Prelude: Warren

GSG Banking Regional Headquarters, GSG Tower, Delaware

The security room was chaos. Red lights were flashing on all the boards. The phones were dead. The wall of monitors showing mostly static, and the ones that worked showed only chaos. Only one security officer was left, screaming into his walkie-talkie.

“Team 3, respond!” Nothing.

“Team 4, respond!” Silence

“Team 6! Team 9!! Anyone!! Any Teams, respond! Please!! Respond!!”

KLANG!

The door into the security center was solid heavy metal, bullet-proof and dense. So it wasn’t surprising that the guard had a look of horror on his face when he turned to see obvious pockmarks warping the door. He changed channels on the walkie-talkie. “Security is lost. The building is lost. Evacuate!! You need to--”

The door split open, and the guard screamed…

Meanwhile, on the roof, the regional vice president and his bodyguards were panicking, trying to will their escape plan to arrive. “Where is the damn helicopter?!” His bodyguard was peering the sky, then pointed at the growing dot on the horizon. “Sir!! Look!!” The vice president laughed, but then looked behind him. “Then what’s that noise?”

From the other side of the roof, a storm rose. She was dressed in a professional and conservative pantsuit of charcoal, which did nothing to de-emphasize the blazing-white fire coming from her glasses, and erupting out of her back in like angel wings, each feather a burning gem. A ribbon of burning red runes danced in the storm around her. In one had was an ornate klaive covered in miniscule runes that formed rorschach images of honesty and virtue. In the other was the (almost certainly) former head of security, coughing and beaten. She dropped him to the ground, and touched down on the concrete just before the helicopter did. The banking vice president, to his credit, did not piss his expensive suit, but instead just started in horror. “No...it’s Elizabeth Warren!”

She raised the massive glaive as if it were a feather, it’s point aimed directly at the man’s head. She spoke at a normal tone, but somehow the sound cut through the wind and distance and rotor blades.  “Vice President Kreuger. I would have words with you.”

The bodyguard grabbed Kreuger and shoved him on the chopper, giving a frantic thumb up to the sky for the pilot.. “Go!! Now!!”  He turned and, cursing, drew his weapon…

...an emerald credit card. Snapping it in two before Warren could get close to him, he was surrounded by a wave of black and green fire. Warren raised in the air, aiming for her prey on the helicopter, but was stopped by a vicious clawed hand from the fire that slapped her back to the rooftop. She stood up, grinning. “Finally...a challenge.”

The bodyguard’s sacrifice had not been in vain. Before her stood a vicious Fiducicore, a creature as big as a house and made up of the worst parts of bear, bull, and man. It’s road shook the ground beneath her feet, a gust of breath blowing her back with the rotting scent of failed mortgages assaulting her nose, but Warren was unphased. Again she leapt to the sky, and with a dramatic flash of wing a dozen burning feathers struck the beast, exploding with phosphorus heat and causing the beast to cry in agony. The beast used its massive money green paw to throw a HVAC unit at her, which was sliced in two with ease. She grabbed the ribbon that danced around her, and flung it to the beast like an arrow. The red bindings quickly struck, lashing about and forcing the beast to its knees. Warren grinned and whispered to her weapon “Voice-of-the-people, you may dine tonight!” In a flash, she was on the other side of the beast...and the Fiducicore disintegrated, the bodyguard collapsing in a heap unconscious.

Warren looked to the sky--there was no way she was going to get to that chopper now, but no matter. She would track them down and make them pay. She was interuppted by the sound of applause behind her though. She turned to see...Michael Douglas? No...Gordon Gecko. Her eyes narrowed. “Mamon.”

The Host grinned, still applauding. “Bravo! Very impressive! But...what the hell are you doing? I’m helping your side to, you know.” Warren kept her temper, but it was close. “You are not the economic system, spirit. You’re a cancer upon it, Wen-ti-ko.”

Mamon pulled off the highly-fashionable-for-1986 sunglasses and stared daggers, his eyes burning bale green. “You sure about that?”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing! It’s just when someone comes crashing into one of my temples and beats up all my sacrifices, I get curious.” He looked out at the skyline. “I’m not angry, Lizzy--please, enjoy your workouts. While they last…” the threat hung in the air.

