“Holy Amaraude!” whispered Krelian, “I... I'm sorry... if it was me... it wasn't me, didros it!”

“How do you two know about this?” asked Mr. Arianrod, “Is there anything at all you can tell me about how it happened. Don't worry, I won't tell the authorities, I hate them all. I just need to know if I'm going to have a hope of fixing this.”

“Please, Mr. Arianrod, sir.” added Max, bowing deeply before him in the way he would to alleviate one of Argelmach's rages, “My brother's innocent. All he did was pray to a shrine of Amaraude. He didn't even know what is was. He was hiding in there. He... he was only trying to survive...”

“You're missing the point.” said Mr. Arianrod, “Game Over doesn't have a plot. There's nothing here to end badly. This is completely impossible.”

“It must be possible.” said Max, “Because it is happening. And you are the Plotsmith, so you can fix it. Yes?”

“Not if I can't find it!” he exclaimed, “How can I find what isn't there?”

“I could help you. I am good at finding things.” said Max, “I found the lost dog.”

“What does a plot look like?” asked Krelian.

“Well, narratives in their raw form look like that.” said Mr. Arianrod, pointing to one of the spheres in the glass cabinets, “But they're very small and the Game Over Screen is a very big place. And if someone's smuggled one onto the Game Over Screen, they're damn well going to hide it in a very secure place. You're better off trying to sense it. Things just... happen around them. Important things. Everything stops going about its day-to-day business and acts like its in a story.”

“Like the world's a stage and everyone's a player?” asked Burt, “I love Shakespeare.”

“Not a play.” said Max, “An Opera.”

“Nah, they're boring. Too much singing.” said Burt.

“No, he's right.” said Krelian. “An epic Opera based on a didros Norse myth.”

“With Valkyries?” asked Arianrod.

“Yes, with didros-ing Valkyries.” said Krelian, “I know where it is, Mr. Arianrod.”

“Go and fetch it, then.” Suddenly, Mr. Arianrod was all business again. It was as if he had snapped out of a trance. He pointed to Max, “You, I'm not letting you anywhere near my workshop. You go and get those saves. We're going to need them. You,” he pointed to Burt, “Come with me.”

------

As soon as Max was back onto the path before the Main Entrance, he ran in. There was a huge commotion outside the gates – another shock wave, he guessed – but he managed to push his way through. He ran down a corridor to the Chapel. Argelmach wasn't in his office. Max considered just picking the lock on the cabinet and helping himself to the Master Saves, but he didn't really want to be vivisected with a letter opener any time soon. Then he heard a familiar noise – someone playing Bach's Fugue in G Minor on a piano. Someone better than him. He ran to the shrine.

It was still glowing when he got there. At first he had considered it beautiful, majestic, just as the music from the Flying Battery seemed like a celestial choir to him. Now it seemed wrong. He still loved it from the bottom of his heart, wanted to embrace it utterly, surrender his every byte of code to it, but this fact alone was wrong. It was faulty. It was malfunctioning at the core and he couldn't even feel afraid of it. His survival instinct was betraying him.

He scampered down the stairs after his master. He caught him halfway down the corridor, dragging someone's unconscious form behind him.

“Master, I need to borrow the...” he began, gasping for breath. Then he recognised the face of the person, “Valis? Master, what's wrong with Valis?”

“Oh, she'll be fine. I am just resurrecting her.” he said, a nasty smile on his face, “After all, we wouldn't want any old resurrectioner doing such a delicate job, hm?”

“Valis is being Reborn?” he gasped. He had always thought that Valkyries hated the Undead even more than most people did. She had banished both of them from Valhalla on the spot, the moment Max declared their vital status, declaring that they were lucky she didn't delete them. Besides, Argelmach was as delicate as a brick. If he said 'delicate job' he usually meant torture.

“You shouldn't be here, boy.” he said, “Whatever it is you want, have it. Just leave me to my business. I'm having a very bad day.”

“What are you doing to Valis?” he demanded.

