"According to our data about eighteen years. That's not what he's 
experiencing though. He sure as hell hasn't aged that much." 


"Wow." 


"That's one way of putting it. Look, didn't you read the brief before 
you came here?" 


"Yeah. Well, | skimmed it. What's he doing in there?" 


"The official answer? Being stuck in a temporal and spatial anomaly 
since 1994; one that we can't extract him from. My opinion? Being 
stuck in hell." 


"Wow." 


"Yeah. Wow. I'm done here. You have yourself a great month, I'm 
going to see if | can sleep without seeing that poor bastard's face in 
my dreams." 


The Lord Judge 


The sound of the horse's hooves echoed off the hills of the pass as 
the cart made its way along the old highway, thudding against the 
dust and gravel that a thousand years before had been smooth 
concrete. The lone rider pulled his cloak tight around him, the reins 
held loose in his right hand, shivering against the autumn breeze. 
Another half hour, he surmised, and he would be at the gates of the 
castle where the Lord Judge held court. It had been a long and 
lonely ride from Baytown, and he had slept little in the two nights he 
had been on the road; these roads were far from the lands policed 
by the Holy Foundation, there was little justice to be had save the 
swift and merciless dictates of the Lord Judge, and Bright only knew 
what men, beasis, or others lurked behind the trees. No sooner had 
the traveler had that thought than he cursed himself for invoking that 
name - but old habits die hard. Looking warily over his shoulder, he 
saw that his cargo was still secure in the back of the cart, and urged 
the horse onward. As he rounded the bend, he caught his first 
glimpse of the castle on the hilltop, and shuddered to himself as he 
thought about the fate that awaited him. 


"The Lord Judge is a cold and terrible man," his Master had warned 
him before he set out on this voyage. "He has no sufferance for 
ignorance or foolishness, for he has been at his task for longer than 
either of us have lived, and he has had more than his fill of either. 
Be respectful towards him, but not sycophantic, for he has no 
patience for those who feign admiration in the hope of winning his 
favor in return. He will seek to terrify you, but you must show him no 
fear; he who is timid lacks the courage and constitution the Order 
demands of all its members. Do not dissemble or seek to deceive 
him; he has no time for anyone's bullshit. When you speak the Four 
Words, do so with the utmost confidence; for if you have no faith in 
yourself, he will have no faith in you. Make your case as well as you 
can; and if he is pleased, | will greet you with open arms when you 
return; but if he is not, then it is best that you not return at all, for 
though | myself would defend you to the death against anyone else, 


| dare not speak against the word of the Lord Judge." 


The traveler withdrew from his reverie as he approached the open 
gate of the castle, a tall, imposing edifice of black stone, erected on 
a hilltop amidst the forests that had stood since long before the 
Breach. At either side of the porte stood a pikeman, dressed in the 
brightly-colored striped uniforms of the Lord Judge, and they 
crossed their pikes to block the way as he drew near. "Hold fast!" 
yelled a third as he emerged from the guardhouse. "Who goes 
there?" 


The traveler alighted from his cart and presented the sergeant with a 
rolled-up piece of paper, with a peculiar wax seal holding it shut. "My 
name is Dorik Gatz," said the traveler, "and | am an apprentice from 
the Baytown Chapter. My Master has bid that | present my 
masterpiece before the Lord Judge, so that he may determine if | am 
worthy to become a full member of the Order. | shall need the 
assistance of two stout men to carry my work to his court." 


Drawing a small knife from his pocket, the sergeant broke the wax 
seal and unrolled the paper, reading the text thereupon. "You may 
proceed," he replied. "The yeoman at the door will introduce you." 


"Thank you, sir," Gatz replied. The sergeant stuck his fingers in his 
mouth and whistled, and two bare-chested slaves, their designations 
branded onto their chests, emerged from an unseen doorway to heft 
the crate off the back of the cart and carry it away. The yeoman, in 
his bright yellow and green blouse and pantaloons, instructed Gatz 
to follow him, and they made their way through a courtyard full of 
merchants and hawkers and would-be apprentices displaying their 
handiwork into the keep proper. The halls were dark and smoke- 
filled, and every wall, every door, every surface imaginable was 
festooned with drawings and paintings that ranged from masterful to 
crude. Off to one side, Gatz observed a dozen slaves clasped in 
irons, a dozen men with whips behind them. As each man struck the 
slave before him, he screamed in a single, perfectly tuned note, their 
collective shouts forming a melody - he believed it was a song of the 
Ancients called "Smoke on the Water". An iron gate blocked the 
entrance to what appeared to be a harem - from within, he heard 
moans of pleasure, screams of terror, and utterances that seemed 
to be both at once. At last they reached the great door to the Lord 


Judge's court, and the yeoman bade him wait a moment while he 
entered alone, emerging a few minutes later to beckon him inside. 


