Three Square Meals

John flailed in the darkness, his stomach turning as he fell through the gloom. Suddenly he was gazing up at a brilliant blue sky, fluffy white clouds scudding past as he plunged towards the ground. Twisting frantically, he looked over his shoulder and gasped as he saw a building rapidly fill his field of vision. He hit the terracotta roof with a mighty thump, then crashed to the floor in a pile of broken beams, shattered tiles, and a billowing cloud of dust.

Groaning at the burst of agony that coursed through his body, John flopped over onto his back, panting for breath as he fought to stay conscious. He tapped into his psychic power reserves and poured healing energies into his battered body, feeling a soothing wave wash away the pain. Coughing as he staggered to his feet, John tried to get his bearings... and was shocked to find himself standing on the familiar training mats in the very first Dojo he ever attended, near his grandparents' home on Terra.

The dragon-embossed front doors burst open, slamming into the walls with an almighty boom. That mocking laughter reached John's ears again and his guide floated inside the sundered portal, appearing through swirls of dust.

"How fitting... the place where it all began," the guide declared, sneering at him in contempt. "The place where you betrayed me all those years ago."

"Me betray you?" John spat on the floor to get rid of the acrid taste in his mouth. "You're out of your goddamn mind."

"What else would you call that act of foulest treachery?!" the guide snarled, bristling with furious indignation. "You were being an obstinate fool, rebelling against the simplest instructions, when all I was trying to do was help you reach your full potential... then you had the gall to imprison me!"

John kept a wary eye on his adversary, a hexagonal shield popping into existence around him. "I sealed you away for a very good reason."

"Yet despite all your high-minded protestations, you're pursuing exactly the same objectives as me! We could've slain dozens of Progenitors by now if you'd done what I told you... but no... instead you've been fumbling around like a hapless imbecile!"

The guide punctuated his furious statement with a sharp gesture, sending a grey telekinetic lance screeching across the Dojo. The deadly projectile smashed into John's psychic barrier, cracking a dozen hexagons and sending him stumbling backwards.

"You're cruel and manipulative... you don't care who you have to abuse to achieve your goals," John declared, his eyes narrowing in defiance. "I'm nothing like you... I never was!"

He glanced at his right hand and focused on summoning Kyth'vindathys into existence, eager to settle this confrontation with the lethal runeblade. To his shock, nothing happened... and he was left staring in helpless frustration at his empty hand. He created his own psychic lance and hurled it back at his opponent, but the guide just smirked at him as the telekinetic javelin was harmlessly deflected by glowing grey hexagons.

"Nothing like you?" The guide snorted with derision. "Of course, how could I forget? You're the valiant upstanding hero and I'm the 'bad Progenitor guide' who's to blame for all your woes. You wouldn't dream of doing anything morally dubious to get what you wanted... "

John frowned at the unspoken accusation in his adversary's tone. "What? I wouldn't!"

The guide gave him a knowing look, his lip curling up into a malevolent smile. Before John could say anything else, the guide made a tearing gesture and the Dojo ripped apart, floorboards snapping and splintering as a huge crevasse yawned open beneath them. John tried to leap aside, but couldn't move fast enough before the floor collapsed...

... and he landed with a thump in a gloomy cargo bay.

Jeers and taunts filled his ears, rough voices hurling abuse at him and making lewd remarks. Looking up, he could see dozens of pirates lining the gantries high above his head, the rough bunch of cutthroats cackling with malevolent glee. John heard a terrified whimper off to his side and saw a slender brunette using a short metal pole as a makeshift spear to keep her attacker at bay.

"So how do you justify what you did to your beloved thralls," the guide asked, his voice dripping with scorn as he drew closer. "You enslaved them, made them adore you, then used them as tools for your own selfish purposes."

"That's not true!" John snarled defiantly, leaping to his feet to stand protectively in front of Calara. "I was just trying to help them!"

"Help them?" the guide doubled over with genuine laughter, his shoulders shaking with mirth. "You helped yourself!"

John narrowed his eyes as he glared at his alter-ego, drawing eldritch energy into his hand to create another psychic lance. Before he could launch it, a giant telekinetic fist struck from his right flank, backhanding John and sending him cartwheeling through the air. He was thrown into the cargo bay wall, the metal plates buckling with a tortured squeal as he smashed straight through...

