water, outsiders sometimes tag it "the blue planet", and so it was with Rajani: it was largely consumed by vast fields of soil, black and brown with fertility, but with so few bodies of water to irrigate them, there was very little greenery. The "curse" bemoaned about by the locals was not as simple as drought, though. There had been a recent increase in spontaneous mental breakdowns on Rajani that could not be attributed to psychological trauma, and when those left to boil in their evaporating sanity ran out of options, they were forced to call this affliction what it was—a curse—and call for help. Marsa Rosemont was by far the best person for this job, and the crew of the Dauntless was the best to back her up.
Rain was an unusual, brief rarity on Rajani, but it's one of those things outsiders typically don't appreciate. The people were in a manic tizzy when the sky opened up at last and showered them with its blessings, which meant they completely ignored their savior when she arrived. Men and women ran outside to collect as much rain as possible while children played in the endless mud fields; it was a spectacular sight that ended much too soon. The clouds moved on to sprinkle other areas, leaving the population groaning in despair. They would have to ration their meager collection carefully for the next month. Now that they had no further distractions, the citizens finally noticed their visitor, and flocked to her side, hungry for a cure.
"Forgive our selfish display of jubilation," said the nearest man. "We so rarely get rain here that even a few drops makes us lose our minds." Marsa smiled and held his hands.
"You don't have to apologize, I understand. You have so many hardships here, and now this latest horror has shown up. You're all due some excitement. If you please, could you inform me a little more fully about this outbreak of madness? I'm afraid I only got the gist of it."
"Yes, yes. We should've told you everything; we were just afraid you wouldn't come if you knew the truth. You see, w...oh, uh, who are these people?" Marsa turned around to see Miracle hobbling outside, Rachel floating right next to her, and a handful of others who were tired of lounging around the ship.
"My ride," Marsa said with a smile. "Have someone show them around, won't you? Now, you were saying?"
"Uh, yes. Well, the curse originated about three weeks ago—please pardon our primitive choice of words, but we really can't call it anything else—it started three weeks ago, and has since infected over a thousand people. It caused sudden delirium and violent spasms, and sometimes preceded violent acts, even...death on some counts. Most of the victims were very rational people before being infected and we have no reason to believe there is any natural imbalance in their minds. They were simply driven mad; we don't know how. We've walled off the area where most of the infections began, but the illness is spreading. We don't have much data since it permeates radiation suits, but from what we could gather, it may be a case of psychological waves emanating from an invisible source. Is there anything you can do?"
"That remains to be seen. My companions have a brilliant doctor with them, so please have her take a look at the wounded. We also have several chefs, mechanics, and women suited for hard work, so use them wherever you see fit. I want to help the people who've already been infected, but in order to prevent any further outbreaks, I have to go to the source and...God willing, remove it."
"You can forget about that, lady!" Lillianne shouted. "I ain't workin' for no charity here! I'm gonna see if there's anything worth my time. Aseria, you coming?" "Not this time, I'm afraid," she answered. "As much as I love adventuring with you, Lil dear, I just can't turn my back on people who have lost their mind. I'm just drawn to dementia."
"That you are." She looked for Lyara and stabbed the air with her finger. "Hey, you! Go help her out—and if I find out you've acted inappropriately around her, I'll rip all your hair out until you're bald—got it?!"
"Sheesh," Lyara whispered as Lil wandered away. "What an overprotective bitch. I'm not a horn-dog, you know."
……
Lillianne was becoming more annoyed by this journey with every passing minute, and the only thing that kept her from committing reckless, unchecked genocide on the entire crew was Aseria's constant presence. She didn't mind being schlepped around the universe, and being in the company of so many...diverse women broadened her perspective. Plus, for those times when Aseria just wasn't around, it gave her something pretty to look at. Hunting for treasure wasn't really her cup of tea, unless she had previously claimed said riches for herself, and it certainly wasn't part of her plan to leave the bliss of Tigris for this dump. They weren't even after the tiniest jewel or the most insignificant flake of gold! The last survivor of the lost world of Mu was better than this! Lillianne once had palaces, gardens, cathedrals, oceans, forests, mountains, libraries, museums, and theaters which she had once called her own, and now she was reduced to this. So what if it was a far cry from her days as a sacrificial maiden? She almost wished she had been killed.