“What? I’m supposed to be scared of your lackey Trump?”

Mamon feigned a mortal wound. “What? Sure, a good chunk of his soul’s mine, but he’s not my pawn, sweetheart. I’m neutral in all of this--I’ve got both sides to worry about.”

Warren pursed her lips, wise enough to know he spoke the truth and pure enough to be upset about it. “If not you, then who is giving him support? ”

Mamon shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think they’re local.” Warren’s eyes widened--if Mamon was  being a normal psychopathic Host, this was just gloating. If the riddle rang true though… “So why are you telling me, Wen-ti-ko?”

Mamon was already walking to the door. “Keep your enemies closer, Lizzy. And in debt if you can.” With that he disappeared in a flash of greed, and Warren was alone on the rooftop.

She had to investigate this. If this was true...then hell was coming.

Prelude 3: The Oval Office

The masonic lines of the streets of Washington DC folded and warped in a kaleidoscope of cityscapes from countless dimensions, . Most appeared fairly normal--a capital of the United States. Some were more advanced, some simpler, some gleaming metropoli of wonders, a few terrible burning husks or flooded swampland. They bent and flowed like the tide, over and through each other, a globe of infinity.

In the middle of them all, the 44th President of the United States, Barack Obama, 16th level visionary and arch-decan of Chicago. He sat in this shapeless anarchy in a lotus position, his third eye awakened and burning the same unearthly blue as the others. To his view, he shifting waves of realities crashing into each other created a vision, an idea of what was and what could be. If he allowed himself to fall into the paradoxical mindset of completely focused and free, he could even feel THEM. The two great hands of the Mandates the Gule and the Azure, their ripples bending and shifting the political metaphysical world. Barack never glanced too long--it was hard enough to see them, and he feared what would happen if they started to look back. But still...he needed to see. To confirm...he turned his gaze on the elemental energies of the universe, able to withstand the agony for mere seconds before--

He opened his eyes, took a deep breath. He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the tears of blood coming his eyes and nose. He was in the oval office--the fourth most arcanely secure location on the planet, and he was still nervous. He finally realized that Joe Biden was in the room, sitting on the couch and just shaking his head. “You know, even after all these years Barry...that is some freaky shit, man.”

Obama took a final deep breath to refocus his chakras on the material planes. “I need a walk and some advil. Do I smoke in this world? Ahhh, dammit. I don’t. Dammit...”

The rose garden was, as always, beautiful. The two men didn’t really notice. Biden had that trigger-happy look, his desire to just smash something. “So...did you see anything?”

Obama was still trying to decipher what he saw. “The Elements are moving, which is normal. But it’s the ripples of their moving that shows us the currents.” Biden laughed. “Man, I hate when you do that mystic juju. You always end up sounding like Yoda.” Obama shrugged. “Sorry. Explaining what it’s like to see all 12 dimensions is...hard.” Biden slapped him on the shoulder. “I know. I don’t care about the fortune cookies, I want to know what we gotta do about Trump and the Grand Old Ones.”

Obama stopped, looked at a rose like it was the first time he had seen one. A moment of thought. “This isn’t just them. There’s something...different moving. Here. The flows are similar to the Te’, but at the same time, there’s...other stirrings.” Obama  “There’s nothing to do here. The GOP’s at war with itself. We don’t interfere, just like the Watergate treaty says. We keep their fight in their boundaries, make sure we don’t get another Pittsburgh. We trust Hillary, we back our side, we try to win. If we lose, we fight him like any other Republican, keeping our side priorities as best we can.”

“And what if he’s not just any other Republican?”

Obama was still staring at the rose. “...then we spend the next four to eight years fighting in the hidden halls and God-knows what else fighting whatever his jive-ass has and hope that we’ve got something meaner.”

Biden grinned. “Hell, we don’t need to worry about this. Hillary’s got him.”

Obama looked up at they sky. “In a normal world, you’d be right.But I don’t know if our world is normal anymore…”

Biden shook his head. “You worry too much. Hillary’s gonna split him open like a frog.”