...and tumbled across the floor of a grubby docking bay.

Musty air filled John's lungs as he gasped for breath, the stale atmosphere reeking of dust and sweat. He recognised the starport on Karron immediately, the Invictus' grey titanium plating looming over him on his left. The sound of gunfire ripped through the air, followed by the thump of bullets thumping into the cargo containers on his right. He looked up from the dirty floor and saw a spiky-haired waif cowering behind cover, a look of terror on Sparks' pale face.

"Ah, another helpless damsel in distress waiting to be rescued by Saint John the Benevolent," the guide declared, his sarcasm echoing across the docking bay.

A rolling wave of force thundered out of the gloom and smashed into a stack of crates, blasting them apart in a shower of razor sharp ore chunks. Sparks screamed and ducked down lower, the container she was hiding behind battered by the storm of debris.

"Leave her alone!" John roared, rushing out of cover to defend the terrified teenager. Bullets whizzed past him or bounced off his hex shield, but he couldn't see his opponent hiding in the dark recesses of the Docking Bay. He glanced down at the waif's ghostly-pale face, her features horribly disfigured by hideous scars. "Stay down, Sparks... I'll protect you."

"Our valiant hero rescues the fair maiden," the guide sneered. "And she'll be so very appreciative to her handsome saviour, never realising that she's been snared by a cunning predator. A few moments of pleasure in exchange for a lifetime of servitude... hardly a fair trade."

"Bullshit! You're twisting everything!" John yelled into the darkness. "I was just trying to heal her... I never knew there were any side-effects to the Change!"

"Do you want to know the ugly truth behind your 'wounded little birds'?" The guide asked, his voice turning harsh and judgemental. "You preyed on pitiful loners and outcasts... the psychologically scarred and physically abused... because you knew no one would miss them when you turned them into your adoring thralls."

John hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty causing him to pause. He wanted to furiously deny everything the guide was telling him, but he'd been battling with guilt over recruiting the girls for months. The guide's accusations struck at the heart of those insecurities, undermining all the rationalisations he'd used to justify his actions, and caused John to doubt his own motives.

He spotted movement at the back of the docking bay behind the Diablos gangers, his adversary slowly emerging from the shadows. The guide was studying him intently, as if searching for any vulnerabilities.

"This is just a trick! You're lying!" John snarled, sending a telekinetic lance shrieking towards his foe.

"Am I? So why the guilty conscience?" the guide replied, effortlessly batting aside the projectile with a wall of force. He stalked towards John, hurling one grey missile after another. "You're so afraid of using your Progenitor abilities that you enslaved your thralls to do it all for you!"

The psychic lances slammed into John's shield, shattering hexagons and knocking him backwards with each impact. The protective sphere rotated rapidly, preventing any of the telekinetic attacks from piercing the barrier, but John had to work at a frantic pace to repair all the damage. As he fended off the assault, he saw the glowing grey fist winding up another punch and summoned a wall of force to block it.

Countering the attack distracted John from his surroundings as he took a step back into the Invictus' Cargo Bay. Instead of feeling cold titanium deck plates beneath his bare feet, he fell backwards off the platform, the assault cruiser vanishing into thin air. Toppling into the rough-hewn rocky passageway of the docking tunnel, he was swallowed up by blackness...

...before landing with a thump on a tiled floor.

Fires flickered around him, but instead of burning with an orange glow, the flames danced with a sinister fel-green light. John stumbled to his feet in the battle-ravaged office, the charred corpses of Terran Federation troops lying all around him. It had been six months since he saw this ghastly massacre, but he'd never forgotten the sights and sounds that assailed his senses once again. The soldiers had been slaughtered in a valiant last stand, trying to defend the space station from a boarding action by Kintark marines.

The change in location came as a surprise. John instinctively realised that his guide was trying to keep him disorientated by rapidly switching their battlefield, but he was now standing in Port Medea, where they had rescued Rachel from a Kintark invasion. If the guide was taunting him over recruiting each of the girls, the next location should have been the heavy cruiser Stalingrad, where they'd liberated Jade from slavery.

