[littlemanpoet]

Lola fled with, apparently, the most cutting rejoinder she could think of: "dense". Two possible meanings could adhere to the comment, neither of which were to the point. So Anakron cast them from his mind. He was worried about Panakeia. Where had she gone? Was she in trouble? He considered leaving the negotiations to go find her; but he was, after all, the Grand Anakronist, and he had a job to do .... even if the anakronisms were not conveying as he wished. Regardless of his personal inclinations, he must see to the negotiations. Gondor and Mordor were at odds. Anarkon's power came from the Blue Istari, and so his allegiance was to them and their purposes, even if he disagreed with them.

He looked up for a moment, halting his ponderings, to see that he was alone in the room. Apparently the negotiations were not happening here after all. The ambassadors had left him without a word. Something deep inside the Grand Anakronist lost its moorings. How dare they leave him without a word. How dare the Blue Istari interrupt his happy life in Umbar and force him into the thankless task. Misunderstood. Accused of corruption. Of evil. Of turning things to his own ends for his own narcissistic pleasure. How dare they think such things about him. How dare this negotiation interrupt the one bright thing in his sorry life!

He rose. His teeth were bared. His hand clutched the staff as if it were a neck he could choke.

"They do not know whom they are ignoring at their peril," he grated. He had held back from conveyance of late because it had been going wrong. Things were coming mixed. Fantasy and reality combined in macabre ways. Mixed technologies from incongruant future times destroyed each other before onlookers. People were getting killed and not coming back to life.

"I care not." Anakron knew that the potential for evil had always been there, and he saw that it was now rising from its formerly dormant seed. He felt it within. He knew that this would most likely be the end of any joy he had envisioned with Panakeia, and somewhere deep inside, a lonely little man wailed at the inevitable loss. He would spare her. It would be the only promise toward civility he would make. "Let them weep."

He walked out of the room and down the corridor that led to Roggie's depths. He raised the staff.

"Convey."

The Siamese Cat howled.

A car appeared suddenly before him and skidded into the wall, crashing. It burst into flames; its horn blared. A man covered in steel, riding a horse, a long pointed shaft held in his arm, hurtled down the corridor past Anakron. A man wearing a mask, tanks on his back, pointed a black shiny thing at the horse and rider. A trigger was pulled and held. Bullets rained and tore through the armored man and his horse and they went down.

"Too simple. Too brash. I need something more subtle."

Anakron continued down the corridor and searched the darkness of his rage.