Heath's Dream Library

Welcome ...

2011-01-11T15:46:00.000-08:00

These chapters are parts of larger stories I have been working on over the years.

Benders: These people bend the rules of reality. Well, okay, so they break them into little pieces at times, but it is my version of superheroes, mages, or mutants.

Bitter Sprites: This is a twisted world of little will-o-wisps and adventurous sprites, mean pixies and grumpy gnomes. No one is safe and everyone is magical, but sex and violence are the social norms.

Blood and Breath: This is a world where breath is more than air, and magic is in the blood. It is the same world as Elder Gods, and the two story lines may someday be folded in together.

Chess: There is a game of chess that exists in a shadow of our reality, drawing in people who seem to slip through the cracks. Each piece is a person, and each game ends with the death of a King.

Dark Green: Imagine a world covered in plants and primitive animal life. It was once Earth, but most humans have barricaded themselves in domed cities.

Elder Gods: Imagine a world in which gods were not merely myths, but sentient concepts, with real world, tangible effects that cannot be denied by even the most skeptical. Very few would really be concerned about the welfare of humans. (This may be the background world for Blood and Breath.)

Exiles: The Fey are not cute little faeries that grant wishes and protect woodlands. They are politically competitive lords with the potential for immortality. They create kingdoms from dreams and dream of greater kingdoms. The danger comes from those that do not choose allegiances, and choose self-exile among the world of mortals.

Shadowrun: Based on the roleplaying game of modern fantasy and cyberpunk. Dragons run corporations, and men fuse with machines, but some of the most dangerous things on the streets are still human.

Spirit Eaters: These chapters are about my version of werewolves. They are a spiritual fusion of each species, a treaty bound by oath during the last global ice age. They don't have the Hollywood man-wolf thing going, but they can be quite fearsome. They hunt spirits, though, so they tend to shy away from getting into fights in the physical world.

Village: There is a village out there some where telling its tales to the wind, and I happen to catch the rustling of leaves and relay the messages.

Exiles: Under

2008-12-10T10:07:00.000-08:00

She looked up at the rippled grey sky from within the water. She reclined on the sandy bottom, more a part of the water than in the water. No breath filled her lungs, but she needed none. She preferred it that way. Breathing led to deep, ragged sighs of longing. Dry cheeks soon found streams of tears.

The sky wore a cloak for many days as fall passed into winter. The Autumn winds came and went, and a winter stillness lingered above the smooth surface of the lake. Her solitude would remain undisturbed through the cold months.

Her connection to the lake gave her an extended awareness. She could feel, and hear, and taste as if the lake were an extension of her own body. During the summer months, she forced herself to tolerate the swimmers and boaters, doing her best to dampen the connection. In winter, she could open herself up and lap the edges of the shores, be tickled by the fish swimming through, and taste the cold breeze that caressed the surface waters.

She heard slow faint footsteps as someone walked down the length of the boat dock. The boats lay upside down on the shore, and there were no fish biting this time of day, this time of year. As she lay listening, a strange taste dispersed through the water, taunting her tongue with hint of memory. Someone’s tears were falling into her world.

Exiles: Morning Storm

2008-12-07T10:36:00.000-08:00

The hangover didn’t help his disposition, but among those few who truly knew him, his disposition was bound by fate. A hangover was merely an inconvenience. The drunken stupor of the previous night was his favor to humanity. It dulled his senses, and his aggression. While he was an angry drunk, sobriety didn’t change this, but alcohol took the edge off.

He slid his legs out from under the cheap bed sheets and over the edge of the bed. As his feet swung to the floor, his head rose from the flat pillow and he sat up. The room danced while he struggled to regain his balance. With a practiced will, he banished nausea from his mind.

He could sense an approaching rage. It was distant, both in time and space, but soon, he would cross its path. He inhaled deeply and sighed, lowering his chin to his chest. Conflict with mortals always ended poorly.

“Hey, are you okay?” The voice behind him was almost familiar.

He turned slowly, leaning heavily on one hand against the old mattress. Craning his neck over his shoulder, he saw a middle-aged women, half covered by the bed sheet. She would have received a snubbing from Hollywood, but by midwestern standards, she was attractive the way real people are beautiful.

“Man, you can really pack away that booze,” said the woman, reaching out to caress the lines of muscle in his forearm. “Still have to pay for it in the morning like the rest of us, though.” She smirked like a flirt, then rolled on her side, so she could hold his forearm with both hands.

“You don’t look so bad,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I may not be a spring chicken, anymore, but according to your rantings last night, I’m just a, what was your phrase, ‘a wee lass’?” She leered up at him with a mind full of sinful memories. “You have much energy for your age, and you made me feel quite young again. I want to thank you for that.” Her last sentence carried some sadness, but she was sincere.

“You might want to put some clothes on,” he said, ignoring her words. “I think someone angry is coming soon.” He looked away for a moment, then looked the woman in the eyes. “Boyfriend?” A moment went by. “Husband?”

“Oh, shit!” she said, bursting into a flurry of motion. She jumped out of bed, then grabbed her clothes. She disappeared into the bathroom in less than a minute.

“He’ll kill you,” she said through the door. “Then he will beat me!”

“No,” he said, “You are going to go out the bathroom window. I’ll stall him.”

“You don’t know him. He was a marine. When he is angry, he won’t listen to reason. I know you are a tough guy, but my man is seriously scary. He says he was in logistics, but he was into something more, something way more, if you know what I mean.”

“Go out the window,” he said. “Go home. No felonies will be committed today.”

She opened the door slightly and peeked through. Then, she was gone, through the window, through the clump of trees behind the motel, then the construction yard, then homeward bound.

He could feel the emotional storm coming down the walkway in front of the motel.

Exiles: Cursing the Lords

2007-07-09T21:34:00.000-07:00

"Curse the Lords," said Zoe and Kristov in unison

"These Lords you are always cursing," Diane began, "Are they an oppressive lot?" Her words were clear, but her body language was slurred.

"Of course they are!" said Zoe, feeling the alcohol smooth out the edges of her reality, and toss her about like a cork in a bathtub full of children.

"They cut us off from our inheritance!" said Kristov, forcefully. He was trying to be angry, but there was a smile in his eyes.

"Ah," said Diane, "So this is about money."

"Oh, no, no, no," said Zoe, almost losing herself to the sound of "no" coming out of her mouth.

"Our birthright is worth more than gold, my friend named Diane," said Kristov. His stern voice was pushed through a growing grin.

"We have been cut off from our own dream realms," said Zoe becoming more subdued, "and our immortality has been stolen."

"Dream realms?" asked Diane. "Immortality?"

"We will live until we die," explained Zoe.

"But we will never be reborn," added Kristov.

"Because a silly Lord had his way with a mortal," muttered Zoe.

"Well, your father's daughter found a mortal man to fill her womb with me," said Kristov, looking at Zoe.

"Father's daughter?" asked Diane, disbelieving. "Zoe is your-"

"Of course not!" spat Zoe.

"No," said Kristov, "her sister."

"Half-sister, thank you," said Zoe. The fun in her voice was fading.

"I sense some animosity," said Diane, amused at the sudden shift in mood.

"My sister wanted me dead, and thought me so Father was killed," said Zoe.

"Zoe's half-sister was hoping to be the mother of her Father reborn," said Kristov, "But Zoe was already pregnant."

"Huh?" Diane said, "you lost me."

"Diane, darling, listen," said Kristov, almost patronizing, "if you aren't going to believe in our Fae heritage, this conversation will be rather pointless.

"I'm not doubting your heritage," said Diane, letting some resentment out, "I just don't know how all this works."

"Pardon my cousin," said Zoe, the playfulness coming returning to her demeanor, "He is young and tactless."

"So, your father was killed," said Diane, "and your sister believed that he would be reborn as her next child?"

"Right," said Kristov, still holding a sour look on his face.

"Except," said Zoe, "I was already pregnant by the time the assassins came. In fact, it was Father's energies that allowed me to survive."

"Your father, as your unborn son," clarified Diane.

"Yes," said Zoe.

"And, now that the rat bastard has been reborn, we are no longer part of his direct lineage," said Kristov, "and no longer of any real use to him."

"There is no one to look over us, and no reason to threatened us, so we are on our own," said Zoe.

"Flotsam or jetsam, still just as useless," said Kristov.

Exiles: Night Club

2007-07-09T21:21:00.000-07:00

The music pulsed and throbbed around Fallon, vibrating the air until it was tangible. It came from speakers in the walls and ceiling, expertly placed to flood every corner, every ear. She wore earplugs and shades, but she wasn’t there for the music. She could feel it pummel her body and her senses, but she was buzzing on the wild abandon of the three dancers sharing the tight floor space of Fallon’s alcove.

They writhed against each other, riding the drugs and alcohol in their veins, oblivious to everything but the beat and the other bodies. A young man gyrated and twisted, without ever letting his feet lift from the floor. Two young women pressed their bodies against him, and each other, and slid their skin against skin. The t-shirt and blouse were so tight, they could have been painted on, and the denim pants and skirts were nothing but prophylactics keeping the intimacy merely lustful, not carnal.

The intoxicants in their system gave their aura’s an unnatural glow, as they were using unnatural chemicals, but the willingness with which they gave themselves over to the effects, the primal passions of music and desire, radiated outward like a beacon to Fallon. She was ten feet away and could feel what they felt, smell what they smelled. Fallon’s skin hummed and tingled as she soaked up the energies generated by the mortals.

Behind her shades, Fallon closed her eyes and felt imaginary hands sliding over her body, as the hands of the youth before her explored in the flashing darkness. Then, a very real very tangible hand slipped across Fallon’s shoulder and into her long, dark hair. It was a familiar hand and, though unexpected in the night club, a welcome hand.

Fallon opened her eyes and saw Sydney looking down at her from below a tumble of short blonde hair. He leaned in close and kissed her deeply and lovingly, his full lips ringed with stubble pressing firmly against her thin, curved waiting smile. He pulled away slightly and brought his mouth to her ear.

“Cousin,” said Sydney, “There was trouble.” He had used some glamour to allow his whisper to cut through the pounding bass. “You look radiant. That is good. You might need power before the night is over.”

Sydney stood straight, and Fallon followed, rising out of her chair. She turned towards the door, but her eyes strayed to the threesome grinding away to the music and to the drugs and to the lust. She had her fill, and the rest was just flowing over her in waves. It was a good buzz, though, and it was a shame to go, but Fallon liked other things, like the quick rhythms of a street fight.

Fallon, standing taller than Sydney with a combination of natural height and heeled boots, wrapped her arm around Sydney’s shoulders, and together they walked through the crowd of dancers and groupies.

Exiles: Geneveve

2007-07-09T21:17:00.000-07:00

Geneveve lay in her cotton pajamas on top of her feather filled covers on her bed, trying too hard to fall asleep. Eyes wide in the shadowy room lit only by a few nearby street lights, she felt the warm summer air come in through the open window. She knew Smith was there, on the roof, inches away from the windowsill, waiting to be acknowledged.

Geneveve rolled over, readjusted her pillow, and settled back into comfort with a sigh before she looked at the window where Smith waited. Smith was a skinny young woman, almost boyish, except for the depth of her eyes and the predatory grin on her lips. She wore a black leather biker jacket, much too big for her slight frame, black denim pants, much too tight even for her skinny legs, and a loose black t-shirt with a two inch cut in the collar, exposing the divot between her clavicles.

“You are getting better,” said Smith in a sweet voice, like honey glazing the teeth on a steel bear trap.

“Better?” asked Geneveve, “Better in general or better with something specific?”

“Something specific,” said Smith, “but that makes you better in general, does it not?”

Smith pressed the backs of her wrists against the window frame and placed one foot on the sill. If she had been at a party, she could have used the same motion with her hands to invite a hug, and the sudden coyness in her eyes suggested that’s what she was doing now.

When Geneveve didn’t respond with anything more than a half smile and playful eyes, Smith glanced down inside the window, then pulled herself in, stepping down gently, as if Peter Pan were merely a student of hers.

Smith kept her hands out, but no longer inviting a hug, or pulling the rest of her through the window. Now, she was basking in the glory of a teenage girl’s bedroom, eyes panning the posters on the walls, the books on the shelf, the papers on the desk, and finally, the girl on the bed.

“Lovely place you have here,” said Smith.

Geneveve pushed herself up onto an elbow and said, “And it just got a little brighter.”

“Do you even know the power of flattery, young lady?” asked Smith, mocking the sternness someone must have used unsuccessfully to teach her manners.

“Do you even know how to answer simple questions?” asked Geneveve.

“Yes,” said Smith, “I do. And I don’t use questions, either. Maybe it is you that does not know which questions to ask.”

“Okay,” said Geneveve, “In what way am I getting better?”

“You sensed my presence within moments of my arrival,” said Smith.

“Oh? And how do you know I didn’t sense you as you came to the window?” asked Geneveve.

“Because,” said Smith, crossing her arms and tilting her head forward, “I am still better as sensing you and reading your feelings.”

“Even before you see me?” asked Geneveve, genuinely surprised.

“Even before I see you,” confirmed Smith, friendly, but quite serious.

The silence between them was soft as Smith let her words work their way into Geneveve’s mind. Smith watched, like a predator watches her young struggle with a puzzle. Slowly, Smith tilted her head back, sniffed the air, scanning the room again with her eyes.

“My brother says you are not real,” Geneveve said after a while.

“Your brother is a college queer,” said Smith, kindly, not hateful.

“Yeah, well, at least he has a love life,” said Geneveve in a half serious pout.

“I checked him out, you know,” said Smith.

“You met him?” asked Geneveve.

“Yup,” said Smith, “At a party. He was drunk, and probably remembers me as some scrawny dyke, but, hey, half the reason why I come to visit you this late is in case you decided to sleep in the nude.”

“Are you serious?” asked Geneveve, realizing that there probably was a grain of truth in what Smith said. “So, what is the other half of the reason you grace me with your presence?”

“Oh, I have my reasons,” said Smith, evading Geneveve’s playful glare.

“My mom suggested that you were one of the fairy folk,” said Geneveve, scrunching up her face at the silliness of the idea, “Like an elf or sprite or something.”

“A goblin or redcap, even!” Exclaimed Smith, her eyes twinkling devilishly in the dark.

“Hardly,” said Geneveve, scrunching her face with a sour frown.

“What?” scoffed Smith, “You don’t think I have the charm or wit to fall into those categories?”

“Charm? Wit?” gasped Geneveve, “I thought goblins and redcaps were low on the list of civilities.”

“Oh, ‘civilities’ she says,” sneered Smith. “I see. So you think Charm is something of polite society. Only members of high society can suffer from a wits edge?”

Geneveve shrugged. “I just got the impression that certain fairy types were more prone to aggression, rather than subtlety.”

“Oh, my sweet creature,” crooned Smith, “there are many goblins with a wit so subtle that you would hardly notice the depths of their insults until they had taken your intangibles. And redcaps are devilishly charming when they wish to have you over for dinner, whether they intend to dine with you or on you.”

“Oh,” muttered Geneveve. “What did you mean by stealing my intangibles?”

“Some things that cannot be grasped in flesh can still be stolen,” said Smith, her tone dropping into something serious and dire. Her eyes became dark and foreboding in such a shadowy flash, it was as if they had always been that way. Then Smith smiled, beaming glorious cheer into the room, banishing the gloom with star-studded twinkles in her eyes.

“Then, again,” said Geneveve, quietly, still cowed by the fleeting menace, “Maybe the fairies can’t be stuck into simple stereotypes.” Smith tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, intent on Geneveve’s words. “Maybe, each ‘type’ is more of a tendency. I mean, maybe every one of the fairies has something of a redcap to balance out the grace of a Sidhe or the playfulness of a pixie.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I would go that far,” said Smith. “You can trust a redcap to at least consider the idea of taking a bite, just as you can depend on a man to think of sex at least once when you happen to cross his path.”

“You sound like you are speaking from experience,” teased Geneveve.

“You,” said Smith, pausing for the drama, “sound like a non-believer.”

Geneveve shrugged. “Unless my mother is right about you, I don’t think I have ever run across a fairy.”

“Well, I am glad you haven’t dismissed the suspicions entirely,” said Smith. “Nor have you made any conclusions, apparently. The middle ground always brings the most opportunities.”

“My mother said fairies like the between places, like doorways or shadows,” said Geneveve.

“Of course,” said Smith, “Doubt and suspicion is what keeps you young, if you know how to handle it. Not knowing is the way of youth. When you have everything figured out, well, then, it is just time to roll over and die, isn’t it?”

“Suspicion and doubt,” said Geneveve, mulling the words over.

“Don’t let yourself slip into paranoia, though,” said Smith. “That is just another absolute. Sure there is plenty of suspicion of strangers, and even friends, and doubting everyone’s trust abounds in paranoia, but you can’t live like that. It is too absolute to accept that there is a conspiracy out to get you.”

“So you should be suspicious of your doubts, and doubt your suspicions?” asked Geneveve.

“Sounds like a great way to say that,” said Smith, walking over to the desk. Abruptly changing the subject, Smith asked, “Homework?”

She glanced back at Geneveve, who nodded with a slight frown. Smith looked down at the papers shrouded in some of the deeper shadows in the room.

“Freud was an idiot,” said Smith, apparently unhindered by the lack of light.

“No, he wasn’t, actually,” said Geneveve, defending the subject of her paper.

“He drew huge conclusions from a small collection of repressed, upper-class, Victorian women,” said Smith, almost exasperated.

“He put together a system of studying and understanding human behavior,” said Geneveve, as if practicing for an oral report, “Which led to the modern field of Psychology. To disregard his efforts is to disregard anyone who came up with a system of understanding. Take Newton, for instance. Modern physics owes so much to him, despite how much our understanding of the universe has evolved.”

“But Newtonian physics is still useable,” said Smith, “Freud, however, was so full of himself that he couldn’t really see beyond his own issues.”

“I’m not analyzing his issues, or his conclusions,” said Geneveve, tired of the debate, “but rather his methods.”

“Whatever,” said Smith, “I found him rather condescending and imperious.”

Spirit Eaters 01, Three Girls

2007-06-06T23:59:00.000-07:00

Thunder rumbled in the distance as heavy, steady rain pounded the roof of the abandoned house. Rebecca sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor in front of a thick candle. She wore a long, black skirt, a t-shirt two sizes too large, and a denim jacket. Around her she had drawn a thick-lined circle of white chalk and covered the chalk with a narrow line of salt. Behind her, a long, sleek wolf was curled snuggly against her hips and legs. Georgia's fur was grey, speckled with black. Her face was covered in white, but the top of her head, shoulders and the ridge down her spine was a soft brown that tapered down to nothing halfway along her back.