And now things looked like they were about to get worse for her: one of those damnable natives was approaching her, and from the looks of it, she was leaning a bit towards the mindless side. She scooted along the ground, her mouth foaming, eyes pulsing, hair akimbo, and a gnashing, growling noise came from her mouth. Lil knew about the "madness curse" and assumed this was another victim, and stepped back in revulsion. If she should somehow catch this disease after everything she had been through...but no, not even her gods had that sort of sick sense of humor.
"Ugh, go away," she snorted, kicking at the air. She wondered how the madness was transferred and hoped it was not through the air, like other plagues. She also hoped that touching the infected would be safe, because the deranged woman was lurching closer, and Lil was too proud to run away for long. She didn't dare risk an experimental kick—but she didn't have to. In a flash, the woman was unmistakably dead, killed by a long, sharp, curved object that had sliced the back of her neck. The spontaneity of such an act startled her, and she yelped reflexively. As she stepped back, Lil noticed the object was a large scythe, not unlike the kind her kinsmen used in the fields, and wielding it was a figure completely covered in a black cloak; only the lower portion of their face could be seen in that grim light.
"Who the f..." Lil's courage seemed to evaporate as the killer pulled its weapon back and stood up. Because the person was dressed so plainly and eerily, she could only describe half of their face with any detail; the weapon itself had a greater depth. The handle was not perfectly straight, but was gnarled and curved, like it had been fashioned out of a tree from Hell (perhaps with souls of the damned still embedded in its splinters). The blade was as long as a man's arm, and had the image of a reclining skeleton etched on it. This silent murderer was clearly trying to invoke images of the Grim Reaper, and save for its fleshy hands and the firm, human face glowing out from underneath the hood, they nearly pulled it off.
"Another one," whispered the figure. Its voice was very quiet and rough, like the soft grinding of sandpaper in the wind. It approached Lillianne, bouncing its scythe in its hands. "You are different. You and I were meant to see each other in the past, but you have always evaded me. There is something that prevents our encounter. You are being protected, but this protection will not last long. I wonder just what you are."
"I'm the last person you'll ever see in this life, you freak!" Lil charged in like a dart, turning into a human dynamo just before contact. Only a few people were "privileged" enough to know that underneath Lil's gorgeous body was a monstrous, merciless fighter—a sage on the battlefield who could easily hold her own against anybody, even heavyworlders. She rarely showed this side of her to keep the deception strong, but if somebody frightened or annoyed her enough...well, it was best to find something to put their remains in. Her training proved effective as usual as she bowled her creepy opponent over, landing five punches and six kicks in a matter of seconds. As the cloaked figure sailed through the air, though, it flipped, landed on its feet, and stood as if it had been battered by a breeze, not the deadly rage of a tigress.
"Perhaps this shall be your time," it whispered, bouncing its scythe casually. The creature turned into a black blur as it hurled itself after Lil, its scythe flashing once, twice, three times. Lil's massive martial arts experience kept her from being eviscerated, and the creature's swings were slow enough to counter, but no matter what she threw, her enemy just would not go down. As she feinted to the side and prepared to launch her boot into the figure's head, a violently sharp sensation of pain pierced through her belly, carving a deep hole through her intestines until it came out the other side, neatly cleaving her spine. The scythe's long point had been rammed right through her body, and she wasn't even aware of it yet.
"It's finished," sighed the cloaked figure. "But just to be certain..." She flung the scythe up, arcing the blade so that it plowed through flesh and bone, neatly cleaving Lillianne Markus in two. The cloaked figure quietly laid a hand on Lil's bloody shoulder, whispered something, stood up, and silently went in search of the next victim.
Meanwhile, Aseria was going through a difficult period. She was admittedly stronger than the typical Sindar and was vastly superior to most other races, but she had to give Lyara credit. They were both healing one infected person after the other, but due to her ability to sense emotions, Lyara was saving lives right and left. This wasn't to say that Aseria was lagging behind, or that she had any serious disadvantage; she just couldn't peek into the mind as well as her distant cousin. She merely had an amateurish grasp of psychology and patience enough to deal with Lillianne's emotional squalls—and speaking of Lillianne, where was she? Worrying about her second-in-command caused Aseria to lose focus, and that affected her performance. Even though she was in the midst of hundreds of jumbled emotions, Lyara picked up Aseria's fretting and took a break to confront her.
"Why do you love her so much, anyway?"
"Are you peeking in my head?" she said angrily. Lyara shrugged.
"Sorry, couldn't help it. Your worrisome nature is overpowering everything else. You don't have to answer me; I'm just morbidly curious."
