Chapter II

Blighted wastelands sprawled from horizon to horizon, rife with jagged cliffs and cracked boulders overgrown with dark moss. Curtains of cloying mist had choked the area in whiteness, hiding much but not enough. Clusters of sickly-looking growths, long-bladed grasses and reeds, sprouted here and there, adding splotches of virulent pink and nauseating purple to the dour, drab landscape.

Rusted iron counterweights swayed in the wind, dangling at the end of metal chains - impressively massive and absurdly long, reaching all the way up into the gloomy heavens above; it was as though someone had tried to tie an anchor to the darkly viridian clouds... Or to something hidden behind the cloud cover.

Tall, gnarled trees had clawed their way out of the ground amidst scattered piles of human skulls (and several not-quite-human ones). Even the knots and whorls in the trees' bark had taken on the cast of distorted, scowling faces.

Lurking at the end of a raised wooden walkway, was a rickety old windmill, spindly and ramshackle and probably one strong breeze away from total collapse. Tumbledown gothic ruins of black granite - the sorry remains of a once mighty fortress, it seemed - loomed ponderously upon the summit of a rocky outcropping, like the hardened crust at the tip of a popped zit.

It was something of a relief that I hadn't eaten lunch, yet; this dismal sightseeing was putting me in a frame of mind that was, quite frankly, mucho yucky.

T.P. grinned hopefully, his eye swirling with impossibilities. Gazing into that abyss was like leafing through exceptionally off-putting travel brochures, as done by M.C. Escher.

The toilet paper giggled. "So? What do you think, boss?"

I tugged at my hoodie, checking for the fifth time in as many minutes that it hadn't spontaneously split apart and bared my belly to the world. "Honestly?" I huffed. "So far, I'm less than impressed."

"Aw, c'mon!" T.P. wailed, blinking a few times. The alien visions that had filled his large eyeball faded, returning it to its normal... Well, its usual appearance. "I told you, I can't show you any of the really good stuff, yet! Your mind is still mostly human - if I flashed you a glimpse of the very heart of the Chaos Wastes, it'd instantly drive you mad!"

He really savoured that word, drawing out the one syllable as far as it would go. "Mad! Maaaaad!"

"Sure. Fine. Whatever." I rolled my eyes at him, folding my arms over my stomach. "But weren't you supposed to, y'know... Show me some of the people and..." I raised my hands, doing air-quotes. "...'Monsters', that roam around these mystical, magical, municipal landfills?"

"Oh! Sure thing, boss!" T.P. smiled his crooked little smile, a happy expression that would make any dentist run away screaming - or, possibly, start itemizing a bill for a very long list of necessary orthodontic procedures. "Just spend a Favour Point or two, and I'll find you some followers, lickety-split!"

"If they behave the way you've described, I'm sure there will be no end of splitting of skulls, and licking of blades," I groused. "How am I supposed to know if I'm willing to invest resources in your bugbears and bogeymen, unless you let me know what I've got to choose from?"

Befuddled, the talking scrap of leathery toilet paper gaped at me. "But... How am I supposed to find you some muscly Marauders, unless you spend some Points?"

"Ain't that just typical?" I groaned. "I finally get a parahuman power, and it forces me to keep track of arbitrary point systems, and deal with Catch-22 minion acquisition... It's like the whole thing was designed by Greg Veder."

"Grandfather Nurgle said you should have access to a clear and transparent set of rules and guidelines, for how to become the bestest Champion you can be," gushed T.P. "Then, All-Knowing Tzeentch didst giggle and snort, and lo! He spake unto me: 'Bugger on down there, you little snot, and show her the ropes'. So, howzabout we get started, boss?"

I pushed up my glasses, scrubbing at my face with my hands. "Clarity and transparency sounds splendid," I muttered. "But I didn't mean that I wanted the rules to be invisible."