“Retribution.” said Argelmach, “The weightiest punishment for the worst crime. This friend of yours almost killed our Queen, boy. Think yourself fortunate I do not punish you for being in any way involved with her. Oh, and while you're here, take a brush and go and clean up the Amaraude Shrine. The Golems accidentally destroyed it.”

A chill ran down Max's spine.

“Master, you must not do this!” he gasped, “You don't understand what you're...”

His eyes flaring up into a wild inferno, Argelmach unhooked his walking stick and advanced upon him menacingly.

“Who do you think you're talking to?” he growled.

“Master, please, let me explain.” he said, dropping into a low bow, “You can punish me later, delete me, lock me in a box for a few millennia, throw me in a furnace for all I care. But I can't let you do this. Not because I care about Valis... she did it because the Bad Ending made her! And by committing this act, you're spreading the Bad Ending! You're making the consequences worse for everyone! The Bad Ending is going to destroy the Universe, Master! Its a Magnitude Six Hyperplonk!”

“Who's been teaching you words like that?” he asked, not lowering the stick.

“The Plotsmith, Master.” said Max, “He told me to go and fetch the Master Saves so he can fix the plot and...”

“He did, did he?” said Argelmach. Then he reached inside his shirt and unhooked a key from a thong around his neck. It was a large, ornate iron key, unmistakably Argelmach's style. “You tie her up – so she doesn't go around setting dogs on anyone else, mind – and I'll get the book. I want to have a word with this Plotsmith. If he likes you so much, maybe he'll buy you off me.”

Max was flattered that Argelmach thought he'd fetch a high enough price.

----------------

Mr. Arianrod pushed open the door and showed his brother into the back room.

He was impressed by how many rooms his Bin had. There were more doors leading out from this one – Mr. Arianrod told him that he had a small bedroom and a kitchen. Only important Bins – ones built to dispose of sensitive Interplanetary Government information, delete ex-staff members and so on – had more than one room. Asclepius himself only had two, one of which belonged to his daughter, Panacea. The lease on this thing must cost more than a small planet, he thought.

The workshop itself was the largest room. The heat was sweltering, it smelled even worse than the shop floor. In the middle of the workshop was a huge tank filled with green fluid, in which swam metroidal jellyfish.

“They shed their shells every three months.” explained the Plotsmith, “And the residual information absorbed by the shells is what I make plots out of. The jellyfish can't read most file formats, so the shells protect them by absorbing the information, converting it into the simplest format and then feeding it to the jellyfish. It doesn't need much food, so the information gets stored for a long time. Its usually pretty garbled, which is why I use these to beat it back into shape.”

He pointed to a forge in the corner of the room. It was quite large and glowed green. By the side of it was an anvil and a row of tools on hooks. There were a selection of hammers, files, chisels, sharp instruments and things Burt had absolutely no clue about. Beside this was a vat of the green liquid. This was the source of the smell.

“What IS that stuff?” he asked.

“Rendering fluid.” said the Plotsmith, “Exposing a metroidal jellyfish to water is a very bad idea unless you're trying to blow up your workshop. They don't react with this stuff. Its also good for easing the pain of botched cybernetic implants, I've heard. Just don't drink it.”

“I'd rather shove my head in a bulk erase machine than drink anything that smells like that.” said Burt bluntly.

“You get used to the smell.” the Plotsmith assured him, “I rather like it. Do you want to see the machine that charges up the vessel once I've made it?”

“It can't smell any worse.” said Burt. His brother smiled and walked around the room to a computer terminal that was wired to an egg-shaped booth filled with purple spongy liquid in which purple lights swam. A number of other wires and tubes led in and out of it.

“The computer is where you code the narrative and compile it into a language that the Master Narratives around the Universe will understand.” he said, “Then the computer sends it to the booth. The nanomachines in the booth install it onto the vessel. Then a strong electric charge is sent through it to stimulate it into activity.”

“Sounds a lot harder work than being a bin man.” Burt commented. His brother laughed.

“What I wouldn't do for your authority.” he said, “You can get past any security clearance. The security systems absolutely despise me. But I'm a born Plotsmith. I'll never be anything else and I never want to.”