"I don't love her," Aseria insisted. "I don't, I really don't. We're just together. I found her and took her in. We...have a sexual relationship, but that has nothing to do with love. I certainly care for her, though."
"And why's that? The 'Florence Nightingale' effect?"
"The what? No, I just... There's something special about her. It feels like the two of us were meant to be together like this, like it's destiny. Does that answer your question?"
"I don't believe in destiny," she murmured thoughtfully. "And besides, even if such a thing did exist, it wouldn't be in my nature to just lay down and let things take their course. There is no destiny but the one we make...or some crap like that."
"If that's your answer, then it is my choice to be with her."
"You've got strange tastes, cousin," Lyara sighed. "I don't know you very well, but believe me when I say you could do better."
"I don't want to do better," Aseria whispered. "I want Lillianne."
Lyara’s eyes rolled as she moved on to the next victim. "Whatever."
……
Marsa Rosemont was going through a much more trying exercise as she stared down the source of the curse with nothing but her faith to shield her. The quarantined area was blanketed by a purplish-black fog, so impossibly thick and bleak that even daylight could not penetrate it. The odor was something like freshly-rotten bodies thrown in a pile to burn, and the ground had been blasted beyond redemption. Marsa had asked for a few scientific instruments to gauge the potency and makeup of this curse, but aside from the cloud and the odor, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She whispered a prayer to protect herself from losing her mind as she traveled closer to the source. According to the few eyewitnesses who had survived a swim through this dark mist, a rupture in the earth had released this, and Marsa presumed that something beneath the surface was causing this.
"I can't see anymore," she grunted—and in fact she could barely even stand. She had wanted to save her skills for the source, but she had no choice but to use them, now that she could not even move. Marsa raised both her hands to the air and cried out in a loud voice, "In the name of the gods, I beseech this foul cloud to disappear so that I may continue!" The fog obeyed her prayer instantly and cleared a path; the difference was so contrary that she winced from the sheer brightness and nearly flew thanks to the rushing sweet scent. The language she used was not her own, but an ancient tongue so obscure and forgotten by time that its very memory was lost, save by a select few who kept its words close. She was in far too much a hurry to dwell on the character of this primordial speech, but needless to say, its history is worth telling.
In spite of this respite, the journey to the epicenter was taking its toll. Marsa had been the high priestess above all other priestesses for a generation, and she had a sharp mind, a firm heart, and an unshakable faith. She had learned skills that no normal creature possesses, and it was whispered that she could even conjure the dead and speak with angels. Marsa had a broad knowledge of many affairs, businesses, interests, and amusements, and she was experienced enough to prepare for anything—but approaching the center of this evil was like walking against a gale wind. Her legs started to feel like wet noodles and her arms were like lead; she collapsed several times and managed to crawl before regaining bits of her strength. Her prayers became more desperate and the paths she managed to open grew smaller and shorter, and for one frightening moment, that old familiar sensation of doubt crept back into her mind, after eons of absence.
What if I can't do this?
Amy Miracle and her dauntless crew were witness to an equally grave situation outside the storm. More and more of the infected were dying, except for the ones being tended to by Aseria and Lyara. Men, women, children, and the elderly were falling in the streets and fields, their insanity mercifully cured at the expense of their own lives. This alarming increase in fatalities was enough to jar half the crew into an investigation, and several amateur sleuths went around examining bodies. Aside from the state of madness they had all suffered prior to death, the only other thing they had in common was a slim, surgical scar on the back of their necks. It looked like somebody had slashed it open, but for what purpose?
"Bizarre," Valti whispered as she examined the bodies. "Only those affected by the curse have this scar. It doesn't look too fatal, though. It didn't sever their spinal cord...and none of the bodies have any trace of insanity, at least not on the face. They all seem peaceful." Something stirring in the distance caught her eye, and she looked up to see the black-robed figure standing there, scythe in hand, their cloak billowing in the breeze. The visible part of its face betrayed no emotion or thought, only a calm expression. The figure did not seem aggressive and stared at Valti as one would stare at a tree, or a rock, or a wall—impassive, apathetic, and neutral. Valti was surprised, though, and jerked back. The figure made no movement to follow her.
"A...are you with the others?" she asked.
"I have come to claim them," whispered the robed figure.
"W...what do you mean by that?"
