Unfathomable [Gate in the Deep]

[Magus]

Costa del Sol.

This miserable, hot, tourist-trap-yet-secretly-fascist town was called ‘Costa del Sol’, according to the stately granite tablet which sat before him on the well-kept grounds of a government building.

Beautiful gardens raced up on either side of a pair of gleaming, white stone-tile walkways which led along close-clipped grass lawns to a set of marble stairs, ascending in a three-tiered stack, to a stately forum beneath imposing white columns.

Magus followed one of these walkways to the staircase and climbed, ignoring the business-types who were streaming up and down them, or just loitering there like so much clutter.

The slightest snarl curled his lip, but he suppressed it. He had precious little patience for the disgusting chattel of the Day-to-Day: those who frittered their lives away making pointless plans and clinging onto whichever banal scrap of entertainment that would distract them from their own mortality for just one more second.

They wasted what little potential they had, surviving and thriving on the backs of those who did, geniuses, great warriors, captains of industry.

And these parasites.

Magus pushed through one of the heavy oak doors and was hit with a blast of chilly air conditioning. For the briefest of moments, he was transported back to his time – his real time – where those who did were well and truly separated from those who did not.

In the Kingdom of Zeal, the capable lived in floating islands above the earth, swaddled in all the splendor the world could provide.

The incapable were cast out of the Kingdom of Zeal, forced to live within the harsh conditions of the world beneath along with the rest of the flotsam.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger. This constant fury was doing him no good. Since the Colosseum, he had been burning with deep and terrible anger. Beaten by that woman and her robot friend. Then again by the Bandit. He’d given up before even ‘competing’ with the boy called Adam, and his time in the Graveyard had been an exercise in frustration and failure.

He’d failed when the bounty hunters pursued him. He’d failed in the Colosseum. He’d failed in the Graveyard. Even during the altercation in the Nexus, some divine comedy of errors had conspired to make him a part of the Harbinger.

He’d had success that day, but it came at the cost of touching his mind to those of some truly wretched people.

He knew many things they did, and could only assume they knew many things he did. That meant they could know about Schala.

That wouldn’t stand: his whole existence in the Omniverse had been marked by failure. He’d had one goal, and every angle he’d pursued was met with failure. He could accept that. He could fail at everything, but if he failed to keep her safe – to rescue her from the grip of time – that was unacceptable.

The Fiendlord opened his eyes and found himself standing inside a beautiful, ornate structure awash with polished marble and plush fabrics. He strode to a grand, dark wood reception desk which was staffed by a trio of women. He went for the one to whom the others looked, identifying her as captain of this ship.

She was a little on the plump side. Her face was flushed, and her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She seemed flustered to see one such as him.

“Good day,” he breathed. He was going to be calm. Pleasant. No altercations like in Dalaran. “I’d like to speak with Vi. I’m told she can be found here?”

“Vi won’t be available today, but if I can take your information, I can schedule an appointment for tomorrow morn-”

“No,” the word strained, starting life as an angry rumble, but ending as a metered, calm expression. “I really do need to see her today. I can wait if necessary, but it is very urgent.”

“Vi’s not available without an appointment,” the woman retorted, visibly rolling her eyes at the wizard.

Oh. Oh really?

I’m sorry, sir but-”

“Please,” Magus wrapped his lips around the word as though it took great effort to speak it. It did. “It is an emergency.”

“Vi’s not available without an appointment.”

“Do you understand what ‘emergency’ means?” Magus’ eye twitched, but aside from his teeth clenching tightly, he showed no signs of aggression. Inside his mind’s eye, however, he’d already killed her about five or six times.

“Don’t take that tone with me, sir! I don’t have-”

“I need to speak with Vi. It is very important I speak with Vi. Go get Vi,” Magus had exhausted his capacity for pleasantries but fought to avoid being openly confrontational.

The woman sighed derisively. Magus clenched his fists so tight he thought the seams of his gloves might burst. “Vi’s not available, but there are a number of-”

“No, it has to be Vi,” Magus interjected. “It’s very important.”

“Look, sir, I’m sorry-”

“God,” he drew the word out even as noxious energies swirled invisibly all around them. He gripped the edge of the huge, wrap-around desk. “Dammit!!”

With a furious grunt of effort, Magus literally tore the front section of the desk off, splintering it into three jagged-edged pieces, and hurled the piece he’d lifted aside. It smashed into the ground with great crash of wood and the pebble-like clatter of hundreds of splinters bouncing along the shining marble.

So much for avoiding a confrontation.

The self-important bitch had suddenly taken ill. In truth, Magus’ Wither had a hold of her now, and she grew pale and corpse-like. Her hair thinned and her skin sagged and discolored. She wheezed and hunched, suddenly weak and frail.

Magus looked up at one of the other ladies. “Please get Vi.”

He received only a nod in response, but then she was gone. The wizard released Wither’s grasp on the unhelpful receptionist, who collapsed while rapidly regaining what youth she had left. While she gasped like a dying fish, Magus strode away from the desk, deigning to await Vi without talking to the snide woman any longer.