Montague: Oh sure, it was a fun tug-o’-war Tempest and I were having with Lucy, and hav ing Orson out there running distraction was the boon we were promised. Still, the sequence of events has no doubt garnered attention we weren’t seeking.
The Showman is done up as Joel Miller in perhaps the least effort-intensive, most off-the-rack cosplay ever seen. Across a small, round, candlelit table, Jordana has gone all in on Ellie, including a product to make her hair look greasy, makeup resembling dirt, and strategically distressed clothing. A cosmetically worn backpack and shotgun are stowed under the table.
They’re speaking in hushed voices as one by one, cosplayers cross a runway in front of them. Every now and then, they each scratch their observations onto a notepad.
Jordana: We wanted inexperienced, moldable minds. What’s easier to manipulate than a talented young up-and-comer with mentor fixations?
Montague: We went from one extreme to another. Holden’s mental defenses crumpled like so much paper, and we gained a buffoon useful only in his willingness to abandon sense in pursuit of nebulous gains. But at least he’s somewhat… interesting.
Aloy struts across the stage, looking hungry for the attention of the crowd. She moves expertly in her skins while brandishing a complex bow. Jordana looks only half interested in Montague’s complaining as she admires the design.
Jordana: What’s uninteresting about being both the Cross Hemisphere champion and a Cooperative Champion?
Montague: How about the fact that he’s probably one of the many invalids who find value in being a double champion? Other than that, what does casting Ezra Wade add to the production? Interminable soliloquies strategizing the perfect musical accompaniment and giving the moves of the dance cute, personalized nicknames? It’s not guidance Ezra seeks when he moons up at his patron. Validation is what he’s after. Let the Mothman toss him a few encouraging morsels and he’ll be calling me Uncle Doctor-Professor. He’s far more subtle about it, but he might be even needier than Holden.
His agent turns away from the massive Kratos towering over them to fix Monty with an incredulous stare.
Jordana: Needier than requesting a yaybahar player to help him sleep in the chamber he’s squatting in?
Montague: I’m not getting him that. He can use Tempest’s old zeusaphone.
As a Valor gym trainer poses with a plushie, Jordana rolls her eyes back to the stage.
Jordana: It baffles me that you find nothing redeeming in a huge victory. I get that we don’t want to be motivated by acclaim and prestige, but how can we be expected to be taken seriously if the only proof of concept is dispatching the John Blades of the world?
Montague: As I said, reminding The Omen that we have given her the benefit of respect by challenging her one at a time was refreshing. Also, outshining whoever is languishing in the Cooperative Championship holding pattern is sort of our thing. Proving we can still do that did turn out to be an excellent taste of more fruitful times.
Jordana whirls on him in her seat.
Jordana: There, you see? Now why are you being so petulant about it?
Montague: Because I had exactly twenty four hours to enjoy the unforeseen bonus of the appearance of JC before Daedalus ruined it with his triple threat booking.
They realize too late that their voices are rising too high, and they force themselves to quiet down when they feel the weight of Prince Sidon’s haughty glare.
Jordana: As much as you and Tempest enjoy throwing yourselves against the most unyielding of walls you find, I would have thought you’d be thrilled to find yourself competing against him.
Montague: Him? Yes, of course. JC is at any given moment a worthy performer. In fact, he has everything Ezra doesn’t. Experience, a command of the audience, and even a darkness constantly bubbling just under the surface that can be teased out effortlessly. He’s compelling, and he has little left to prove outside of trying to convince people that he’s really, truly retired when he finally goes. The stage becomes a battlefield when the Bogeyman comes to reap, and I’d be thrilled to stand on the same bloody field with him, opponent or not.
Jordana: The more you go on about him, the less I’m convinced you’re actually put out about the coming Synergy.
Montague sighs, putting his pencil down. He turns fully in his seat to address Jordana directly.
Montague: When I realized Tempest was going to be my most valuable adversary, he and JC were taking turns trading blows to one another’s psyche. Just because he ultimately put an end to Tempest’s prying doesn’t mean Tempest was wrong about him. JC would have made an unforgettable Astrocreep–he still would. Unfortunately, he does fall into the trap of weakening when he shares the spotlight with too many co-stars, and he knows it.
She considers this silently for a bit, absently marking a score for the Queen Marika that, honestly, deserves more attention.
Jordana: He also walks with one Big Boot of Death in each world: outcast and high society. Given his associations and predilections, it’s obvious that he prefers the latter. He’d never stand idly by if another member of the horde started to rise above him.
Montague: Precisely. JC would sooner crush distractions than allow anything to pull focus from his primary target.
Jordana: But, given the gesture he made at the conclusion of the main event, it seems obvious that his primary target is Ezra and the Cross Hemisphere championship.
Having picked up his pencil to continue his duty as a judge, a sharp, but quiet, crack signals that he’s broken it in frustration.
Montague: And that is why I’m frustrated. Instead of a show-stealing showdown between two sentinels of tenebrosity, the Showman is relegated to the spare. I’d prefer a token grudge match against the dullard double champion to playing understudy. That is why I’m dubious about our victory. Nothing memorable came of that victory for the Astrocreeps, other than a tenant we didn’t want. Instead, the interloper and the champion who took the pinfall are the top billed names on the marquee, and I’m just the afterthought Daedalus managed to slot in so that the newly-birthed rivalry of JC and Ezra has some sort of entertainment value for my audience.
Jordana: You’re all being way too hard on Daedalus.
Montague: Are we? This year should be a walk in the park for the Astrocreeps. Instead, our Architect has us jumping through hoops while explaining away his machinations with politics and vague platitudes about rebuilding our influence.
Without realizing it, Montague has risen indignantly to his feet, drawing stares from the other judges. Without looking up–in fact, she’s making a pointed effort to keep her eyes on the Gaunter O’Dimm currently passing before them–she matches his intensity without rising to his volume.
Jordana: Jog my memory, will you? Do you thrive better under adversity, or free meal tickets?
Montague fixes her with a look that says she already knows the answer. When she puts her pencil down and turns to await his answer, the Showman finally realizes he’s making a scene. With an apologetic bow and an oily smile, he sheepishly takes his seat.
Jordana: If anyone can wrestle the spotlight away from a bore and a directionless juggernaut, it’s you. Everyone expects you to be the third wheel because JC stole the spotlight. Steal it back. The more you make the match about you, the less pivotal their squabble becomes. You were in that main event too, and the Astrocreeps served Ezra up to JC on a silver platter. Now he’s going to have to pick up the check, and gratuity is automatic.
Montague: Woah… do not mix my performance metaphors with restaurant metaphors. It will only confuse everyone.
Jordana: Eyeroll.
Montague: No! Now you’re doing it, too!!
A look of panicked embarrassment washess down her face as Montague sighs with exasperation.
A pop and a flash of brilliant white light brings you out of the story and back into the catacomb where the Cryptkeeper was telling you the story. He’s holding a vintage camera at chest height and wears a baseball cap. In his director chair, he gives the toothiest smile possible given the few he has left.
“Oh, sorry about that, kiddies,” he chuckles, as he sets the camera down on the table before him “looks like I caught you… offscarred!”
That same incessant cackle drives a spike down behind your eyes and raises the hair on the back of your neck simultaneously.
“It’s too bad about the double champion, though,” though he feigns lamenting, he’s obviously enjoying the schadenfreude, “sharing a spotlight with superior talent always puts me on… sledge.”
He punctuates his glee by smashing the camera with an actual sledgehammer.
“It just goes to show you; never put all your eggs into one… casket!”
When the Cryptkeeper collapses into hysterics again, you bolt for the entrance.