The room was filled with muffled conversation as Gatz entered. If 
the art in the hallways had been merely offensive, the works that 
festooned the walls of this chamber were grotesque. These were not 
the grand historical tableaus he remembered from his childhood in 
Overwatch, but brutal depictions of humanity at its most 
transgressive - some ancient works that had survived the Great 
Breach, some far more recent. There were a few dozen onlookers 
sitting in the benches, eying him with curiosity as he approached the 
bench at which the Lord Judge sat on his throne. He was a wrinkled 
and ancient man, yet well-manicured, his powdered wig flowing 
halfway down his back, his heavy black robe adorned with all 
manner of arcane symbols that brought to Gatz's memory the 
crimson robes worn by the cardinals of the Holy Foundation. Beside 
him stood the twin symbols of his office; the scales that represented 
the dispassionate and merciless force of his judgment, and the 
noose that represented the fate of those found unworthy. Gatz's 
crate had been set before the bench, two servants more nimble and 
intelligent than the mere drudges who had hauled it in standing at 
the ready to assist him. Gatz approached the bench, and the 
onlookers grew silent as the Lord Judge banged his hammer. 


"This court is called to order!" bellowed the Lord Judge. "For what 
purpose have you come before us this day?" 


"If it please the court, milord," Gatz began. "| am Dorik Gaitz, 
apprentice of the Baytown Chapter. | have come before you to 
request that | be granted full membership in the Order." 


"All those who seek membership must present a masterpiece that 
meets our standards," the Lord Judge replied. "Have you such a 
thing?" 


"| have, milord. It stands within the crate before the court now." 
"Very good. Please explain the nature of your work." 


Gatz took a deep breath. "Will the court permit me to offer a brief 
explanation of how | came to the Order? It is necessary in order to 


provide the essential context for my composition." 


The Lord Judge glared contemptuously at Gatz, then nodded. "You 
may proceed." 


Gatz cleared his throat. "| was born into the service of the Holy 
Foundation." A gasp arose from the audience and conversation filled 
the hall before the Lord Judge called again for order. "My father 
raised me to believe all the tales about Lord Bright and the saints, 
and to continue the work he had carried out his entire life of 
preserving the Sacred Procedures. When | was younger | 
enthusiastically trained for my Doctorate, but as | came to be a man, 
| began to have my doubts. It was clear to me that so much of our 
catechism was obsolete - we recited instructions for containing 
things that were dead or beyond our reach, we performed pointless 
rituals simply because they always had been done. | thought to 
myself, there must be more to what we do than endless repetition. 
We cannot simply repeat the old over and over again. We must do 
something new, we must innovate, we must create. 


"And so, late at night, | delved into forbidden texts from before the 
Great Breach. | scoured the libraries of Monastery Nineteen for 
diaries from the earliest days of the church. | learned secrets about 
our heroes and icons that those now in power would prefer the 
common folk not know of. | came to hate the name of that false 
messiah Jack Bright. But more importantly, | learned the secrets of 
the ancients’ science that would enable me to do more than just 
recite by rote the Sacred Procedures, but to refine them. 


"Alas, | was still young, and careless, and | was found out. My work 
was burned, and the cardinals declared me Redacted and exiled 
from all of Brightdom. For years | wandered, seeking one of what | 
was raised to know as the pagan temples, that would offer me the 
opportunity to begin again at the work the Holy Foundation had 
destroyed, and that is how | found the Order. And it is so, today, that 
| am able to present my masterpiece. Gentlemen, if you would?" 


The two servants lifted their prybars in hand and pulled open the 
crate, revealing Gatz's masterpiece. It was a figure similar in shape 
to a man, but standing at least three heads taller than the tallest 
man in the court that day. It was flat and featureless, its hands and 


feet lacking fingers and toes, its head strangely enlarged like that of 
a newborn infant, splotches of paint forming rough facial features. 
The Lord Judge squinted and examined the figure disdainfully. "At 
what are we looking?" he asked. 


"| call this 'The Painted Man’'," Gatz replied. "It is an automaton 
made in the likeness of a dead demon, the carcass of which is kept 
in the catacombs deep beneath Monastery Nineteen. Legend holds 
that St. Alto slew it during the Great Breach with the aid of his Magic 
Kettle. The actual circumstances of its demise are much less poetic, 
but | digress. If His Honor would deign to join us on the floor, | would 
be pleased to provide a demonstration of its capabilities." 


