[This sort of technology is nothing new to Tamora, and it doesn't take her but a moment or two to get the hang of this particular device and its functions. The video feed shows a very stern-looking blonde with an unimpressed glower on her face.]

Okay, civilians, look alive. The name's Calhoun--Sergeant, Space Marine Corps. If this game's in trouble, then I'm offering my full cooperation, but I'm gonna need a little more info first. I got three questions for you, and I expect clean, concise answers.

One: [She holds up one finger, then three, and folds one down for each description she gives.] I'm looking for three people--a short guy with brown hair and blue eyes, wearing a blue shirt and a goofy hat, who carries around a golden hammer; a little girl about nine years old, with black hair, wearing a turquoise hoodie; and a big guy dressed like a lumberjack with disproportionately large hands and feet. Don't ask why he has disproportionately large hands and feet, 'cuz to be frank I really don't know. I just need to find these people, and if anybody's seen 'em, I'd like a full report on their last known coordinates. Also if there are any other space marines present, sound off; if there's a hole in the code in the far quadrant we need to figure out how to get a message to the rest of the team.

Two: [Two fingers this time.] Who's the genius that designed this game? Because I'd really like to punch them in the eye. Who in the name of Goomba's snaggleteeth thought it was a good idea to design a game with no exit? [And then she mutters under her breath.] Ugh, if I have to play a bunch of minigames to get to the next level or something I'm gonna seriously knock some heads...

[Back to business.] And three: [Three fingers, and then her hand swims to her forehead.] Where can you get a good strong cup of coffee around here? I have a feeling I'm gonna need it.

In addition, anyone who can give me a more comprehensive rundown than the sorry excuse for a briefing I received upon arrival, I'd appreciate it. Calhoun out.

[And the feed cuts promptly.]

[Perhaps it's his pity riddled mind that causes him to accidentally turn on the audio right now, or maybe he's just tired with how exhausted he's getting lately from his projects. Either way, audio starts up and there's just silent for a moment before a long-]

Hmmm...

And then I suppose, -ah. [A pause, the grating sound of grinding teeth and a tapping sound, before the tapping stops and he speaks again.]

Stalking- with exceptional flocking- of emotional tidings from love affairs to stalwart ridings, yet still the clop's a stopped like a steel fixed blood box in the chest chamber of a royal blue ox. Hmm- [More tapping.]

Yet, to be honest- I'm the fondest- of an exceptional vigor of an exalted figure- not of my own but of another, left to suckle the proverbial udder of budding passion of a most heretical fashion. There I may find my metaphorical bastion to ration my idled mind of deep compassionate abstractions.

Abstractions? Hmmm, perhaps not, no-

[Tap tap tap...]

So the Masquerade is supposed to be happening soon. Right?

How many of you are going?

[she's just curious about that. she sure as heck doesn't want to actually go!!

maybe.

probably.]

[Adrasteius stares into the feed silently for a few moments, eyebrows drawn, jaw set.  He's somewhere outside in the city, on a sidewalk, surrounded by an ever-shifting throng of people.  The masses don't seem to bother him, though.  He has the look of someone who was struck by a sudden thought, and then by a subsequently urgent need to voice it.  There's a shakiness to the feed as he talks, which suggests that the hand holding the tablet is quaking--though whether that's from emotion or some physical problem is not clear.]

I've noticed that a number of you claim to be leaders in your worlds.  Princes.  Kings.  Queens.  Nobility of some stripe.  

[Adra pronounces all of those nouns with the same tone another person might use to discuss vermin, and the venom only worsens as he goes on.]

Perhaps you were a general or a lieutenant.  Perhaps a politician.  Or you controlled a gang.  [The tone indicates that he pretty much lumps all of those positions together.]

Whatever you were, it seems clear that a few of you think this entitles you to the same position here.  This is, of course, fucking ridiculous.  But let us entertain, for the sake of argument, that you should retain your privileged status in this place.  I ask: why?  

[His eyes narrow, and he leans low over the tablet, his eyes bright and angry.]

Don't misunderstand me.  I'm not asking for a record of your 'heroic' and 'worthy' exploits.  I don't need to hear about how many battles you've won or organized;  about how many goddamn corpses you've piled up in your past.  I care not one fucking iota about your pathetic, disgusting warmongering.  

Don't fucking tell me about how you can punch through twenty walls with your immense strength, or how your magical prowess is so great that you can conjure thousands of swords from thin air, or stop hearts, or bend minds, or any of that other fucking.  nonsense.  Do you understand me?  I don't care if you can kill any man, woman, child, or other semi-sentient thing you set eyes on, and if you try to brag about it, you will be instantly dismissed as a witless fucking troglodyte.

No.  I'm asking you what you stand for.  What is your philosophy of leadership?  Do you favor fear and violence?  Do you favor control?  Do you claim to speak about cooperation, when what you actually want is doe-eyed agreement from a bunch of teat-suckling yes-men?  Well, goddammit?  What makes you fit to lead?  Fit to serve?  I don't want to know about your muscles, physical or otherwise.  I want to know about your fucking convictions.