Author's Note:  Having been neglecting my doodling, I figured I'd try my writing a bit more, especially as new developments gave me a fun idea. For a dark, twisted, SLA version of fun, leastways.

The Only Listening Eyes

The chamber was utterly silent. The huge dome in which it sat was sound-proofed to an impossible degree. Nothing from the outside world could disturb its lone occupant. Nothing mundane. Obelisk sat upon her chair, delicate, elongated hands holding the arm rests. To the uninformed observer, it would appear she sat upon a mighty throne, high backed and regal as much as it was obscene and grotesque. This was not so, for the chair had no back, and the column that rose behind the necanthrope was an extension of the necanthrope herself, as her death suit was now an extension of her, and the three together formed the complete being that was Obelisk. Within the cold, stone-like material of the column, a wide maw whispered incessantly. It was to this that Obelisk listened, though she felt it in her being as much as heard it with her ears. Myriad eyes set in the twitching, ropey muscle of the monolith's triptych centre panel gazed in their own, unique way at the schemes and plays of the World of Progress, seeing patterns endlessly repeat and duplicate, grow and mutate. The two panels either side presumed by most to be empty were anything but, instead using senses beyond the understanding of all but a few of her kin to trawl the subtle winds of the Ebb. In her rigid repose, Obelisk tried to see the designs of the enemy.

On far off war worlds, Obelisk saw the simple ploys of the enemy commanders, felt the malice and intent behind them. Sometimes that was replaced with the stoic sense of duty, where casualty reports and predictions of losses were but statistics to be weighed in a formula, in very much the same way as young ebons learned to master their Ebb abilities. None of this was of consequence to Obelisk. That was what SLA Industries needed commanders for. Even if she could explain to the military the grand plan the enemy was about to use – a feat no less than explaining to an average downtown gutter-drunk the cleverness, intricacy and beauty of a fine painting – then her knowledge of the countermeasures, troop dispersal, equipment and mobility of the SLA armed forces was inadequate to suggest courses of action. She knew how birds flew, but she couldn't fly herself.

On Mort itself, she felt the nattering minds of Dark Night agents, going about their business. Such subterfuge caused a cacophony, making it hard to tell what their plans where. One moment their intentions could be getting weapons to use on a raid on a store to supply a cell and then it could dart to what brand of pet food their little dear should have tonight, and who was going to be on Gore-Zone that night. Only as their plans started to form could Obelisk predict them with any acuity. About once a day, she gathered enough information to be beyond doubt and sent obedient, sweet Deiter scurrying off to have it marked up as a BPN. A drop in the ocean, however. To her, every hab building was a beehive, teeming with life, and the city was a vast collection of hives. No keeper, no matter how diligent, could ever catch every intruder, deal with every sickness even if her unique form allowed her to peel away the walls and inspect the very mind of every drone.

For a moment, her gaze wandered out into the Cannibal Sectors, and Obelisk bathed in the fury and the hatred. The eyes in her tower stared through the eyes of the Cannibal Sector's inhabitants. They saw the gleaming lights of the spires of Mort, the incessant guard on its walls. The loathing, the absolute hatred and the teeming jealousy the denizens felt for those lights, that bastion of civilisation! The rejection they felt knowing, even if they knew only primitively, that Mister Slayer, Master of the World of Progress, had left them to rot. Obelisk knew in her core her place as a protector of that civilisation, and laughed at the impotent rage of those who were left in the dark. Yet she knew complacency would set in if the she only allowed herself to study the defeated. For but a moment, she wandered close to Salvation Tower. It was, to her, shrouded in a cloying, oppressive darkness. A pregnant darkness, hiding that horror Digger within it. The whispering maw began to snarl and snap, spitting out violent thoughts that it caught upon the winds that eddied around Salvation Tower. Obelisk shuddered in fear, no longer feeling safe within her sanctum though it sat close to the heart of Mort itself, countless miles of well defended, teeming, soldier occupied city sitting between her and that... thing. Even the building she occupied, though guarded by the elite of Mister Slayer's private forces, felt more like a prison.

Obelisk pulled her gaze away.