The Lord Judge took his cane in hand and made his way onto the 
floor as the two servants erected three curtains that concealed the 
figure from the gallery, but left it visible to themselves, Gatz, and the 
Lord Judge. Gatz stood off to the distance and ordered the servants 
to stand immediately to the left and right of the open side and to 
stare at each other without blinking, and asked the Lord Judge to 
stand in front of the opening. "If you please, milord, close your eyes 
and keep them closed. You will hear a mechanical sound. Keep your 
eyes closed until it ceases." 


Gatz closed his eyes as the Lord Judge did the same - and just as 
he had hoped, the grinding and ticking of a multitude of gears filled 
the air. For five seconds it sounded until suddenly the sound 
stopped. Gatz opened his eyes just in time to see the Lord Judge 
stand aback, for the figure had lurched forward and now stood 
outside the curtains, seemingly frozen in mid-step. Bidding the 
servants to close their eyes, he then asked the Lord Judge to close 
his eyes again. Gatz did as well, and the clockwork sound again 
filled the hall for a good fifteen seconds before the sound of the Lord 
Judge's scream pierced the hall. Gatz opened his eyes to see 
exactly what he had expected - the figure stood directly in front of 
the Lord Judge, its arm raised, settled against his neck. 


The performance was repeated several times more in various 
combinations before the Lord Judge decreed that he had seen 
enough. "The mechanism of this composition eludes us," he said. "It 
moves like a man, but only when noone is looking at it. How does it 
work?" 


"The primary ambulatory mechanism, as | am sure you have 
surmised, is clockwork," Gatz responded. "It also includes several 
electronic mechanisms - some of which | scavenged from the Valley 
of Mind and Iron, and some of which | have constructed myself in 
accordance with the forbidden texts | studied in my youth. Within the 
cranium of the contraption is an ancient device known as a "motion 
detector", which is capable of recognizing the subtle movements of 
a human observer, and activating its mechanism when it is 
unobserved." 


"We see," the Lord Judge responded. "Supposing we had not 
opened our eyes, what would it have done after touching our neck?" 


"The demon after which it is fashioned was omnicidal, milord. It 
killed its victims by breaking their necks, and it was capable of 
covering the distance between the curtains and where you stood in 
less than a second.” The Lord Judge, typically stoic, seemed to 
wince at this revelation. "The Painted Man currently lacks the speed 
or the motor function to be as potentially deadly as its namesake. As 
a mere apprentice, | lack the resources to fully realize those 
properties, but if | were granted membership, | could certainly 
improve upon its current status." 


"We see," the Lord Judge replied. "We are prepared to render our 
verdict." 


Gatz took a deep breath and swallowed. The moment of truth had 
arrived - it was time for him to utter the Four Words, and receive the 
judgment that would determine whether or not his life's work would 
be realized or be for naught. "Milord," he said as he stood up proud, 
puffed up his chest, and steadied his voice, "are we cool yet?" 


The Lord Judge smiled. "We are," he replied. 
"Thank you, milord," Gatz replied. 


"Our secretary shall draw up our letter of recommendation in the 
morning. You may return to Baytown with it and present it to your 
Master, and inform him that you are now qualified to sit as the 
Sculptor of that chapter. Please bring the Painted Man with you - we 
should very much like to see the improvements you intend to make. 


The yeoman will provide you with lodging for the night - you may, at 
your leisure, peruse our collection and enjoy the facilities as you will. 
Please do avoid the lake, however," said the Lord Judge with a 
smile. "There's not a shark in there right now." 


The Lost Treasure of the Stranglefruits 


Much to his chagrin, Dr. Spanko hadn't been given a single gummy 
worm since the Ganymede Protocol was enacted. 


There had been a great deal of screaming among the humans. He 
had overheard the Lesser Doctors speaking of a "Nightmare Regent 
Red" and a very tall, very fat, and very troublesome "devourer" with 
a problematic birth name. "XK" was said often, and this distressed 
the Lesser Doctors. Some cried. Some killed themselves. Spanko 
had tried time and again to lift their spirits with his award-winning 
yodeling skills, only to watch their ears bleed for entirely unrelated 
reasons. 


One very unpleasant Lesser Doctor cited "trimming the fat in a time 
of crisis" when he stuffed Spanko in a gas chamber. Spanko was 
highly displeased, as potassium cyanide didn't do his chronic 
asthma any favors. He was sent into coughing fits that blasted the 
chamber open and sent the gas trailing into the Lesser Doctor's 
nostrils, promptly sending his astral projection to the Celestial 
Supermarket.