when trouble comes to town @ofproseandmusing and @treasure-writings
Every time inside the simulation felt like her first. Minerva, somehow stumbling her way into a ball instead of an exit, was nothing short of dizzied by spinning silks and chandeliers dripping diamonds and foods in all manner of shapes and colors piled high. The excess of it all was astounding. That was the magic behind the simulation, though; keeping alive a history of decadence long forgotten by the rest of the world was essential for keeping the world’s wealthiest happy and carefree.
The disdainful, nagging voice in the pits of her mind urged her to get out of the palace as quickly as she could, as if lingering would erode her decency. These people have brain rot that they freely pass out to those around them. Not knowing even a breath of struggle did that to a person. The sneering voice always started up when she was anywhere near the palace, even if her only purpose within was to do her job as required of her.
Curiosity, fear, and hope were far more powerful than contempt, though, especially when they banded together in her head. More unraveled beneath these slippered feet and marble floors than any of the dancing nobles dared know. If all her research was correct - or at the very least, pointed her to something real - then somewhere at this court were three people with a piece of the world itself in their hands.
One, she was beginning to pinpoint with certainty. Her first few visits to the palace driven by this curiosity had led her to the king himself, because who better to represent Power than the one who wielded it all? Now she knew better. She couldn’t get anywhere near the king, which wasn’t all that surprising, but the way his pretty doll of a wife steered her away from considering such a meeting suggested something more beneath her vapid smile and practiced curtsy.
Minerva watched the revelry unfold from the side of the room, conspicuously out of place and therefore avoiding attention by staying put. It only worked so well. She was dressed as best she could be for both being within the palace at all and for doing her job - surgeons, after all, need not look impeccable to work. The skirts had already been a nuisance during the check-up, though a necessary one, as court-goers frequently reacted poorly to pants. They were nowhere near as lush and sparkling as those around her, but it mattered little in the end. She had her guest pass, the glowing mark on her wrist fading slowly with passing minutes. She could linger and no one had any right to stop her. Even the wealthy need a doctor to check in on them every so often, no matter that doctors grow up in the slums and do not fit into royal life.
From her perch she observed what she could. Dancers wove across the room. A tall nobleman told a story as he leaned against a table, clearly already drunk even though the evening was still young. The queen lounged with her sycophants, all of them in their colorful attire looking hardly different from the cakes stacked nearby.
Minerva’s eyes narrowed as she watched the queen. She appeared so unassuming. Her expressions were light, her laughter and gestures clearly practiced for the utmost grace, her every expression calculated to be as endearing as possible.
The practice it took to look that innocent was no small feat. What is she hiding? Minerva let her gaze wander for a moment, scanning the room for anyone else who stood out. If the queen was Power, Courage couldn’t be far behind, if only she could figure out how to look.
Her eyes landed on the drunkard again. His show was more disruptive of those in his immediate vicinity by the minute. She had learned his name a few weeks ago. What was his name? Claude. He was among her spoiled nobles who could represent this cycle’s Divine Hero of Courage.
Just as much as she hoped it was him, she hoped it was not. Building up the energy to approach him as he entertained his crowd with slurred words was hard enough on its own, before adding an afterthought about legacy and prophecy.
Wisdom was nowhere to be spotted, and again the nasty voice in her head piped up. None of them operate enough brain power to contact an AI. How could any of them represent wisdom for the world? Why would it ever be some spoiled rich kid who’s never set foot outside the sim, who has never fought for pocket change or a meal, who has no idea how much of the world outside the court needs protecting? Caught up in these thoughts, Minerva lost track of the people around her, hardly noticing when someone approached.