I sighed, reclining against my backpack, which I was currently using as a backrest. It'd been a stressful day ever since I woke in the middle of the night. Dad had - quite understandably, some might feel - been a little distressed when he heard me screaming in the bathroom at way-too-early o'clock. That sort of thing was just a tad alarming, to a single parent and still-grieving widower.

I'd eventually managed to calm him down and get him to go back to bed, without letting him discover my new bodily organs, or the talking toilet paper. It had quickly devolved into a comedy of errors, which I gladly would have skipped completely, given the chance. Too bad my new parahuman power (probably, hopefully parahuman) didn't include anything as useful as time travel.

After that night-time debacle, and the excruciatingly awkward and stilted conversation with Dad over breakfast, I just couldn't bring myself to deal with the Trio at school, as well. With my luck, Sophia would set my hoodie on fire, or drench me in sewage, or pull some other "practical joke" that would ruin my clothes, and end up exposing my new status as a parahuman, before I even had time to figure out what the heck my powers even did.

Instead, I'd crammed a few useful supplies in my backpack, and gone a-wanderin' and a-bus-hoppin' around town, in search of an out-of-the-way spot where I could practice with my new abilities... Whatever they might be. Having the power to see in the dark with my former belly button, and communicate with select specimens of household hygiene products, was not exactly Triumvirate material.

Later, I'd no doubt have another little nervous breakdown about all this weirdness and... deformity, that my powers had thrown at me. That was a problem for future-Taylor, though. For now, I seemed to be holding together... Mostly.

Anyway. According to my newly-named sidekick, T.P., one of my mainstay abilities as an official "Champion" was a sort of Master power that would enable me to amass a "Chaos warband". Apparently, all manner of Brute-rated thugs, Viking warriors, and other variations of sweaty, head-banging, heavy metal album cover models would flock to my (currently non-existent) banner, wanting to join my band.

Oh, joy.

As luck would have it, Brockton Bay's current economic slump meant that plenty of warehouses and old factories had been abandoned. Well, obviously that wasn't good for the workers who'd lost their jobs, but it did have the silver lining of providing a freshly-minted neophyte Cape, like yours truly, with lots of potential hiding places where one might engage in a bit of unobtrusive power testing, and potential minion-summoning.

It had taken some time to find a place that looked suitably uninhabited, and bore minimal sign of squatters, junkies, graffiti "artists", or other passers-by. In the end, I'd found a derelict husk of the city's former industrial glory that looked promising. Evidently, it had been an umbrella factory, once upon a time. There were still sloping piles of fluorescent pink-and-green waterproof fabric stacked in the corners, making the place so much of an eyesore that even the Merchants wouldn't go near the place, apparently.

Some of the neighbouring buildings had Nazi gang tags that made me suspect it was on the fringes of Empire Eighty-Eight territory, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Hopefully, I'd be able to keep myself safe with my new powers.

Sitting back up straight and adjusting my glasses, I clapped my hands together. The first step to making good decisions was to put yourself in a decisive frame of mind.

...Or something.

"Right! Let's give this a go, then," I said. "Remind me... How many whatsits do I have to start with?"

"As a beginning Champion, you have thirty-five points of Favour. You'll have to spend Favour Points to search for potential recruits, but it also costs Favour to, y'know... Actually recruit the recruits," T.P. rambled on. The surface of the talking toilet paper morphed, with two numbers appearing next to his mouth: Three, and five.

I unzipped my backpack and pulled out a blank notebook. Scribbling a few notes, I continued my questioning. "And... How much would it cost to have you find some gribbly goblins for me?"

"Ah, well... Goblins aren't Chaos creatures," said T.P. apologetically. "They're Greenskins, y'see? But, um... If you get hold of some Chaos Dwarfs, they might bring a squad of Hobgoblin mercenaries along?"

I glared at the toilet paper through half-lidded eyes. "Of course," I said, deadpan. "Because that makes perfect sense."