“Is this really going to stop the Universe ending?” asked Burt.

“I really don't know, Burt.” he shook his head, “I'll do my part and I know I'll do it well. But it doesn't just depend on me. And between you and me, those two boys are fucking idiots.”

------------

Approximately half an hour later, the door swung open. It was Argelmach, dragging Max behind him. He barged his way into the back room without asking, walked up to the Plotsmith and smashed him in the face with his walking stick.

“HANDS OFF!” roared the man, grabbing Mr. Arianrod by the collar of his shirt before he could run. The Plotsmith spat out a tooth, blood welling from between his lips.

“Master, don't! We need him intact to save the Universe!” said Max.

“What's all this 'save the Universe' business?” demanded Argelmach.

“Did you bring the saves?”

“I brought more than just the Saves.” said Max, “I know exactly where the error is.”

“Really?”

“The background music.” said the boy, “It is very important for a plot, yes?”

“Vital.” said the Plotsmith, “The wrong background music for the occasion can spell chaos and disaster.”

“What if every single background tune was replaced by a Game Over tune?”

“Well then, there would be nothing anyone could do but lose.”

“There are no background tunes on the Game Over Screen except Game Over tunes.” said Max, “So, when the plot was made, those were the only background music it could use.”

“You're a genius!” Mr. Arianrod snapped his fingers. Argelmach took another swipe at him, before spinning around to hit Max on the backswing. Then he stalked off to make himself a cup of tea.

-----------------------------------

They spent the next half hour like this – Max and the Plotsmith talking in animated voices, discussing their plan in every detail. Burt had wandered off outside to watch the jellyfish – he didn't really have to add to the conversation and he didn't want to interfere. Argelmach sat in a corner for a while, nursing his cup of tea and glaring at Mr. Arianrod. He's seriously worried he's going to lose me to him, thought Max. He'd never realised how valuable he must be to the dour old Gamesaver. Argelmach took exquisite delight in hating everyone and everything. His general opinion of the Universe was that there WAS a God, he was a lousy artisan and everything he had ever created was embarrassingly faulty. The man being possessive – actually actively wanting someone around – was unheard of. Was he ill? Then someone said something that caught his attention more than his tea, which wasn't that interesting – after all, it wasn't alcoholic.

“Of course, we're going to need a background tune to replace them with.” he said, “Which is going to be a problem. There really are only Game Over tunes up here.”

“Not quite.” said Argelmach, “I know one. Max, you know it as well.”

“R... really?” asked Max.

“I taught you to play it when you were five years old.”

“What... THAT? Is World music?”

“Its the song used in the Fuyodol Riy banishment ceremony.” said Argelmach, “Which is performed in the foyer of the Soul Train station, on the Game Over screen.”

“B... but we can't just have Bach's Fugue in G Minor playing on Repeat throughout the entire thing!” said Max, “Who the didros would want to listen to THAT?”

Walking up to whack Max over the head for using bad language, Argelmach stopped and turned around. He heard, of all things, a dog barking. Someone ran through the door and almost collapsed in the middle of the floor, out of breath.

“Krelian!” yelled Max, running up to help his brother to his feet. The small white dog in his arms barked and licked Max's face.

“No animals in my workshop!” yelled the Plotsmith.

“Y... you don't understand.” gasped Krelian, “I've found the plot! This dog ate it!”

Argelmach spluttered, spraying tea all over his beard, then burst out laughing. He's definitely ill, decided Max.

“Well, I guess we can get to work now.” said Max.

“Er... I suppose so.” said the Plotsmith, shaking his head as if to clear it of the insanity around him, “Any suggestions on how we're going to get the plot out of this dog? NO!!!” He yelled quickly, as Argelmach picked up a skinning knife and grinned nastily.

“I've heard if you feed them tea, they'll be sick.” said Krelian helpfully. The dog had wriggled free from his grasp now and defected over to Max.

“Whatever you do, I think you'd better do it soon.”