Meanwhile, in New York

Maya was the office manager for the headquarters. She had seen just about everything politically speaking. Yet even she felt her heart race as she opened the doors into Mrs. Clinton’s personal office, and then opened the secret passageway. She ran down the dark steps, trying her best to remember the words that she was given. Take the steps one at a time. Remember the phrase. Bring no light with you until you see…

The hallway. A long forboding hallway of dark stone. Maya tried to walk down it, but every step was an obvious increase in heat. The door was thirty feet away and glowed red-hot, and Maya found it harder and harder to breathe. Her sweat evaporates as soon as it left her pores. Finally, she just screamed down the hallway. “Mrs. Clinton?!”

The response bounced off the walls, and rumbled through the floor. “Maya, it’s Hillary. I’ve told you that.” After a long pause as Maya tried to figure out what was going on, the voice rumbled again. “I assume something important happened?”

“Y-yes miss. It’s officially Trump. He accepted the nomination.”

There was a pause. “Thank you Maya. I’ll be up shortly.”

Maya left without getting into the inner chamber. The carbon-black circle, walls forty feet tall, molten lava running down the walls in rivulets, creating a  small pool of white-hot metal. Only a small pedestal in the center of the room was not burning, and there, in the middle of it, was Hillary. The fires didn’t burn her anymore. The knives bounced off her. The slander fell off her like rain. She had practiced a lifetime of being untouchable for this moment. She thought that had been 8 years ago, but she realized that by losing that fight, she was ready to win all others.

She clapped her hands, and the magma erupted around her. She flowed the metal with her mind, and her eyes burned with power of the Blue. She spoke, and her voice rattled through the halls. “The battle begins! TO WAR!!”, and then she laughed, long and hard.

Soon she would destroy Donald Trump. Soon her destiny would be complete.

Prelude 2: Hours after Day 3 of the GOP Convention

Day 3 of the GOP Convention

The elevator dinged open, and Ted Cruz smiled as he stepped out. Take that, you smug bastard, he thought. He knew the booing had been prompted, but didn’t care. Trump and his cabals had dared to attack him? Attack his family?! And they called him a monster…no, this fight would end with Cruz smiling as he stabbed a knife--maybe figurative, maybe literal--into Trump’s heart.

Cruz was going to be president. He knew it. Then he would have the power. Then he would have it...the soup…

He strolled past the bodyguards, two of them large men in suits blocking the door, the other two invisible cloaked figures carrying scythes hiding in the corner. Sure, this year was lost, but four short years down the road...maybe 2020 would be his time. Or maybe the Elders would just say it was all for Cruz anyway, and he could wear a Donald Trump Suit instead…but first, he had to strike while the iron is hot. First he had to talk to Adleson. Money was how this worked, and Adleson had money. Then Cruz would have money. And soup. Delicious Soup.

Cruz waited in the main room of the suite. And waited. Too long. Cruz hated waiting. He was itchy--always itchy. This skin…

Finally, the door, but Cruz’s mouth flared up like he smelled something terrible. “You’re not Mr. Adelson.” No, this was just a pawn--easy to sacrifice. Chubby, blonde, harmless. The servant shrugged. “I’m sorry Senator Cruz. Mr. Adelson isn’t available at this time. Perhaps at a later date?” Cruz’s face went into a sneer. “He’s HERE!! We--I--can SMELL him!!”

The attendant shrugged. “He was here, but he had to step aw--NO!!” The Attendant was pushed up against the wall by Cruz. His voice was distorted, like it was thousands of Ted Cruz’s all speaking in unison from a very far way off. “Don’t lie to us, meat. We don’t like liars…”

“Ok, Ok!! He’s here, but...he’s warded. Against you. He won’t even be able to see you. He’s not going to meet you. You--you should have just went with the program!”  Cruz let the man slide down the wall, stepped away, straightened his tie. “You mean he’s going to work with Trump and not us?!? I am a Senator! I encited the Oath of Te’! The Elders promised they wouldn’t interfere!  He….wait…”

Cruz stared at the man, his eye’s black like a shark’s. “This is HIM, isn’t it?” Even Cruz didn’t dare to speak his name, not in this room. But it was so obvious...The attendant shook his head, ignorant and panicky. “I-I don’t know who you’re talking about. W--whose HIM?”

