Chapter Three - Warclowns
The Lunatic Warclown belonged to an elite order of space warriors. They weren't the best equipped, they weren't the best trained, they weren't the most decorated of combat troops, they weren't the most fearsome.
Instead, the Warclown was the least predictable of all warriors.
They prided themselves on having no real chain of command, except the chain that whipped new recruits into line when things didn't go according to their lack of plans.
Fighting them was begging for chaos. There was no tactic that went unexplored, no harebrained scheme that wasn't schemed, and no way to predict what they would do next.
To the regimented and stalwart Imperial Valkyrie, the worst opponent they could face was one too stupid to follow their carefully prepared combat plans, and the average Lunatic Warclown definitely fit.
When a Warclown gets their nose, they're also given a core.
The Lunatic fleet has, as far as the Imperial Navy can tell, seven-thousand, three hundred and twenty-two cores.
The Imperial Navy has a few individuals who, alone, hold more cores within themselves. But the Imperial Navy does not hand out cores to every soldier. Instead, each one of their Imperial Valkyries is a trained, disciplined, and proven soldier. They earn the core and the power that comes with it.
Each core holds both potential and power. The first ever used by humanity turned astronaut Linda Alvarez's left lung into a machine while she was still on the moon's surface. Humanity later learned that that was a rather tame result, all things considered.
A core always changed something about the person that used it, it always made them different.
Giving one to each Warclown turned them into an army of fierce, dedicated warriors with an array of unpredictable, dangerous abilities.
An army of insane freaks, the average Imperial Navy grunt could deal with. An army of insane freaks who might have laser eyes, or breath fire, or shrug off bullets? That was another thing entirely.
There was a certain quality to insanity, and the Lunatics leaned into it hard.
So when Ivil's escort frigate linked up with the Paradoxical high above the surface of Haumea and past the entirety of the Lunatic fleet, she was expecting to meet the sort of problems that she wouldn't expect.
She noted that Sonic Spectre was looking rather tense. In fact, her entire squadron of Valkyries were looking tense. This was, in essence, a push into enemy territory. The squad had no workable intel. They were escorting a VIP. A VIP known to have very little concern about collateral damage. Worst of all, they were about to meet with some Lunatics. Nervous ones.
Airlocks opened with a hiss, and Ivil Antagonist started forward without a care. The imperial Valkyries jumped, but started after her a moment later. They kept in formation, guns trained on the ground, eyes scanning ahead.
The last of the Lucky Despot's airlock doors opened a moment after the first shut behind them. It opened to the exterior airlock of the Paradoxical. There was a large, upside down smiley face crudely painted across the entire door.
It hissed aside, revealing a second door. It too was painted, this time as a large face with a flattened mouth. Ivil and her escort started forwards again. The air took on a new quality, the particular stink of oft-recycled oxygen.
The first door shut, the middle one opened. The last had a giant frowny face painted on it, with eyes drawn into a glare.
"How inviting," Ivil commented.
"Eyes forward," Sonic Spectre told her squad. It was an unneeded order.
The door opened, allowing Ivil to step out and take five long steps into a large room before anyone could register her movement. The approach caused the people waiting for her to back up a few paces, breaking their neat little welcoming formation.
Warclowns. Ivil Antagonist swept her eyes across the room. It was a lounge area, with barricades welded to the floors and ceilings.
The Paradoxical had once been an Earth Alliance ship, and it showed in its stylings. It was built like a sea-going vessel, then only retroactively redesigned to accommodate life in zero-g. It had been re-redesigned by the Lunatics. More armoured half walls, more automated turrets, more couches, large screen televisions, and entertainment suites.
She noted two large anti-tank guns set to either side with overlapping fields of fire, and twenty-six Warclowns. Some were C-class. Likely the best of the best they could muster on such short notice.
They were men and women in neon clothes. Poofy skirts, large puffed out sleeves, face masks with chequered and diamond and swirling patterns. They had guns. Plasma rifles, railguns, traditional kinetic weapons. Some were Imperial.
"Well?" Ivil Antagonist asked. "Do you have any questions? Comments? Please, I'm nothing if not open to discussion."
"Who the fuck do you think ya are?" One of the Warclowns asked. He was large. A C-classer, so one of their best. He was hanging in the air, large metallic tentacles, painted in blue and red, reaching out from his back towards the ceiling and floor to keep him pinned in place. "Some Imperial's whore, here to donate her cores to--"
His head disappeared. It was empty to begin with.
"Enough from you," Ivil said. She turned her attention to the next C-classer. "What about you? Are you any more polite?"
This C-classer was a thin, reedy woman. She had four eyes. All organic. Two were growing from stalks on the sides of a head that was a little elongated. Her mask was obviously customised to fit. "I'm Snickers. Warclown of the Paradoxical. Can you identify yourself..." Snickers glanced over at the headless body currently emptying itself out in the ship's zero-g environment. The blood was slowly pooling up towards a vent in the ceiling. "Please?"