The taste was there though. Something tantalisingly out of reach, like the verge of an epiphany. She hungered now for that knowledge. Steeling herself, Obelisk let the pylon that grew from her, and into her, reach out into the World of Progress beyond, across the almost-empty tracts of space, to the thing that lurked there. The lipless mouth opened and spoke unintelligibly, slavering and mouthing strange, bitter syllables. Obelisk ventured no closer, but observed the ambience. It was like trying to learn as much about the Sun as possible, while knowing that its full glare would wither her into oblivion. All she could do was stand in the fading light of the gloaming, watching the sunset. Threat lurked there, but so did knowledge. The insights that she could grant to SLA Industries should she be able to bear that light would be tremendous. For years she had studied it, her tolerance growing but slowly, so slowly. Frustration set in and she turned her gaze back down to the world and room about her, and she sat in the silence. Lacking anything else to do, the mouth spoke her own inward thoughts. Lacking concentration, the connection with the Ebb faded into a background awareness, granting her no more nor no less than any other Ebb-user.

Across her narrow shoulders, there came a sudden chatter. The mono-zygotic, conjoined twin being that was her Gore Cannon demanded attention. The thing was usually silent and obeyed its master unquestioningly when she demanded silence for her trances. The disturbance, then, would be something of importance. True enough, within several moments the chamber door opened and her vassal, Deiter, swept into the room. Obelisk mentally calmed her weapon as it spoke in animal ways to her of its hatred and desire to inflict violence on the young Ebon.

“My lady,” Deiter made a half bow, half curtsy towards his master. “The Preceptor has made a request of you.”

Obelisk raised an eyebrow, an indicator that Deiter should continue without awaiting a response from her. Obelisk had an immense respect and affection for the Preceptor, but she was not young. A request from the Preceptor was as likely to come from one of his immediate underlings as it was himself, and she dared not presume the mighty Teeth had asked this task of her personally. The change in the White had not quenched her hope, her utter refusal to give in to the despair that wailed around the World of Progress, and her spark secretly hoped it was a direct request.

“There's been a civilian revolt in Downtown.” Deiter explained. “As far as I understand, a rather charismatic young man has managed to gather some support for himself.”

Obelisk rose and approached Deiter. Familiar and fond of the necanthrope, he was still intimidated. Her eyes were three feet above his, her body thin for her height, bulked out into archaic curves by the stone-like facade of her deathsuit and the monolith behind her rising another nine feet beyond that. A hand barely wider than his but twice as long stroked under his chin and lifted his pupils to find hers.

“The Preceptor bothers me with such trivialities?” she demanded.

Outside of her sanctum, she'd rarely venture such impudence.

“My lady,” Deiter plunged onwards. “The entire Sector has rallied under his banner. They're advocating a freedom from Shivers and a greater Monarch presence. They say that is their right, but the Shivers are claiming it's public disobedience! SLA thinks sending a high-ranking official would show the sector that they aren't forgotten about, make them proud to be part of SLA Industries again! A corporate or operative could be any one, but a rather memorable necanthrope as yourself...”

“Enough, Deiter.” Obelisk waved her hands at him to silence him. “I don't know if the empty flattery is yours or those who sent you the message, nor if it is flattery but a back handed insult. However, the point is made, and I will do my service as I should.”

Obelisk left her sanctum and into her private rooms, pulling on the orange robe around her mid-section and picking up her company accoutrements, security card and everything that might be required by the bureaucratic forces. The ability to reduce someone to molten slag in the blink of an eye was very little compared to the flash of a proper departmental authorisation card. Attired, she returned to Deiter.

“Take us there.” Obelisk said, confident in the knowledge that her vassal had been briefed appropriately and knew the matter entirely.

Deiter nodded and demonstrated why he had been chosen as a vassal for the towering Obelisk, folding reality and teleporting them away to their destination. As she possessed a rather rigid eighteen feet of height, travelling around Mort in a dignified fashion would be very difficult and require a modified vehicle. For another thing, this method was much cheaper.