They were on the second floor of an abandoned duplex house. The room was dry and dusty, but the air was cold and moist. The wind buffeted the plywood that covered up each window. In the next room, wet leaves and branches slapped against the window. They had climbed the tree and pried open the plywood under the cover of dark. They had closed the window, but the plywood had fallen to the ground. The air was cold, but they ignored it. At least they were dry.

Rebecca pulled her shoulder length black hair back with a brown scrunchie. Once her hair was out of her face, she picked up an incense stick in each hand and held them over the lit candle. They caught the flame and Rebecca blew them out so they could smolder. She focused her eyes on the candle flame and began breathing slow and deep, thinking of warmth. After a while, the only sound other than the rumbling in the clouds overhead was Georgia, snorting in the midst of a dream. She then rolled on her back, nearly pushing Rebecca forward into the candle.

"Hey," said Rebecca, "I was concentrating." Rebecca paused, smacked the lit candle wick with the flat of her palm and grabbed the candle. She flung it against the wall with an angry grunt. She sighed when she realized she had splattered hot wax onto her newly stolen jeans. The hot wax on her palm stung, but she ignored it.

"It wasn't working, anyway," said Rebecca. "That damn fool at the bookstore didn't know what she was talking about. Spirits of the house, my ass." She leaned to one side, dropping her elbow to her knee, and her chin to her fist. Behind her, Georgia sighed in her sleep.

Rebecca could feel the house was empty. It wasn’t just uninhabited, it was dry, abandoned, and hollow. No one had lived here for a long time, and if any emotional resonance had ever soaked into the wall, it had bled out long ago. No one would bother the two companions as long as they were discreet, but the house just a shelter from the storm.

It was early morning when Rebecca woke. The storm had passed and all was quiet in the house, except for ... something. A dog barked outside. A door creaked inside. She quietly sat up from her where she had sprawled the night before. Her feet had smudged the chalk and broken the circle of salt. Not that it matters, she thought, looking at where Georgia’s tail has swept the salt completely.

She had been using Georgia as a pillow, but Georgia did not move when Rebecca moved. "Are you awake?" whispered Rebecca, on her hands and knees, her head hovering over Georgia's head. Georgia opened her eyes.

"You hear anything?" asked Rebecca. "Smell anything?" Georgia gave her an annoyed canine look.

Rebecca sighed, sitting back on her heals and taking off her denim jacket. She sunk into concentration and shifted. Her body became smaller, leaner, more like a wolf. Then, she was a wolf. Her skirt fell off her haunches, but her t-shirt stayed on, loose. Each shift drained her a little, but being a wolf made hunting easier, with sharper sense and sharper teeth.

Rebecca sniffed the air, smelling her human scent lingering in the air mixed with Georgia's wolf scent. There was a hint of perfume, also. Rebecca looked down at Georgia and narrowed her eyes, wondering where Georgia was hiding the perfume. It smelled expensive and stolen. Then, Rebecca heard something downstairs. The door was open slightly, enough for her four legged frame to slip through, so she quietly slunk into the hallway. She edged towards the staircase and peered down. A shadow moved towards the front of the house. Rebecca's wolf face mimicked a human smile with an eerie ease.

The stairs were covered with musty carpet, so Rebecca's claws did not click on her way down. She peered around the corner when she reached the bottom and saw a small canine tail disappear into the front room. Keeping low and quiet, Rebecca moved down the hall. When she reached the front room, she hesitated, then stepped forward, halfway into the room.

The dog looked like a wolf, bit it was about the size of a coyote, but this one was skinny, even by coyote standards. The little wolf spun as soon as it detected Rebecca's presence. It had a spark of cunning and intelligence in its eyes, and Rebecca suspected it was also a shape-shifter. She could feel it, its energy resonating with hers. They were kin, in some spiritual way that Rebecca was still struggling to understand.

Rebecca sniffed the air. The little wolf was female. Rebecca couldn't tell how old the little thing was, though. It didn't act like a frightened pup, despite its size, and it had the shape of a mature wolf, if not the size.

Rebecca could feel Georgia's presence approaching behind her, and hear the subtle sounds of her larger friend padding across the carpet down the hall. The little wolf picked up Georgia's scent and was on the verge of panic. She shifted, then sat with her back against the wall, pull her shirt over her bare knees and shins. Rebecca was still self-conscious about being naked, but at least she still had her shirt. Georgia stepped through the doorway, looked at Rebecca, then back to the little wolf.

Georgia shifted into her stunning human form, obviously not shy about her absence of clothing. Her classic Irish beauty usually turned heads, too many heads, according to Rebecca, but Georgia just brushed it off as jealousy. Standing up, she put on her bright, happy face, but the little wolf wasn't buying into it. The little thing remained low in a crouch, like she was going to jump over them and fly out the back window. Her racing heart pulsed against her bare ribs showing through her thin coat.

"What's your name, girl?" asked Rebecca, calmly. "Are you just coyote, or are you really a wolf?"

The little wolf relaxed a little, resting her body on the floor, but her legs were still ready. She still looked ready to bolt without warning. The two larger females gave no hint of violence, but the little one remained cautious.

"Maybe she is shy," said Georgia. "She doesn't have a shirt to hide behind." She wasn't intending on being mean, but she always came across with an air of superiority.

"Then, maybe you could go get our stuff from upstairs," suggested Rebecca.

"What if our little friend decides to run?" asked Georgia. "You think you could stop her, without blocking the doorway?"

"I have no intention of stopping her," said Rebecca. "If she wishes to leave, she can walk, run, whatever."

"Fine," said Georgia, "But I was hoping for a game of tag." Georgia turned and pranced down the hall and up the stairs.

Rebecca remained motionless, watching the little wolf. The wolf tilted her head to one side, glanced down the hallway, then back at Rebecca. Then, without warning, the little wolf shifted, taking on the form of a little woman. She settled her new form on her bare belly, with her knees bent, feet up in the air. She planted her elbows on the carpet and rested her chin on her fists. Rebecca smiled.

"call me Sarah," said the small woman. She was young, maybe late teens, early twenties, but she wasn't the little girl that her size suggested.

"I bet you thought you were the only one," said Rebecca, "Shape-shifter, I mean."

Sarah was quiet for a moment, then said, "Yeah, up until the other packs started hunting me."

Rebecca felt her heart quicken. She sat up, then moved to sit on her heels. "Packs?"

"There are more shape-shifters than just the three of us," said Sarah. She was surprised at Rebecca’s ignorance.

"How many more?" asked Rebecca, unsure if she was happy or frightened.

"Rebecca," said Georgia, suddenly appearing in the doorway, dressed in loose jeans and an unbuttoned blouse. "I bet you haven't even bothered to give this girl your name." Georgia was staring at Sarah. Sarah looked up, startled. Georgia continued, "My name is Georgia. This is Rebecca. These are Rebecca's spare shorts and t-shirt." She tossed the clothes onto the floor next to Sarah.

"How many more?" Rebecca repeated, almost urgent.

"I count about ten packs in the county," said Sarah, "Although, I suspect there are more. Occasionally, they fight bloody turf wars. I try to avoid them. They tend to be less than friendly."

"What, like, there is a whole community of shape-shifters?" asked Georgia, handing Rebecca her backpack and clothes. "Were they all wolves?"

"They all seemed canine," said Sarah. She seemed eager to speak, like she was desperate for social interaction. "I didn't know there were that many kinds of wolves, but, I guess they looked more wolfish than anything else."

"When I first saw you, I thought-," Rebecca didn't finish her sentence, but Sarah understood.

"You thought I could have been a coyote," said Sarah. "I heard. I have always been small, but it helps me hide."

Rebecca narrowed her eyes, eyeing Sarah. "Have you always had to hide?"

Sarah met Rebecca's gaze. "Pretty much. I have been on my own since I was ten. I first changed when I was sixteen. I'm twenty, now."

"Huh," said Rebecca, mostly to herself. "I changed last year."

"You've been on the streets for ten years?" asked Georgia, astounded.

"Yes, Georgia," said Rebecca, "It is true that some people in this world don't have big houses or expensive cars." Georgia gathered her composure and glared at Rebecca. "You see, Sarah, Georgia here grew up with silver and gold."

"I'm hungry," said Georgia, ignoring Rebecca. "Let's go." She turned and headed to the back of the house.

Sarah quickly got dressed in Rebecca's clothes. The shirt was way to big, and she had to hang onto the shorts or they would drop. Sarah put her skirt on and secured her backpack.

"Don't worry about Georgia," said Rebecca. "She is usually friendly, if a bit naive."

"Not a problem," said Sarah. "I'm a bit rusty with the whole social scene, myself. I have been spending most of my time as a wolf, lately. It is easier to hunt rats." Rebecca scrunched her face at the thought of eating a rat. Sarah saw this and giggled. "Oh, and then there is the occasional goose. I try to save those for the holidays, though."

They both stood and looked at each other. They began to laugh at the way they were dressed.

"I think we need to go shopping tonight," said Rebecca as she turned and headed to the back of the house. "Clothes shopping!"

"If that's what girls do," said Sarah with a shrug and followed Rebecca.

Spirit Eaters 02, The Pack

2007-06-06T23:58:00.000-07:00

Anticipation and excitement vibrated the air. The feeling was so tangible, Rebecca felt like her teeth were swimming in her skull. Her skin tingled and her bones hummed. She leaned against the back end of a green mustang, grinning broadly. She scanned the crowd, watching people migrate towards the football stadium. The first trick of the night would be to scam three tickets. Then, once inside, they could lose themselves in the crowd, picking pockets and swiping food unnoticed until too late.

Rebecca crossed her arms across her belly and realized that she no longer was concerned about the ethics of petty theft. She couldn't quite figure out how that happened. When she and Georgia first raided a crowd, it had been out of desperation. They had both been starving, new to the streets, and hunger was a driving need. Rebecca wondered if the changes she had gone through had affected the way she saw herself fitting into society as a whole. She knitted her brow as she realized she didn't feel like she belonged to the people of the crowd. They were others, while Georgia and Sarah were part of a small group she considered "us".

The feeling of being stared at washed over her. She looked up and around, only to see Georgia standing twenty cars down with her hands stiffly down by her side, facing forward. It was her impatient and annoyed stance, and it made Rebecca smile. She snapped out of her reverie and met Georgia's eyes. Georgia relaxed into her pursed-lip, wide-eye, "are we ready?" expression. Rebecca nodded, glancing towards Sarah, who was in wolf form, hiding underneath a van behind Georgia.

Sarah's involvement made this so much easier. Rebecca could be the lookout, while Georgia haggled. Sarah, being small and fast, would snatch the tickets from the hands of the scalper and take off. Georgia, acting all angry, would storm off before the scalper could accuse her of some kind of complicity.

The ethics of the situation still nagged at Rebecca, though. What really bothered her was that she was not bothered by the stealing. This confused her.. Sarah had always lived like this, though without the cooperation of others, and Georgia was just too self-centered to consider how their activities might affect their targets.

The feeling of being watched still lingered in the back of Rebecca's neck, but Georgia was looking at her mark, a scalper moving through the crowd, looking for buyers. Sarah was watching Georgia. Rebecca scanned the moving crowd once more and saw a young man staring at her. Beside him, an older woman, maybe early thirties, was scanning the crowd in Georgia's direction. As soon as Rebecca laid eyes on her, the woman stared back. The woman then looked at the young man, saw him staring, then slapped him on the back of his head, jarring him.

Rebecca quickly looked away and stared at Georgia. When Georgia met her eyes, Rebecca passed an open hand across her face, indicating trouble, that they should fade into the crowd. Georgia was near a large pack of fraternity brothers, all loud and boisterous. She slipped into the group and disappeared from Rebecca's sight. Rebecca looked for Sarah, but the little wolf was already gone.

Rebecca felt very exposed. There was only a few people near her, and nobody between her and the two strangers. She felt a presence behind her, somebody watching her, and she bolted. She ran across the open space to another row of cars. As she ran, she pulled off t-shirt, getting a few hoots from college men who were watching. When she was between two cars, she shifted, dropped to all fours in wolf form, and slipped out of her skirt and sandals. She ran hard and fast, weaving between parked cars and groups of people, startling a few people here and there, but she was gone before they could fully react.

She headed out of the parking lot to where she left her backpack and spare clothes. It was secluded, so she would be able to change and dress without drawing attention, but her heart wouldn't slow down. Even as she pushed through the doors to the all night coffee shop across High Street from the main campus, she was breathing fast and feeling paranoid.

"What happened?" asked Georgia, not sure whether to be angry or frightened. She was standing next to a small high table near the back corner of the shop. Sarah was quietly sitting on a stool next to Georgia.

"Someone was watching us," said Rebecca. "A young man and an older woman."

"Police?" asked Georgia.

"Others," said Sarah, watching Rebecca's face.

"You think it was others like us?" asked Rebecca. "That would explain a few things."

"Like what," asked Georgia.

"Like how they can look right through you, into you," said Sarah, staring at nothing.

"It felt like they didn't care what we were doing, just that we were doing it in their presence," said Rebecca.

"This is their territory," said Sarah.

"Funny," said Georgia, "This never happened before." She glanced at Sarah.

"A few things happened tonight that never happened before," said Rebecca, thinking of her ethical doubts.

"What is that supposed to mean," said Georgia, deciding angry was the way to go.

"Where are your clothes, Rebecca?" asked Sarah.

"I changed out of them," said Rebecca, her eyes widening, "In the parking lot."

"So what!?" exclaimed Georgia.

Sarah and Rebecca looked around the room to see if anyone had caught Georgia's outburst, but what they saw was a young man, the young man from the parking lot walking by the window. He stopped suddenly and looked directly at Rebecca, then at Sarah. A young woman that had been following him bumped into him before she realized he wasn't moving. She pushed, but he swept her aside with an arm, drawing an angry glare from her. Then, she cocked her head to one side and looked through the window and saw what the young man was looking at.

"We need to leave, now," said Rebecca. She saw the young man lift the skirt she had left behind and sniff it. Then he was hurrying towards the door with the young woman following close behind.

Sarah was already in wolf form, leaving the loose cloths on the floor by the stool. No one seemed to notice. They did notice Georgia, who had finally caught on and was second through the door to the pantry of the coffee shop. Rebecca was not far behind. In the pantry, Georgia and Rebecca undressed, stashed their clothes in an empty box and shifted to wolf form.

They all bolted through an air vent with a missing grill. This had all been worked out in advance, but they never thought they would need to follow the plan. The vent opened up in the storage room, which had a door to the back alley.
Rebecca came through the door at a full sprint and bolted left into the shadows of the alley, slamming hard into the chest of a large man. He didn't budge until Georgia collided with Rebecca's back and ricocheted to the ground. Rebecca stepped back, but the man grabbed her upper arms with powerful, calloused hands. Panic kick-started Rebecca's heart and she tensed, trying to pull away, out of the man's grip. He squeezed in and up and she found herself lifted off her feet. The knot in her stomach sapped her energy and her legs stopped kicking.

Georgia recovered her wits enough to realize that staying motionless was the safest course of action. She could see the young, rough looking man and serious faced woman behind the big man holding Rebecca. All three held an air of danger around them. She didn't flinch when two young, panting wolves burst from the doorway, tails wagging and tongues hanging out.

"Where is the little one?" asked the serious woman as she stepped out of the shadows.

The larger wolf let out a quick whine and tilted his head to one side.

"The little one!" said the women. "You were chasing three girls!"

The smaller wolf sat back on her haunches and transformed into a young woman in sneakers, jeans and a leather jacket with nothing underneath. She drew her knees to her chest, rested her hands on her knees, and dropped her jaw onto her hands.

The larger wolf snorted and looked back the way they had come.

"Filter, I'm sorry, but I don't remember seeing her," said the young woman, looking up at the serious woman. "Jangles got a jump start and all I saw was his ass end."

The wolf named Jangles glared at his companion and growled low.

"Then he drove the hunt," said Filter, unrelenting, "But you, Singe, should have been eyeing the possible escape routes and shadows. If you can't see forward, look to the sides."

Singe dropped her gaze shamefully and stared at the ground near her feet.

The rough looking man stepped forward to stand next to the big man. He was lean and wiry, almost skinny. His eyes and cheeks had a faint sunken look. He never met anyone eye to eye, even when he spoke.

He looked at the big man's forearms and said, "You can let her go, Fen. I don't think she is going anywhere." The words seemed more for Rebecca's benefit, a hint of a threat, like no one would be stupid enough to try to escape.

In a blink of a moment, Georgia shifted into wolf form and raced between the wall and the woman called Filter. Georgia found herself pinned between Filter and the wall. Filter drove her knife so deep between Georgia's ribs, it punctured a lung. Georgia gasped raggedly in pain and fear, clinging to consciousness.

Filter stood up and glanced back. "Rope, I don't think this one is too bright." Filter stood up and stepped away from Georgia. The wound wasn't immediately fatal, but it would be a while before Georgia would breathe normally. In between coughing fits, she whined pathetically.

"You can put me down, Fen," said Rebecca, confidently. "I'm not going anywhere."

Rope heard the echo of his own words. "Are you mocking me, girl?" he asked, more curious than threatening. His gaze swung towards her, missing her shoulder by a breath.

"No, sir," said Rebecca, respectfully. She looked into his eyes, but he still did not meet her gaze. "I have a better tactical understanding of the situation than my companion."

Rope's lips tightened slightly, giving the impression of a faint smile. He looked at Fen's feet and nodded. "She's alright, Fen." The large man set Rebecca down and released her from his grip.

Rebecca made an effort not to rub her sore arms. There was no damage and the soreness would go away quickly. She glanced around at her captors, then looked at Georgia laying against the wall. The bleeding had already stopped.

"Call me Rebecca," she said, shifting her gaze between Filter and Rope.

Spirit Eaters 03, The Hunt

2007-06-06T23:57:00.000-07:00

Rebecca and Filter stood on the top floor of the OSU parking garage near the Student Union. They looked out over the open campus green watching the occasional student hurry across the grass. The wind was strong and gusty, carrying the scent of urban autumn. The late afternoon sky was grey with spots of deep blue peaking through breaks in the cloud cover.

"Focus your attention, not your eyes," said Filter, standing like a soldier observing a battlefield.

Rebecca leaned against the short wall and squinted. Then, she relaxed her eyes, her vision and felt the world, rather than looked at it. Near her, she could feel the presence of Filter, the cold purpose of the concrete garage, and the playfulness of the wind. She pushed herself, focusing on nothing, feeling like she was absorbing the world, rather than sensing it. It poured into her awareness, fuzzy, yet almost tangible.

"I see Rope," said Rebecca, and suddenly, the world snapped into focus, hard and solid, and there was Rope standing by a tree, tilting his head to one side. He could feel Rebecca staring at him.

"This isn't a game of 'Where's Waldo'," said Filter. She wasn't being mean, just trying to bring Rebecca back to the task at hand.

