The Second Archon War: Animula Choragi 22

Animula Choragi 22: Phantom of the Opera

When people thought of mountains in France, their minds usually went to the snow capped French Alps and the iconic Mount Blanc. Far less thought of the Massif Central range in southern France, and for good reason. Not only was this one of the least inhabited regions of France, but the highlands were only 1800 meters tall at their highest point. A far cry from the 3000-meter average of the French Alps. Instead of snow-capped craggy peaks, the Massif Central mountains were green and rolling. 

Or at least, they had been. The Scream and Great Storm had resulted in global glaciation on a scale not seen since the last ice age. As he flew over the mountains with Cygne and Mistral, two of his fastest Movers with flying powers, Iron Mask glared down at the peaks, which were now brown and lifeless. The last of the snow had melted in June, a bitter reminder of how powerless mortals were against these new gods. 

The harvest this season would be poor, but France would still manage to feed herself. Well, at least with imports from Iraq and Kuwait. It would almost be worth the price of kneeling to that god-child to turn France into the world’s biggest food exporter. 

Almost. Iron Mask wasn’t as stupid as Saddam; he’d never try to make an Archon kneel, but having to kneel to one would be grating indeed. Perhaps his American friends, the same ones who had given Iron Mask the vials he’d given out to secure his power base, would help him with that. Though they had been unreliable of late. That damned war was consuming all of their energy, it seemed.

After over an hour of flying, Iron Mask’s destination came into view at last: the small town of Saint-Roch-d’Auvergne. Nestled in a valley in the southern part of the range, the town had once been a thriving tin mining operation. Now, most of the buildings were in disrepair, and most of the population had long since departed. 

The old monastery of Saint Roch was in good repair, however, having recently been restored. It was located on the outskirts of the town, and few of the villagers ever approached it. The grounds were immaculately kept, but there were no gardeners in sight. The only change was that there was not a cross or religious icon to be seen. 

 All was still and lifeless as Iron Mask landed and resumed his native form. He nodded to Cygne and Mistral, who, as ordered, waited outside the old oak doors that Iron Mask threw open. 

Inside the old monastery was opulently decorated, with rich red carpets, real gilded furniture of old hardwoods, and masterwork paintings. The paintings were in a style that would make one think they were old, but something was wrong with them. On closer inspection, one would realize that many of them depicted industrial scenes of factories and cities, even if in a Renaissance or Romantic style. A second look would show that none of the figures in the paintings were human. Instead, they were artificial life forms, from the birds to the plants, and of course, the people. Some were in a clockwork style, others shining gothic metal, and a few eerily lifelike, but with subtle signs that their flesh was artificial and their eyes robotic. 

There was music playing from deeper within, and Iron Mask strode down the hall and through a courtyard, and into what had once been the chapel. Within, all signs of faith and religion had been stripped away, replaced with more of those odd robotic paintings or metal sculptures. The music itself came from real instruments; the trio of musicians were all robots themselves. Each was in a very different style: the first was so lifelike that only careful observation or foreknowledge would have told the beholder that the woman playing the Stradivarius Violin was a gynoid, and her playing was such that not even a master violinist would have known that unliving hands played Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the Winter Movement. 

The second was made of fine metal filigree and looked as though she were incredibly delicate, her face a smooth silver with eyebrows of bronze. She too played her cello with such virtuosity that if you closed your eyes, you would have thought Yo-yo Ma himself was the musician. 

Upon the piano, played a third construct, this one different from her sisters. She looked as though she were a giant clockwork creation from a steampunk adventure novel, her form appearing to be made of tarnished brass and weathered green copper. Yet she matched the other two robots note for note upon the Grand Piano, her motions fluid and smooth. 

There was one other living person in the room: an old man sitting in the first row of velvet-padded pews with a glass of cognac in his hands, his eyes closed as he leaned his head back as if in religious ecstasy, his empty hand waving back and forth in time with the music. He was dressed in a white lab coat, and a pair of goggles rested on his forehead. This was René Dubois, the most dangerous man in France, and, once, the most dangerous in Europe. The very person Iron Mask was here to see. 