~

Boarder Square was filled with Shivers. Near twenty A.P.C.s were parked in a rough cordon and the the green-armoured police units were getting ready, harassing locals and generally turning the place into a circus. In the centre, the commanders bickered with non-uniformed officials, stern suited administration officers and company representatives. The thick, rain-heavy air was still for a moment, and then into its bustling grounds Obelisk appeared suddenly, accompanied by a small entourage of lackeys and servants who straight away went about their business. A media agent ran over to the first camera touting unit he saw and started making demands, flashing pieces of paper and intricate forms demanding how the footage would be shot and who owned the rights whenever the necanthrope was in shot. Some of the officials tried to approach Obelisk, but the lackeys headed them off. Taller even than the tanks that littered the square, she approached the small tent that had been set up over the table containing the plans, paperwork and computers on which the campaign was being organised. As she walked, Obelisk felt a certain, lingering wrong-ness about the Shivers.

Something was different. Without pausing, she allowed her extra senses to taste the situation and she found it. Her mundane eyes scanned the arranged forces and she broke into a smile. A small part of her went wandering off to try and see the bigger thread, the reason for her – not just anyone, but her personally - being there. With a small laugh, she found it quite easily.

Obelisk imposed herself on the command staff and tore back the tent, allowing the Mort rain to fall on the papers and run the ink, and to short out the non-corporate, un-waterproofed computers. The Shiver commanders who had been arguing yelled and then stopped, falling into salutes at the necanthrope's looming presence.

“Who is in charge of this mess?” Obelisk snarled.

“I was up until now, Ma'am.” said an expensively suited woman whose SCL card explained she was Clarissa Hodges, Sector Commander.

“Explain the situation.” Obelisk demanded.

“One Tomas Goodchild, with the aid of various traitors...” Hodges began.

“Have they broken any SLA legislation?”

“Er... No, Ma'am...” Hodges sputtered. “They've turned their backs on...”

“Do not call them traitors until they have betrayed SLA's beneficence.” Obelisk looked down on the woman. “I have been informed they have broken no laws and are in fact merely exercising their legal rights. SLA is a provider, not a necessity. It provides many things, and no one is obliged to accept them all. You are relieved. Go home.”

The woman left as quickly as she could, getting out of that unpalatable presence. Obelisk turned her gaze to the station captains who remained.

“What is the situation within the disaffected Gabriel Sector?”

“Shiver Units were pulled out yesterday and are barricading access from lower downtown and adjacent sectors.” One of the more competent captains took the initiative. “As we've established our rallying point here, they've got a token beach head of resistance right across there, at the end of Brooks Street, just inside the sector. Nothing fancy, some flimsy barricades. Lots of slogan shouting, shows of unity. That sort of thing. CAF weapons, but no one's fired a shot. We suspect some illegal weapons, there must be because we know the gangs have followed this Goodchild fellow... somehow. They're not rioting so we can't call in the skull-fu... the Riot Squads, Ma'am, and trying to arrest them... well, it would all kick off.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Obelisk smiled. “Now, gather all the forces here at your disposal and follow me.”

Obelisk turned and walked as the call went up. A few of the officials and bureaucrats tried to get her attention or interfere, but her entourage was well chosen for their efficiency and she wasn't bothered by any of the suits.

~

The Brook street mob was just as described. A large collection of disparate people, perhaps a thousand in all, behind shambolic barricades erected as a gesture of defence, and carrying placards daubed in slogans touting unity, the strength of a people together, the lack of a need for SLA to govern every aspect of their lives. The placards were currently doubling as umbrellas for those who didn't have the foresight to bring one or who had thought that they could weather the rain for the duration. A few fire-drums had been made and were acting as hubs. Only the infectious strength of the personality of Tomas Goodchild was keeping them there. As the massed ranks of two hundred Shivers began to march down the cleared street towards them did the fervour return, and the controlled defiance started fresh with a target to focus on.

At first, amid the rain and sea of green, they did not see Obelisk. When they did, a few quailed and were held only by weight of numbers. At twenty yards from their barricade the beautiful but twisted form of the necanthrope stopped. The dead eyes of cameras on both sides watched what was happening. They caught the nervous glances of the protesting mob and the hands of the Shivers cradling their GA 9442 Brow-beaters eagerly. As the mob began to wonder why a necanthrope had been sent, and if this was a good or bad omen, her voice boomed out across the din of marching feet and roaring opposition.

“I wish to speak to Mr. Goodchild.”

Almost as if this had been anticipated, Tomas strode out from the front ranks. He showed no fear of Obelisk, nor the Shivers behind her. A good looking man in his early forties, tall and proud.