Rebecca took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, starting to shift her perception once more. It took slightly longer, but seemed more real once she got there. The world wasn't as fuzzy. It was just more alive. The concrete beneath her elbows seemed almost proud of doing the hard job of supporting all the weight of itself, the cars, the mission it was assigned when it was first created.

"Remember to observer without judgment," said Filter. "Just watch. If you attach any emotions to your observations, you will be sensed."

The tree that Rope stood under, however, seemed to leave trails in her vision. When she looked at the tree, it seemed to tighten up, like the spirit could sense it was being watched and didn't want to appear to be anything other than a tree spirit, bending with its material anchor. As Rebecca withdrew within herself, quieting her excitement, ignoring the rules that governed the spirits, the spirit of the tree grew lax and blurred against the outline of the physical tree. With every gust of wind that blew the branches, the spirit seemed to be pulled by the tree, or pushed by the wind out of sync with the anchoring tree.

Rebecca watched the push and pull of the wind and let her attention shift so that she could see the wind. The tree became less significant in her field of vision, but she actually saw the invisible current in the air, knowing where they were coming from, how strong they were, and where they were going. She couldn't actually see the air, so there was nothing physical to compare it to, but it was fascinating and entrancing.

"Can you find the renegades?" asked Filter.

Rebecca let her attention follow the wind currents that flew close to the ground, hesitating when the currents swirled around an obstacle. Her attention got hung up on a young man crossing the grass with a quick pace. He seemed to be holding a sparkler at first glance, but as Rebecca's attention lingered on him, she realized he was just holding a plastic cup with a lid. It seemed to sparkle, though, and this confused her.

"That young man," said Rebecca. "His hand, or rather his cup is sparkling."

Filter gazed down upon the campus, then gave a half smile.

"Those are caffeine spirits," said Filter. "You will see them quite often here on campus."

"But you said if I see a spirit, they are not doing what they are supposed to be doing," said Rebecca, looking at Filter with a furrowed brow.

"Okay, so there are exceptions," said Filter.

"I take it that there are more than a few of those?" asked Rebecca.

"Yes," said Filter. "In this case, there is so much resonance among the student population, so much need for something, specifically caffeine, to keep them awake for long hours of study, the little spirits just sparkle with energy."

Rebecca looked down once more, scanning the area for anything unusual, beyond her awe at the new perceptions. A few students hurried between classes. One of them seemed wet, drenched, leaving a trail of shoe prints. Rebecca pulled within herself and observed. The student was a petite young woman, but there was something missing. Rebecca didn't have an overlap of perceptions as she did with the tree. The students color seemed off, faded.

"She doesn't have a soul," whispered Rebecca, taking a guess.

"No," said Filter, slowly, "She doesn't have a body."

Rebecca looked at Filter and asked, "You mean she is a ghost?"

"Everything has a spirit aspect," said Filter, "Even humans. Whether you call it a spirit or a soul, it doesn't matter. When we die, sometimes that aspect lingers."

"Is it dangerous?" asked Rebecca.

"She," said Filter, with emphasis, "can be dangerous. Without a body to sustain her, she can only survive for so long as a spirit. She will get hungry for energy, but won't have the skills to find and gather it. She can create her own resonance, if she is strong willed enough, but unless she creates a legend for people to believe in, she will fade and be forgotten."

"Dangerous in what way?" asked Rebecca.

"Once she realizes that she cannot affect the material world directly, she will become desperate and mess with people's minds," explained Filter. "She can also attempt to steal energy from people directly, without gathering resonating emotions. That can really mess people up."

"Can we do anything to help?" asked Rebecca.

Filter smiled. Rebecca realized that Filter rarely ever smiled, but this smile was warm and beautiful.

"I'm glad you asked," said Filter. "Your compassion is a good sign." Filter looked out at the ghostly student wandering across the campus. "We will go talk with her, find out what she wants, what will help her rest."

There was a long silent moment as the two women watched the ghost. Fen stepped into view from behind a bicycle rack and started tailing her, walking slowly and gracefully. Rebecca admired how such a big man could flow with each step.

"What will happen when she rests," asked Rebecca, almost to herself.

"Her energies will dissipate," said Filter. "She will cease to exist with self-awareness."

"She will die?" asked Rebecca with a touch of sadness in her voice.

"She already did that," said Filter. "What is left behind, what you see, can't last. If she tried, she would slowly lose what it is that makes her unique. She will lose her memories, replacing them with hunger and frustration." There was a sadness in Filter's voice, as if she had learned her lessons from personal loss.

"I guess I will have to redefine my concept of dying," said Rebecca.

Filter put a hand on Rebecca's shoulder, then nodded her head back towards the stairs when Rebecca looked up. They left the top level of the garage and the view it presented. At the bottom of the stairs, they saw Rope standing at the corner of a building, waiting for them. When Rebecca and Filter came around the corner, passing Rope, they saw Fen drifting, across the sidewalk as if he had no real direction or purpose.

"Watch Fen," said Filter. "He is tracking the spirit, so we don't need to look at her. That might draw her attention. We want to avoid that until we know more about her."

They were some distance from Rope, who was moving out to the right, rather than following Fen.

Spirit Eaters 04, Old One

2007-06-06T23:56:00.000-07:00

Filter led Rebecca up the stairs of an old Victorian house in Victorian Village. The house was painted maroon with gold trim, although, the paint was faded and peeling. The yard and porch had collected low drifts of red and brown leaves from a nearby oak. A few twigs and small branches poked upwards through the carpet of leaves.

Rebecca felt warmed by memories of playing in the leaves when she was a little girl. She felt sad when she realized that her previous life was gone. She was no longer a little girl. She looked up at Filter with the respect of a student to teacher, but Filter was definitely not a mother figure.

Filter stopped at the top of the steps and turned, smiling back at Rebecca. Rebecca could see echoes of bad memories haunt Filter's eyes. There was a lot Filter wasn't saying about this new life Rebecca had been dealt. Rebecca hoped that this visit to The Old Woman would help.

At the top of the steps, Filter hesitated long moments after Rebecca caught up with her, staring at the front door. Rebecca looked up at Filter, asking only with her eyes. Filter looked back at Rebecca and Rebecca saw a hint of fear in Filter's eyes.

"This is where it gets weird," said Rebecca, "Right?"

"This is where it gets dangerous," said Filter. "Just remember to be polite and calm."

Before Rebecca could ask anything, the front door unlatched and creaked open. Both women looked forward as The Old Woman stood in the shadows of the doorway. She was old, very old, but not in the frail, decaying way that most people age. Rebecca felt the warmth of energy, held in reserve, but very present. The Old Woman seemed bent, almost deformed, but there was a sense of physical power about her.

Then, Rebecca smelled her. She smelled of old wood and fresh moss, Autumn leaves, cool breezes, and bright mornings. Rebecca squinted, trying to catch The Old Woman's aura, but it was reigned in tight. There was no brightness to illuminate the Old Woman, nor was the shadows anything more than an absence of light.

"Diane," said the Old Woman with a gravelly, deep voice. There was a kindness in her voice, and a longing. "You have a new friend. Come in." The Old Woman faded into the shadows of her house. Filter and Rebecca followed.

Inside, the house was well kept. The old wood floors were clean and smooth. The sparse antique furniture and fixtures did not have the abandoned feel of museum pieces. The walls were covered in murals of forest and fields. There were no lights, but Rebecca's eyes adjusted well enough. Blinds and curtains covered most of the windows, but the house seemed to have an aura of its own. Rebecca stopped suddenly, realizing that the spirit of the house was sensing her. It was awake and alive and very aware.

The Old woman seemed to immediately sense Rebecca's unease, and she said, "Young woman, don't worry about the house. It is just as curious about visitors as I am."

Filter had disappeared with the Old Woman through a doorway into a sitting room. Rebecca followed, feeling the calming resonance of the room immediately upon entering. The deep brown wood floor was covered by a large area rug with Native American designs. It gave Rebecca the impression of an expanse of desert. The furniture was an odd mix of chairs, love seats and large padded footstools. Filter had taken the love seat across from the Old Woman's throne like padded chair. Rebecca sat down on a large red footstool with deep red upholstery.

When she got her first good look at her host, she froze. The Old Woman wasn't hunched over, she just had powerful shoulders. Her arms were thick and her bare forearms had enough hair to qualify for the circus. The Old Woman's face had full sideburns of straight hair, down to the edge of her jaw line. The angles of her face were extremely canine, though no one would mistake her for anything but human. Her eye were deep, penetrating, as if she could read Rebecca's mind.

"Girl," said the Old Woman, "you are an interesting one. You look at me, not out of revulsion for what I am, but fear for what you might become."

Rebecca nodded slowly.

"Good," said the Old Woman, "I would hate for that lesson to be lost on you.. You are very much like Diane, here, except you are not so full of yourself as she was."

Rebecca looked over at Filter, who just shrugged.

"But you came for answers," said the Old Woman. "Ask your questions."

Rebecca scooted back into the middle of the foot stool and pulled her legs up off the floor. She was careful not to get her shoes on the foot stool.

"What am I?" asked Rebecca. When the Old Woman nodded her head forward and narrowed her eyes, Rebecca continued. "What are we? How did we become this way? Why us?"

The Old Woman smiled, showing tapered white teeth. "Let me tell you a story about two packs of animals on a glacier. I don't know how factual this story is, but I believe it is more true than anything you will find in print. This story was handed down to me by my mentors, and they lived long enough to have heard it from some rather ancient members of our People."

The Old Woman paused, gathering her thoughts, looking at the backs of her hands on the arms of the chair. Rebecca looked over at Filter, but Filter was watching the Old Woman intently.

Blood and Breath 01, Africa

2007-06-01T23:59:00.001-07:00

The drums became more than sound. There were five of them, big drums, pounded by big hands, belonging to large men with dark skin and bright eyes reflecting the firelight. The rhythmic beat of the drums had started at sundown, many hours in the past, but Raphael felt they had always been there, ever present, and now he was just hearing them for the first time. The drums grabbed his heart and lungs, told his mind to shut up and listen, and then reached into his soul and revealed Raphael to himself.

Raphael felt pale in his chocolate brown skin, and he felt very un-African, very American. These people had roots that reach well beyond ancient history. Their skin had always been as black as night, even before humanity recognized itself as humanity. This night, Raphael was being drawn down that path, along a branch of ancestry he thought he knew. This night, Raphael was being shown answers, and he didn’t even have all the questions, yet.

Across the flame, through the high flames, he caught sight of a woman who seemed to seemed to flicker with the shadows. He focused on the woman, trying to hold onto the sanity of the present by grasping at her half-remembered name. As his mind sank into history, as the drums beat his conscious mind into submission, he felt security, knowing the woman was there, had always been there.

Knowledge began to well up inside Raphael, replacing the rational, modern mind with wisdom and faith. He didn’t just know the past, he knew the history, as if by virtue of having a genetic link to these people, he carried within him the knowledge of their ancestors. He melted into them, their culture, their history. They ignored his the Irish taint of his great grandfather. Instead, through the drums, the men in the circle with Raphael directed his soul to follow the ancestral lines that went past the cotton fields, the sailing ships, the chains and manacles.

Raphael felt the lives of his ancestors, living each one in an instant. The experiences left their mark on him, on his soul. His mind would not, could not remember the details, but he retained an understanding that only faith can bring.

Then there was a day he lived backwards, the day that overlapped many days, as if different days lived by different ancestors were woven into one tapestry. It was the day they lost their freedom. Many generations back, his ancestors were captured, enslaved, and all those lives came together, spun and twisted, entwined into a rope of genetics, that led to the birth of Raphael. He felt their isolation, their alienation, their desperation.

Some ancestors had been criminals, guilty of breaking taboos and tribal laws. Some were captured in battle. Others were sold to support their families. It didn’t matter who bought, or who sold; it just mattered that freedom was taken. And as Raphael lived these lives backwards, he passed through that moment of enslavement, into the wide open freedom, into the life of proud and free Africans. In that moment, he forgot Ireland, he forgot America, even Los Angeles. He was one of them, one of the men drumming in the circle.

He did not have a drum in front of him, and that one woman was still across the fire, but as he fell fast again through ancestral history, he felt part of the tribe, part of The People. That’s when the fall blurred. Too many faces, too many eyes, even for his soul to grasp, flashed by.

Then, as the weight of time pressed upon him, he felt a presence. It had always been there, as long as two feet had pounded the Earth. It had found a mentor in the wilderness, and took its calling from Nature’s Path. It walked the Way of Survival, climbing the pyramid of life, claiming the throne of the food chain. The Predator had once been human, but it had harnessed the power of breath and blood, and had transcended.

Raphael dared not even tremble in the presence of The Predator. He emptied his mind and let his soul follow the drums. He felt the shadow of the woman fall upon him, as if it were a tangible cool blanket, calming him. Fear would draw The Predator’s attention, and even through the millennia, it would come after him, hunt him, for that is what it did.

The Predator knew true power. It drank of the blood of the prey, and breathed the breath of the world. It was more than a myth. It was the manifestation of a Truth.

Something nudged Raphael’s mind, and he receded from the past. It drew him towards conscious awareness, but it kept him tightly wrapped in trance. It was as if he were watching the world with his eyes, not his mind, free of all judgment and emotion. He just was.

The message, Look at me, came into his awareness, and he looked through the fire. The woman was still there, but this time, her name surfaced. Mother Midnight, Raphael thought softly, and the woman across the fire came into focus, one skinny, bent finger touching her lips. Do not think of me, came her thoughts, Just look at me, only me.

Raphael did as he was told, but he felt something happening around him. Shadows shifted, and suddenly the drums stopped. Raphael felt like a shadow among shadows, blending and blurring, insignificant in a vast world. In the corners of his eyes, he saw men crouched, their images flickering and shifting among the shadows. They were waiting for something, waiting for The Hunt to begin.

Raphael stared through the fire at Mother Midnight. She didn’t seem old anymore, or young, or all that clear, but he concentrated his focus on her, only her. The men grew restless, like a pack of wolves, hungry, that had lost their prey. The deer had evaded them, or was not presented as promised.

Raphael’s heart felt something flicker, but then he felt Mother Midnight’s presence quell whatever it was that threatened his harmony. In that instant, some of the men turned towards him, but then they turned away, as if they lost sight of him when the feeling was silenced.

The men grew agitated, then hostile. They wanted to hunt, to feed, and The Predator’s presence grew within them. The Predator’s frustration began to erode the cohesion of the pack, and the men looked at each other with hostility. Sometime before dawn’s light tainted the black, starry sky, there was violence. Raphael retreated, ignoring the flashes of movement, the hints of destruction in the corners of his eyes. He saw only Mother Midnight staring back at him from inside his mind.

As the Sun drew closer to the horizon, pushing back the night, Raphael’s mind returned to the world. He knew Mother Midnight was not there, that she was on the other side of the world. The image he was staring at faded, becoming nothing more than shadows between two large drums.

When the Sun peaked over the horizon, Raphael found himself alone, tired, but relaxed. When all traces of his trance were gone, he slowly looked around. Nothing moved, not the men sleeping by the edge of the fire pit, nor the air that slowly brightened. There was a smell in the air, though, that gripped Raphael’s innards.

Raphael counted four men, four drummers, sleeping like lions around the fading warmth of a dead fire. The fifth man, what was left of him, lay beyond the circle of drums, torn and broken. There had been violence, a fight, to determine not who was at the top of the pecking order, the leader, but who was at the bottom, the prey.

Raphael realized that the only reason he had been invited was because he was supposed to be the prey. Mother Midnight had intervened, hiding his presence, his emotions, his fear. His soul had been invisible to the hunters, to The Predator, and the pack had turned on itself.

Slowly, Raphael stood, wincing when his stiff knees popped. He felt like he was standing in a den of lions that had committed fratricide. As quietly as possible, he stepped away from the circle of drums, away from those that had given themselves to The Predator, if only for a night.

He could feel The Predator’s lingering presence in the air. He had a vague feeling that The Predator was letting a pawn go, but only to use that pawn to track down the other player. The other player, Mother Midnight, didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Raphael could feel her pleasure, soft and confident, glowing in the back of his mind. She did not gloat, but victors should be afforded some glory, even in the smallest of battles.

It was a long walk out of Africa, for Raphael, and he did not stop looking over his shoulder until he was riding a train through India. He would never again truly feel safe, though. Not in this lifetime, he was sure.

Blood and Breath 02, Hatti

2007-06-01T23:58:00.001-07:00

Behind the stereo component rack, Hatti sat in the shadows, her back pressed into the corner of two walls, her knees hugged tightly to her chest. They hadn’t fed her in days and she couldn’t stop trembling. She never really knew if the shaking was from hunger or fear, but when she was fed, there was nothing but ecstasy, blind bliss that washed over her and cleansed her of all that was suffering.

She could hear one of them in the bathroom. He was talking, whispering too softly to hear, but he was alone. He was one of the ones that truly frightened her. He never touched her, or even spoke to her, but his looks were dark and evil. She could feel his gaze caress her brown skin, sift through her black straight hair, even when she wasn’t looking. His mere presence sent shivers along her spine. Even thinking about him, there in the bathroom, with the light out, down the hall, away from her, his mind focused on other things, her heart raced.

They had tortured him, while she watched, hiding wide-eyed behind a couch. He tried to fight, escape, call for help, but they were too strong, too fast, too powerful. Once, his eyes found hers, and without making a sound, without anything more than a trembling brow, he begged her for help. Then they did something and he screamed, like a young woman, his eyes closed, his begging stopped. She curled up into a ball, then, and held her hands to her ears for a long time, trying to bury the memory deep where she wouldn’t have to feel it ever again.

Footsteps came, and snapped her out of the dangerous place, so close to all the memories she hated to carry, but couldn’t erase. Bare feet on hard wood floors were quiet, but Hatti could be quieter, almost becoming a vacuum of sound, drawing in external sounds that a normal person couldn’t hear. Walter always knew where she was, though.

“Puppet,” said Walter, into the darkness. “Come out from the shadows, Puppet.”

Hatti felt her blood drain of all heat as it flowed through her veins. She stopped breathing, waiting with half a breath in her lungs, holding onto the moments out of Walter’s grip. There was a pool of moonlight falling from a skylight down in front of the stereo she was hiding behind. She could feel Walter standing in the stark darkness on the other side of the moonlight, waiting for her.

“Puppet,” said Walter, his voice calming, soothing, seducing. “It is time to feed.”

Hatti’s eyes widened and her brow rose. Her breathing returned, quick and anxious. She would eat again, but as always, sustenance came with a price. The things they made her do were inhuman. There was a time, not long ago, that she would have been repulsed, physically sickened by what they made her do. But now, nestled well within her addiction, manipulated beyond the bounds of humanity, she did not care.