As he was pondering that inconsistency, John hesitated, wondering if he was trying to find patterns where none existed. After all, they had skipped right past his first recruit, the emaciated blonde orphan that had become his beautiful matriarch. He grimaced, realising that trying to make sense of the guide's insanity was a hopeless endeavour.

The sound of a heavy thump reached his ears, just as it had back on the doomed space station all those months ago. With no signs of life around him, John set off towards the dull thuds, knowing that was where he would find his guide. Activating psychic speed, he sprinted along the corridors, dodging past incinerated corpses and burning plasma fires.

It didn't take long to reach the besieged bunker, a distinctive grey glow emanating from the upper level where the booming collisions originated. Staring at the platform above, John found himself in a quandary. In the real Port Medea, he'd used his Phalanx suit's magnetic boots to walk up the walls and catch the Kintark by surprise, but this time he was only wearing a pair of sweatpants. He focused on garbing himself in a Paragon suit, but just like when he'd tried to summon his runesword, nothing happened. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he looked around for another way to reach the top.

A terrified scream reached his ears and John reacted without thinking, creating a glowing telekinetic disc under his feet and launching it towards the ceiling. He leapt off when he reached the upper level and found the guide leaning indolently against the far wall, watching a disembodied fist repeatedly battering a severely buckled door. Through a rent in the metal, he could see Rachel's frightened face as the brunette huddled in the bunker.

The guide glanced at John with a look of utter disdain. "Here he comes, just in time to ensnare another lost soul."

John lashed out with an arc of force, the razor-sharp edge scything through the floating fist and vaporising it in an instant. "Leave the girls out of it. This fight is between you and me!"

Rolling his eyes, the guide snorted. "Of course, how could I forget how much you 'love' your precious girls... and how touchy you get when anybody threatens them. After all, no one else is allowed to abuse them... you reserve that right for yourself."

"I don't abuse them!" John exclaimed indignantly, clenching his fists.

"Really?" the guide asked with mock surprise. "Isn't it true that you've massively modified their bodies and personalities to fit your own selfish desires? You described your perfect woman to them in meticulous detail, then lo and behold... you now have a crew full of thralls fitting that template. You eliminated any trace of jealousy in them because you had no intention of listening to their petty bickering. Then you paired your thralls off, so you could fawn over your latest broken toy, and not feel guilty about neglecting the others when the novelty wore off."

"That's... not what happened..." John replied, sounding more uncertain.

"Because your pets convinced you otherwise?" Shaking his head, the guide shot John a look filled with disgust. "You created a band of sycophants that eagerly condone your every action, then believe them when they tell you exactly what you want to hear. It would be embarrassing if it wasn't so pathetic!"

John remembered the sincere arguments the girls had made to reassure him, but he'd also had deep concerns about how objective their opinions truly were. Movement caught his eye and he saw that the guide had created a score of telekinetic darts, which bobbed menacingly over his adversary's shoulders. They accelerated towards him and he braced himself to repair his psychic shield, the barrier rotating rapidly to spread out the impacts. At the last moment, all twenty darts plunged downwards, punching through the ferrocrete platform in a shower of stone chips.

The ledge John was standing on broke away, tipping him backwards yet again. He knew what was coming this time, the fall heralding yet another shift in reality, and he wasn't to be disappointed. As the crumbling platform collapsed, he was engulfed in darkness...

... and dropped into a rocky crevasse.

All around him was a cheery glow, a pleasant heat warming his body as he fell. A quick glance over his shoulder made John gasp in shock, instantly dispelling his favourable impressions of this deadly new location. Below him was a river of molten lava, the liquid rock bubbling and churning at an infernal temperature.

With only seconds to act, John gestured frantically, creating a glowing telekinetic ramp that arced around towards one of the galleries lining the chasm. He slid down the slope and away to safety, a hastily summoned telekinetic net catching him when he reached the end of the slide and saving him from being hurled into the wall. He landed gracefully and felt a flicker of pride at managing to deftly avert disaster.

Slow clapping ruined his momentary celebration as the guide stepped out of a room chiselled from the rock. "That was truly impressive... I'm awed by your psychic mastery."

