The Gamer Chapter 1678 – A Sick Tribe (Patreon)

In the broadest terms, John was familiar with three kinds of native American communities, which then came in two different categories. There were those that held onto their old beliefs, those that partly modernized, and those that were effectively just another ethnic group within the culture they had been absorbed into. Between those there was then the category, or scale, of whether or not these people were still reeling from the trauma of colonialism.

Societies doubtlessly could be traumatized and it did not necessarily take violent conflict for this to happen. Colonialism had been a tad more complicated than ‘Europeans arrived and took over’. There had been plenty of tribes who benefitted from and allied with the white man to crush their opposition. A fascinating topic, but not why John was pondering this at the moment.

A society could be traumatized if they were just so outclassed by their opponent that struggle was meaningless. The new overlord could be completely benevolent, but the raw impact of seeing another society with wholly different customs be so much more successful could still bring a people to the breaking point.

It was a culture-wide shock of not having an answer to the questions ‘what were we doing wrong?’ and ‘could we reform and catch up?’, among many others. A spiritual malaise followed as formerly working spiritual structures were questioned. The proverbial baby got drowned in the bathwater. Widespread depression and cycles of abuse were sure to follow.

John wasn’t sure what to call that phenomenon, although he was certain it had a name among the specialized scientific fields. It affected more than the indigenous people, of course, it was just something he was aware of in their context especially.

The barrier he stepped into was a community steeped in that loss of identity.

It was dirty, that was the first clue that things were wrong. Entire bags of trash littered walkways that no one had bothered to sweep in years. The buildings around were erected in a distinct, Mesoamerican style. Light brown stone buildings with hard angles were put on deliberately shaped mounds. Bases were shored up with light grey stones.

The second sign that things were wrong was the heartlessness of the decorations. The specific icons of this culture had been replicated across even the newer buildings, but there was no soul to any of it. Themes and pictures had just been replicated without any interest in their symbology and select stretches had an almost corporate level of plainness. There was nothing remaining of the living, breathing spirit of the religion that had once inspired these pictures.

The third sign was the sheer amount of aimlessness he saw in the locals. There was laughter, yes, and some people walked with purpose, but most just sat outside their houses, getting drunk during daytime on hard liquor, and trying to forget where and why they were. Where they passed, they were regarded with nihilistic disdain. They weren’t welcome, but they wouldn’t be stopped either.

John scanned the buildings as he passed them. ‘About half of these are empty,’ he noted. ‘Judging by the ruins and streets that lead into nowhere, this was once a village of about 500 people.’

‘This community has been in decline for the better part of 500 years,’ Momo contacted his thoughts. ‘It’s a wonder only half of them left or failed to reproduce enough to keep up the numbers.’

‘Were it not for Abyssal lifespans, I would call it impossible,’ John returned the thought.

‘Most of the creatures here are old,’ Ehtra chimed in.

John sent back agreement. From what he could see, the average age around was 40 to 50 years old. ‘They won’t make it another two generations. Maybe that is why they let us in?’

At the centre of the Illusion Barrier, they spotted an elderly woman that sat cross-legged on a platform. It was a slab of stone, held up above the hole that led down to the cenote by eight wooden sticks. That seemed like it was the original intent, anyway, but the opening of the cenote had been sealed off with a glass pane that had been lazily thrown on top.

If there was any spiritual meaning to this position, it had been given up. It probably survived only due to inertia, like everything about this community, out in the middle of nowhere. A drawback of Abyssal powers was that it made insulating a people a lot easier. When magic provided comfort, there was much less reason to trade. When there was less reason to trade, there was less contact. Stagnation followed, only worsening the cultural depression.

“Another powerful stranger steps before us,” the crone wailed in an effort to sound impressive. Her dirty garbs were entirely tribal. John spotted lighter spots around her arms and neck. She had been wearing some kinds of ornaments around there until very recently. “Sit. Sit before the shaman of the village! It is custom and our customs are why you are h-”

The crone stopped when a wave of pure disdain washed through the centre of the village and went further outwards. Cups shattered somewhere. All kinds of items were dropped. “Ehtra, we’re guests here,” the Gamer warned his companion.

The First of Hatred was tense from soul to sinew. Feathers like blades rustled with every moment that she held herself back from jumping at the woman. “As you say, Master,” she growled, reining in her Contempt Aura until the old woman managed to breathe again.

“Let’s talk privately,” Momo suggested, helping up the coughing crone. “For your sake. Is there a spot where we could do so?”

The old woman pointed them towards a small stone building. It looked older than anything else around. At first, John assumed it was some kind of ancient religious chamber. Entering it revealed it to be just a storage room. There were two chairs around, enough for the old woman and Momo to sit down. John and Ehtra preferred to stand for this.

“She’s steeped in sin!” the grey angel barked the moment they were alone. The grey Astrotium blade appeared in her hand in a moment, causing the old woman to stammer and stutter.

“Can you give her a moment?!” Momo shouted at the dark-skinned Metracana, who slowly raised her weapon.

