The Game Called Revolution by - (room on the broom read aloud .txt) 📖

glass bulbs in the chandeliers. Farahilde noticed this. “Electricity?”

“Must be,” Jeanne said. “Come on—see those doors at the far end of the room? Those lead directly to the central tower.” They began walking towards the doors. With all the chairs stacked up along the walls, they had a clear path.

Clear, but not quiet. A familiar voice unexpectedly called out to them. “That they do. But you won’t be walking through them.” Up ahead on the right, from behind one of the ball room’s two dozen marble columns emerged the man they had come here to stop.

However, it was the two women who stopped. “Robespierre!” Jeanne yelled. “You saved us the trouble of finding you.”

Farahilde pointed at the figure in front of them. “That’s him?”

“Yes.”

He held his hands behind his back in a diplomatic stance. “Hmph. I never expected you to return here, Jeanne de Fleur. But once your airship went down, I knew you would have to come through this room to get to the central tower.

“Allow me to get to the point: There’s no way for you to safely shut down the tower without knowing exactly how it works. If you tried it, the result would likely devastate Paris. So instead, why don’t you join me in ushering in a new age for France?”

“Please,” she said dismissively, “Spare me this speech; I’ve heard it before. Besides, after all you’ve done to us, it should come as no surprise to you that we are at this point beyond reason. Our only objective is stopping you, and the most convincing argument in the world isn’t going to change our minds.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed. “So be it, then. We’ll just have to kill you and escort France into the future without you.”

“Who’s—”

Jeanne was about to say Who’s ‘we’? when Farahilde interrupted her. “Arschloch! You murdered meine schwester!” Without any further warning she charged towards Robespierre, her bladed gauntlet pointing right at him.

However, when she reached the column in front of him, there was a silver and black blur almost too fast for Jeanne’s eyes to follow. Farahilde just managed to jump back in time to avoid being cloven by the downward swing of a large scythe.

Jeanne was shocked by how fast it happened. “What was that?”

A figure in a black dress stepped forward from behind the column in front of Robespierre. It was a blond woman with symmetrical pigtails who wore a bizarre white mask with a creepy smiley face painted in red.

“You missed, Marie,” Robespierre said, sounding almost bored.

The strange woman said nothing. She simply grabbed the black handle of her scythe, and with an effort picked it up, removing the curved blade from the jagged hole in the floor it had caused. Once it was free, though, she hefted the six-foot weapon like it was nothing.

“Who are you? Get out of meine way!”

“Be careful, Farahilde. Whoever she is, she’s no ordinary woman,” Jeanne warned.

“You’re right about that,” Robespierre said, his face lit up by his smirk. “My dear Madame Tussaud has much experience ending lives with her scythe. You’d be surprised at the kind of talent going to waste in prisons everywhere. I dare say Marie is a match for even you, Jeanne de Fleur. However, it looks like she already has a plaything,” he said, indicating Farahilde. “Don’t worry, though; I have an opponent for you.”

From behind the column opposite Madame Tussaud on the other side of the room emerged another familiar figure, drawing his saber. However, this one didn’t surprise Jeanne. “I remember you. You fought with my brother at the battle of Mt. Erfunden…before you betrayed him—Napoléon Bonaparte!”

Napoléon stood there with a nonchalant air about him. “You are correct on both counts, Mademoiselle de Fleur. I fought alongside your brother until it no longer suited me, and then I ended our temporary alliance.”

“‘Temporary alliance’? You scum! Does honor and loyalty mean nothing to you?”

“And whom,” he asked condescendingly, “should I be loyal to? A man I barely knew for a day, or the rightful ruler of France? Should I have fought a losing battle for the sake of your naïve sense of honor?”

Robespierre was clearly getting impatient with this discussion. “Enough talk. Marie, Napoléon—kill them.”

But at that moment something unexpected happened. While Tussaud readied her scythe, Napoléon casually returned his saber to its scabbard and began walking towards the doors at the other end of the room which led to the rest of the palace.

“Napoléon! What are you doing?” Robespierre said, incredulous.

“You didn’t give me a chance to answer Mademoiselle de Fleur’s question.” His eyes met Jeanne’s. “I am loyal to myself.”

She was dumbfounded. “You’re not going to fight me?”

He walked past her towards the door. “Weren’t you listening when I turned against your brother? I see which way the winds blow, and I ride the currents to my ultimate destination.”

“Which is?” she asked him.

He stopped, turned his head, and gave her an almost imperceptible grin. “Emperor,” he said emphatically. “If you kill Robespierre, I can step in and become the greatest ruler this country has ever seen.” He continued towards the door.

Jeanne, however, was conflicted. It would be advantageous if she got through this without having to fight him. But… “You betrayed my brother. For all I know, you’re the one who killed him!”

He replied smugly, “You are, of course, free to come at me. But do you really have the time?”

He was right; Jeanne didn’t have the time to waste on him. “Go, then. But you’d better hope we never meet again, Monsieur Bonaparte.”

Napoléon left without another word. As he walked through the doors behind Jeanne, Robespierre cursed him. “Bonaparte, you turncoat! When this is all over, you’re going to wish for exile when I have you flayed alive!”