Cruz was staring at the ceiling lost in thought. If it was HIM (and who else could it be?), then this went beyond money. Cruz didn’t need resources anymore. He needed weapons. He needed to kill the Trump-man, and then he would take the presidency. Then he would take the Soup.

He looked in the eye of the hidden camera in the corner. “Mr. Adelson, We apologize for wasting your time. When you step free from the wards and watch this, please know We will not interfere with you or your actions...so long as you stay out of mine.” Then Cruz turned on the attendant. His mouth swung wider than any mere mortal's, and a fire-hose of black erupted from every hole in the man’s head. It wasn’t liquid, but instead glistening chitin as a billion spider-things came pouring out of the thing that rested where Cruz’s soul had once been. The attendant didn’t have time to scream--by the time he opened his mouth to breathe, his lungs were already filled with arachnids.

A moment later, the room was just Cruz, alone, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He left the room, past the body guards (all four of them), and pushed the button for the lift. First he would gather his armies. Then he would kill the Trump-man, and the Elders of the Gule and the Azure, and then he would claim Washington DC. And then the world. And then he would have the Soup...

All. the. Soup.

Prelude 1: West Oaks Texas, March 1, 2016

Jeb looked out at his father’s land, deep in introspection, lost in his thoughts. This week had been one of the worst in his life--Dad was sick, and he had let him down. His brother had been quietly gloating the entire time, and now it was becoming all-too-clear that orange-skinned jackass was probably going to win...he sipped his beer, tried not to think about it.

The press had been right, of course. He hadn’t really wanted to run. He had seen what the Chair did to his father, to his brother. The governorship was hard enough--all those voices, all the signs, the portents. No one understood what it was like, unless you knew what it was like. You didn’t get the vision unless you had the visions.

He didn’t hear Georgie sit down--he always was a quiet one. The expansion of foam from the can was Coke, not beer, but it shook Jeb from his thoughts, twisted his stomach. Georgie slurped the soda noisily, then gave that shit-eating grin he always had. “Well...you gave it a good shot. Dad was happy when he saw you on the screen.”

“Well, that’s why I was running. Hopefully it kept him happy. Maybe give him a few more years…”

Georgie laughed, starting beyond the horizon. “I guess. Doesn’t matter, though--he’s got his reward waiting for him.” The words of a true believer, the tone of one who KNOWS. Jeb didn’t roll his eyes, but he couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Right.”

Georgie turned then. His eyes were sharp, his voice tight. “Just because you didn’t have the guts to finish, don’t be a smartass. Our father was Presided, given the blessings of the Grand Old Ones. His afterlife is secured, and his works will be remembered...just like mine.” He laughed that mean laugh of his. “That’s one thing you’ll never be able to get over me know, Jeb. You might have been the smart one, but my manse is ready, my name now immortal, my hand has guided to the Day!”

Jeb shouldn’t have risen to the ribbing, but he was tired and angry and scared for the future. “Yeah Georgie...thanks to me and Cheney’s Nixomancers. You can have your big house in heaven--remembered forever as the shittiest president of the twentieth cen-”

He was thrown from the porch by a mighty invisible hand. Georgie was now up, the coke spilling at his feet, his eyes burning with the Red. Jeb was hovering in the air, trying to breathe, distracted by the small spheres of beer floating around him. Georgie was barely keeping it together. “I am so. Damned. Tired. Of your crap…” He raised his hand, and Jeb could see he hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t, but he really did want to use to closing sigil.

Jeb realized that a part of his brother would really try to kill him. For real.

Jeb didn’t let him make the decision. He was only a governor, but that was enough--besides the Bushes were always good and avoiding attacks. He willed the katas, and blurred out of Georgie’s grasp, on the ground, ready. One hand was shaped into an ancient sigil, a red-white burning sword in the other. Jeb squinted--Georgie had more power, obviously, but he never knew what to do with it…Now this would be finished.

“Boys!” From the poarch, their mother glared at them. You might be the head of a nation or a state, you might have the power of elder sleeping deities, but when your mother scolds you...the two men released their powers. Georgie pointed an all-too mortal finger at Jeb. “He started it!”

Barbara scoffed. “I don’t care. Don’t waste yourselves out here…”She templed her fingers, and the dark shadows coalesced in her hands. “...save it for Trump. We’re going to war.”