Genrenauts: Season One

by Michael R. Underwood

  “We disappear now, King will be grumpy. But after debrief, yes. I think that’s a fabulous idea. But first,” Mallery said, leaning forward.

  Time slowed down as the light played across Mallery’s face, on her cheek, her nose, and her lips. Mallery gave Leah a brief peck on the cheek, chaste enough for even a prudish family reunion, but it was for her, Leah, not Mission Leah. And it was the beginning of something.

  Leah exhaled, then shook out the electrifying feeling that was zipping up and down her skin.

  She pulled herself back a half-step and started to disassemble the little room they’d made. “Damn, girl. Those chops with the Romance specialty?” She fanned herself.

  Mallery gave an exaggerated wink. “That’s why I’m the Love Queen.”

  Leah took Mallery’s hand once more. “Love Queen? Oh, I’m using the hell out of that.”

  Mallery squeezed Leah’s hand as they approached the doors leading them back toward the rest of HQ. “You good?”

  “I’m good.”

  And so they returned to the team.

  * * *

  King returned a few minutes later and passed on the bad news—the Council hadn’t bought Leah’s hypothesis.

  “But we’re going to stay on the lookout. We see anyone that might even possibly be that Tall Woman, we move to capture and interrogate. Understood?”

  They all nodded. Leah and Mallery in side-by-side chairs, both sipping at hot chocolate and dipping their toes in the tub Mallery had filled with hot water. Shirin gulped down chai, having turned down the chance to share the tub. Roman was back to his treadmill, warming up in his own way.

  The rest of the debrief passed all too slowly as feeling fully returned to Leah’s feet and giddiness led to stealing short glances sideways at her teammate.

  They weren’t being subtle, but who cared? It’d been quite a while since Leah’d had anyone to be giddy over. The stand-up scene didn’t exactly give her the best dating pool. She’d set herself a rule of no dating fellow comics, which had cut out a pretty big swathe of the people she interacted with outside of work.

  King dismissed them, heading off to write another report.

  Note to self, she thought. Turn down offers to be a team lead. Too much paperwork.

  Shirin set her tea down and said, “So, Leah, tell us your part of what happened in the chase.” It was a good idea—collate all the information they had. But she hadn’t asked it like that. She’d asked it like she wanted to hear a story.

  Roman had returned to his jogging, but his earbuds were out—he was listening too.

  Leah sat up and put her chocolate aside, rising to the challenge. “So, we knock on the chef’s door, while outside the storm was raging…snowing like I’m back in Minnesota snowing-snowing.” The women leaned in, intent.

  She played out the story, summoning every detail she could remember, editorializing along the way, basking in the attention.

  Somewhere along the line, she’d become part of the team, like really a part. Not just the mascot or the probationary screw-up. But one of the Genrenauts.

  Leah smiled, and continued the story.

  END EPISODE FOUR

  Episode Five:

  The Failed Fellowship (Part One)

  The Shadow of the Night-Lord

  Prologue: No, Seriously, Read The Prologue This Time

  Fantasy World—Heroic Region

  Narrative Diagnostic 4071.514.3

  Dark Lord Rises…Yes

  Chosen One Raised In Secret…Yes

  Heroic Fellowship Assembled…Yes

  Chosen One Wields Magic Artifact…Yes

  From In-World Surveillance:

  Theyn Lighthall held the Sun-sword aloft, catching the weak rays of the spell-shrouded sun in its crystalline facets. The blade drank in the power of light, refreshing its arcane power.

  He swung at a unit of skeletons armored in darkened steel. The light shattered steel and bone alike. But then the purple smoke of the Night-Lord’s necromancy flowed out and found three lifeless bodies of Fallran soldiers. The smoke seeped into noses and mouths, and then the bodies began to twitch, rising to un-life.

  “Forward!” he shouted. Around them, armies raged, trebuchet and catapults spitting death up and down the walls of Ran-var Castle. The free people of Fallran fought for their beloved kingdom, but the Night-Lord’s forces were buoyed by dark magics. Ran-var, the shining jewel of Fallran, had withstood sieges for a thousand years, only falling to an invader once. The same invader that now turned its might against Theyn and the forces of light.