Ivil nodded. "I'm Ivil Antagonist," she said. "This squadron is here to keep the brass informed of my movements and fetch things for me." She gestured vaguely to the squad behind her.
There was recognition at the name. A frisson of terror that circulated around the room. Snickers shifted, lowering her gun as if she knew it wouldn't be of any use.
The Warclown nodded, then she looked at the corpse. The long tentacle arms were slowly breaking apart, metal folding into metal, a decreasing fibonacci pattern that was entirely impossible to follow. Soon, two dozen small spheres were floating away from the dead Warclown.
"Did you want his cores? It's your kill," Snickers asked.
Ivil could sense the displeasure at the question from the other Warclowns. It was giving away their limited cores. If she was here to fight and kill, then she'd take them. And all the rest of the cores in their little fleet besides.
But she wasn't.
"Keep them," Ivil said dismissively. "What's a dozen more cores, at this point? Just bring me to your ringleaders."
The Warclowns looked to one another for a moment, then it seemed like a consensus was reached.
Ivil usually got her way. It didn't surprise her that the methods she used in the Empire--the overwhelming capacity for violence--worked just as well with the Lunatics.
"I'll bring you to Circus," Snickers said.
"Circus... not the Oracle?" Ivil asked as she started to walk after the young clown.
Snickers spun around, twisting her body at the middle so that she could kick off one of the half walls to send herself flying towards a corridor. The other Warclowns cleared out, but they hadn't received any orders not to follow. Not that they did 'orders' in any case.
Ivil's squadron followed after her. They had magnetic boots that secured them to the floor and gave them a strange, halting gait, all except Sonic Spectre, who vanished and reappeared ahead a few feet in a constant stop-go motion.
Ivil walked as if she was on earth. Her uniform acted the same way, because it would have embarrassed her if it did not, and it knew better than to act up.
"Captain Circus is the Paradoxical's captain," Snickers said over her shoulder. "She'll know what to do. The Clairvoyant is... she does her own thing. She's a little more independent than most people like."
The fact that a Lunatic seemed to think that someone was too independent wasn't lost on Ivil.
"Oh well. I have all day," Ivil said. She continued to follow an increasingly nervous Snickers through the halls of the ship and through multiple bulkhead doors.
The Paradoxical opened up a few passages in, and Ivil craned her head back to take it in. The ship might have been much smaller than an Imperial Star Dreadnought, but it was still one of the largest vessels created in the last century, and while the Lunatics had turned it into their home, it still had some of its old luxury under the garish paint, banners, and posters.
"I'm looking forward to meeting this Captain Circus of yours," Ivil said.
***
Chapter Three - Warclowns
The Lunatic Warclown belonged to an elite order of space warriors. They weren't the best equipped, they weren't the best trained, they weren't the most decorated of combat troops, they weren't the most fearsome.
Instead, the Warclown was the least predictable of all warriors.
They prided themselves on having no real chain of command, except the chain that whipped new recruits into line when things didn't go according to their lack of plans.
Fighting them was begging for chaos. There was no tactic that went unexplored, no harebrained scheme that wasn't schemed, and no way to predict what they would do next.
To the regimented and stalwart Imperial Valkyrie, the worst opponent they could face was one too stupid to follow their carefully prepared combat plans, and the average Lunatic Warclown definitely fit.
When a Warclown gets their nose, they're also given a core.
The Lunatic fleet has, as far as the Imperial Navy can tell, seven-thousand, three hundred and twenty-two cores.
The Imperial Navy has a few individuals who, alone, hold more cores within themselves. But the Imperial Navy does not hand out cores to every soldier. Instead, each one of their Imperial Valkyries is a trained, disciplined, and proven soldier. They earn the core and the power that comes with it.
Each core holds both potential and power. The first ever used by humanity turned astronaut Linda Alvarez's left lung into a machine while she was still on the moon's surface. Humanity later learned that that was a rather tame result, all things considered.
A core always changed something about the person that used it, it always made them different.
Giving one to each Warclown turned them into an army of fierce, dedicated warriors with an array of unpredictable, dangerous abilities.
An army of insane freaks, the average Imperial Navy grunt could deal with. An army of insane freaks who might have laser eyes, or breath fire, or shrug off bullets? That was another thing entirely.
There was a certain quality to insanity, and the Lunatics leaned into it hard.
So when Ivil's escort frigate linked up with the Paradoxical high above the surface of Haumea and past the entirety of the Lunatic fleet, she was expecting to meet the sort of problems that she wouldn't expect.
She noted that Sonic Spectre was looking rather tense. In fact, her entire squadron of Valkyries were looking tense. This was, in essence, a push into enemy territory. The squad had no workable intel. They were escorting a VIP. A VIP known to have very little concern about collateral damage. Worst of all, they were about to meet with some Lunatics. Nervous ones.
Airlocks opened with a hiss, and Ivil Antagonist started forward without a care. The imperial Valkyries jumped, but started after her a moment later. They kept in formation, guns trained on the ground, eyes scanning ahead.
The last of the Lucky Despot's airlock doors opened a moment after the first shut behind them. It opened to the exterior airlock of the Paradoxical. There was a large, upside down smiley face crudely painted across the entire door.
