The Sketch Rift: The Seal of Demons

Administration of Puppet Governments

"Master Bringer," the astringently commanding Ambassador alerted the two Blessed Ones, "I have enlisted you to perform a critical favor of mine. A favor so pivotal, your failure could present 'Heminglock' with the upper hand of this definition of dissension towards one another."

"We know all about it," Irene gritted her teeth, her presumption set. "It's the Reacsoa Hand."

"Actually, that time has not come as of yet," Moth corrected such a notion. "We must retrieve the Ammer Scepter and the Kyson Scepter from their grasp in a feat of great agility. The Vorrens of twenty innocent Sulukridgers lie in the balance. You may know of my nervousness regarding Heminglock's potential absorption of this power. Perhaps he may even divide it evenly among... oh, never mind. What questions will you suffice to ask?"

"There's something you aren't telling us about this," Soal conceded, acknowledging the indisputable obliviousness of Moth's speech. "We need to know more. We're (allegedly) the Blessed Ones, for Pete's sake."

"For your information, the Kyueb Reacsoa is hesitating for a moment, and now he is finally deciding upon Heminglock's location at... Northwest Waise. Is there any event that does not take place in part there? He may additionally be holding prisoners, so you must keep an eye out."

"You're the one that finds himself disgusted by Hemingway most," Irene folded her arms. "Why do you only hire us to carry out such deeds? This is exactly what he attempted to warn us about."

"Judging our wishes through Heminglock's virtues will only distort the nobility of this movement," Moth squinted down at the Master Bringer from his natural six-foot perch, his glare dissecting their loyalty towards his revolution. "I seek no empathy. He is a threat to our emancipation and to our civilization. And you have already chosen a side: mine. So decline to gawk at the other, for all of our sakes... Got that?"

Soal fit the time for an out-of-context quote from the Sketch days to lighten his spirit, but times had changed. "Know your enemy, know yourself...?" he fumbled, only to confirm, dishearteningly, that the dominative and terrorizing symbol of shrewdness ("Ambassador" Moth) had long ago prevailed in the internal battle against his more amiable and more youthful counterpart, "Formulator" Moth. "Hemingway used to be your friend."

"Boo hoo," Moth's irritability and satirization of the Blessed Ones' sentimentality towards their Henderian mentor who prided on all that was cryptic pulled no punches. "I will see you off tomorrow at noon, or sooner if necessary. Your gear should be prepared well enough for the next few hours. As for Count and the Countess? I scoff graciously at their inability to question my authority, but they in spite of this have little to say about your consistently occurring missions. Administering puppet governments in imaginary Planes is a bona fide specialty of mine."

*     *     *

"What kind of leader would act so carelessly," Soal queried to Irene beside him as they set out on their short and uncertain trek to Hemingway's whereabouts, "to pile so many backpacks on two people and send them off as if anticipating their death? The Moth I used to know would accommodate for everyone and their joys and limitations, even in the direst of times. Now, all I see is a brooding revolutionary, who, much unlike the times of Lint Corp, has quite clearly chosen a side."

"The Moth I knew was out of his mind from the start," Irene hoisted up her shoulders as they summited a moderately calm hill, many of the shriveled Slicers on the mostly distinguishable dirt path seemingly accumulated in a mediocrely gathered pyramid off the passage as if they were autumn leaves on the once-green grass. "Then, over time, he progressively grew more and more bonkers, until we're here now. Strangely, though, he actually may be correct about the unusual case of the so-called Cofontors." After taking one more step, they both contemplated this statement and were shocked by how convincing Moth's role and effect as the omniscient Ambassador had been. This brief silence ended swiftly as if quietly swearing not to spread this philosophy to anyone who may have been unaware, regardless of whether or not his "no-one-else-exists" lecture had been the case.

In Northwest Waise, all but the outermost of deceased Slicer concentrations had convened in compact clusters at its trapezoidal boundaries, indicated by the warping pillars that defined its indistinct border. It appeared almost identically to how it had upon the day of Ivel's fateful deceit: the interior of the plateau, although paved, was vacant, reserving the entirety of its vacuum for the Fviron-designed building-esque structure at its peak to inherit. Should this be considered the inhabitance of their enemy, they considered, or are we merely marionettes for the Ambassador's aimless amusement in the face of the imminent and inevitable panic of September First?

"There is more than just Hemingway in there, indeed," Irene overheard an indiscernible conversation from within the building in which the attendees' vilifier and traducer (and, eventually, avid assailant) was once imprisoned. As the two of them began to decipher the muffled speech from afar, illumination petered out from within the building, and a ghastly quiescence befell Northwest Waise.

Matching the movement of their lips to those of the already present visitors, Soal took the first feeble stride toward the residence of Moth's opposition. As if the already minacious breeze could grow more dreadful with time, it began to stir surrounding the edifice as they rushed inwards, aggregating a series of mists from the mountains at the scene of the infiltration.

Only, of course, for the gates to crash shut in their wake, awaiting their inexorable descent into a dungeon from which four would withdraw.