Team Decopunk--Epic Tales from Beautiful Minds

Chapter 4: Frau Only Drives The Chrysalis

Love Guides The Wandering Star--Part 3: By Holly_Gonzalez

Awake. Still Margritte, They haven't defeated me!

Her ears rang. The wan light of psi-space dissipated. Aunt Dagmar's gentle smile morphed into the Professor's vulpine face, the stern countenances of the judges, the myriad lights and the blank stares of the crowd.

The recurring patterns--she'd recognized a few this time. Cigarettes. My Ecrivain's Specials. They've appeared twice. That glass typewriter. And the earrings Dagmar gave to Ingeborg--to me. They must be a link to Fray. Are there more clues yet to come?

Professor Waldengrave smiled. "Bravo, dear Fraulein! You've passed through the maze. What an intriguing diorama of determination. Give her a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen."

The audience cheered on cue, but the judges remained aloof.

"A promising event," said a female judge in a tailored uniform coat. "However, both trials show a preference for German aspirations and locales."

Margritte wanted to protest, but remained silent. I'm German-born. Doesn't that explain it? The fools refused to admit the simple truth.

Another judge, the fickle man who'd doubted her first trial, steepled his fingers over the panel desk. "I also find this perpetual German theme...troubling. We've seen not a speck of faith in the American ideals she claims to uphold." He waved a hand in dismissal.

The Professor cleared his throat. "Very well. I hope you have nerves of iron, Fraulein. The third episode is the trial of pride. We've shared your ambitions, now we're to witness your indulgences and fears."

Margritte stared skyward. No stars were visible. All were outshined by the stage lights, the glimmering zeppelins, the downpour of drifting confetti. The trial of pride was where most former contestants had failed. Some woke up laughing madly, some screaming, others in convulsions.

She closed her eyes and replied, "I'm ready."

The charge initiated. The Psychometer resonated its fields into the multiverse. Margritte surrendered to the injection of the serum, the spin of dislocation, the jumble of one reality into another--the invaded psi-space unaware it was being spied on in the name of an American oligarchy, with a shell of a Hollywood idol as its viewing lens.

Psi-space entered her mind as a camera's gaudy flash, a vortex of sequins and plumes and perfumed silk. Alluring people skulked in dim, smoky shrines, cavorted where music swirled, where jazz bands hit the highs and lows of a generation. Brash trumpets scolded and come-hither voices growled in time. A time she'd once known, once reveled in and adored, now lay forgotten. She was now just a bumpkin with straw in her hair, reposing in dark country nights flecked with stars, a commander with an army of dogs barking at her heels. How she missed her simple farmhouse refuge. If she could sway through this debacle unscathed, she'd go home triumphant. Hopefully, with Fray at her side.

"Who do you merge with now?" The Professor's voice dwindled.

Margritte hesitated to answer. In the growing tangibility of psi-space, she found herself at the edge of one of her alfalfa fields. The dogs romped around her. Ahead, in the center of the field, lay the rusted-out frame of a car. Glass lay in fragments around its dented spokes. The once-lavish upholstered seats were torn, the paint peeling, the radiator grill a corroded sneer of neglect. Only steel bones remained of the luxurious sport coupe she'd once bought as a present for Fray--shortly before Fray had gone incognito. This corpse of forsaken splendor now lay decayed in a farm field in Pennsylvania.

Just like me. A washed-up nobody. But I don't want this. I'm a star, Verdammt!

A new psi-space glistened through the dark abyss of the between. "A shining star dances. Brune. I'm the sweet honey of sin on everyone's tongue, the gem without blemish. A mask watches and waits. A thin veneer for pride, for fame. I only cherished my true love...but she's gone."