John bristled at the biting sarcasm. "So what have you brought me here for? To relive you torturing the Glowing Queen to death?"

Before the guide could respond, John launched himself at his foe, sheathing his hands in glowing gauntlets. There was a flash of brilliant light as he landed a massive blow on his enemy's grey shield, runes flaring on the back of his right fist. The guide staggered backwards, his eyes opening wide in alarm as John rained blows down on him and mauled his shield. A left hook, a right cross, jab, jab, then a devastating haymaker that actually smashed a hole straight through his opponent's defences.

The guide slammed a wall of force down in an act of desperation to stop John's rampage, the shimmering Eldritch barrier a foot thick. John reared back, his eyes blazing with fury as he wound up another huge punch to obliterate the obstacle. An instant later, the chasm echoed with a blood-curdling scream, the piercing agony in the woman's voice sending shivers down John's spine.

He saw his guide's eyes flick towards the chasm and John spotted a golden-armoured figure plunge towards the stream of lava. Even though he knew this was just some twisted version of reality, John couldn't just stand by and let Irillith burn to death. He reached out with a telekinetic net, safely catching the falling Maliri in the exact same way Alyssa had done on Trankara. Now that Irillith was secure, John faced his backpedalling opponent once more, only to find that he now stood alone in the gallery.

Grimacing with irritation at the guide's disappearance, John turned towards the writhing woman snared in his glowing net. He had lost control of his body before the assassination mission on Trankara, so hadn't personally witnessed Irillith's suicide attempt. When John brought her over to the rocky gallery, he saw the brutal wound in her flank, the blue flesh horribly charred. He felt an outpouring of sympathy for the girl and knelt down beside the mortally wounded Maliri to remove her helmet. When he tugged it free, she glared up at him, burning hatred smouldering in her violet eyes.

A disembodied voice floated down from the level above. "Isn't that interesting... the first woman you met who was immune to your insidious influence hated you with a fiery passion. She recognised you for the manipulative monster that you are and wanted nothing to do with you. Despite all your claims of trying to give those women a choice about joining your crew, you leapt at the opportunity to subjugate your first authentic thrall."

"She was dying!" John yelled out into the chasm. "I wasn't trying to 'subjugate' anybody, I was just trying to save Irillith's life!"

"You knew what you were doing. Her fate was sealed the moment you healed her; one taste and she was lost to you forever!"

"That's bullshit!" John protested, shaking his head in denial. "It takes three times before the girls join me!"

His angry retort was met with more mocking laughter. "The extent you've deluded yourself is truly astounding. What about the Nymphs? What about all the Maliri thralls under my matriarch? How many times did you feed them before they became your obedient slaves?"

John froze, knowing the answer immediately.

"Yes..." the guide purred, his tone sly and condescending. "And has any woman ever rejected an offer to join you after you've filled her stomach?"

Heart sinking in his chest, John knew the answer to that too.

"All that effort wasted on the pretence that they had any choice in the matter," the guide scoffed incredulously. "They became your indoctrinated slaves the instant that you coerced them into swallowing your essence!"

John slumped, hanging his head with guilt... and saw Irillith staring up at him. Her expression of unvarnished loathing was gone, those enchanting violet eyes softening as she raised her hand and gestured towards the hacking device built into her golden vambrace. Before she could say anything, John was struck from behind by a hefty blow, the colossal impact on his hex shield catapulting him across the canyon. He crashed into the rocky wall opposite, then tumbled down into darkness...

...and landed in a plush audience chamber, where a gilded chaise longue had been knocked askew by a violent struggle.

John froze as he recognised Edraele's suite in the palace on Valaden. Dreading the thought of witnessing his guide ravaging the Maliri matriarch, he glanced back at the entrance to her quarters and saw a murky wall formed from roiling shadows blocking the doorway. Realising that he was trapped, John picked himself up off the floor and reluctantly proceeded deeper into the suite towards her bedroom.

Bracing himself for a surprise attack, John opened the door to Edraele's room and saw his guide sitting on the bed beside the House Valaden matriarch. She still had short dark hair and was sprawled unconscious under the covers, the sheet tenting over her bulging stomach. The guide smirked at John as he cautiously entered the bedroom and patted Edraele's head like an obedient pet.