Slowly, Hatti uncurled from her tight fetal position and crawled out into the light. She felt vulnerable, frail in the moonlight. Then he was on her, on her back, like a sandbag dropped from the ceiling. One of his hands gripped her head, pinning it to the carpet. Wild with terror, her eyes rolled, looking for escape, looking for hope. In the corners of her vision, his silhouette eclipsed the skylight for a moment. Then her eyes were shut and she withdrew within herself, pulling back from the pain, the fear, the anticipation.

There was a knee in her back and a hand on her head. A bare foot threatened to crush her right elbow. A hand was pulling her left hand back and up, at an unnatural angle. She felt hands move and weight shift, but there was no air in her lungs and she was passing out. There were teeth pressing into the skin, seeking the vein on the inside of her elbow. At this point, she didn’t even know which arm, just that the teeth were not sharp and animalistic. They were dull and human.

But the skin broke anyway.

Hatti found herself standing when her consciousness returned. She was pressing a rag against her torn flesh, so that it would not drip onto the carpet. Something made her walk, something not her. It was Walter, riding her mind, pulling invisible strings. She felt weak and empty. Without Walter’s control, she would have dropped to the floor. It wasn’t possible, she used to tell herself, but as the impossible continued to reoccur, “possible” was redefined.

Hatti’s body walked into the kitchen area, stepping into the light shining down through another skylight window, stepping over a pale body of a man staring at the ceiling. At the far edge of the light, a young woman with black skin and African features was hyperventilating. Sheila held her from behind, held her wrists crossed on her breastbone. Sheila’s grip was tight enough to stop the circulation to the woman’s hands. Sheila wasn’t normally that strong, but that is one of the things they do with the power of blood.

Hatti watched as her own hand reached out to pull a large, sharp knife from the counter. Sheila reached out her hand, extending the terrified woman’s arm towards Hatti. Hatti watched as the blade drew across the woman’s skin. All the poor woman could do was watch, breathing quick, useless gasps. As soon as Hatti hit the vein, she tossed the knife into the sink and placed her mouth on the wound. She tasted the iron and salt, felt the blood warm her throat. Her stomach tightened around the first drops, then expanded as the blood poured in.

She doesn’t know when, but Walter’s presence and control was gone. It was just Hatti and the blood, and she did not pull back. When she could drink no more, she stepped away. One of the others took her place. Who did not matter. Hatti went to the sink and turned on the cold water. She splashed the cold water on her face, washing away drops of blood from her lips and cheeks.

She felt the warm blood in her stomach start to crawl up. Before she could vomit, Maya grabbed her arm. Maya pulled away bloody rag and pressed her lips to Hatti’s arm. As Maya drank, they both sank to their knees. After a moment, Maya pulled away, replacing the rag. There was only a single smear on Maya’s lips and she licked it gone in an instant.

Maya closed her eyes and rolled her head back and began breathing strangely. Her breathing was controlled, but contorted, ragged, but ritualistic. Soon, her eyes were blank as she slid into a trance. Her breathing calmed, but Hatti could feel Maya in her head now, where Walter was before.

Hatti, under Maya’s control, started her own trance, induced by ritualistic breathing. Soon, the blood in Hatti’s stomach began to burn. Hatti could feel her stomach absorb the blood, and soon, her stomach was empty where it had been bloated. Hatti could feel the power burn her muscles and her skin. Her wound burned the brightest for a moment, before she began to vibrate.

Then the burning turned into ecstasy beyond measure, and Maya was gone, leaving Hatti alone, slumping to the kitchen floor, trembling in an oblivion no drug could induce.

Blood and Breath 03, McKenzie

2007-06-01T23:57:00.001-07:00

McKenzie held up her badge and waited for the patrolman to let her pass. He nodded and stepped aside. McKenzie walked down the hall, and turned left through double doors leading into the living room, following the soft familiar voice.

“McKenzie, finally,” said Captain Valize, pressing the end button on his mobile phone. He was a large man with dark Hispanic skin. He moved slowly and deliberately, and a smile was never far from his face. His eyes, however, were haunted by decades of police work and too many funerals.

“Sorry,” said McKenzie, “I was in church.”

Valize raised his gray eyebrows and pursed his lips. McKenzie smiled and shook her head gently.

“No,” she said, “I’m afraid I am not coming back to the fold.”

“My shepherd still has room in his flock,” said Valize.

“As always,” said McKenzie, nodding.

“Then what were you doing in a church?” asked Valize. “Absconding with some candle sticks?”

“No,” said McKenzie, smirking. “But, I do like the candles.”

“Aha,” said Valize, his voice remaining soft and deep. “I knew it was the candle sticks.”

McKenzie paused, then said solemnly, “Witski will be gone one year on Tuesday.”

Valize looked down at the floor, pursing his lips, then he looked into McKenzie’s eyes and said, “I know. He has been in my prayers this week.”

“Am I in your prayers, Captain?” asked Mckenzie.

“Always,” said Valize.

Valize looked down at the floor, sighed heavily, then said, gesturing towards the bathroom, “There is much blood.”

McKenzie shrugged. “I’ve seen blood.”

“And parts,” said Valize, quietly, respectfully.

“Okay,” said McKenzie, “Now that freaks me out.”

“Yes,” said Valize.

“Have you taken a look?” asked McKenzie.

“Oh, no,” said Valize, “I received a verbal report. Fortunately it is my job to delegate.”

“What am I in for?” asked McKenzie.

“Well, for starters,” said Valize, “The murder appears to have taken place in the bathroom. There is no blood anywhere else in the apartment. In fact, there isn’t even a fingerprint. The place has been meticulously wiped down. The bathroom, however, is completely covered with blood. Every tile, every corner, every crack was smeared.”

“And the . . .” McKenzie couldn’t finish the sentence.

“In the Bathtub,” said Valize.

McKenzie nodded, then turned towards the bathroom doorway. The door was open, but a patrolman in blue stood with his back to the blood. Behind the patrolman, McKenzie could see the blood was splattered everywhere and on everything.

The patrolman stepped aside when McKenzie approached, but McKenzie didn’t move through the doorway. She stood at the threshold and stared at the dim room. Blood had been smeared on the floor and wall tiles. Even the sheet of glass covering the florescent lights embedded in the ceiling was smeared. The blood was drying, turning rusty brown, blocking the light from lighting up the room properly. McKenzie took one step back and turned to look at Valize with a sideways glance.

“This was recent,” said McKenzie.

“Yes, very,” replied Valize.

“Who found this?” asked McKenzie.

“Someone called the police emergency line from this room and screamed,” explained Valize. “There was no more communication, but the line stayed connected. The dispatcher had the call traced. The police officers that arrived found the door open. They took one look at the bathroom and called for backup.”

McKenzie turned her head to look back into the bathroom. Her sight landed on the tub. The shower curtain was gone, but all she could see was a hand, its fingers curving gently over the edge of the tub. McKenzie could feel her heart racing. She consciously controlled her breathing, but her adrenaline had already kicked in. Her mouth was dry and her skin was cold. Her hands began to shake.

“Get video and photographs,” said McKenzie. “Also, check out the bathroom with ultraviolet lights. Have a cleaning crew wipe the bathroom down with water only. I don’t want to lose any clues that might be underneath the blood.”

“You aren’t staying?” asked Valize.

“No,” said McKenzie. “The forensic team will get more information from the scene than I could. Get me the media and I will try to piece something together from that.”

Blood and Breath 04, Raphael's Return

2007-06-01T23:56:00.001-07:00

As soon as Raphael stepped onto the ramp and left the cargo ship’s cold metal hold, and walked down the ramp to the concrete pier, he was out of the sailor’s lives. They would remember him, but his presence was ignored. For them, he was only a memory, part of the past. Raphael didn’t mind. They meant the same to him. He might talk about them, referring to the men of the old Portuguese transport the same way he would mention the nice Chinese family with the new junk on the Yangtze.

Looking up at the massive steel crane lifting metal cargo containers out of the depths of the ship, Raphael slid his palm up his forehead to his tight queue. He had his hair pulled back and braided, as was the Chinese custom. “When in Rome . . .” he said to himself in a quiet voice. Mother Midnight used to tell him that, and he could still hear her crackling voice and see her wrinkled, black face in the back of his mind.

The first time Raphael met Mother Midnight, delivering a live chicken from Chinatown to her at dusk, he wondered how she had survived in the worst part of Los Angeles. She was old, skinny, and frail, living with her books, practicing “the old ways”, according to the rumors on the street. As if reading his mind, she had stared at him, grinning darkly, and had said, “Power is in the blood.” Raphael had heard the rumors about Mother Midnight, how she could win a fight with just a solid penetrating stare, or how she once crushed a man’s hand when he grabbed her arm in anger. Raphael didn’t believe any of it, not until she told him where the power was. He knew then, it didn’t matter how tall or strong he was, he would never touch true power until he learned what she meant.

At the bottom of the ramp, Raphael shrugged, readjusting his rucksack. He kept walking as he hit the pier, and he easily blended into the traffic of dockworkers and forklifts. His stomach was tight, a familiar almost comforting sensation, but he was well rested. He stopped at a hot dog vendor’s cart and stood in line behind two bulky white men and a little old lady. The two men smelled of fish, days old and hot. The two men were eager to get their foot longs covered in chili and onions. After weeks of fish, they were finding a taste of home.

The little old lady turned around slowly and looked up at tall Raphael. She had bluish hair and pale waxy skin, but her eyes seemed darker and more alive than anyone her age should be. She stared directly into Raphael’s eyes with a familiarity that caused his stomach to tighten and his skin to chill. Raphael hid behind his poker mask, knowing that she saw right through it.

“Your not in Rome, anymore,” the woman said, then she turned back to face the sweaty, greasy overalls of the two men. Raphael wasn’t sure if the old woman had actually said anything, or if it was just an illusion, a hint of the insanity he had been carrying with him for the past five years.

At age seventeen, Raphael had been delivering chickens to Mother Midnight for three years. When he started, he knew he had hooked into something that was much cooler than drugs or guns, but he hadn’t been invited into anybodies inner circle. He had seen many strange things, things he could not explain, and his desire for knowledge started to gnaw at him. Raphael told Mother Midnight that he would not be delivering chickens to her any more, but she smiled, as if she already knew.

“I will watch over you, if you wish,” she had told him, softly.

“Where I am going, I can’t have a granny slowing me down,” said Raphael, filled with a smug pride.

“I won’t be coming with you, child,” said Mother Midnight, looking down at him, though he towered over her frail figure. “But I assure you, I can guide you well enough.”

“I don’t need your help,” said Raphael, firmly.

“It is foolish when help is denied by pride,” said Mother Midnight. “It is better to reject an offer because the price is too high.” Looking back, Raphael knew he had been played. He remembered her own smugness, unrecognized at the time as he took the bait.

“So, then, what is your asking price?” Raphael had said, sitting down on the old woman’s couch. “Although, I’m not sure it is I that should be paying.”

“When you return, you will help me find my youth,” said Mother Midnight.

“That’s all?” He had asked. “Sure, you can tag along.” He assumed she wanted to hear about his exploits, live vicariously through his adventures. That’s when Mother Midnight jumped onto him, straddling him, grabbing his head and forcing his jaw open. She was stronger than anyone he had ever known, faster than he could follow with his eyes. Then she put her old wrinkled lips to his and started breathing, sucking in his breath and blowing out her own. He tried to struggle, but her skin felt like leather and her bones were as strong as steel. Soon he had passed out.

When Raphael had returned to consciousness, he was sprawled on the steps leading up to Mother Midnight’s apartment. He had looked around at the empty streets, but in the dimming twilight, he couldn’t see anybody, not even the homeless or a stray cat. He ran all the way home, to his abusive father and alcoholic mother, his strung out older brother that stole from him to support a growing habit. That was the same night that Raphael ran away from home, to the docks, to Africa.

The things he had learned in Africa scared him, the primal paths that some took, the hints of something older and darker than Raphael wanted to know, and he kept running.

He didn’t stop running until he found a home in a hidden Asian temple in the Himalayas, between countries, between worlds. There he learned peace, the power of breathing, the path of the mind. It was there that he discovered Mother Midnight was with him, guiding him from his subconscious mind. She had been there since the day he left, and it was only until he was taught how to look into his own mind that he found her again. The monks taught Raphael how to connect with himself, and from there, he started down the path of self realization, of enlightenment, and he saw a long path before him, but Mother Midnight was there by his side.

Then, one day, as he meditated in the snow under a bright sun, Mother Midnight came to him as an illusion, a waking dream, and told him it was time to come back. He didn’t want to leave, but she said he had learned enough to move on, and he had to pay his price. After all the things he had learned, all the things he had seen, he began to be frightened that the price may have been too high. She wouldn’t tell him how he was going to help her find her youth, but she reassured him that he would be able to enjoy her youth as much as she herself would.

It had been five years since he left. He knew Mother Midnight was waiting for him, nudging him along with her little visions, but she would have to wait. He was too close to getting his hands on a nice, hot chilidog.

Blood and Breath 05, Mother Midnight

2007-06-01T23:55:00.000-07:00

Raphael felt lightheaded as he climbed the steps to Mother Midnight’s apartment. He felt like he had been on these steps only a day ago, almost like he had always been here, waiting for his self to catch up, to return.

At the top, he looked back at his waiting taxi. In her last illusionary message, she had said to get a taxi, because they were going for a ride.

Raphael didn’t knock or press the doorbell. He just waited. It wasn’t long before the locks clicked and the door swung open slowly. Mother Midnight stood before him, wearing a long dress, unmatching sneakers, and a scarf around her gray hair. She smiled softly and said, “It has been a long time, young man.”

Raphael noticed how much older Mother Midnight was. For him, it was five long years of growth. For her, it was five years of aging. Her old body wasn’t holding up, even in appearances, anymore. She walked with an awkward limp, and her right hand trembled as she reached out for Raphael’s arm. Raphael remained steady for her, helping her down the steps to the street below.

“Where are we going?” asked Raphael.

“The Morgue, of course,” said Mother Midnight, patting Raphael’s arm. When they were settled in the taxi, Mother Midnight instructed the driver to head to the nearest morgue, her voice always the gentle grandmother’s.

“Why are we going to the morgue?” asked Raphael.

“To identify the body, of course,” said Mother Midnight.

“Whose body?” asked Raphael.

“Mine, of course,” said Mother Midnight. Raphael asked no more questions. He was too confused, and was afraid that he might learn something he was not ready for.

******************

It was late afternoon in the middle of the week, so the morgue staff was busy with everyday activities. It took a moment for someone to offer to help the couple, the tall young man carrying a rucksack and the very old woman.

“Please, could you show us the body?” Mother Midnight asked of a young worker. He seemed to slow his pace when Mother Midnight spoke, as if her words pulled him out of his life and into her world.

“Which body, ma’am?” asked the man.

“Which body do you have?” asked Mother Midnight.

The young man cocked his head to one side in mild confusion, then shrugged and turned, beckoning them to follow. They walked slowly through the busy halls, passed an empty autopsy room, and found themselves in a cold room with a wall of refrigerator doors.

“Leave us,” said Mother Midnight, her voice becoming harder, more commanding, “And forget us.” The young man blinked, turned and walked away, leaving Raphael and Mother Midnight in the cold room.

“Who are we looking for?” asked Raphael.

“Someone nice,” said Mother Midnight, pressing her house keys into Raphael’s hand. He dropped the keys into his shirt pocket. “Someone pretty, and of course, young.” Raphael looked down at the old woman, frowning, his brow drawn together tightly.

Raphael dropped his rucksack in a corner of the room. He started opening the small square doors and pulling out the trays holding cold pale corpses. He was not uncomfortable in the presence of corpses. He didn’t feel like he was in the presence of death. Death had already come and gone. In Death’s wake lay bodies, empty and lifeless, technically dead, but no longer somebody. In Africa, he learned what Death felt like. This was not it.

It was the sixth body that appealed to Mother Midnight. After finding victims of bullets and drug overdoses, she smiled brightly. The body was of a young woman, maybe late teens, thin, but healthy. The skin was dark gray, a black woman with no blood. The hair was black and kinky, but short. It looked like it had been tied up in a bun recently. Mother Midnight put her hand on the cold body, squarely between the young breasts and closed her eyes.

“This is it,” said Mother Midnight. “I’ll take this one.”

“Take it where?” asked Raphael.

“She was murdered,” said Mother Midnight, “drained of all her blood while you were eating your chilidog. Look at her wrists.” Raphael hesitated, feeling disturbed by Mother Midnight’s words. He did look at the girl’s wrists. The skin was slashed, right at the veins, and there appeared to be teeth marks, human teeth marks, around the cut skin.

Raphael felt light headed, remembering the lessons of Africa, remembering the Emissary of The Predator. Raphael shivered. In the darkness of night, the wind had spoke to him, bending grass and rubbing boughs together to create a creaking, hissing voice. It told him a story of a man who discovered the Path of Blood, the rituals that stole the life of one to empower the life of another. The voice in the wind was an Emissary, as The Predator was no longer a physical being, and it beckoned Raphael to follow down its path of power. Raphael lost his pride that night, feeling the presence of Death in the air. Death always followed The Predator. If Death had been an ancient, The Predator would have been its Avatar. Fortunately, Raphael did not meet The Predator’s Avatar. All who did also became intimate with Death.

“Lift me up,” said Mother Midnight. She had been watching him remember, as if she had been there, also. She was, in a way, but the presence of something that powerful had driven her deep into his subconscious mind. To her, it was the memory of a dream. To Raphael, it was more of a nightmare.

Raphael kept his confusion plain on his brown face as he swept Mother Midnight off her feet and sat her on the tray next to the corpse. Mother Midnight struggled with her aging joints and weak muscles, pulling up her dress so she could straddle the young body.

“Do not interfere, Raphael,” said Mother Midnight in a stern and commanding tone. “You will know me by my voice, and when I speak next, you will obey.”

Raphael nodded slowly in silence. Mother Midnight place her open mouth on the corpse's and exhaled deeply. After three or four deep breaths, Mother Midnight seemed winded, drained. Her eyes were drooping, and Raphael thought she had aged years in the last few moments.

When Mother Midnight revealed a scalpel in her hand and sliced her own wrist, Raphael opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, looking towards the door to the room. In the corner of his eye, he saw Mother Midnight dripping blood into the mouth of the corpse. Slowly, Mother Midnight slumped down onto the corpse, her head resting on the dead woman’s breast bone.

The minutes were long, cold, and quiet as Raphael waited. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, other than Mother Midnight to speak to him, to tell him what he should do next. He kept expecting someone to walk in on them, to find him involved with some kind of sick ritual that would linger on the front pages of the tabloid newspapers for weeks.

Then Raphael noticed that Mother Midnight was no longer breathing, but the corpse was moving, subtly, slowly. The corpse’s mouth was sucking on Mother Midnight’s arm. Raphael’s mouth went dry and his stomach tightened. The corpse was still the color of black ash, but it held more life than Mother Midnight. The corpse’s arms came up, shaky and weak, and moved Mother Midnight’s arm from its mouth.

