Chương 9: Shadow Alliance

WARHOL and Frank talked for a long time. It was almost like they were old buddies, again, chatting about women, or family difficulties. Frank, tired, sighed: "You're really telling me this leyline complex is going to be enough to push back this cosmic horror? What if it fails?"

"I don't think it will fail, Frank." Warhol reiterated for the umpteenth time.

"But even if it did, I will be putting my life on the line to defeat this thing. I'm training my son, too. Together, we won't fail. Especially now if you can throw your weight around and push those alliances you were so gung-ho about." Again, Frank considered. His look was one of pained contention. Warhol knew some of the things going through his ex-friend's head.

'Can I trust him?'

'Do I have a choice?' He considered, for a brief moment, using his highly persuasive mental magics on Frank. That would bend Frank to his will, even with their extensive psychological wards in place, but that would've been counter-productive to the goodwill he was trying to repair, especially since people with Frank's level of mental fortitude tended to recognize spells incanted on them after the fact. No. Mind control would get them nowhere. Frank sighed.

"I don't like this, Warhol, but I guess we don't have a better option. Gods, though... an undertaking like this is going to take everything! We will be wide open to attack if some unfriendly country decided to take advantage of the member-states resource vulnerabilities."

"Leave that to me. If bastards launch an attack while our defenses are down, I will personally ensure they live to regret their actions." Which was the truth. Although he was reluctant to ever again use his magics against a national army's forces, least the propaganda machine again depicted him as a monster, he would do whatever he had to, to ensure this plan worked. His response earned him a hard stare from Frank.

"Okay. I am trusting you way more than I should be. Don't make me regret it, Warhol."

"I promise you, you won't regret this," Warhol said.

"We'll save the world, as we always do, then grab drinks after, yeah?" Unexpectedly, Frank smiled.

"Maybe, Warhol... maybe..." a thoughtful look passed over Frank's face.

"So, what is our first step?" Warhol considered.

"We should focus on gathering resources and cooperation. An undertaking like this will require immense and close cooperation between many nations, not to mention a massive labor army excavating an insane amount of ground. Realistically, we aren't going to find that support without first having something to show for it. We should focus on excavating a small part of the leyline complex before we go asking people to join our absurd alliance."

"I can get behind that," Frank rubbed his chin, thinking.

"I have a lot of weight to throw around in Morrow. We should begin here... you did say there was a section here, right?"

"Yes, there is. My Scanning of the area revealed leyline structures buried deep within the ground near the cliffs and at least through the mountain range. I think the cliffs would be the easiest place to investigate first. I will search for an entryway to the complex — punch my way in if I have to — and then let you know of what I find." Warhol spoke as he looked at a map.

"Once I find our first entryway, you can send in the researchers, dig up what we can on it, and present our findings to the international community."

"Well..." Frank said.

"That sounds perfectly acceptable to me. I guess I will leave you to it. Let me know as soon as you find something. Day or night, I want to hear it." Warhol let free a trapped sigh of relief. The meeting was over. He kept his head on straight. The Alliance formed in secret was moving. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. With a [Teleport] he moved instantly to a place he called 'The Hop.' The Hop was a fey place.

It was located deep in the Swamps of Sorrow. Despite its moody name, he found the place rather happy. He entered underneath the heavy, roof-like leaves to find a place heavy with shadow, illuminated only by hovering bands of fireflies. Non-Humans of all Kinds were to be found here: a gnome could talk with a minotaur without the legacy of centuries of conflict hanging over them. He approached a coral reef and sat carefully upon a stool. He made eye contact with the 'facilitator' and ordered a drink.

Humans might call The Hop a bar. And though that was its primary purpose — to serve intoxicating beverages — it was much more a watering hole in the classical sense of the term, as a place denoting an area meant to refresh and connect wayward souls. Would he normally drink in the middle of an afternoon? Maybe. But today was special. Being proactive about the threat to come made him want to have a celebratory libation.

The facilitator recognized him and brought him his usual, a shot glass of watered-down fermented Bunghole Sap, a unique flower that tasted a lot better than its namesake implied. He downed the sap in an instant, flinging his head back in a dramatic way as if he was twenty-one again and eager to taste the wonders of booze. His body numbed but in the good way. He felt less overwhelmed by the responsibilities he had and the responsibilities which would soon come.

"Another one, barkeep!" he yelled to the Facilitator's chagrin. If there was one thing a Facilitator hated, it was being called a barkeep. After a single shot of sap, though, he didn't much care what the keep wanted to be called. The barkeep brought him his drink which he downed with the same vigor was the first. This time, the sap's effects were much more psychological. That dark space in his mind where the parasite died no longer seemed so dark, so foreboding.

It seemed more like a rundown part of his house that could be restored if he put in the effort.

"A-another one!" he spoke, speech slurred slightly. And, again, the barkeep brought him his sap.

"This is it, Warhol." The keep was wise to cut him off after three; three being three times as much a normal human could handle before dying.

"Y-yeah, y-yeah," he hiccupped. The final shot tasted as it always did — of slimy nothing. The world became disassociated from his thinking; how people spoke were akin to wet paint on the wall as he sat in a corner: he did not mind the paint's acrid smell as long as he could do what he wished; then came his own thinking, his own memories became lucid.

A little ghost boy came running through the swamp, jumping on flowers and trying to catch frogs and insects; the ghost child pointed at an insect or a bug, a praying mantis, Warhol thought, and commented how the insect's body cavity was likely filled with parasitical worms. Oh, things had been different back then... Tears slid down his cheek. He missed those times. How his son used to be, how he used to be... And then he snapped his fingers: [Detoxify].

His body cleared of the Bunghole Sap, and he was as sober as the moment he [Teleported] into the establishment. Phew, that feels better! With his mind cleared of the intoxicating effects, Warhol ordered a tall glass of order as a genuine refreshment. He gave a hearty tip to the Facilitator and got moving. He had a world to save. After the bar hop, he used [Teleport] to travel to the Morningside Cliffs. Below him were the crashing waves of the Dotted Ocean.

Though they looked like belches of white breath from his highness, he knew each of that spiff of white was the result of a surge of crashing water that sprayed many stories into the air. He used [Search], then [Locate: Structure] followed by [Expand: Range]. His eyes glowed with magical intensity as holy energy flooded into him. He saw what he sought: underneath the ground, deep underneath, was a vast glowing labyrinth highlighted yellow by his incantations.

So vast was the complex, he could not see its end, only that the yellow glow continued far away, across many miles — around the planet, in fact. With its existence confirmed, he just had to find an entrance. Easier said than done. [Locate: Entryway]: Warhol flew around with the spell active. If there was an entrance to the vast structure, he would find it. If there wasn't an entrance, then he would make one, with his fists. Warhol scoured the land but to no avail. He turned to the ocean, next. He hated the water.

If the entrance was out here, what rotten luck he had. An hour then two passed of scanning but to no avail. Just as he was about to give up and redouble his arms as a lockpick to the ground that was the locked door, he saw a glint at the bottom of the cliffs. He descended at a harsh angle, all the way to the bottom of the cliffs so he could get a better look. As a waved crashed over him, he remaining as implacable as a cliff himself, he found it, the entrance he sought.

"Ugh. The water. Why is it always the water...?" Another simple spell cast [Hold Air], Warhol shot down straight into the water.