It hissed aside, revealing a second door. It too was painted, this time as a large face with a flattened mouth. Ivil and her escort started forwards again. The air took on a new quality, the particular stink of oft-recycled oxygen.
The first door shut, the middle one opened. The last had a giant frowny face painted on it, with eyes drawn into a glare.
"How inviting," Ivil commented.
"Eyes forward," Sonic Spectre told her squad. It was an unneeded order.
The door opened, allowing Ivil to step out and take five long steps into a large room before anyone could register her movement. The approach caused the people waiting for her to back up a few paces, breaking their neat little welcoming formation.
Warclowns. Ivil Antagonist swept her eyes across the room. It was a lounge area, with barricades welded to the floors and ceilings.
The Paradoxical had once been an Earth Alliance ship, and it showed in its stylings. It was built like a sea-going vessel, then only retroactively redesigned to accommodate life in zero-g. It had been re-redesigned by the Lunatics. More armoured half walls, more automated turrets, more couches, large screen televisions, and entertainment suites.
She noted two large anti-tank guns set to either side with overlapping fields of fire, and twenty-six Warclowns. Some were C-class. Likely the best of the best they could muster on such short notice.
They were men and women in neon clothes. Poofy skirts, large puffed out sleeves, face masks with chequered and diamond and swirling patterns. They had guns. Plasma rifles, railguns, traditional kinetic weapons. Some were Imperial.
"Well?" Ivil Antagonist asked. "Do you have any questions? Comments? Please, I'm nothing if not open to discussion."
"Who the fuck do you think ya are?" One of the Warclowns asked. He was large. A C-classer, so one of their best. He was hanging in the air, large metallic tentacles, painted in blue and red, reaching out from his back towards the ceiling and floor to keep him pinned in place. "Some Imperial's whore, here to donate her cores to--"
His head disappeared. It was empty to begin with.
"Enough from you," Ivil said. She turned her attention to the next C-classer. "What about you? Are you any more polite?"
This C-classer was a thin, reedy woman. She had four eyes. All organic. Two were growing from stalks on the sides of a head that was a little elongated. Her mask was obviously customised to fit. "I'm Snickers. Warclown of the Paradoxical. Can you identify yourself..." Snickers glanced over at the headless body currently emptying itself out in the ship's zero-g environment. The blood was slowly pooling up towards a vent in the ceiling. "Please?"
Ivil nodded. "I'm Ivil Antagonist," she said. "This squadron is here to keep the brass informed of my movements and fetch things for me." She gestured vaguely to the squad behind her.
There was recognition at the name. A frisson of terror that circulated around the room. Snickers shifted, lowering her gun as if she knew it wouldn't be of any use.
The Warclown nodded, then she looked at the corpse. The long tentacle arms were slowly breaking apart, metal folding into metal, a decreasing fibonacci pattern that was entirely impossible to follow. Soon, two dozen small spheres were floating away from the dead Warclown.
"Did you want his cores? It's your kill," Snickers asked.
Ivil could sense the displeasure at the question from the other Warclowns. It was giving away their limited cores. If she was here to fight and kill, then she'd take them. And all the rest of the cores in their little fleet besides.
But she wasn't.
"Keep them," Ivil said dismissively. "What's a dozen more cores, at this point? Just bring me to your ringleaders."
The Warclowns looked to one another for a moment, then it seemed like a consensus was reached.
Ivil usually got her way. It didn't surprise her that the methods she used in the Empire--the overwhelming capacity for violence--worked just as well with the Lunatics.
"I'll bring you to Circus," Snickers said.
"Circus... not the Oracle?" Ivil asked as she started to walk after the young clown.
Snickers spun around, twisting her body at the middle so that she could kick off one of the half walls to send herself flying towards a corridor. The other Warclowns cleared out, but they hadn't received any orders not to follow. Not that they did 'orders' in any case.
Ivil's squadron followed after her. They had magnetic boots that secured them to the floor and gave them a strange, halting gait, all except Sonic Spectre, who vanished and reappeared ahead a few feet in a constant stop-go motion.
Ivil walked as if she was on earth. Her uniform acted the same way, because it would have embarrassed her if it did not, and it knew better than to act up.
"Captain Circus is the Paradoxical's captain," Snickers said over her shoulder. "She'll know what to do. The Clairvoyant is... she does her own thing. She's a little more independent than most people like."
The fact that a Lunatic seemed to think that someone was too independent wasn't lost on Ivil.
"Oh well. I have all day," Ivil said. She continued to follow an increasingly nervous Snickers through the halls of the ship and through multiple bulkhead doors.
The Paradoxical opened up a few passages in, and Ivil craned her head back to take it in. The ship might have been much smaller than an Imperial Star Dreadnought, but it was still one of the largest vessels created in the last century, and while the Lunatics had turned it into their home, it still had some of its old luxury under the garish paint, banners, and posters.
"I'm looking forward to meeting this Captain Circus of yours," Ivil said.
***