"It is their time." Valti's pulse raced as she tried to keep her fear in check. She raised her voice before it was lost and screamed out for help. The figure did not move from its spot as the crewmembers surrounded it, and only showed any interest when one of the half-mad people screamed and fell to the ground. Without a word it rushed over, hefting its weapon in the air like the Angel of Death itself. It took the combined strength of Athena and Sharyn to stop the creature's attack.
"Stay this madness and identify yourself, fiend!"
"It's strong," Athena murmured. She grinded her teeth and lashed out, pushing the entity away. The figure recovered quickly, stood to its full height, and approached the raving man with infinite patience.
"Do not come between us. It is his time. I must perform my duties."
"Foul monster! What obligations bring thee to slay this man?!" The creature paused and, though its eyes were concealed beneath the hood, it seemed to glare right at Sharyn.
"I must perform my duties. Let me pass." Sharyn gawked at the chilling conviction and inhumane lack of feeling emanating from the creature—but if Lyara had been there, she would have felt great sadness and regret as well. The green-skinned warrior screamed and fought back nevertheless, and actually struck her opponent in the chest as the cloaked figure dropped its guard. The blow was good, but if the creature felt any pain, they certainly didn't react to it.
"This might be bad," Athena grumbled. She knew they could fight this creature off, but if it kept on coming back at them, they wouldn't be able to hold off for very long. And why did it feel compelled to kill people so irrationally? There was no time to think about it; the black cloak flapped wildly as it ran towards it prey once more, ignoring everything in its path. As strong as this creature obviously was, for some strange reason, it completely refrained from attacking anyone else other than its designated victim: the scythe swung only once, straight for the unfortunate man's neck. But the blade was stopped short one more time, though not by Athena or Sharyn. Two powerful arms held the creature back, and the face scowling behind it roared with volcanic fury.
"That was number four! You took my number four away! I swear by the gods of Mu, you'll pay for taking that one away from me!" It was Lillianne Markus, still friendly as ever; she pressed her knee against the figure's spine while bending the arms backwards. Kate Shepherd knew a bit about wrestling and actually felt pity for the entity in black: they were certainly experiencing a world of pain and, if their arms didn't snap off at the joint, their back would break in half. Nobody knew why Lil was so angry (except Aseria, who charged in and started pummeling the creature as it was held back), but they were glad she decided to come back and save the day. The cloaked figure continued bending under Lillianne's unusual strength, but even then, the face seemed to reveal no thought or emotion, except perhaps the slightest sliver of humble joy. Suddenly, Lyara darted in and separated the two with a powerful punch to Lil's face. She took hold of the cloaked figure's arm and glared at her passionately.
"Stop! He can still be saved! The curse is almost lifted!"
"How did she..." Athena looked to Fuuka, who had run out to watch the excitement.
"She's telepathic. Lyara can communicate with people's minds over a distance. I wasn't sure if it worked two ways..."
"Ssh!" hissed the elf. "Marsa's talking to me. I don't have time to explain, but you..." She nodded at the cloaked figure, who was listening patiently. "You have to stop, she says. The curse is turning these people mad; it's killing them off. She says she can lift it, but she needs more time. Once it's lifted, she believes these people will be healed—and saved."
"Healed, perhaps," whispered the figure. "But whether or not they are truly healed, they all must die. I must return here to accomplish my duties. You and I cannot avoid this fate." Lil grunted as she rubbed her limbs. That psychotic crypt keeper was strong! If she hadn't been a specimen of unmatched power and discipline herself, Lil wasn't sure if she'd be able to hold them at all.
"Just who are you?" she said. The figure sighed and pulled back its hood, revealing an eerily beautiful young woman's face. A wave of emotions finally washed over her and she smiled somberly.
"Back when I was still human, my name was Arine Laval. I am someone else now. I am Grave, the new Angel of Death...and if what Lady Rosemont says is true, I will spare these people their fate. But as for you," she said, pointing at Lillianne, "I will never stop hunting you until you leave this world. You have avoided your fate too long." The crew gathered there was very puzzled, and rightfully so. They stared queerly at Lillianne, who just scoffed at the threat.
"Don't pay her any mind. She's crazy. If I do see you again, Miss Grave, I'll pay you back for what you did to me. That number four was very valuable to me."
……
“Thank you, Miss Tanith. You’ve become an unlikely answer to my prayer. Now all I have to do is fulfill my end of the bargain.” Marsa knew her last message wouldn’t get across, but she’d feel guilty if she pressed on without acknowledging Lyara’s assistance in some way. By now, she was so close to the eye of the toxic storm that she could actually see the fissure in the soil, where the poison was flowing. Whether this was a natural disaster or had been caused by some abominable entity, Marsa would personally see to it that the matter ended right then and there. She was beginning to weaken from the harsh strain—her clothes were being torn, and her ginger fur was turning black from overexposure—but her spirit would be strong until the very end, even if her body expired.