"Really? That's great!" T.P. cheered. "I must be a lot better at explaining things than I thought I was!"

I tapped my pencil against my pursed lips. "Mmm... So, how much does a monster-search cost? Any applicable monster?"

"Oh! Uh... One Favour for a roll on the table of common recruits, and two for a roll on the special table," said T.P.

I frowned. "Rolls? Tables?"

"Ooh! That reminds me..." T.P. began to make the most revolting retching noises I'd heard since... Well, since my nightmarish encounter with Grody Toad.

I watched in shock, and more than a little disgust, as the animated toilet paper barfed out a couple of heavy, slime-coated lumps. The dense vomitus tumbled to the factory floor, clattering around with echoing, metallic thunks.

"Ta-daaah!" T.P. sang, then paused to make way for a burp. "Whoops, 'scuse me. Well, there you go!"

"What..." I said, dreading the answer. "...Is that?"

T.P. stared back, blankly. "Those? Why, they're your dice, of course!"

I crouched down, pressing a sleeve to my face to filter out the smell while I took a closer look. "Ah, right. I think I see the source of the confusion, here."

"Do you?" T.P. smiled blithely. "That's good. Right?"

"You see, these two gizmos you just ralphed into existence do, indeed, appear to be based on some sort of cubic structure," I nodded. "Which is just about the only thing they've got in common with actual dice."

T.P.'s face fell - thankfully, only figuratively. "Huh? B-but... What's wrong with 'em?"

I gave him another flat look. "They're covered in spikes."

"Well, of course they're covered in spikes," said T.P. "You wouldn't be able to tell they were Chaos dice, if they weren't covered in spikes."

I jabbed a finger at the soggy cubes, careful not to get too close to them as I pointed. "Each of the corners has a spike, each edge has a spike... Instead of pips to mark numbers, each side has a bunch of...?"

The toilet paper thought about it for a moment. "Uh... Spikes?"

I snapped my fingers. "Correctamundo! More damn spikes!"

T.P. watched me for a minute. "Okay," he chirped. "So, are you gonna roll 'em, or what?"

I stared at him, perilously close to using up my daily quota of incredulousness. "How am I supposed to roll them?! I quite like having fingers, and functioning hands!"

If toilet paper could shrug, he probably would have done so. "...I dunno?"

Taking several deep, calming breaths, I walked over to a pile of old, half-finished umbrellas. I picked up a couple that only lacked the waterproof coverings; otherwise, they were a pair of intact metal frames.

I experimented with the so-called Chaos dice for a few minutes, trying to scoop them up with the umbrellas and testing whether it would be possible to roll the dice by slinging them out of an umbrella frame.

Then, I had an idea. It would probably only work once, depending on how all these wonky rules worked, but I was getting pretty fed up with all this nonsense.

I went back to my backpack. After a quick rummage through my pencil case, I collected a couple of gum erasers and a handful of pencils.

"Two points for a roll on the 'special' table, right?" I asked. After all, I'd likely need to make this count.

Once T.P. had confirmed the cost, I carefully impaled an eraser on each of the spiked dice, and then jammed pencils in the erasers.

"By the way... How do you define 'rolling dice'?" I asked nonchalantly, cupping a hand over one of the dice - still without touching the wicked-looking spikes. "Does it count if I have a die in my hand, like this, and then the die leaves my hand?"

T.P. hemmed and hawed for a second, sounding mildly confused by my perfectly reasonable inquiry. "Um... I suppose so?"

I arched an eyebrow. "You 'suppose' so? What happened to 'clear and transparent'?"

The toilet paper's expression grew firm. "I mean... Yes! That counts as a roll!"

"Excellent!" I smirked. "In that case, I'd like a roll on the special table."