Swallowing his irritation and haste, Iron Mask gently shut the door behind him and walked as quietly as he could to the pew on the other side of the aisle from Dubois, waiting quietly as the Three Blasphemies finished their performance. It took some minutes, but at last, the performance came to an end, and the Three Blasphemies lowered their instruments. Robotic eyes fixated on Iron Mask, and he did his best not to sweat. 

“Aw, Jean-Pierre, it has been too long!” Dubois said, opening his eyes at last and grinning at Iron Mask. There was something off about René Dubois. Something in his eyes, in how he held himself, in the way he spoke. It was madness. The same madness that had first led to his constructing the Three Blasphemies in concert with a dozen other Tinkers twelve years ago. Now, all the other Tinkers were dead at Dubois’ own hands, and only his mind directed the Blasphemies now. 

“Too long indeed, René,” Iron Mask said, standing and taking Dubois’ hand, which the other man pumped furiously. 

“Ah, but of course, you are busy! You rule France now, yes? Once more, our nation is led by a man with real steel in his spine! Real steel, I tell you!” Dubois babbled, gesturing broadly with his glass of cognac. He snapped his fingers, and in an instant, the filigree Blaspheme produced a tray of fine cheese and fruit, which Dubois eagerly grabbed a fistful of and stuffed into his mouth. Iron Mask more delicately took an apricot and some brie and nibbled at it to be polite. He also accepted a glass of Burgundy from the clockwork Blasphemie and sipped at it, settling back down into his pew as Dubois sat as well. 

“I heard about that dragon coming to visit us. Nasty business, that. But you stood up to it, Jean-Pierre! Ah, you stood up, and showed that beast the power of France, and of science!” Dubois chuckled to himself, then tossed back his cognac and held out his tumbler for refill, which was instantly provided by the lifelike Blasphemie. He grinned and leered at the things breasts, which made Iron Mask shiver slightly. He was fairly certain that the Blasphemies were… anatomically correct, and that Dubois…used them. He found the prospect disgusting, but he was in no position to let that show. 

“Yes, the Archons loom their shadows over France, and I must fight to keep us free of them. To keep France strong, and pure,” Iron Mask said evenly. 

“Yes, yes, of course! Keep the damned Chinks and the other slant eyes out! Keep France French! Keep Europe for the white man! It is our burden, and duty!” Dubois ranted. 

Jean-Pierre made agreeing noises, smiled, and nodded. It was lunacy, pure and simple. Keep France French, yes, but Dubois was going to go on his rant about Phrenology or some other pseudoscientific trash if Iron Mas wasn’t quick.

“Of course, of course, René. But, there are other concerns, greater concerns now,” Iron Mask said soothingly. 

“Eh? What’s this?” Dubois harumphed, his mad eyes narrowing on Iron Mask at the interruption to his tirade. 

“As you said, the dragon. And, more specifically, the Archons,” Iron Mask said in the same tone he’d use to sooth a rabid beast. Which, well, René Dubois was. 

“Ah! Yes, the Archons,” Rene nodded. This was another of his favorite topics. “Gods? Angels? Pah! There is only SCIENCE! Look, look what the hands of man have wrought! What MY hands have wrought! Life, in MY OWN IMAGE!”

He gestured to the terrifyingly beautiful Blasphemies, which stood by, patiently, silently,with trays of the most expensive delicacies at the ready for their master’s every whim. 

“Yes, but, I am afraid the Archons have begun to infiltrate France. I have checked them, stamped them out where I could, of course, discouraged the feeble minded from worshiping them, but, alas…I am at the end of my powers,” Iron Mask sighed. 

“Oh?” Dubois growled, his lip curling back in a snarl. 

“Yes. There is a woman: Yennifer Lustria. She is a servant of the Archons, a captain in the Knights of Favonius. Her, and that damned woman I told you was going to be a problem,” Iron Mask said, warming to his theme. 

“What woman?” Dubois asked suspiciously, his expression less fey and more cunning than it had been, though Iron Mask failed to notice. 