  It was up to Theyn and his companions to breach the walls and cast down the Night-Lord.

  Standing atop the battlements, threescore and ten skeleton warriors yet stood between Theyn and the inner sanctum.

  To his right: Ioseph Bluethorn scattered the warriors with arcane winds, beard and robes flowing, the azure gem atop his staff glowing with starlight.

  And to his left: Nolan Sanz, the greatest swordsman Fallran had ever seen. His longsword cleaved through the crowd like a scythe back home cutting wheat.

  Theyn checked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Alaria Vendar. The thief dodged and weaved through the melee, cudgel cracking bones and smashing skulls, each stroke a masterpiece. She was a moving poem, as beautiful as she was dangerous.

  A roar filled Theyn’s ears, and not a moment later, Xan’De crashed through the skeleton ranks with his rune-blessed axe. The bells in the foreigner’s mane sang as he hewed the spell-animated army with swings that could fell a tree, punching and grappling with his other two arms.

  Theyn charged forward into Xan’De’s wake. He led with his shield. It was proofed against dark magics but not enough to break the animation spell with a simple touch. Still, it was enough to shove back or decapitate the undead legions as the heroes carved out a path forward.

  Theyn cut them down and more rose to take their place. The herd was thinning, but the creatures continued crashing in on him like waves on the shore of his village.

  Alaria burst through the ranks and joined him. They caught up to Xan’De, and together, the three broke the skeletons’ formation and reached the entrance to the tower.

  Hundreds of feet above, dark clouds shot through with purple lightning surrounded the tower spire. The Night-Lord awaited.

  Ioseph stayed behind to hold the hordes back from the tower.

  They climbed ten flights to a landing that should not be there. Another of the Night-Lord’s spells.

  The floor was filled by five giants, each wielding a club larger than Xan’De.

  The four remaining heroes fought as one, cutting the giants’ hamstrings and dodging their mighty clubs. Xan’De bisected the last giant’s eye with his axe but fell poorly, and his leg was crushed beneath the giant’s head.

  “Go on, my friends. The Fenxi will restore my leg in time. Bring me the Night-Lord’s head!”

  And so they pressed on, ever upward.

  Twice more, they came to chokepoints, and twice more, Theyn’s companions stepped forward to intercept the Night-Lord’s forces so that the others could press on.

  So it was that Theyn was alone when he reached the top of the tower, Sun-sword in hand, blessed with purpose and the hope of the land.

  He kicked the door open, revealing a small room lit only by witch-fire in shades of purple. At the center of the room stood the Hopestone, the greatest artifact in Fallran, which the rightful kings had used to protect the land and maintain balance.

  The same stone which had been stained dark, now used to animate the countless undead creatures that held the nation in their grasp.

  The Night-Lord stood on the balcony, hands raised, tenebrous energy flowing between him and the corrupted gem.

  “The time has come, Night-Lord! Your reign of darkness is at an end!”

  The Night-Lord turned, face masked by hooded robes. He extended a pale and wart-laden hand.

  His voice was raspy. “At last, the Sun-sword. Surrender the blade a
nd I will let your companions live. Fallran will thrive under my power. It is my destiny to rule, and no deluded hero shall stand in my way, sword or no.”

  Theyn pointed the sword at the Night-Lord, gathering the power to strike the tyrant down and end the war.

  “Fallran will never choose you, Night-Lord. This ends now.”

  “How right you are,” the Night-Lord said.

  And then, without warning, a blade slid into Theyn’s back.

  Panic and confusion crossed Theyn’s face as he crumpled to the floor.

  He’d come so far, done everything right. He was The Chosen One. He bore the Sun-sword, forged from the same crystal as the Hopestone itself.

  His mind drifted to that night of the new moon, when Ioseph had read him the prophecy, said that he, Theyn, had a special fate. An ancient prophecy said that he was destined to save Fallran from darkness.