“Come to me,” whispered the corpse. When Raphael didn’t move, the corpse spoke again. “Remove the old woman’s body. I cannot rise.” Raphael wasn’t sure he understood, he wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to believe what he suspected, but he stepped over to the tray and rolled Mother Midnight’s aged body into his arms.

Free of the old woman’s frail weight, the young dead woman slowly slid her legs off the tray and sat up, steadying herself with near lifeless arms. Raphael stared, motionless, watching the corpse breath slowly, steadily, her head down with her chin on her chest.

Then, with determination, she sat up straight, facing Raphael, holding her head high, her chest out, and her arms in her lap. When she had been alive, she had been beautiful, retaining her African heritage very strongly in the deep dark skin and the high noble cheekbones. Her broad, smooth nose and full thick lips centered her face with almost perfect symmetry.

After inhaling deeply, the young woman, the dead woman, said, “Raphael, what you hold in your arms is a very dead body. While I have many fond memories of its pleasures and pains, we will leave it here to be handled with profession care.” The young woman’s voice spoke like Mother Midnight, but the voice itself was steadier.

“Mother Midnight?” asked Raphael, looking into the eyes of the young woman.

“Yes, Raphael,” said the young woman. “It is I in this young shell. Although, I believe that the moniker ‘Mother Midnight’ is no longer appropriate. Shall I call myself ‘Dawn’, instead?”

Raphael didn’t know how he felt. He wasn’t stunned, or scared, or even surprised, really. He looked down at the old body in his arms, then back up at the young woman, Dawn. She slid off the tray, holding herself as steady as she could in her weakened state. Her bare feet slapped the hard tile floor and her knees bent, but by leaning on the tray, she kept herself from falling. Raphael stepped forward and placed Mother Midnight’s old body on the tray, gently.

Both Raphael and the Dawn looked down at the old body in silence. Raphael reached out to touch the hand of the old woman, as the young woman touched the old woman’s face.

“I didn’t sense the presence of Death,” said Raphael.

“That’s because no one died,” said the Dawn. “I am still the Mother Midnight you know.” There was a moment of silence, then, “You have fulfilled your payment for my guidance. You have helped me find my youth. Now, I think we need to find my health.” She smiled weakly.

Raphael looked at her, and realized how naked she was. Not only was she physically nude, but she was weak, drained, though no longer frail. He went to his rucksack and pulled out a t-shirt and sweatpants. He brought the clothes over to Dawn. She smiled broadly.

“Thank you. It is cold in here,” said Dawn, “Especially for someone with too little blood in her veins.” Raphael watched as Dawn put on the clothes.

“Dawn,” said Raphael, trying the name on his lips, as he returned to his rucksack.

“You can still call me Mother Midnight,” said Dawn, “Though, I think I am going to bask in my youth for a while.”

Raphael hefted the strap of his rucksack onto his shoulder, then walked over and slid the tray back into the wall, closing the door on the aged body.

“Next stop, Chinatown,” said Dawn, holding onto Raphael’s arm as she had on the way to the morgue.

Bitter Sprites 01, Curlie

2007-05-24T23:59:00.000-07:00

Riz and Curlie sat high up in a tree, each on her own branch. Riz squatted with her bare back against the trunk, her buttocks on her heals, and only her toes touching the branch. Dressed in a white spider-silk robe, Curlie straddled her branch, leaning forward, resting her elbows on the branch and her chin in her hands. Golden locks of her curly hair touched the bark beneath her. Both peered down at the bed of moss below, between two large roots. Their daughters were giggling and playing, kissing and touching each other.

Curlie sighed. It had been a long time since Curlie had engaged in the lustful freedom her two daughters were practicing upon Petal, Riz’s only offspring. In fact, Curlie had only participated in all-girl play a few times. When there is a friendly gnome available to keep a sprite pregnant and young, Curlie thought, why bother? She had known some sprites in her commune that had preferred other girls, and only submitted to old Ferus for the benefits pregnancy brings, but Curlie liked and preferred the attentions that old gnome gave her. She lay down and hugged the tree branch, smiling at the memories.

Riz glanced around at the forest, both high and low, looking for danger. She spotted Wizica watching the activities below from a different tree, her wings occasionally buzzing with excitement. Riz remembered when her wings did not ache, when she could buzz her own wings and they would lift her from the ground, into the air, and she could fly faster than a bird, more agile than a bat. Now, her aged wings only extended her jumps, and the most she could accomplish was leaping from tree to tree. She knew soon, they would stop working completely, and then fall off, and her transformation would begin.

“I wonder if there are any more kind gnomes out there in the world,” Curlie wondered out loud. Riz glared at Curlie for a moment, then reigned in her animosity. Curlie stretched herself out on the branch, then rolled onto her side, turning her head to stare upwards at the canopy of green leaves above them. “If we find a nice gnome,” continued Curlie, “I will protect him with my life, so that my daughter’s will know the security of a safe community.”

“If we do run into an old gnome,” said Riz, “I am going to ask him if he knows how to reverse aging.” She kept most of her bitterness out of her voice, but there was plenty for Curlie to catch.

Curlie looked over at Riz, who was watching the forest intently, now. Riz’s skin was pale, almost ashen gray. Curlie’s skin held a pale yellow glow. Riz’s wings hung from the middle of her back with no life of their own. Curlie’s wings still twitched and fluttered with emotion. Riz’s shoulder’s were slowly becoming broader than her hips. Her figure was already boyish, except for her small breasts. They would probably be the last trace of a feminine figure to fade. Riz was even in the habit of keeping her white hair short and spiky, like many Pixies do. Curlie was the essence of feminine, though she was slimming down, losing the fullness of youth, though she would still draw pixies like bees to honey.

Curlie sat up, dangling her feet off the side of the branch. Her body was still relatively young, for an oldie. She was a couple months younger than Riz, but she had enjoyed a few more daughters. I wonder if I could still bear daughters? thought Curlie. She looked down at her stomach, still smooth and ready for a belly. She shot a quick glance over at Riz’s stomach and saw hard rippled muscles.

Riz saw the sad look on Curlie’s face and snapped, “We’ll see how cheerful you are when you reach my stage.” Curlie’s eyes watered. Riz looked away, feeling bad that she had hurt Curlie’s feelings, but not caring enough to apologize. They sat in silence, occasionally hearing the sounds of passion from below.

“You will be dangerous as a boy,” said Curlie, quietly, “if you keep your bitterness.”

“I’m dangerous now,” muttered Riz, still looking away.

Curlie cocked her head to one side, not sure of Riz’s meaning. Riz was the best warrior of the group. Only Petal, Riz’s daughter was a trained fighter, but Petal didn’t have the rage, or the experience to match her mother. Then panic blossomed in Curlie’s chest and her breathing became quick and shallow. She looked down at her daughter’s and trembled. When she returned her gaze upon Riz, Riz was looking back.

“Petal will take care of me,” said Riz, quietly, almost compassionately.

“But she is no match for you, even with her sword,” said Curlie.

“She will have help,” said Riz. When Curlie’s fear gave way to confusion, Riz said, “There will be a part of me begging for that glass blade.” Once again, Curlie’s eye streamed with water, the corners of her mouth drooped as her chin tried to push up her bottom lip. Riz looked away, hiding her own watery eyes.

*******************

When Curlie stopped crying, she swung her legs to the other side of the branch and slipped off into freefall. Her wings buzzed and slowed her descent. She aimed for a small grouping of dandelions struggling to grow in the shadow of the tall trees. She landed softely, but she didn’t hear Wizica land nearby.

Curlie squatted down to pee, screening herself behind some dandilions. Wizica wandered over and squatted down in front of Curlie to watch.

"What are you doing?!" exclaimed Curlie.

"I want to see," said Wizica.

"Shoo," said Curlie, standing up and waving her hands at Wizica. "I like to pee alone."

"Riz says never do anything alone," said Wizica.

"Well, I am not a ‘tiny’, little one," said Curlie, "I can do as I please."

"When will I get little hairs between my legs?" asked Wizica.

Curlie turned red with embarrassment and anger, then she turned around and lifted herself up into the air with an angry buzzing of wings, away from the curious tiny.

Left alone, Wizica said in a small voice, “But, they are pretty.” She frowned for a moment, then quietly slunk through the vegetation to spy on her sister.

Bitter Sprites 02, Riz

2007-05-24T23:58:00.000-07:00

Petal lay spread eagle on the mossy ground. On either side of her, Curlie’s daughters snuggled up under her arms and draped a leg over one of her legs. The trio lay exhausted, happy, content to let the afternoon float by. Petal looked up through half closed eyes and saw her mother watching over them. If any danger approached, Riz would warn them.

“Petal, I think your daughter is harassing my mother,” said Spinner, smiling with her eyes closed. They all heard Curlie’s half of her exchange with Wizica. They would have laughed if they hadn’t been so tired.

“She is a curious one,” said Petal.

“We are curious ourselves,” said Peek, raising her head to look at Spinner. Spinner felt the movement and opened her eyes. She nodded softly at Peek, then closed her eyes and returned to smiling in contentment.

Petal opened her eyes a little wider and turned her head toward Peek. Peek was leaning close and their noses almost touched. They both smiled and their eyes went wide, meeting in a recent memory of ecstasy, then Peek looked away.

“Why are you so different from your mother?” asked Peek, shyly. After she asked her question, she looked back into Petal’s eyes, her gaze darting from left to right and back again.

“She didn’t want me to be like her,” said Petal softly. There was a hint of sadness in her voice, but there was also gratefulness.

“What happened to her?” asked Spinner, opening her eyes. She ducked her eyes away when Peek pursed her lips and shot a glance at her sister.

“She kept those memories from me,” said Petal, “But once I was old enough, she told me her story.” Spinner and Peek waited silently, pressing their bodies against Petal’s. Spinner stared at one of Petal’s nipples, trying to make it hard without touching it. She was pleasantly surprised that it worked, ignoring the fact that Petal saw what she was doing, and became aroused by the thought alone.

“Well?!” said Peek, wanting to hear the story more than she wanted to play. They had played all morning and now, her mind wanted to be satiated. Petal looked at Peek and smiled. She could tell Peek was the older sister.

Petal’s voice became more serious and soft. “When Riz was young, still only a tiny, she was captured by a group of pixies. They tried to rape her, but she wasn’t mature, yet, so they kept her in a hole in the ground, until she was old enough. Then . . . they took their turns . . . often. They were young pixies, and they had too much energy. They hurt her when she tried to escape, and they took her glowies as soon as they could fly. She doesn’t know how many, or what happened to them. She says she lost her mind during that time. She doesn’t remember details, just flashes of . . .”

Spinner snuggled tighter under Petal’s arm and closed her eyes. A frown lay across her face. Peek stared at Petal’s face, one hand on Petal’s chest, comforting her. Petal didn’t need comforting, however. She spoke as she stared upwards, at her mother on the branch. Her voice held a fondness, now.

“My mother did manage to escape,” said Petal after a long pause. “She won’t talk about it, but when I ask about the pixies, she just says in a very scary, quiet tone, ‘you don’t need to know that part’, and I drop the subject.” Spinner shivered and Peek’s eyes widened.

“So, what about you?” asked Peek.

“I was the last belly she got from that gang,” said Petal. “She made her escape while pregnant.” They all lay in silence, out of respect for the Riz’s amazing feat, knowing there was a story they wanted to know, but probably didn’t want to hear.

“As for your original question,” said Petal, after a while, “My mother put a lot of effort in giving me good memories. She avoided the pain and the suffering. So, here I am.”

“Oh, yes,” said Peek, “Here you are.” She bowed her head to kiss Petal long and soft on the lips.

“And what about Wizica?” asked Spinner, interrupting the kiss, which was becoming quite passionate.

Peek pulled away and flung her head back, arcing her hair through the air. Petal grabbed at Peek’s hair as it landed on her back. She tugged it enough to bare Peek’s throat, making Peek gasp. Petal asked, “More of that later?”

Peek exhaled, releasing a long, drawn out whisper, “Yesss”.

Petal let go of Peek’s hair and looked at Spinner. “A few months ago, my mother and I came across an old gnome who could make glass. He was a solitary person, not liking much attention, but he certainly had an eye on me. He offered me a glass sword, if only I would let him have his way with me. He was kind and gentle, and quite pleasing, so we stayed a few days with him. Riz patrolled the area, stopping by quite infrequently. When my belly started to show, the old gnome gave me the sword and shooed me away.

“So, I not only got a sword, but a wonderful little belly growing inside me. I took my time putting her memories together. I rested often, and meditated every chance I found. At first, Riz was impatient. Then, when I told her that I was trying to make the best memories I could, she was very encouraging.”

“Wizica seems much older than she looks,” said Spinner. “Sometimes its almost . . . as if . . .”

“How could you say such a thing!” said Peek, swatting her sister across the top of the head.

“It’s okay,” said Petal. “I think Wizica turned out perfect. She is very smart and aware at such a young age because the memories set quickly and firmly. Try it yourself. You will find it very rewarding.”

“If we ever get pregnant,” said Peek, frowning. “Our mother avoids boys at all costs, and we haven’t found a single gnome.”

Suddenly, Wizica was buzzing overhead. She dropped down to straddle her mother and she gave Petal a full body hug using her arms and legs, humming loudly. Peek and Spinner both jumped back in surprise, but they started laughing when they realized that Wizica must have heard the Petal’s compliment.

Bitter Sprites 03, Rumors of War

2007-05-24T23:57:00.000-07:00

Peek and Spinner flitted from branch to bush to stump, flicking their eyes up and down and all around. Peek was on the left of the group and Spinner was on the right. They were never a few yards from their companions. Occasionally, the morning sun poked through the canopy of trees and lit their wings with a flash of blurring fire of clean light. Then, they ducked back into the bright twilight of the forest’s undergrowth.

It was Spinner that saw the stranger first. The tiny was balled up between the roots of a tall tree, half covered by a leaf, but the light of fresh wounds glowed brightly. Spinner sat on a branch a couple yards above the ground, staring at the stranger about ten yards away. The tiny hadn’t noticed Spinner, yet.

Peek glanced towards Spinner as part of her usual alertness and saw that her sister was not moving. Peek stopped and scanned the ground where Spinner was watching. When she saw the strange tiny for herself, she dropped behind a stump, then skimmed the ground behind a fallen tree, until she intercepted Riz and the others.

“There is a tiny up ahead,” said Peek. “Spinner spotted her first. The poor thing looks wounded.”

“Petal, come with me,” said Riz. She looked back at Curlie, who was standing with Petal and Wizica.

“I’ll stay here,” said Curlie. Riz nodded. Peek sat on a stone next to Curlie.

Riz and Petal moved ahead, looking forward, searching for the newcomer. They also looked up to find Spinner. Spinner had noticed Riz and Petal and started pointing towards the stranger. Riz and her daughter circled around to the other side of the tree, then approached the tiny from opposite sides.

Petal had her sword drawn, but did not step into sight. Riz moved in a low crouch, then sprang into the air. Her wings would no longer support her, but they slowed her descent to give her a long leap. She landed on a twig, snapping it.

The Tiny gasped at the sudden sight of an oldie like Riz. Her eyes were wide with terror and fascination. Riz did not move. She crouched motionless, staring into the wide open eyes of the tiny half her size. As she watched, the tiny’s chin started to tremble, then her lips started to twitch.

Finally, Riz said, “Who are you?” in a quiet voice.

“Fi,” said the young sprite.

“Smile,” commanded Riz.

Fi’s beautifully curved lips spread into a wide smile, and her eyes still squinted slightly, squeezing out some welled up tears.

“Show your teeth,” hissed Riz, digging her toes into the soft green moss covering the ground.

There was a long, silent moment of hesitation, but slowly, the small sprite spread her lips into a full smile, showing her pointy teeth. Her red lips trembled even more, and tears started to stream down her face. Her eyes closed, and her mouth opened as a pathetic wail escaped her throat. The wail turned into sobs and she buried her face in her arms.

Petal stepped out from behind the tree, sword ready. “What’s wrong,” she asked Riz.

“Stain,” said Riz. “Her teeth are stained.” Petal gasped, then stared at the tiny. Riz continued. “And look into her eyes.” Riz moved forward with unexpected speed. She grabbed the tiny’s long black hair and jerked it back hard, exposing the little one’s throat to hard fingernails.

The leaf slid off Fi’s lap and revealed open wounds on her legs, sets of three lines of torn flesh, exposing the bright glow of sprite flesh. Even as they watched, the wounds were healing. The blood had stopped flowing, losing its glow, becoming dark stains on pale skin.

Fi’s eyes and mouth had opened, and her sobbing had stopped. Fear gripped her and Petal saw it. Petal stepped forward, looking for what her mother saw, but a terrified tiny stared back, pleading silently.

“Mother,” said Petal, wondering if Riz was going over the edge, losing her sanity. Petal had seen the signs before, recently. Riz was more irritable, twitchy, reactive. She rarely ever truly relaxed. Soon, in only a few months at the most, she would become a tweener. Petal’s eyes watered at the thought of her mother losing her wings, transforming into a pixie, a boy, forgetting those she loved, forgetting that she had ever loved.

As Petal’s heart ached at such thoughts, her eyes still watched Fi. She watched Fi look back into Petal’s eye, see the tears, and there was a flicker of something else in Fi’s eyes. Petal wiped her eyes clear and stepped closer, looking deeper into the tiny’s eyes. What Petal had seen was gone. Fearful pleading remained.

Petal’s demeanor became hard and cold. Survival often required swift decisions based on ephemeral evidence. “How old are you?” Petal asked Fi.

“You saw it, didn’t you,” hissed Riz.

“I think so,” said Petal. “For a moment, a calculating mind replaced the innocence.”

“Yes, good eyes,” said Riz. “Now, little one, how old are you?”

Fi relaxed and the terror subsided. She was still afraid, but her facade of youth faded. Physically, she was young, immature, childlike, but there were ways to stave off age. Speech was awkward in her position, but she said, “Release your hold and I will give fair warning.” Her voice held the wisdom of an oldie and that sent a shiver down Petal’s spine.

Riz backed off, letting go of Fi’s hair and throat, but she remained alert for any treachery. Fi was no match for Riz and Petal based on size and strength, but tinies were fast, and an old tiny had more than a little experience dealing death.

Fi composed herself, drawing the leaf back over her injured legs once again. She said, “My name is Fi. I started marking my age a year ago.” She looked down at a row of dots tattooed on her left forearm. “Before that, I remember four generations of bellies coming from my mother. Before that . . .” Fi shrugged.

There was silence. Petal felt tension rise in her body and she fought the trembling. She glanced at her mother and saw only the tension of a killer waiting for a reason. Petal looked back at Fi and saw all the reason any sprite would need to kill.