“I'm here, nothing to hide, My Lady Obelisk.” Tomas smiled.

As she had gathered her retainers, Obelisk had been briefed more on this demagogue. A former operative, well versed in SLA law and conduct. The man was no doubt well informed, but Obelisk was still flattered.

“Disperse, go back to your homes, allow SLA protection to return-”

Surprised by this outburst, Tomas was backfooted and shouted over the necanthrope.

“Protection? Protection?” he spat. “SLA forces us into its ways, gives us no choice, oppresses us and you call it protection? The Shivers are worse than the gangs, the operatives trigger happy thugs with contempt for all but their own! Take your corporate protection and shove it. We'll manage ourselves, police ourselves. Don't worry, we won't break any of your laws, and we'll still consume your products, but as of yesterday morning, Gabriel sector is ours, to run as we see fit. Come back when you want to negotiate the terms, not bully us more!”

“I can negotiate terms.” Obelisk said, calmly, to Tomas' retreating back.

Tomas stopped, and turned to face her again.

“Yeah? And they are?” Tomas looked at the necanthrope contemptuously.

Obelisk seethed at this man's attitude to her. She did not let it show.

“As a senior member of SLA Industries, I recognise Gabriel Sector's inhabitants as free individuals. You have a right to govern and maintain yourselves.” Obelisk nodded at Tomas to confirm this, and he nodded back. “You will not be given a stipend by SLA Industries, however, if out of employment.”

At this, the crowd wavered a little. This had been expected though, and while it was horrible, it could be overcome. Business plans, community projects. It could be achieved. Tomas had steeled them against it.

“You will be allowed to run, and be employed by, SLA approved Subsidiaries and general amenities will be put at your disposal. Is this fair?”

“Yes, it's fair.” Tomas smiled triumphantly.

“Fine. Then it is settled. Now... None of you have residential permits, nor approved passports. You're all trespassing on SLA property with malicious intent.” Obelisk carried on.

“What?” Tomas looked annoyed. Such pettiness, typical of SLA.

“Shivers, prepare to arrest these miscreants.” Obelisk shouted. It was followed by the sound of Brow-beaters being raised and brought to bear, handled by armoured gloves.

“Furthermore, in such numbers, this can only be construed as an invasion, and I am authorised to use emergency powers.” Obelisk intoned. “Shivers, use of deadly force is authorised.”

“But, they're not Enforcers, or Riot...They can't use... they aren't allowed...” Tomas started.

Behind the necanthrope, the Shivers were putting away their Brow-beaters, slinging them across backs on their straps and reaching for new, recently granted, small holsters at their waists. Tomas now found himself stood no longer before a grotesque corporate bitch and her sheep, but stood before a monstrous, ebb-glutted warrior and a pack of violent thugs. Behind him, the mob too realised that things had gone wrong. The ones at the back, the ones who no one would see flee, who could escape now without derision, were doing so. The mob members who tried it further up, closer to the front, were shamed or held in place, the enormity of the situation not sinking in.

“Shivers...” Obelisk lifted her hand. “Fire at will.”

The street erupted in gun fire. Tomas was the first to fall, becoming red ruin in the first volley alone of small calibre fire. From the ranks of the mob, some returned fire. Swiftly, the stand off became a running gun battle. In the middle of it, Obelisk stood. Shots rattled off her deathsuit as harmlessly as the rain. Once more, her thoughts travelled outwards and she drank in the chaos around her. Here and there were the bright spots of Shivers who refused to fire on unarmed civilians, but a simple goad from her reminding them of bad times, long past, of feelings of inadequacy and scorn, and fingers squeezed triggers. The rest were all too happy to earn the fear of the populace, so long denied their respect. Some shot at faces they remembered, others just imagined them and superimposed them on the civilians. All around her, the green-armoured men and women delighted in their freshly issued BLA-33s and this magnificent necanthrope that had given them the opportunity to use them. Obelisk consumed that feeling, of the weak suddenly becoming strong, of glorious, long awaited vengeance... adored it, found that their fears had not been put to rest, but they had been given a nice, big stick with which to strike at them. Strike they did. Obelisk moved, almost dancing, happily mesmerized by the sensations, her dark grey death-suit blending with the overcast skies and her long robe a brilliant slash of orange against the green.