  Theyn tried to turn, to face the being or construct that he had not seen, that had clutched victory from his grasp and dashed hope upon the rocks to be shattered and washed away with the bloody tide.

  He reached forward, trying in his last moments to fulfill his destiny, to make Ioseph and the others proud.

  But instead, he collapsed.

  The sword clattered to the ground, and he drowned in eternal darkness.

  Dark Lord Defeated…No

  Summon New Chosen One?

  From the files of Angstrom King

  Charlie Team—Mid-Atlantic

  Recruitment records—Candidate—Leah King

  Recorded at Comedy Corner in Baltimore, MD

  Leah Tang:

  My fantasy is discovery. New races, new kingdoms, new magics. I loved that when I opened a fantasy book or found a new author, I knew I was in for a tour through someone’s imagination.

  But as I grew up, I realized something that was incredibly rare in fantasy: people that looked like me.

  In most fantasies, an Asian girl like me only shows up as a topless witch in need of rescue or killing, with snakes crawling over her boobs. And that is just not my scene.

  My fantasy is less about the whips and the PVC, more about self-actualization and hope. And you know what? That’s just as sexy to me.

  In my fantasy, Asian girls can do anything we want. We can be fighters, wizards, and rogues. We can save the day and fall in love with the person we want, not be depowered or married off as a prize for the square-jawed hero.

  When I was a kid, I read so much fantasy that I was convinced I was the Chosen One. My parents yelled at me for introducing my friends as my Sidekick or my Nemesis. Because heroes in fantasy can do it all—they learn magic, pick up languages in a montage, and become master swordsmen in a month on the road headed from their village to the Dark Lord’s tower, winning the heart of the elven princess, and besting the champion swordsman from the pointy-hat-wearing pseudo-French kingdom along the way.

  So, when I was eight, confident that I was the Chosen One, I decided to begin my heroic skills acquisition. I spent six months awaiting my parents’ tragic death with Wednesday Addams-level fascination.

  Thankfully, they lived, and I forged on un-orphaned. First, I tried to become a master alchemist. My parents bought me a My Little Scientist kit, but even after eight weeks, all I could do was almost blow up our garage. My older brother’s bike is still stained mad-scientist red, more than fifteen years later. Whatever; it’s not like he was using those eyebrows.

  So, I gave up on alchemy and focused on riding-every good fantasy hero can ride, right? Except it wasn’t fourteenth-century England, and I wasn’t royalty, and my parents unsurprisingly did not accept my argument, in a bad British accent, that if they didn’t max out their credit cards on horse-related expenses, that an evil wizard would rule the world.

  And that’s when I knew. Sword fighting. Every good Chosen One knows their way around a sword. So, I guilted my parents into enrolling me in a fencing class, and I tell you what. You have never seen someone happier than ten-year-old me running around with a kid-sized epee pretending to be Aragorn or Inigo Montoya.

  I practiced and practiced—stayed with it way longer than anything else. Even got into some tournaments. I got all the way to the finals in my division.

  And you know what happened?

  What happened is I got my ass handed to me six ways from Sunday by a kid from Iowa that had been fencing since he was four.

  I was fuming after the bout. But my parents made me go congratulate him. He introduced me to his parents, and guess what? They were farmers. And the kid? Adopted.

  You never choose to be the Chosen One. You just are.

  And you know what? That kid sent me a friend request two weeks ago. He’s headed to the Olympics.

  But even though I never won a tournament, I found something I loved even though it was hard, even though I would never be the best. Those stories made me believe in myself. That’s what fantasy means to me.

  But I tell you what—if you come across a farm boy and an old wizard, shiv them, take their horses, and go make your own destiny.

  Chapter One: The Best Kind of Training

  To qualify as a full-fledged Genrenaut, Leah Tang had to pass competency tests in a dozen disciplines. Every week, she took a new exam, and when the results came in, King adjusted her training. He’d assign yet another ridiculous or seemingly impossible task, from plotting out how to create three romantic meet-cutes in a small suburb on a fifty-dollar budget to tracing the narrative evolution of Hurt/comfort fic from its origins as Get’em fic in Star Trek fanfiction into its many permutations in twenty-first-century fandom.