The last comment was from Burt. Nobody had seen him wander back into the workshop. He had a worried look on his face. Before anyone could say anything, he pointed out of the door. Everyone followed him outside. They looked up to where he was pointing – the Recycle Bin opposite the smithy, that had once been Max's workshop.

It was upside down.

------------------------

“OUT!” roared Argelmach, picking up the nearest Record Book and throwing it at the small girl and her dog. It hit the dog and it yelped, darting off in the opposite direction. The girl followed it, laughing. Once they were far enough, the old man closed the door, muttering to himself, before returning to his desk. He picked up his elaborately engraved adamantium pen and resumed writing in his flowing, cursive handwriting. The smell of the ink and the paper lifted his mood slightly.

If the little brat wasn't the offspring of the Director and Kobryn, he would hang the pest upside down from one of the hooks on the ceiling. She never seemed to run out of energy – wherever he went, she was running around, chasing that silly dog, getting under everyone's feet, poking everything. Why didn't Tandle just shove her in a Completion Screen booth like the last Director did to her? She would get a good education from the subliminal tapes, she would be raised a complete innocent, subjected only to positive experiences for several years of her life – the Completion Screen computers only understood joy, success, victory, closure, she would be better protected from all the assassins who surely would see the Director Heir as a prime target and, most importantly, she would be out of Argelmach's way. But no, the two idiots wanted to experiment with raising her personally. Ungrateful bastards - if Argelmach had the chance to shove his apprentices in a booth and forget about them, he would leap at the chance.

Remembering his apprentices sent a strange tinge of worry down his stomach. He had to admit that his foul mood was partly caused by their absence. The office just wasn't the same without Max and Krelian. It was too quiet. Nothing went wrong. While it sounded absurd, he needed things to go wrong. Gamesaving was a science still under development – especially for the Undeads – and he could only learn to fix problems when he encountered them. He was too careful, too set in his ways to make mistakes. He needed idiots like Max and Krelian.

Besides, he added to himself, they were actually pretty good at their jobs. Not that he would ever, ever admit it out loud. It might stop them wanting to improve.

However, their presence was required elsewhere. They were to relay the information from the terminals in the BRAHMS Sector to the control terminal – his own savestate archives – after thoroughly scanning it, repairing it and removing any traces of the virus. Or that was the official story. What the fascists at Game Over didn't know was that he had ordered them to secretly send him samples of the virus - carefully contained, of course – so that he could study it himself in secret. The Undead people needed that virus a little longer, whether or not Game Over deemed the risks acceptable.

Despite his continued distrust of Game Over, it was rather nice of them to allow the Undeads to carry out the project. They even sent a small military unit – some woman called Valis Valkyrie and her hand-picked mercenaries – to clear the area for them. The original BRAHMS project had a number of... failed experiments. So long as the Undeads managed to restore the facility to working order, remove the virus, reduce the prices and pay a small monthly rent on the property, they had promised to allow them to run BRAHMS as an independent facility for their own use. They even said that people would be allowed to consult them about becoming Undead, or Revivifying, as long as they were made fully aware of all the facts in a rigourous and closely monitored procedure, as strict as the Church of Saint Kevorkian were not.

Despite several diplomatic attempts made by both Lady Brahms and the Director of the Game Over Screen, the Completion Screen refused to allow the Undead community anywhere near their institution.

What fascinated Argelmach the most was that the High Score Table had gotten involved. They had sent none other than Daedalus Wor, Number One of the entire Table, to the front lines, under Valis' command. Argelmach liked him. He had wings. Argelmach had never seen a man with wings before.

A sound interrupted his musings. The door was opening again. He grabbed a book and threw it. It was parried. Argelmach was forced to duck as the book flew over his head, knocking over his brand new, almost full bottle of expensive whisky. He fixed the man a look that would have set the entire North Pole ablaze at once.

“Go away. This place does not need cleaning.”

“Suit yerself.” Burt muttered, before slamming the door shut again. He was humming the background music. It sort of worked.

It would sound even better performed live at Saint Kevorkian's Mass.

----