“How many lives have you ruined, deceitful creature? I can taste the lies in the scent of your unanointed being!”

“I-I-I just did what I had to!” the crone stammered. “Everyone has to make ends meet, I-“

Momo had enough. Pointing at one of the two doors, the chancellor of Fusion declared, “I’m not asking again! Out!”

Ehtra’s eyes widened when the entrance suddenly flew open and a number of impossibly located vines reached into the building. They wrapped around the First of Hatred. One sudden tug, and she was pulled out. It was the surprise that enabled the removal more than anything else. The door slammed back shut with the sound of capricious growling.

‘Fae fuckery,’ John thought.

Momo raised a hand when the old crone continued to pant. “Our companion is of the mind to execute you for your sins, but she won’t harm you if we don’t let her.”

‘Stay out,’ John warned the First of Hatred. He could hear and feel her patrolling outside like an eagle waiting for prey to come out of hiding. ‘We’re going to have words later.’

‘Do not believe a word she says,’ Ehtra hissed back. ‘Her being reeks of opportunism and rot.’

“What did you do?” the Gamer asked. He had to know what was so terrible.

“Nothing!” the crone barked first, then shrunk under the contempt that surrounded the building like a dreadful fog. “I am s-shaman, I just… I told people what they needed to hear for the good of the community!”

‘This is not a community that has someone at the head that says what is good for its members,’ the Gamer thought. He could picture things quite clearly from that statement, combined with what Observe revealed. The current level displayed was 35. The woman was 201 years old, so that level was the product of aging causing decline in power.

What had likely happened was that she had inherited the position of shaman at a time where that already mattered fairly little. The community was already in the process of losing itself in the aftermath of the Mesoamerican realms being entirely absorbed into the Spanish realms on both sides of the magical divide. Where spirituality was only a lip service, being a corrupt priest was easiest. Hollow traditions had been used to keep the community in line, to her benefit. She reigned over a little piece of hell, but she reigned.

Despicable people existed in all times and places.

‘My king, we should-‘

‘I am not your king,’ John rebuked her softly. Usually he did not mind if Metra called him that and he would not mind if Ehtra did either, but this was not a usual moment. ‘And we are not here to enact judgement.’

The intense wave of disagreement was accompanied by compliance. The Contempt Aura died down once more, until the walls were enough to keep it out. The people of the village were starting to come together at the centre, but none dared to approach the pissed off angel standing in front of the door.

“The diplomatic skills of a crowbar,” Momo mumbled and shook her head. “You should do better, but we are not here to demand any of that from you. We would like to learn about the empire that once existed here.”

“The realm of Huitzilopochtli!” the crone immediately declared.

Momo’s eyes sparkled at those words alone. At rapid speed, she pulled out a notebook and a pen. Apparently, she preferred to do this manually. “Yes, Huitzilopochtli, tell me more, tell me more.”

While Momo was hooked, John put up a grim façade. He was annoyed with the crone, just because he disliked people like her, but he wasn’t as pissed as his expression would make it seem. He was just counteracting the immediately engaged archaeologist besides him. Without a counterbalance, the crone might have sold Momo a bridge.

“The greatest of all gods, Huitzilopochtli, was the god of our ancestors! We sacrificed in his name and he gave us the power to win wars and kept the sun lit. He who took the throne of Nanahuatzin when it was vacated because of the purple!”

“Vacated because of the purple…” Momo wrote down. “The purple what?”

“The purple!”

“…The purple…” Momo underlined the word twice. “And your ancestors have lived under this empire?”

“Yes, we were… the outsiders.”

“Outsiders… outside of what?”

The crone’s eyes dashed from Momo to John and back again. “…I tell the people at the edge of his realm but… truthfully, I do not know. We were outside.”

Momo circled the word and added a particularly shaped question mark. Likely a particular habit of hers to remind her what kind of research or question she had in mind when writing it down. “You sat on top of the cenote – why?”

“It is to show that I am closest to Huitzilopochtli in this village.”

“Fascinating… Can you tell me more about that?”

During the hour that followed, Ehtra was allowed back in. The crone spun long and often tall tales about the rituals to the gods. Many of them were the hollow remains of what were once grand ceremonies. At times she confessed to that, at others she insisted they always were that way. Ehtra’s warning presence kept her mostly honest.

At the end, Momo had twenty pages of notes and they had a few more answers. “Oh, I almost forgot to ask!” the fairy maid said. “What is this clan called?”

“We are of the Ichor Rod.”

Momo seemed disappointed at hearing that, but wrote it down nonetheless. She double checked some notes, then asked, “Could we look at your graveyard?”

“It is public…?” The crone seemed confused by the question.

“Just wondering about something. Alright, let me just-“

“Momo, aren’t you forgetting something?” John asked the enthused archaeologist.

“Hm?” It was adorable that she was actually confused by the question. She was so taken by the findings that she forgot one of the reasons why they were even there. It wasn’t until John asked the question that she remembered.