As soon as I'd spoken, I staggered a little as a faint wave of dizziness spread from my gut. It passed quickly, leaving me slightly light-headed, as though a weight on my shoulders had lifted, fractionally. It was hard to describe exactly, and I certainly couldn't tell if I felt two thirty-fifths lighter or not... But at least I hadn't stabbed myself on the dice when I swayed. Small mercies, and all that.

Keeping one hand carefully cupped over the die, I picked it up by the home-made pencil handle. The dice were made of some strange metal, but not so heavy that they'd immediately fall off when I did this - I'd tested that surreptitiously, when I cobbled this together.

I lifted my cupped hand out of the way, and swung the handle. There was an old plywood display stand nearby, with an advertising poster of a ditzy woman with a coy smile and strawberry blonde hair, holding an umbrella, and the bankrupt company's slogan and logo. She reminded me vaguely of Emma. Thus, it was satisfying on multiple levels when the spiked Chaos die struck her in the eye, spearing into the plywood and sticking there.

T.P. squawked at the sight. "T-that's cheating! You can't just whack the dice around like that! They've got to, y'know... Roll! It's s'posed to be all random! If you do it like that, you can just pick any number you like!"

I presented the toilet paper with my most innocent look. "Really? But I'm doing exactly what you said." Picking up the second Chaos die, I repeated the procedure. This time, I nailed the Emma look-almost-alike squarely on the nose. "See? If I could just pick any numbers I wanted by doing it this way, I would have gotten boxcars, wouldn't I? Y'know... Double sixes?"

T.P. squinted at the dice. "But the two topmost faces are... A six and a five!"

I nodded. "Precisely! It's not a pair of sixes, so it must have been a random roll."

"This still feels like cheating," muttered T.P. "What would Tzeentch, Slaanesh, Nurgle and Khorne do?"

"You should put that on bracelets and sell 'em," I sniggered. "Of course, the Purple Lobster might interfere, and change your inspirational W.W.T.S.N.A.K.D. slogan to spell out: 'Wow, It's Naked'."

The toilet paper wriggled with concentration. "I've got it!"

I yelped and stumbled when the entire factory tilted. It was like the world had fallen over, turning a ninety degree angle in an instant. The floor raised upright, while I plummeted down towards a very solid-looking wall, accompanied by my backpack, my pencil case, and countless other bits of debris and bric-a-brac.

...Including the plywood umbrella ad, and the brutally spiked Chaos dice.

IVoFD. IVoFD. IVoFD. IVoFD. IVoFD. IVoFD. IVoFD. IVoFD.

A/N: Bonus points to anyone who recognizes the imagery of the Chaos Wastes described at the start of the chapter.

BTW, does anyone have suggestions for good names to give Lesser Daemons, or Chaos Warhounds? Specifically, names that Taylor might dub them?

Replies to comments and reviews:

SaltyWaffles: Fair enough. Should I add a warning at the beginning of the story, or in the summary, about the body horror elements?

Drucchi: Slaanesh manifesting as a lobster also sets up a wonderfully terrible pun, later on.

Chillingbear: Yeah, crustaceans can be vain and artistic enough to match Slaanesh. Remember Sebastian, from Disney's Little Mermaid?

TookAlevelInBadass999: The Travellers aren't the only loophole. Taylor specified Champions on Earth Bet; pedantic Chaos deities might exploit that fact. For example, Behemoth spends most of his time deep below the surface, relaxing in his jacuzzi (i.e. the planet's molten core), IIRC.

LDB: Hmm... Might have to find an excuse to include a few Skaven, then - just to avoid false advertising, since I already mentioned the number 13.

Lewascan2: Thanks! ("Sir/ma'am" would probably be the most applicable way to address Slaanesh, too.)

DragonBard: The Emperor? You mean, Karl Franz I? He's probably a very busy guy, always protecting the Empire, defying the Dark, riding around on Deathclaw, and so on. ;-)

AmatsuMikaboshi: A-are you sure you wanna pet the Chaos lobster? There's no guarantee you'll be gettin' that hand back.