Unwilling to waste any more time listening to Robespierre’s ranting, Jeanne removed her rapier and charged at him. Madame Tussaud tried to intercept her with a swing of her scythe, but Farahilde stepped in to catch its handle between the blades of her gauntlet.

Robespierre chose that moment to run away into the central tower. Struggling to hold back Tussaud, Farahilde yelled to Jeanne, “Go, fräulein! You’ve got to stop him. Don’t let him destroy meine homeland!”

“But—”

“Just go! I’ll deal with this one. Just make sure you leave a few breaths in Robespierre for me to extinguish.”

“All right. No promises, though.”

10

 

 

 

 

Jeanne ran through the doors and entered the central tower. The whole thing seemed to be one circular room hundreds of feet in diameter and hundreds of feet high. Varied machinery filled the room haphazardly, and thick cables ran the length of the floor in every direction; clearly aesthetics had not been a priority for this area. There weren’t any windows in the tower, either. But like the ballroom, it was lit by glass bulbs along the wall.

In the center of the room, and taking up most of the floor, was some sort of bulky metal cylinder rising up about thirty feet. A set of curving stairs led up to the top of the cylinder.

Robespierre stood on top of the cylinder. “Bonaparte’s betrayal won’t save you, de Fleur! Come up here if you dare; this tower will be your mausoleum.” Dozens of metal rods extended from the top of the cylinder to the open roof of the tower, where they supported a massive iron dish which was pointed north. Each rod was frothing with blue energy, and Robespierre gestured to them. “It won’t be much longer now. I estimate that you only have about ten minutes before this tower reaches the maximum voltage needed to wipe out Vienna.”

Jeanne, however, didn’t need any more reason to charge up the stairs after him—she was already doing it. When she reached the top of the cylinder, she got a clearer view of it. It had a level floor, except for what looked like a small pool in the center which was filled with a red liquid. Robespierre was standing mere feet in front of her. “What on earth is that?”

“Why, it’s the power source for all of this,” Robespierre said.

“Power source?”

He nodded proudly. “Yes. Perhaps you remember your encounter with the Count of Saint-Germaine?”

“So, you admit you were the one who sent him after the royal family.”

“It’s a little late to be debating guilt now. Surely the Count showed you his special ‘talent.’”

“Unfortunately. He used his blood to fuel his alchemy. Wait—you don’t mean…!”

Robespierre’s smile could have powered the tower by itself. “That’s right: blood! My ‘Reign of Terror’ wasn’t just to get rid of my enemies. It was also used to secure the life essence needed to realize my dreams. Airships, steam carriages, propellant, electrical towers; at our current level of technology, none of these can possibly exist without the alchemic techniques devised by the Count. The blood of my enemies runs underneath our feet, powering this tower.” His smile abruptly twisted sadistically. “Even your brother’s blood is in here.”

“You monster!” Jeanne roared. She lunged at him with her rapier. He pulled out his own rapier and parried her attack. They performed a swift exchange of attacks with neither of them getting the immediate upper hand. Jeanne was surprised by his skill.

“You probably thought that as a politician, I’d be easy prey for you without anyone to defend me,” he said. “But I have trained extensively to fight my own battles, should the need arise.

“You probably still think you’re more than a match for me with your irodium armor. That’s where you’re wrong.” He suddenly began grunting, his face turning red; it looked as if he struggling with some invisible foe.

Jeanne watched in horror as his clothing began to ripple, appearing almost liquid. Within moments it turned a dark gray and solidified into a solid once again. However, this time it was not simple fabric, but some sort of metal armor. Furthermore, it covered every inch of his body. She was fairly certain she knew what it meant. “You learned alchemy from the Count!”

He laughed from beneath the demonic horned mask that now covered his head. Even his voice sounded as if it was being projected by the devil himself. “Not just learned—improved! The Count emphasized style over substance. He wanted to terrify his victims, going so far as to use his own blood to turn himself into a monster. But I prefer functionality, which can be achieved without replacing my life essence with a cheap substitute.”

“You think you’re not a monster?” Jeanne said with absolute contempt. “Monsters are created through actions, and you’ve committed the most monstrous acts I’ve ever seen. But no more; I’m putting an end to you today!”

Robespierre laughed some more. “Then come at me, woman…if you think you can!”

 

***

 

In the middle of the ball room, Farahilde just barely managed to avoid Tussaud’s scythe swings. The blonde woman was much stronger and faster than she looked, coming at Farahilde with a ferocious barrage of attacks. Furthermore, she seamlessly transitioned from a vertical swing to a horizontal one to a diagonal one, and every combination in between. It was as if her large weapon was as light as a dream feather.

Farahilde might have been able to deal with that if it weren’t for the scythe’s tremendous range. Trying to get in close was almost suicide with her small bladed gauntlet. To think that Farahilde had bragged to Jeanne about the advantage its short length back in the dungeon under her fort. It has certainly come back to bite me in meine ass. If Fräulein could see me now, she’d probably laugh. I