“You were visited by other strangers in the past days, yes?”

“Yes,” the crone answered.

“What did they look like?” John asked.

“Ah… see, they paid for confidential-“

“Liar!” Ehtra interrupted and only the chastisements of the last hour kept her from raising her blade. “If you want to extort us for money, at least be honest about it, deceitful creature! I ought to turn your guts into window-dressing!”

“Yes, pay me!” the crone shouted, throwing her hands up in panic. “That is what I want! Money, items, promises, whatever! I won’t be humiliated and get nothing in return!”

John chewed the inside of his cheek and contemplated. Paying her felt wrong, but he did not want to be the person that did not pay wrongdoers when they actually helped him either. Felt like a ‘two wrongs’ situation.

“I’ll take care of this,” Momo stated confidently and got up.

Interested, John stepped outside and watched as the fairy maid walked to the sealed cenote. She had a skip in her step, the joy of exploration evident in every fibre of her being. It radiated out from her in waves of multi-coloured light. Her fireflies rode on it, leaving streaks behind that looked like falling stars.

Where they landed, the sparks of her magic sprouted into trees. Many trees became one, twisting together into a mighty mangrove that sat on top of the cenote on its mighty roots. Long and wide branches spread out, growing many flowers and kinds of leaves, casting a pleasantly cool shade on this hot day.

Momo stood under these great branches, extended her hand and caught a singular fruit that fell. “A gesture of affection to this proud and ancient community,” she said, offering the fruit to one of the few young children around. “From the fae realm, a gift without strings.”

The child took it, and before anyone could think anything of Momo’s charming smile, bit into it. “Delicious!” the child declared and kept on eating.

For a couple of seconds, Momo seemed mighty pleased with herself. Then she had a sudden moment of awareness. She realized that she was not only the focus of the people all around, she was being actively applauded. Waving awkwardly, she sprinted back to John. “Why did I do that? Oh my, Master, they’re totally cheering for me.” Her voice was high pitched, her words rapid.

“That happens when you sponsor a village an evergreen fruit tree,” John told her and looked up at it. It did not fit into the environment and that was a good thing. It was bright and colourful with its many different flowers and more fruits were already forming in its mighty branches. These people did not suffer from hunger, but perhaps something beautiful would nourish their souls a bit. ‘Not sure if this is going to turn them into fae worshippers instead though…’ he considered, seeing a few shapes move between those branches. “I would say this is reward enough, yes?”

“I-“ The crone gulped and wrung her hands. There was only one right answer she could give. Her hesitation to do so had Ehtra hiss again.

“Just show us your graveyard so I can be out of your sickening presence, hag creature.”

The crone stumbled forwards. The walk was only five steps long. John felt doubly certain that the little storage room actually once had religious importance. He could make out the outlines of a long destroyed wall that had once made that storage room the entrance to the isolated graveyard.

Fascinatingly, the centre, where the oldest graves would have been, was apparently empty. All newer graves were placed outside of it. “Why did you do that?” John asked.

“To stack bodies under the earth is to deny all but the newest access to Huitzilopochtli’s realm,” the crone answered.

It was an answer as good as any other. To the other question he had regarding the cemetery, he already had an answer. Each grave was marked by a wooden stake. According to custom, it was driven into the heart of each deceased. The reason for this was lost. Just another mystery. “The other strangers,” he reminded the crone.

“Right… there were four of them.” That immediately worried John for the Horsemen shaped reasons. “One among them stood out quite a lot. She was a black-haired Asian with blue eyes, armed with two swords. She was clearly hired help.”

‘Kage?’ John thought. ‘Kage only had one sword and she utilized a distortion effect… either she dispensed with that or we have our second Twilight Twin on the field? That’s already making this even more complicated.’ “The other three?”

“They shared a look, somewhat. They were European, kind of tan. All three wore lab coats. The leader of the group looked like a stereotypical mad scientist. Dishevelled white hair, singed eyebrows, lab goggles…”

‘Broken goggles behind many slashes,’ John was reminded of one of Lorelei's visions. More important was who fit that description? John had met more than a few mad scientist types in his day. The Abyss created eccentrics galore. ‘Who would have the money to hire the twin…?’ he asked himself. He knew that Kage had been hired with the liquidated assets of an entire crime empire, plus she had been there for the sword. The twin wouldn’t work for anything less, so… “No,” John whispered. “The man, did he talk to his companions in another language?”

“He did.”

“Which one?”

“I believe it was French?”

The Gamer felt a pit open in his stomach. “Norahnon,” he said, causing Momo to look up from her grave inspection with wide, white eyes.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked.

“Who is Norahnon?” Ehtra investigated. She wasn’t there during the Divided Gates meeting. Granted, even if she had been, one could have forgotten. Norahnon was a side character in John’s life. At least he had been so far.

“The Great Researcher of the Triumvirate,” John answered. “In other words… the Illuminati are here.”

And now this was a five-way struggle.