Sprites usually can’t count beyond their age, although Wizica was a special case. Petal had put much time and effort into Wizica’s memories when Wizica was just Petal’s belly. This sprite, this tiny in front of her, this Fi, was older than Riz, was older than any tiny probably had a right to be. The only time a sprite did not age was during the month they carry a belly, when they are pregnant. There was one other way to remain young, but it was unthinkable. Eating the flesh of another sprite was taboo. And for a tiny to remain so young for more than a year, that was just way too many deaths to keep one alive.

“Give us your fair warning,” said Riz, not hissing, but growling now.

“There is war here,” said Fi, “between more tinies than you have ever seen. If you are determined to move through this area, you will need a guide. Keep me alive, and I will be that guide. Otherwise, you must not enter this area.”

“You expect us to trust you to guide us?” exclaimed Petal. She stepped close enough that the point of her sword was at Fi’s throat. Fi, however, no longer showed any sign of fear.

“What do you mean, war?” asked Riz.

“There are many pixies in this area, and a few gnomes, also,” explained Fi. “When one of their own is suspected of becoming an ancient, they kill him, swiftly and mercilessly.”

“Explain the war,” growled Riz.

“I am,” said Fi. “This is the reason for it.” Fi paused, setting her thoughts in order. She acted like no tiny that Petal had ever seen. Fi continued. “The boys capture any girls they can find, trapping them with glass shackles, or in stone cells, or breaking them so they cannot escape on their own.”

“What?!” exclaimed Petal. Her stomach squeezed so tight it hurt. Her blood left her face so pale, she nearly fainted.

“It happens,” said Riz, emotionless. Petal looked hard at her mother, realizing there was more to Riz’s past that she never relayed to her daughter.

“Yes,” said Fi, speaking to Riz, now. “The pixies have gathered many sprites and pump them full, using them to breed armies of sprites. The sprites are taught as soon as they are old enough what will happen to them if they become a girlie. They are also taught how to stay young, to avoid ever becoming a girlie in the first place. And that is why they fight.”

“And the Pixies command them like armies for petty victories,” said Riz.

“Yes,” said Fi.

“What about you,” said Riz. It was more of a statement, more of an accusation, than a question.

“I want out,” said Fi.

“You want out,” said Riz.

“Too late!” said Petal, her rage building. Before she could thrust her glass through Fi’s throat, Riz’s hand was on her arm, gently. Riz was still watching Fi, however.

“Even if we go around, we don’t know how far this war extends,” said Riz.

“But she is a murderer!” said Petal. “She is a cannibal! She has slaughtered more sprites, tinies, no less, than I can count, and you want to trust her?”

“We will let the group decide,” said Riz. She then spoke to Fi. “Is this area safe?”

“Patrols rarely ever come this way,” said Fi. “My troops turned on me when they found out I wanted to run away, to leave the army. They attacked me, but they could not catch me. They came close, though.” Fi looked down at the leaf covering her legs. “I led a furious chase, and when I lost them, I waited until the bleeding stopped before finding refuge here. On the other side of that hill, the land is highly disputed, but here, there is nothing and no one.”

“So, if you return to your own army, you will be killed,” said Riz. Fi nodded. Riz continued, “And if you go to another army?”

“They may want my experience, but they will not trust me,” said Fi. “They will want to know why I left my own side. The best I can hope for is the pixie in charge will let me become a girlie and keep me pregnant.”

“You can put together some good memory,” whispered Petal.

“That would be a surprise for the pixies,” said Fi. “My mother didn’t, and none of the other tinies I knew had decent memories. Most tinies aren’t ready for warfare right at the start. They have to be trained, and many are just plain stupid.”

“The mother’s probably don’t want them to suffer much thought before they die in battle,” said Riz. “And they don’t want to pass on too much of their own suffering.”

“Whatever the reason, many new tinies must be hand fed to keep them young, but they learn to like the taste very much.”

“And you?” asked Petal, her anger rising.

“I have been around far longer than most of the others,” said Fi. “I have listened, watched, and learned. I learned to think on my own, and I learned that this is all wrong.”

“You believe this?” Petal asked Riz.

“If she had an army to return to, she would have,” said Riz. “Even if she were crippled, her pixie commander could always use another breeder.” Fi nodded. “Petal, bring the others here. We will share what we have learned, and let the group decide.”

Petal stood silently, the point of her sword at Fi’s throat. The forest was silent and the wind was still, as if waiting to see what Petal decided on her own. Then, she stepped back and leapt up, taking flight to find the others.

“Remember, little one,” said Riz, menacingly, after Petal was away, “Your flesh would push back my coming tween stage another week, so behave.” Fi nodded silently.

Elder Gods: The Emissary

2007-05-19T21:53:00.000-07:00

Thomas squatted down in front of the one-room cabin’s small fireplace and stared into the low fire licking across the smoldering logs. The fingertips of his left hand were pressed against the floor, steadying his body, while his other hand moved through a series of signs and signals near his chest. He kept his breathing deep and slow, but his mind was racing through the symbols of an ancient incantation. It took a minute, but when he finished, he heard the whispering, hissing, crackling voice of the fire speaking back to him.

“You want warmth,” hissed the small fire.

“Yes,” said Thomas, eyes locked on the flickering flames, “enough heat to keep out the winter wind, and nothing more.”

“And how long do you desire this warmth?” asked the flames.

“Until dawn will be fine,” said Thomas. “I will be leaving then.”

“Can you pay the price?” asked the flames.

“What is your price?” asked Thomas.

“A book,” said the flames, without hesitation.

Thomas’ eyes narrowed at the thought of burning a book, but he sighed with resignation. He knew a book he could burn that should satisfy the flames.

“You will get a book,” said Tomas.

“Then you will get your heat,” said the flames.

Thomas stood and reached for the stone mantle above the fireplace. There were some common books there, such as a thesaurus, a college dictionary, and of course, a bible. He was renting the cabin, after all.

Thomas grabbed the thesaurus and tossed it into the fire. The flames embraced the book, welcoming it into destruction. Soon, a blanket of heat spread out from the small fireplace, warming the entire room, as if it were a summer night.

Turning around to face a long comfortable couch, covered with a hand-made blanket of Lakota design, Thomas opened his leather backpack. There were books in there, but none replaceable. He pulled out a black iron concave plate wrapped in suede. It was almost a very shallow bowl. The rim was perforated with small holes. He unwrapped it and placed it on the wood floor. Thomas then pulled a plastic bottle of water from his gym bag next to the backpack. He poured a small amount of water from the bottle onto the metal plate, enough to create a mirror of water on the black surface of the metal.

Inside the back pocket of the backpack, Thomas found a long wood box of incense sticks. He drew out four sticks and placed them around the edge of the plate, sticking up through holes in the rim. He pulled a book of matches from the pocket of his deep blue vest and lit the incense. He let them smolder for a moment, watching the smoke drift upwards before curling and dispersing.

Once again, Thomas started to breath deep and slow, though this time, there was a slightly different rhythm. His hands reached out, curling around the smoke rising from the incense, as if to wrap it around his wrists. He closed his eyes and his mind plodded through a long incantation of symbols and signs. When he felt the grip of the thin smoke around skin, he opened his eyes and wove the strands of tangible smoke into a circle. Once the circle was complete, he pulled his hands from its ephemeral grasp. Looking down through the circle of smoke, he blew gently onto the water, causing tiny ripples on the surface.

In his mind, he held the image of a complex symbol that seemed to twist and contort without ever moving or changing. As he concentrated on it, he began to see a face that he recognized.

Amanda Blackwing could trace her lineage through a woven tapestry of North American tribes. Her family tree never once left the continent, but it spanned the land from coast to coast.

“Amanda,” said Thomas, as if she were merely resting on the couch. “Amanda, are you there?”

After a few quiet moments, in which the wind whistled and the fire crackled, a thin haze drifted down from the circle of smoke and covered the water. The water shimmered slightly, then the haze became contoured and rose up in the likeness of Amanda’s familiar face. Looking down, Thomas smiled.

“Thomas,” said the image, the words forming in Thomas’ mind, “I was expecting you sooner.” A faint smile was on Amanda’s lips, but her eyes betrayed her concern.

“How is Sara?” asked Thomas.

“She is recovering,” said Amanda. “She won’t tell me where she got the blood for the Blood Rites, but she said Raphael warned her, telling her it was time to leave.”

“Sounds like she was playing a dangerous game to start with,” said Thomas. “Who is Raphael? He doesn’t sound familiar.”

Amanda’s image rolled from side to side, indicating she didn’t know. “I received a dream from a woman in L.A., a woman calling herself Mother Midnight,” continued Amanda. “She wanted to speak with me.”

“That is a name I have heard,” said Thomas, “Though I have never met her.”

“I had the impression she was bathed in blood,” said Amanda, twisting her face to show her dislike for serpents.

“If I remember correctly, she is a Houdoun,” said Thomas. “She may have been using blood instead of water.”

“Can she be trusted?” asked Amanda.

“I don’t know,” said Thomas. “Protect yourself, but let her speak. In the mean time, I will ask around.”

“So, what is going on with you?” Asked Amanda.

“Something was waiting for me at the Gate of the Northern Star,” explained Thomas. “It didn’t reveal itself to me, but I think it was an Emissary of the Predator.”

“You are still in Montana?” asked Amanda.

“Yes, but I didn’t want to draw whatever it was back to you,” said Thomas, “Not with Sara still recovering.”

“Good idea,” agreed Amanda. “The Predator’s taint still marks her spirit, though it is fading.” There was a moment of hesitation in which Amanda seemed trying to say something. Then, she spoke softly. “Thank you for finding her, Thomas. If you hadn’t been there, they would have devoured her, body and spirit.”

“You ask for my help,” said Thomas, as if that was all that needed to be said. “Now, you tend to your sister. I am going to find out what the Emissary wants, then I will try to find out more about Mother Midnight.”

“Okay,” said Amanda. “Bye.”

Her face faded and the smoke dispersed, and Thomas released the image of Amanda from his mind. He found himself smiling, as he always did after speaking with Amanda, but he put his smile away. He doused the ends of the incense in the thin layer of water, then pinched the wet tips of the incense sticks off, before putting them back into their box. He placed the iron plate next to the fire so that the water would evaporate quickly.

Thomas put his gym bag and his backpack on the floor, and finally laid down for a rest. He stared at the thick wood beams holding up the ceiling and thought about his encounter at the Gate of the Northern Star.

It hadn’t been anything truly dangerous, merely an Emissary. If it had been an Avatar, Thomas knew he would have been dead, hunted and killed, as was the way of the Predator. The Emissary was currently still outside, respecting the Boundary of Residence. It was a colder than winter presence, something that could kill the will to live, did not hunt, did not feed upon whatever lay waiting for death.

Thomas had called forth a fire elemental to keep the Emissary at bay, but it was a risky choice. Even the elements had wills of their own, and bargains didn’t always turn out well. This time, however, within the set boundaries of a constructed residence, each spirit, the fire elemental and the Emissary, could clearly define the limits of influence.

That was the problem, thought Thomas, with spirits. If they don’t have clear definitions, they start making up their own, and spirits are not known for rational thought.

With a short sigh that was almost a huff, Thomas sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He looked down at the wet shoes and thin socks. I’ll be lucky if the worst I catch from this is a cold, Thomas told himself. His vest and matching slacks, and white button-down shirt were just as appropriate for the winter weather he found himself in. Fortunately, he had also grabbed his gym back from the car in Los Angeles when he first grabbed his backpack.

He took off his shoes and socks and placed them by the fire, close enough to dry. From his gym bag, he grabbed thick athletic socks and sneakers. They weren’t much better in the long run, but he hoped to be back in warmer weather soon. Once his feet were warm and dry in comfortable sneakers, he stood up and went to the door. On a hanger was a suede cloak Amanda had lent him. Thomas wrapped this around his shoulders as he looked out at the cold night.

As if the wind knew he was getting ready to talk, it raced through the trees, howling low and long. Hunching his shoulders in preparation for the cold, Thomas turned the doorknob and opened the door. The fire elemental kept its promise and did not let even a hint of cold air into the cabin.

Thomas stepped out into the wilderness, three steps away from the open door, and shivered. He could feel the Emissary out there, without form, without malice, but still, by its very nature, attempting to drain away his desire for life. It would not feed on him this night, though. Thomas was experienced enough in the workings of spirits to understand what was happening, and that was more than half the battle.

“What do you want?” Thomas asked, sending his voice off into the trees.

The wind picked up and moaned through the trees, causing branches and boughs to creak and mutter. Words formed, slow and tired, as if the air itself no longer had a reason to exist.

“The Predator wishes cooperation,” said the voice of the Emissary.

“To what end?” asked Thomas, his teeth starting to chatter already. He could fend off the spiritual presence of the Emissary, but the physical cold was harder to deal with.

“Your friend was hunted by those who strayed from the Path,” said the slow, eerie voice.

The Predator, the spiritual manifestation of The Hunt, one of the oldest traditions of life, has strict rules, and does not take kindly to deviants. Kill what you need and use what you kill are the core rules. Very simple, but as with most natural laws, they are often bent, even broken, by sentient creatures.

“Who are they?” asked Thomas. “How did they stray?”

“Your friend knows,” said the voice, echoing off trees bending in the wind.

“Was she cooperating with the Predator?” asked Thomas.

“Yes,” the voice hissed across the snow-covered ground.

“How will this cooperation manifest?” asked Thomas.

“Let the Predator guide your hunt,” said the wind, stuttering between branches rubbing together.

“How do I know the Predator will release me when the hunt is over?” asked Thomas.

“Yes,” said the Emissary, again hissing over the snow.

“Is the Hunt ever over?” asked Thomas. He had survived many dealings with spirits by knowing which questions to ask.

“No,” said the Emissary, moaning woefully.

In other words, thought Thomas, if I allow the Predator to manifest through me, it will grant me with the power to defeat this aberrant pack of humans, but there isn’t any guarantee that I will retain my freedom from the Predator’s Path.

“We shall see,” said Thomas. Then, shaking with cold, feeling his cheeks sting, Thomas turned around and went inside, into the warmth. Once he was back on the couch, behind a secured door, he turned his brain to the task of defining a better bargain. Once he knew how many people he would be tracking, then he would be ready to negotiate. Unfortunately, The Predator had already sent an Emissary. The next time Thomas made contact, he would be the one initiating contact, and he would lose the advantage in the negotiations.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Shadowrun: Star Witness

2007-05-01T00:03:00.000-07:00

I always had this fantasy about being the key player in a major operation. My fantasy always had a woman, some violence, and me walking away with a fortune. When my fantasy came true, I realized that I left too many detail up to the discretion of higher powers.

The Seattle Team players consider me a “paid informant”, although, that label will probably be buried in loads of paperwork once the trial is underway. Prosecuting attorneys get all twitchy when the defense attorneys hint that the “paid informants” are actually “bribed witnesses”. This is one of those things that I didn’t specify. Yeah, sure I walked away with a fortune, small as it was, but if I’m spotted on the streets by the wrong people, I’m a dead man. Even worse, I’m not completely sure who the “wrong people” are.

The Mafia Team players considered me a target. According to them, I betrayed the family, turned my back on the Don, and basically gave up my rights to life, liberty, and a quiet painless death in my later years. The fact is, I don’t know enough to harm the family, any family, including my own. I was so insignificant in the criminal food chain, my only hope for glory was this scam someone thought up to nail corruption in city hall. There was plenty of violence, and none of it even scratched my skin, but if you ask my virtual therapist, I probably would have been better off if I had spilled some blood.

Then there was the woman, a brunette. True enough, she played a major role. In fact, if it wasn’t for her, I would probably have spilt lots of blood. When I first met her, she was sweet, professional, and very tall. I may be short and fat, but most women don’t have to bend down and talk to me like I’m a child. This woman was strong and lean, like a professional athlete, but she was the size of a male ork. She was so confident and beautiful, that I nearly wet myself.

The woman, Sheila something, called me one day, offering me a large sum of money and a change of scenery. She met me at a sports bar a block from the waterfront. She was nearly my height just sitting down, but her tailored business suit had all the right lines. It seemed to breath every time she took a breath. It was almost painted on, with no hint of armor underneath. That brash confidence wooed me on the spot, but the sum of money she offered had more digits than my left hand.

As Sheila explained the operation, hinting at the details, reading my responses and judging my interest, I felt my heart slowly accelerate. Of course the operation was going to be big, given the amount of money involved on my end, but the significance of the fortune seemed to dwindle as I connected the dots.

She started out by suggesting that I wear a tiny recording device. This told me I was involved with a government operation. That gave me confidence. Only competent operatives were given the funding that Sheila seemed to be working with. I knew I had to watch myself, however, until I was given immunity.

Next, Sheila slid out a data pad with a thumb print verification attachment. I read the contract on the screen, and sure enough, it was a full immunity agreement. In fact, according to what I understood, I could have taken a shot at the mayor herself and nobody would have blinked an eye. That might be due to the fact that I wouldn’t hit the broad side of a warehouse if I was inside the damn thing, but at the time, I had a warm feeling in my belly.

Once I signed, thumbed, and voiced my agreement, she used her stylus to poke the last tab of the datafile, showing me that the mayor had already done the same. The Mayor of Seattle, if you can believe that. I was in the big league now. I should have run for my life.

As I pointed out before, my significance in the eyes of the world was that of a rock. I wasn’t even in the food chain itself. I was a by-stander, an observer with no eyes, a dried fly carcass next to the dust bunny under the couch. So, how do I figure in a major government operation? That question didn’t occur to me until too late. “Too late” being the moment I sat back and let Sheila copy the contract onto a data chip. Once we both had a copy, and I acknowledged receiving it under known surveillance, I was hooked. Fish aren’t the only things that get caught on hooks. Worms wriggle until death claims them, and that often happens long before the fish come for a bite.

At this point, Sheila began to divulge the meat of the operation. I was chosen because no one in the criminal family would believe that I knew anything of importance. This was particularly important, because it was entirely true. I was to play the part of a star witness in a federal court case against the Mitoli crime syndicate. Now, normally, I shine shoes, open doors, hang coats, and play the part of a wannabe, but the story would hint that I overheard some rather incriminating information, and I was selling out to the feds.

By this time, my smile was gone. They wanted me to be bait, and even if I backed out, they would still run the story in the news, and I would be hunted by the Mitoli’s. So, it would be best if I were under the protection of the feds when the news broke.

Sheila revealed the heart of the plot. She said the District Attorney was corrupt, and was the real target. With me in custody, he would inevitably step in to find out what I knew. See, that was why my ignorance was key. The Mitoli’s would want to question me before killing me. Otherwise, they would have no idea what the government knew.

Anyway, the mayor wanted the DA out of the picture, and if everything played out right, the DA would be in prison and I would be walking away with a fortune. How often do things play out right, though?