“You know her! Jeanne d’Orleans! She continues to be a problem! I told you, you should have killed her with her husband!”

“We were better when we had kings. Men cannot rule themselves,” Dubois growled.

“Yes, yes, but we both agreed that I had to be a shadow king! Assuming direct leadership would cause too many problems,” Iron Mask said with a shake of his head. “And now?! Now Jeanne has a Vision from the Anemo Archon! Her, and Lustria both! Those women are thorns in my side! They must be removed! And in a fashion that will ensure that their faction does not rise again!” 

“France is getting out of your control, eh, Jean-Pierre?” Dubois asked mildly, swirling his drink in his glass.

“No! I am still in control! I still have order! But I cannot move directly against Lustria and d’Orleans! Thus, I come to you. There will be a protest tomorrow. If your masterworks were to pay them a visit, I could come to repel them and save the day once more! It would solidify my control, as it did when I ‘saved’ Paris from the Blasphemies at the end of the August Civil War! It would be perfect!”

“Hmmm,” Dubois said. He got up and strode over to one of the many paintings, which he studied intently. All had been created by the Blasphemies, sick parodies of real art in Iron Mask’s eyes. 

“You know, Jean-Pierre, I chose you to lead France because I thought you were strong,” Dubois said, not turning around. 

You chose me because you needed someone who could copy the powers of the Tinkers you had killed, and I was the only one who could, Iron Mask thought, but he said, “And France has prospered under me, has she not? None of the chaos of the rest of the world. And no Archons putting men under their heels. I’ve even kept out those upstart Americans.”

“Indeed, indeed. I suppose you have,” Dubois said softly. “And yet, I hear things. The military, they are furious at you for creating your own private army in the USIP. The bureaucrats chafe because you have put your own senior people in place over them. The monarchists are on Jeanne d’Orleans’ side, now that the Bonapartes are all dead and the Bourbons are all living in America. And of course, your move against the unions has the communists up in arms.”

“The communists!? I thought you hated them as much as I do!” Iron Mask protested, trying and failing to keep the heat out of his voice.

“Oh, I do, I do,” Dubois said, not turning around. “But you have made so many enemies, Jean-Pierre. France is not unified. France is not strong. We should be building an Empire! Instead, it is the Russians, the Germans, who build Empires! Where is MY Empire, Jean-Pierre?!”

At last, Dubois smashed his glass on the floor, still not turning around. The Blasphemies quickly cleaned it up and replaced the glass with a fresh one, Dubois’ shoulders heaving with passion as they did so.

“I, we…you have never mentioned an Empire,” Iron Mask managed, flummoxed by the sudden change of direction in the conversation. “But, we could build one easily enough, if we remove these few obstacles.”

“Hmm. Yes. I suppose you are right.” Dubois turned, that mad smile back on his face, and Iron Mask relaxed ever so slightly. “You are right, of course, of course. Yes. The obstacles will be removed.”

Dubois gestured grandly. “Go back to your palace. I will see to it that France’s future is secure, and all obstacles to her prosperity are removed. That the right person, no, people, are in charge. Yes, you will be rewarded for your stewardship, Jean-Pierre. As you deserve. Of course.”

“Thank you,” Iron Mask said, bowing ever so slightly. “I take my leave then. Our partnership has been as profitable as ever.”

“Hmm,” Dubois said, sipping at his cognac, but Iron Mask had already turned and strode out of the monastery to his waiting capes and lifted off into the air. 

“Well, girls,” Dubois said, turning to the Blasphemies. “It is time to play your instruments upon the grandest stage again! Come! We will have order! We will have prosperity! France will be the shining jewel of Europe once more! Play! PLAY!” 

The Blasphemies took up their instruments and began to play Danse Macabre, by Camille Saint-Saëns. 

All the world was a stage. And it was time for the true man behind the mask to play against our heroine. 

Author’s Note: 

Look, the original Blasphemies are cool and all, but we know nothing about them and I decided that they should look different because that’s way cooler. 

Also, I apologize this one is short, but I am very busy playing through Nod-Krai right now and I need to get back and finish Part II of the Archon quest.