The fissure was just too much even for her, so she got as close as possible and latched herself onto the surface with her claws. She then focused all of her skills, knowledge, and faith into a single prayer, which would invoke the very archon of Rajani and beg for its aide (Marsa could do that, but not easily). Her prayer shook the ground and even made the terrifying maelstrom quake, as she stood resolved against the worst the world had to offer. Her words came from a language immeasurably older than all the civilizations in the Milky Way—beyond the history of Mu, the Sindar races, Nurogrim, Egypt, China, Babylon, Britain, and all the arcane histories of Gaia. Marsa’s prayer came across all territories and records, beyond the last great Ice Age from the civilization that once thrived on Gaia, and had been forgotten.
What she spoke was not a language but Language itself, the very first record of communication that had thrived in the Helios system, and had penetrated through all systems, evolving according to the individual species. This was the Father and Mother of all words, the same language once thought lost when Nimrod’s sentinel fell and the shores of Atlantis were consumed by fire and water. It was this tongue that the archon of Rajani listened to, and cooperated with. The prayer wiped Marsa out, but she collapsed on comfortable soil, and was no longer battered by ill winds. Nothing would further curse that world for as long as time had any meaning—and perhaps before that, even famine and drought itself would become mere memories.
She returned to a tense encampment. The woman who called herself Grave upheld her end of the bargain the instant every soul was cured of madness, and vowed to leave Rajani alone for the moment. She looked at Marsa peacefully and finally managed a genuine smile. Several observers were under the impression that as grim as this “new Reaper” might be, she certainly took no pleasure in her line of work.
“Thank you,” she said simply. Marsa’s smile was weary but victorious.
“Glad to be of service. Will we meet again soon?”
“Yes,” Grave said, “but I call all times ‘soon’. I shall take leave of this world, but first I must warn that one.” She pointed her scythe at Lil, and for a moment, the slightest twinge of bitter anger crossed her empty eyes. “You have always been within a hair’s breadth of my touch. Today I have failed, but your time will come, Lil of Mu, and nothing in this life will be able to stop me. Be grateful that my Master has given you another chance. Don’t waste it.”
One would think the Angel of Death would be able to transport herself anywhere at any time, as universal as she was. But no—Grave simply walked away, pulling the hood back over her head. Noticing how serious the situation had gotten, Aseria quietly nudged her companion and smiled cheekily.
“Well, it looks like I have a rival for your attention.”
“Shut up,” she grunted. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t know why you dragged me along in the first place. Better hurry up, cat-girl priestess, or you’re gonna be a permanent resident!”
“Hey, don’t talk that way about her holiness!” Alala snapped. She helped Marsa aboard, and soon the Dauntless was returning to its original schedule. Amy Miracle, however, could not simply forget about the experience, and brooded to herself as she watched Rajani disappear from the monitors.
“What could have caused that outbreak?” she wondered, idly touching the ring that once sealed a genie. “Was it…that?”
Meanwhile, the woman formerly known as Arine Laval watched the ship disappear in a twinkle, and sighed enviously. Hers was indeed a bleak fate.
Preview of next chapter:
Rebecca: Hey, I’m dying over here! Can’t I get some more help?
Chandra: Oh, you mean in the kitchen? I’d be glad to assist you…tee-hee-hee!
Rebecca: Not what I meant. GAAH, you can’t come in here wearing only an apron!
Fuuka: That’s right! OSHA requires every worker to adhere to its strict safety standards!
Chandra: Oooh, a sexy fox-girl! Maybe I should spend more time in the kitchen!
Rebecca: Really, not what I meant!
Kate: Our next adventure proves once and for all who is the best cook on the Dauntless! I think it’s a pretty nice way to conclude the “Rivals and Relationships” story arc, don’t you?
Chandra: Did I tell you I get woozy whenever a beautiful muscular goddess steps into the room?
Kate: Um…Allegra, help! It’s intervention time again!
Chandra: Tee-hee-hee! “The Great Cooking Wars: I am the undefeated cooking champion!” is bound to get things hot in the kitchen!
Rebecca: Seriously, Chandra, that’s NOT what I meant!
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