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

I was stuck for three days in a nice tall hotel overlooking the Sound. Seattle police were keeping me company in pairs, showing me the finer points of various card games. Nobody asked me what I knew, but they all seemed to believe the story.

On the evening of the third day, the DA came for a visit. He had with him a dangerous looking man, and together, they relieved the police on duty. I could see by the expressions on the police officer’s faces that this was unexpected, and possibly against procedure, but they were not ones to question the DA’s authority, so they quietly left.

“Hi, I’m Walter Kim, Seattle DA,” said the DA. He looked like a UCAS mutt with a hint of Korean ancestry. He was tall, charismatic, and broad shouldered. He had an old deep scar from his cheekbone to his jaw, but it did nothing to diminish his looks. He shook my hand firmly, and I felt more than a little intimidated. This was the target. This was the man who was going to prison because of my involvement. This was the man with connections within my boss’s family. This was the man who brought the human equivalent of an attack dog.

“And this is Johnny,” said Walter. Apparently, Johnny didn’t have, or even need, a last name. He was skinny, wiry, shorter than Walter. He moved like a special forces man. He was the type of man that quickly spied out all the exits of a room, not so he could escape, but so his target could not.

“I wanted to meet the man who was going to bring down the Mitoli family,” said Walter. “It has been a goal of mine for a long time, but you yanked the rug right out from under me.” Well, I thought, he wasn’t going to be charmingly subtle with me. I was a bug that whispered in someone else’s ear. Only the publicity was keeping him from squishing me. He poured it on like he would rather that I disappeared, rather than give someone else the credit for the strike against the Mitoli’s. All of this was being recorded, monitored by Sheila’s crew, though he hadn’t said anything truly damaging.

After his initial greeting speech, like an opening argument in court, he sat quietly, watching me. I looked over at Johnny. He sat so quietly I almost forgot he was there, but when I looked at him, looked into his glossy pale blue eyes and saw nothing human. I’ve seen cyber eyes emit so much warmth I could have fallen in love, but these eyes were cold, like buried stone. Johnny was trained to kill on command, and he didn’t seem to like delays.

“I noticed that you notice my scar,” said Walter, suddenly. “You want to know how I got it? Well, I’ll tell you. It was many decades ago, when I was a boy. I lived in New York City, back then, a nice town if you have the money to avoid the bad parts, which I didn’t at the time. I didn’t know how to defend myself back then. I was just a middle class kid coming home from school. I got jumped by a pack of street punks, the kind of trash I like to put away. They pushed me around, scared me, and I started to run. I ran until my legs wouldn’t take it anymore. I was afraid to stop, afraid they were chasing me, so I turned my head to look behind me. No one was anywhere in sight. They didn’t care about some little kid. They just wanted to make me cry. And they did. But in that moment, with my head turned, just for a second, mind you, my tired legs tripped, and I fell, gashing my face open on a broken bottle.”

Walter paused, letting his story sink into my nervous brain.

“That’s when I realized that street gangs were more than just packs of wild criminals. They were terrorists. They hadn’t done anything illegal to me, maybe a misdemeanor at best, nothing provable, however, but in the end, I ended up in the hospital, and eventually this scar. I could get it fixed. I earn enough. I like to keep it around. It is my reminder, my badge.”

I expected him to say more, but nothing came. He just sat back and watched me again. I realized I had been leaning forward, hanging on his words, unblinking. With my eyes dry, and my mouth hanging open, something clicked inside my head. I blinked, closed my mouth, then said the most stupid thing ever.

“Is that why you are so easy on organized crime families?”

My heart fluttered, as if doing a double take at what I just said. My brain just stopped, refusing to acknowledge the wrong turn I just took. What little air was in my lungs slowly seeped out as I forgot to breath. In the corner of my eye, I could see Johnny slowly tilt his head to one side as his eyebrows slowly collided.

“So,” said Walter, “That’s your little secret.”

“What secret?” I asked, not sure what he was talking about. My brain still wasn’t getting in gear.

“You know something about my connection to the Mitoli family,” said Walter. Then he frowned and looked away. “But if you turned me over to the feds, why did they let me . . .”

Walter and Johnny looked at each other suddenly, then they began to move. Walter headed for the door and Johnny stood, drawing a sliver gun. He took a moment to aim at my throat, but before he could pull the trigger, the picture window overlooking Puget Sound exploded.

My ears were ringing, and I had fallen out of my seat, but otherwise, I was okay. Nobody was near the window, so the glass hadn’t ripped anyone apart, but the overstuffed chair was shredded. Johnny had his back to me and was facing the open air. Walter was opening the door. The next explosion was smaller, but it filled half the room with thick billowing smoke. I crawled under the table and coward.

I looked up in time to see Walter stumbling backward, his nose dribbling a steady stream of blood. Somebody moved in on him, striking his throat, dropping him to the ground. He lay, wriggling, holding his throat, trying to breath. When he stopped moving, his bulging eyes were staring directly at me.

Johnny was firing when I shifted my attention. The attacker moved like a hunter, a predator, seemingly oblivious to Johnny’s flechette rounds. Johnny wasn’t used to being prey and he back into the smoke that had almost completely filled the room.

I was sure I was going to die when the predator came out of the smoke. The table I was under was flung aside and I looked up through the smoky air, trying not to cough. The body language told me “killer”, but I recognized the face. It was Sheila, but the soul behind her eyes had been replaced by something dark. Her dark hair was now a tight braid of deep red. She looked down at me and saw that I recognized her. “You do not know me,” she said, and in that instant, I would have passed any truth test telling that lie.

Sheila, or whoever it was, grabbed my arm and almost pulled it out of my socket as she dragged me from the room. She pulled me to the elevator, and down we went, to the garage, then to a waiting limo. She nearly threw me into the vehicle and slammed the door.

On the seat, under my butt, I found a data pad, and credstick. I plugged the credstick into the side of the data pad and found a dollar amount that made me light headed. The credstick, however, triggered a one-shot vid file.

“Hello, and thank you for your assistance,” said Sheila’s face, the one I knew from before. “Your compensation has been transferred to your new Identity. Please review it and learn it. Your old identity is now recorded as missing, presumed dead. Any resurfacing of your old identity and all presumptions will be soon proved true. I suggest you take your money and find a small town in eastern UCAS and settle down quietly. Keep your face off the public nets, and you should live longer than expected. Good-bye.”

When the vid ended, it erased itself, leaving me with a large sum of money. I looked out the window and saw the limo was approaching a private airfield. A UCAS military transport was warming its engines. I got my excitement, survived my adventure, and got out with a fortune. Now, I have real secrets to keep, the kind of secrets that my life depends on. I never figured that into my fantasies.

Shadowrun: Black

2007-05-01T00:02:00.000-07:00

Field Report # CX450037
Agent: Shara McBell
Subject: “Sequoia”
(Independent Field Operative)

It took me five months to integrate myself into the Seattle shadows and prove myself more than competent on missions of restricted firepower, Sequoia’s field of excellence. After that, I notified Indigo, and waited for an opportunity. I participated in three illegal operations (See Field Reports CX450034, CX450035, & CX450036) before I first made contact with my target.

Our initial meet was arranged through an ork named Jazz. He operates out of a bar called the Big Rhino, arranging street deals among a predominantly ork clientele. The ork subculture of Seattle took some getting used to, but once I was accepted, I had little problem moving through the shadows.

The initial job offer suggested infiltration and evasion. I agreed to meet with the other operatives in a warehouse near the Sound Marina at 0200. I showed up wearing casual street gear: combat boots, bloused urban camou-pants, a sports bra covered by fishnet, and a black beret. I thought about some kind of makeup or street glitter, but I figured this was business, so my beautiful black skin was fine enough. I arrived an hour early to patrol for unexpected company, and found the site clear. A Mitsubishi Eco arrived ten minutes early, and Jazz stepped out. He was accompanied by his ever-present bodyguards, Rita and Cass. Word on the streets says these two elven twins are quite dangerous. Please warn future Indigo operatives assigned to Seattle.

I waited fifteen minute, five minutes past the meeting time, before I left my observation spot. I took my time, so I didn’t get to the door until 0210. I saw no evidence of third party activity. I opened the door and stepped through. The warehouse was empty, except for a large square collapsible table in the center of the vast concrete floor. A bright light set the table in a clear circle surrounded by darkness.

Everyone in the building could have heard the door open and shut, but I quickly sidestepped the doorway, blending into shadows. I switched on my ultra-violet optics, but that didn’t reveal enough. I activated my UV projectors and understood the situation. Jazz, the two elves, and two more people were standing just outside the circle of light, waiting for all parties to arrive. Then, as I guessed, we would all step into the light, reducing the advantage for any one person.

I guessed that, by the way everyone tracked my progress across the floor, I was not the only one with visual enhancement. When I reached the edge of the light, Jazz said, “To the table, people.” We all stepped forward two steps.” There I was standing two meters from my target. I immediately started recording (See attached audio/visual records).

Sequoia was larger than I expected. Physically, she was as described in the initial mission briefing, but I found her mere presence disconcerting. I would liken the experience to my time training in Africa. I had the opportunity to train with a group of Masai, and in our training, we passed through a pride of lions in the dead of night. The male was an almighty brute, but useless in group dynamics. The females, however, radiated the true power of predators. Afterwards, I asked my companions about this and they explained that it was the females of the pride that hunted, working as a team to bring down anything they set their eyes on. This is how Sequoia operated.

Sequoia was about the size of an average male ork, which is very impressive for a human female. She was tall and lean, bulkier than what most people in the UCAS prefer, but definitely excellent athletic potential. Her long, dark red hair was pulled back in a tight braid. She wore black sneakers and tights, a leather vest under a genuine leather jacket, and dark shades, despite the poor lighting.

Her companion was dwarf, probably twice Sequoia’s age, but not old. He had a military feel about him. Also, his control of old style wired reflexes was impressive, but still noticeable. He wore old urban camouflage, combat boots, and a Seattle Screamers ball cap. He chewed a thick, unlit cigar, which somehow never interfered with his speech.

“Black,” said Jazz, gesturing a hand towards me. “Sequoia and Mr. E,” said Jazz gesturing with his other hand to my new partners. He gave us a moment to size each other up, but did not linger. There was business to arrange.

“There is a request on the table,” started Jazz, “for a message to be given to our client’s uncooperative associate. Our client is working outside usual channels so that our client’s identity as the sender may be presented with timing both subtle and direct. You will be the messengers.” Jazz paused, catching each of our eyes in turn, reading our poker faces as best as he could. On either side of him, Rita and Cass fidgeted and twitched. They were apparently not as comfortable with their wired reflexes turned on as the dwarf was.

“The target is hosting a formal after-hours party,” continued Jazz, “and our client wants you to attend. You are to identify the target’s security personnel, and temporarily neutralize them.” Jazz reached into his pocket and pulled out three red markers. “As each guard is incapacitated, mark them with these, indicating that a lethal injury could have been inflicted. Once this is accomplished, leave quietly and quickly. Any questions?”

Sequoia looked at me, and I nodded, giving her the lead. She looked at Jazz and said, “I understand we are not to kill any of the guards, but what about broken bones?” She asked the question as a professional inquiry, without a hint of gleeful anticipation. She wasn’t asking for permission, she was asking for clarification.

“Do not remove any of the security people from service,” said Jazz. “In fact, they don’t even have to be unconscious. Just let them know that if this were an assassination attempt, the target would have been defenseless.”

“Sounds like a good game,” I said, indicating my interest.

Sequoia glanced at me, but I could a touch of a smile curl the edges of Mr. E’s lips as he took his cigar out of his mouth to examine the chewed end. He put the cigar back in his mouth and looked up at Sequoia. She looked down and nodded. Mr E looked at me, then at Jazz. “Let’s play,” said the dwarf. “What kind of compensation is on the table?”

“5,000 nuyen on unmarked cards for a night’s party,” said Jazz. “For now, I have passes for two couples.” He tossed two envelopes on the table. “If this is acceptable, I shall leave you three to do some planning. The party is Thursday night. You can pick up your money on Friday, at the Big Rhino. Remember, dress well. It is a formal gathering.” Jazz and his elves slipped back into the shadows and headed for the door.

“How are we splitting it?” I asked, when Jazz was out of the building.

“I’ve heard your making a name for yourself, Black,” said Sequoia. “If you and I go in, we can leave Mr. E in the shadows for back up and getaway. Since we are taking most of the risk, we each get 2,000, and he gets 1,000.”

I thought about that for a moment. Then, I said, “So if all goes well, he gets a grand for sitting in a car?”

“Think of it as insurance,” said Mr. E, “like putting in a requisition for air support or making sure an artillery battery is on call for fire missions.”

I met Mr. E eye-to-eye, and we stared for a long while. Finally, I smiled, laughed even. He had spoken German, and knew that I understood. As my laugh lingered as a chuckle, he smiled around his cigar.

“I’m guessing more than regular infantry,” said Mr. E, speaking in English.

“Recon,” I admitted. “And you?”

“Urban Assault Force,” said Mr. E.

I raised my eyebrows. “Impressive,” I said. “Any possibility you were on the receiving end of my intel?”

“No,” he said casually. Then he added quite seriously, “I hope not.”

“I think you were a generation before me,” I said. I could feel my heart tighten for a moment. There were stories of the Mercenary’s Massacre, back in ’42. Bad intel from the recon units led a division of assault troops into an ambush. It was one of the biggest mistakes of the Eurowars, and left a black mark on the reputation of all recon troops.

“Not a problem, soldier,” said Mr. E. “Those responsible were dealt with.” I nodded. Judging by his tone, being dealt with was not a pleasant experience.

“I can respect a grand of insurance,” I said, “Under the circumstances.”

“I think I like this one,” said Mr. E. He looked up at Sequoia, but she had an odd look on her face.

“I hope her secrets don’t kill us,” said Sequoia.

“We will deal with that when it happens,” said Mr. E. He shrugged, then looked at me. “Let’s get something to eat. We can go over the details in the morning.” He turned and walked to the door.

I looked hard at Sequoia, then said, “I’m not the only one with dangerous secrets.” It was a guess, but I knew something of her background. According to most, she came out of nowhere, but her training said Souix Wildcats.

“Touche,” said Sequoia, after a moment. Her body relaxed almost imperceptibly. I nodded.

“Let’s go eat,” I said. Sequoia nodded, and we walked, separate, but side by side.

Sequoia gave me directions to a privately owned restaurant a few miles from downtown, then we went our separate ways on the street. The Tainted Lilly was a little diner on the corner lot near a light industrial sector. It catered to the local clientele, open to all shifts, serving myco-proteins in standard shapes: burgers, dogs, shakes and steaks.

When I entered, the woman behind the counter smiled and greeted me like I was a regular. Her name tag read ‘April’. It was still early morning, and the third shift hadn’t let out yet, but there were still a few people with plates in front of them, mostly street-walkers, by the looks of them. They all seemed to have a professional air about them, though, not like the trash talking chipheads I’m used to passing in the alleys.

“If you want something off the menu, I’m sure we can accommodate your needs,” said the April. My gaze must have lingered on the girls sitting in one of the window booths.

“I’m sorry,” I said politely, “Not tonight.”

Both April and I looked as Sequoia stepped through a door at one end of the diner. It had a sign that read ‘Authorized Personnel Only’. April and I looked back at each other.

“Not tonight,” said April, still friendly, but with a hint of wariness. I smiled back and nodded, then headed towards Sequoia. As I approached, Sequoia spoke to April, “ Two burgers, a large shake, and . . .” She stopped and looked at me.

I turned and said, “Faux fries, extra crispy, if you have them, and a couple chili-dogs with everything.”

Sequoia led me down a narrow corridor, up a stairway, and into a business office. Mr. E was already waiting, sitting on the edge of a desk, quietly chewing on his cigar. I felt some tension in the air, but nothing more than strangers meeting in the shadows.

“Got some bottle water,” said Mr. E.

“Sure,” I said, and he tossed me a warm bottle from the desk top behind him.

Sequoia sat down on in the middle of a worn out couch, resting her arms on the top of the backrest. I took the chair that went with the desk Mr. E was sitting on and opened my bottle.

“I know some people who can tell us about the target’s party,” started Sequoia.

“I’ve been thinking about slap patches to keep the security down for a while,” I suggested.

“Sequoia and I thought of that,” said Mr. E, “It will make a good impression if you two took them off their feet the old fashioned way, but the slap patches will keep them down for a while.” I nodded.

“If we want to go cheap, we could just use duct tape,” I said. Mr. E grinned and Sequoia nodded. “But, slap patches would be easier to conceal. Besides, I think I can get my hands on enough without cutting into the profits.”

“The party is Thursday, 2000 hours,” said Mr. E. “That gives us 41 hours to get things ready and arrive on time. Let’s meet back here Thursday morning at 0200. That should give us time to work out the details, and follow up on any loose ends.”

Mr. E glanced down at the trid-screen on the desk. “Food,” he said, then, “Enter,” in a louder voice. There was a gentle knock on the door, then April opened the door and entered. She had a tray on one hand. The smell of cheap food filled the room. Mr. E scooted down the length of the desk to make room for the tray.

April put the tray down and turned to leave, but Sequoia said, “Please ask Wink to come up and join us.” April nodded quietly and left. We ate in silence until one of the skinny girls from the window booth came in. She didn’t knock, and she entered like she was in on the mission.

“Wink,” said Sequoia, “Contact Madam Mary. I have an invitation to a formal party that needs to be filled. She can bring a friend.”

“Pulling in that last marker?” asked Wink. She was a pretty girl, despite the scar on her right temple, maybe late teens, but she had an occasional twitch that shut her right eye. It could have been genetic, but probably one of her clients didn’t give her warning before he hit her. I’ve seen soldiers with a similar kind of nerve damage. Working the streets was not the safest occupation in town.

“Yes,” said Sequoia. “Tell, her we should be even after this. I want help identifying the security personnel attending the party.

“Will there be violence?” asked Wink.

“Covert,” said Sequoia. “but no fatalities.”

“Good,” said Wink, “Madam Mary always finds that bad for business.”

“Tell her I’ll stop by with some friends to work out the details,” said Sequoia. Wink’s eye twitched as she nodded, and she left to complete her part of the mission.

“Are these people loyal?” I asked, finishing my fries.

“Yes, quite,” said Sequoia, before sucking down the last of her protein shake.

“Jazz said you have a solid reputation for discretion,” said Mr. E. I nodded. Indiscretion kills in the shadows. Mr. E continued, “These people wouldn’t be where they are if Sequoia hadn’t been involved. She looks after her own.”