  King wore the mantle of professor well, but there was a reason Leah’d left academia—there was only so much info cramming she could take in any one day. Or week, really.

  But then, sometimes, there were days like today.

  Today’s skill was fencing.

  King and Mallery met Leah in the training room, which had guns of all genres and time periods on one side, complete with shooting lanes and Danger Room-like obstacle courses.

  The other wall held an armory that could outfit twenty warriors from around the world and send them into war. Norman chain shirts, Italian plate, Mesoamerican hide armor, Japanese O-yoroi, shields from all over, and swords.

  So many swords.

  Leah honed in on a schiavona, polished basket hilt catching the institutional lights of the room. It practically begged to be used in daylight.

  “So, which of these do I get to play with today?” she asked.

  “Whichever one you like,” King said. “You’ve tested into the highest level of proficiency for the Fantasy genre, and your profile shows you’re quite experienced in swordplay. Let’s see it.” He pulled down a feder sword, a practice longsword.

  As far as Leah could tell, about half of the weapons on the sword wall were live weapons with real edges, the others training gear.

  She left the schiavona and grabbed another feder. Taking a cut-and-thrust sword against a taller opponent using a longsword was not her idea of a good time.

  “Is that your best weapon?” King asked.

  “If you’re using a longsword, it is.” Leah swung her blade to get a sense of its heft. In her hands, the hilt was long, good for the push-and-pull that made longswords the terror they were.

  Dungeons & Dragons got longswords all wrong. They painted the image of a weapon weighing over five pounds and yet meant to be used one-handed, with a short sword or shield in the other. Real longswords were efficient workhorse weapons that weighed three or four pounds at most and were best used in two hands.

  King put the longsword back. “If you’re going to the Fantasy World, what weapon do you bring?”

  “Aside from a Wand of Plot Convenience?”

  Mallery jumped in. “Stepping into most spellcasting roles in Fantasy World takes about a year of training in theory here, and then another year worth of field time to get really comfortable. I’m rated in Cleric and Bard, but I don’t even touch Wizard. Shirin�
�s got that one covered quite nicely, and I prefer tabards to cloaks. Better draping.”

  So this wasn’t about matching styles, this was “show me what you’ve got.” Leah considered the wall and traded the longsword for an espada ropera, a blade good for cut-and-thrust. Her fencing club was hardcore into longsword, but she’d always preferred the Iberian styles. She drew the weapon and saluted. King nodded and matched her with a Pappenheimer-hilt rapier. His blade had more hand protection; hers had a thicker blade. It’d make for an interesting fight.

  They donned vests and masks, and squared off. Mallery watched from the side with a cup of tea. Leah tried to avoid catching Mallery’s eyes. Less because she didn’t want to look at the comedienne, more because she didn’t want to be distracted.

  Leah and Mallery had gone out for dinner after their last mission. Then again during their comp time, and twice a week since then. That plus moments stolen in hallways and when no one else was around, it was getting pretty…something. Not serious. Serious was when work came hammering down on them. It was fun. They were having fun.

  But just right then, Leah needed to focus. She took her stance, angled halfway between profile and squared-off. King matched her with a more back-weighted stance. Italian style—not surprising. It was calculating and dominated by setting traps. But she had gravity on her side, since her guard started higher than his.

  She advanced, covering his weapon and feeling for his response. He disengaged and threatened her face. Leah cut into his blade and exploded forward at an angle. The blades covered her advance, and her point struck the big man inside the shoulder.

  King pulled back and saluted.

  The mask couldn’t hide Leah’s grin. After months of floundering as the newbie, they were finally back in her wheelhouse. She’d given up on swords for a while after that ill-fated tournament as a kid, but come college, it was her escape from the incestuous world of the improv comedy. And now that she was a Genrenaut nearly 24/7, fencing was the one hobby she had left.