I looked at Sequoia and saw her eyes watching Mr. E. She flicked a glance at me, for a moment. I got the sense that Mr. E liked me for some reason, and Sequoia wasn’t sure why. I guessed it had something to do with Europe. My military background was as formal as Mr. E’s. Sequoia seemed to be less formal, less military, and more paramilitary. That didn’t quite match the Souix Wildcat connection I suspected, but nothing is ever as it seems in the shadows.

“Let me take my leave,” I said, standing. “I’ll get some tranq patches. Are we meeting back here before going to see Madam Mary?”

“Sounds good,” said Mr. E. I left, then, with more questions about my target than my mission.

Shadowrun: Devil in the Details

2007-05-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

I watched with unblinking cybereyes as Mr. Johnson rode away in a very fast, very sleek power boat. It was quiet and beautiful, and soon, it had melted into the shadowy line between the rolling clouds and the choppy water.

The shades of grey were tinted with flashes of pale green where the bright neon lights of Seattle’s skyline reflected off the waves. I always found comfort in that pale green. It was a quirk of UCAS custom military cyberware, and it always reminded me to a time when I belonged to something, belonged to a national team with the support of the people.

I turned my gaze to the city, a bright strip of infinite glowing details, letting go of memories best forgotten. The devil was in those details.

I took my hands off my hips and stepped back from the piers edge. I flexed and clenched my right hand, working out the stiffness. I hadn't burned so much ammunition on a mission in years. That was a bad sign.

I turned to my comrades, putting my back to the water. The smell of seawater permeated everything, but without the breeze blowing directly in my face, I could also smell the damp crushed rock and the residual sting of stale diesel. We were at the gravel drop, at the bottom of a mountain of crushed granite. A row of warehouses blocked Tacoma from sight. There were a few heaps covered in grey plastic tarps. We had hidden our vehicles there earlier in the day.

"We are close to completion," I said. "Don't get careless. We are still 'on mission' until I say otherwise."

"Blue," said Sweetwater. Her voice was in my head, coming through our wireless PAN link. I looked over at the young woman. She was sweet looking, lean, average height, just like any other technical student down near U-Dub campus. She was the last person I expected to be working with, running the shadows. The last person, that is, until I met Hatch. She continued, "You wanted me to remind you about Lone Star security forces."

Sweetwater did not look like a shadowrunner. She was a professional hacker, though, and I believe fully in the beauty of substance over style. Jenna, my girlfriend, agrees with me, but then, she never liked the blue denim and black t-shirts I always wear. Sweetwater, on the other hand, would have fit right in on U-Dub's campus, with the latest marquee shirts and darker billow-pants. At least the marquee shirt was powered off and she had functional high-top sneakers instead of those silly pumps that went with the outfit. She was holding her armored vest in one hand and her other hand was twitching and tapping in the air by her thigh. She was always the first to take off the armor, and the last to wipe her hands of the mission.

"Yeah," I though, acknowledging. Out loud, I said, "What was up with Lone Star? They came out of nowhere.” The way Lone Star showed up reminded me of another incident not too long ago, involving Torres' father.

"You're tellin' me!" exclaimed Torres. His military cut armored jacket was still moist with blood from his recent injuries. He was a solid orc, but automatic firearms are the great equalizers. If it wasn't for Six healing him with her magic, he would have been dead.

“My point is,” I continued, “How did they know we were going to be at the park?"

"I'll look into that," said Sweetwater. "I can't hack Lone Star, but I know someone who can," said Sweetwater. I nodded.

Sweetwater was pretty, but her long elven face didn't have that spark that most elves had. She was short, too, for an elf, though still barely taller than me. I’m not too short, but most elves, male or female, are taller than I am.

"She's talking about Fastjack," said Torres. His hispanic features dominated his face, shadowed by his ork heritage only when he was angry. He was a big man, but not as tall as most orks.

"I wasn't talking about Fastjack," said Sweetwater, defensively. Her infatuation with the legend had hit a crescendo the previous week when she bumped into Fastjack on a secure node. She had cheated, using an internally hacked backdoor to get into the system, but that didn't matter, apparently. She saw his persona and no one would believe her until he contacted her about the encounter. They shared some information and since then, Sweetwater denied ever meeting Fastjack. This just gave more credibility to the story, and her team wouldn't let her forget.

"I don't care who it is, see what you can get," I said. "And you, Torres, stop teasing your teammates. We still haven't made it to safe ground."

Blue looked at Torres for a long hard moment. Torres had his father's face, but was young, didn't have the wary edge of a street veteran. He was a good kid, though, and hinted that loyalty could be inherited. The night had bloodied Torres, and his armor jacket was dark with stains, but the wounds were gone, erased with magic.

Torres lost his smile for a moment, then brought back a half smile. "Cheer up, Blue. You will probably out live me, too, but by then, I'll have a pup or two lined up for you. Think you can handle a third generation?"

I raised a hand and shoved Torres hard. He didn't move, though, and I stepped away to check on Six. Torres smiled fully. That was just Blue's way of showing affection.

"How is Six?" I asked. Hatch was standing over Six's sleeping body. She had used the last of her resources to save Torres from some messy bullet holes. Torres carried her the rest of the way.

Hatch, the newest member of our team, was petite, pretty, blue eyed and blonde. She had a quick smile and a friendly demeanor, but I have seen her break bones and drop orcs, all with her bare hands. I remember a time when I commanded a squad of rough men with dangerous demeanors. How would I explain to them that I'm working with school girls?

I had to get on Torres's case when he teased Hatch about shopping for clothes in the girls department. I pointed out that Hatch could have put Torres in the hospital with her bare hands. It would have been a strange sight to see, like a blonde, blue-eyed girl lumberjack felling a smart-mouthed tree. Sometimes, she looked more innocent and sweet than Sweetwater.

"Sleeping soundly," said Hatch. "We can probably wake her now. She is through the worst of her magic coma."

"Magic what?" asked Torres. I shrugged. It was a new term for me, too.

Hatch smiled sweetly. "When a mage burns out with some magic, there is nothing you can do to wake them." Hatch gestured with an open hand to Six. "She is over that. Now, she is just sleeping."

"Not anymore," said Six, her voice gravelly with fatigue. She sat up slowly and looked around. She looked down at her suede jacket and leggings, frowning deep at the blood stains. She looked up at Torres.

"Sorry about the stains, lady," said Torres, "But carrying you was the least I could do for plugging the holes in my skin."

"I was hardly altruistic," muttered Six. "I knew Blue here would insist on bringing your carcass out of the hotzone, and he is way too old to be lugging that kind of weight."

That brought a smile to everyone's face. Six was the only one who could have gotten away with an attitude like that. She was older than the others by about ten years, but she was my junior by about the same amount. She was almost my height, but with more curves and smoother skin. She was definitely military trained, but never would say by whom. I suspect it was the Wildcats, the Sioux Nation’s answer to the UCAS Delta Force. She was dangerous, stealthy, and hard. Six was shorter than me, but tall by human female standards. She had the physique of a warrior and will killing stare.

"Still on mission," cracked Torres. Blue glanced at him, but realized he was speaking true.

"Okay," I said clapping my hands loudly, "Okay, Sweetwater has already verified our payment. Our dealing with Mr. Johnson is done. Keep on your toes until Sweetwater gives the all clear. It would be best to stay in a safehouse until then, but I know some of you won't." Everybody knew I wouldn’t, but I had my own rules to play by. "This was a good mission, people. We survived. We got paid. We even got to see Torres bleed a little." They all smiled, because they all could smile. “Lay low and spend wisely.”

***************

I drove my old Honda sedan down 11th street. Torres sat silently in the passenger seat, staring out at the street’s shadows and street walkers. Rain was coming and the streets were gathering in warm places. We had already changed into working class street clothes and put away our weapons. I turned down an alley near L street and found a place to park behind an old building.

“What’s up?” asked Torres.

“I want to look in on an old friend,” I said. “There is someone you might want to meet.” He opened the door and climbed out of the car. Torres, looking confused, followed.

“Aren’t we still on mission?” asked Torres.

“Maybe,” I said, absently. Then I stopped suddenly. “Yeah, we are, but this might be a good place to ask questions.”

The bar didn’t really have a name, but people knew it as Sparky’s. It was set on the intersection of two back streets. The door was cut into the corner of the building at the intersection of L street and 11th. The whole corner entrance looked like it was newer than the rest of the building, but all of it was run down and weathered.

Inside, there was a small mix of people, all looking like die-hard working class defenders of the neighborhood. There were booths along both walls, and the bar itself came up the center of the room. Two bartenders worked both sides of the bar and a young woman served cheap sandwiches to the patrons in the booths.

There was a time when I would have known who had been at the bar that night by the brands of cigarette smoke lingering in the air, but it was a slow night and I could smell only cheap beer and even cheaper cigars. I don’t know anyone who smokes cigars.

I walked over to the bar and sat on a stool, motioning for Torres to do the same. It was less than a minute before the younger bartender came to get their orders. He was tall and handsome with a wary eye. I hadn’t seen him before, but he looked familiar. I ordered two different kinds of beer and didn’t bother to ask Torres what he wanted.

The older bartender, who was speaking to an old woman on the other side of the bar, paused, then glanced over his shoulder. He turned fully around and his eyes widened slightly. The bartender looked to be an older, heavier version of the younger man, with a few scars and lots of wrinkles.

“Is that Blue,” asked the older bartender. Everybody in the bar hushed and looked towards the two newcomers.

“Sparky,” I said, “Haven’t you retired, yet?”

Sparky looked around the room, taking inventory of who was present. People went back to their conversations. Sparky smiled big and said, “I can tend bar far longer than you can continue in your line of business. You should have retired years ago.”

“Who says I haven’t?” asked Blue.

“Why, you are still hanging with the big boys,” said Sparky, walking over to me and Torres. When he got closer, he narrowed his eyes to squint at Torres. “Well, what do you know. You look more like your mother, I bet, than your old man.”

Torres looked at me, then back at Sparky. I put a reassuring hand on Torres’s forearm, smiling. The younger version of Sparky brought two beers. I filled my mouth and swallowed before speaking.

“I promised I would look after his son,” said Blue.

“I still break a bottle of that nasty stuff every New Year,” said Sparky.

I turned to a confused Torres. “Your father broke a bottle every New Year.”

“You knew my father?” asked Torres.

Sparky said, “One year it was because he was so drunk he couldn’t hold the bottle. Another year, it was on someone’s head.” Turning to back to me, Sparky said, “There was that time he threw a bottle at you. What was it you said to make him do that?”

Both Sparky and I laughed a sad, nostalgic laugh. The question went unanswered.

“What brings you here?” asked Sparky. There was caution hidden in his smile.

“We just finished a contract,” I said. “I just thought it would be nice to grab a beer or two.”

“Contract, huh?” said Sparky, lowering his voice. “You still ‘on’?”

“Yeah, technically,” said Blue. “Some unanswered questions.”

Sparky’s tone became slightly more serious. “That’s how … That’s how you traded partners, isn’t it?”

“No,” I said. “But, there are some similarities. This feels vaguely familiar. Not the same, but …”

“Lone Star?” whispered Sparky. I nodded.

“Blue,” said Torres, “What’s up?”

I looked solemnly at Torres, feeling a loss I usually tried to ignore.

“Your old man died of old age … a hear attack,” I said. Torres nodded. It was well known among the family. “There was this one run, though, that may have contributed to that.” I took a deep drink while Torres watched. “He was never the same after Lone Star gave us a surprise. They showed up suddenly, like tonight, and your father stepped between me and a storm of bullets.”

“I remember them coming to my back door,” said Sparky. “It was a nasty mess, but I know a back street seamstress, and he fixed up your old man just fine.”

I raised my bottle. “Here, here! What was that old queer’s name?”

“He always went by the name Johnny”, said Sparky, “But we all knew it wasn’t his real name. Last I heard, he married some homemaker and went legit as a full time paramedic. Johnny doesn’t stitch up runners on the side anymore.”

“Good for him,” I said.

Sparky looked at Torres. “He came in, sewed your father up, then left quietly after I paid him. He sewed like a military field medic, I swear.”

“Anyway,” I said, “After that, he wasn’t quite the same. He always knew when a storm was coming, and he didn’t have the endurance he was known for. He never turned down an opportunity to watch my back, though.”

“He was a good man,” said Sparky. “A good man.”

“Then, one morning, your mother called me,” I said. “She was in a panic. Your father wouldn’t wake up. We arranged for a doctor to arrive. He said the old man experienced a cardiac arrest in his sleep. He lay there for hours before the sun came up with barely enough blood going through his system to keep him warm. He was gone, though.”

“I remember,” said Torres. “I was hanging with you and Jenna. That was right after the day I helped you finish the fence in your backyard. That was a rough week.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It was.” We all sat in silence, honoring the passing of a good man.

“So,” said Sparky, “what brings you back to an old haunt like mine?”

“Sparky,” I said, “I am so sorry I haven’t been by since Torres senior passed on.”

Sparky looked down at the counter top, then he smiled and looked up at me, glancing at Torres. “Did this boy take his father’s name?”

“He sure did,” I said. “And he has earned it. Especially tonight. That’s why we are here.” I finished my bottle and noticed that Torres hadn’t taken a single sip. “We ran across Lone Star tonight, just like that night with the old man.”

“Same target?” asked Sparky.

“Nope,” I said. “That would make things too easy. I am having someone look into it, though.” As if on cue, my comlink beeped in my ear. I raised my hand, then pointed to my head. Sparky got the clue.

“Blue,” came Sweetwater’s voice, “I have something for you.”

“Mmm-hmm?” I mumbled.

“It seems that our target tonight is owned by the same company that you raided years ago.” Said Sweetwater. “They have a contract with Lone Star. This may seem like an obvious connection, but there is more.”

I mumbled again.

“I acquired a list of RFID security tags that Lone Star tracks,” continued Sweetwater. “One of those is built into a pistol that Torres carries.”

I looked at Torres. “Do you still carry your father’s pistol?”

“Yeah,” said Torres. “I have it now under my shoulder.”

I dropped my head and closed my eyes, sighing heavily. “He got that on a raid on a high security facility. It was a busy night and we ran out of ammo, so he picked up a pistol one of the security guards had dropped.” I raised my head and looked at my hand, flexing it, feeling the quiet bruises. I looked at Torres. “It was tagged. That’s what brought Lone Star.”

Torres looked pale, then looked down, embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about it, Torres,” I said, smiling. “You didn’t do anything wrong. We can’t think of everything.”

“But I couldn’t have gotten us killed,” said Torres.

“You could have gotten yourself killed,” I said. “If it wasn’t for Six, you wouldn’t be here, tonight.”

Sparky held out his hand. “Hand it over. I’ll take care of it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Don’t worry, Torres. Sparky knows what he is talking about.” I sat up and adjusted my comlink. “Sweetwater, tell everybody we are officially off mission.”

“Thank you, sir,” came that sweet voice, then a click told me the connection was cut.

Torres casually drew his weapon from under his shoulder and slid it across the bar. Sparky wrapped it in a bar towel, then hid it underneath the sink.

“You guys go on out of here,” said Sparky. “This is no longer your problem.”

“Thanks, Sparky,” I said, standing up. Torres followed suit, sullenly.

“You come back, old man,” said Sparky. I nodded with a smile.

As Torres and I walked through the alley to the parking lot, I muttered, “The devil is in the details.”

Torres said, “What?”

I put my hand on his shoulder and smiled. “This was a good mission. We survived and we got paid.”

Benders 01, Kittie's Date

2007-04-28T23:59:00.000-07:00

Kittie’s arms trembled as she pushed her face away from the floor. There was a wide splinter wedged under the skin of her right knee, and as she rose up to a sitting position, resting her cheeks on her heels, the splinter seemed to vibrate with irritating pain. Her face had gone numb minutes before, so the splinter was her friend now.

Kittie’s date was a big disappointment in her mind. He lacked creativity and originality. He didn’t even have the decency to steal his violence from the media. He had just grabbed the front of her leather jacket and gave her a back handed slap, then a forehand, then back, repeat ad nauseum. Of course, the first hit always spiked Kittie’s arousal, but that soon faded. Even when she struggled, breaking his hold on her jacket, he just came after her with the same tennis motion.

Kittie’s arms stopped trembling as realities rules warped and twisted. Her pain, always melting into pleasure of a matching intensity, subsided as it was soaked up by whatever arcane or mystical powers enshrouded Kittie. She had no idea how any of it worked, but she liked it. She liked it too much.

The man stood over her waiting for her to stand up again. He had wiped her blood on his pants and was massaging the sting out of his calloused hand. Through swollen eyes, Kittie watch. A smile spread across loose teeth and bloody lips. She dropped her head back and let out a laugh of euphoria. The man had no reaction.

After wiping the blood from her mouth and nose with the back of her hand, Kittie stood up, making sure to kneel heavily on her right knee, grinding that friendly splinter further into her skin. When she reached her feet, she was very light headed and wasn’t sure she could chase her date, should he decide to run. Kittie was always amazed that it was the little things that could cause the most pain. In fact, if it wasn’t for the splinter, payback wouldn’t be so easy.

The man stepped up and grabbed her jacket again. Pity glowed on Kittie’s face, pity at the lack of imagination, at the stubborn monotony. She felt like yelling in his face, screaming, “Kick me! Poke me in the eye!”, but she didn’t. While she really enjoyed a swift kick, she didn’t particularly like pokes in the eye. Not that they weren’t painful. They just weren’t fun. Give her a rib-cracking boot any day. Instead, she just said, “Your turn”.

Kittie grabbed the man’s wrist as his other hand went back to start the smacking. Her fingers gently formed a half circle around his thick wrist. He stared in surprise when she pulled his hand away from her jacket. He was screaming on his knees as she touched her fingers together, crushing all the little bones between his arm and hand. He screamed loud enough to tickle her ears with ache, so she leaned closer.

Benders 02, Tarot

2007-04-28T23:58:00.000-07:00

It was midnight in New York when Walker pushed the door open, jingling a bell above his head. On the glass door, the name and title “Wendy Read: Psychic, Mystic, Counselor” was stenciled in big red letters, each outlined in black. He closed the door gently, jingling the bell again.

Walker stepped into the center of the waiting area, glancing at the flyers, pamphlets, and brochures. New age quotes and arcane talismans cluttered the walls, but the storefront windows were clear.

Two heavy tapestries separated the waiting area from the rest of the room. Between the two tapestries was a curtain of hanging beads. Walker held the beads aside and stepped through, behind the tapestries, ducking so that his hat’s wide brim didn’t bump the beads.

Against the wall to the left, there was a long couch, much used, but comfortable looking. On either end were two tables with a lamp on each. In front of the couch was a coffee table covered in magazines.

“Hello,” said a soft voice. “May I help you?” A young woman was sitting behind a small round table, hands clasped in front of her, over a deck of Tarot cards. Her back was to the wall on the right. On either side of her, curtains of light weight sheets holding images of the night sky created a comforting affect. The woman was short and round, holding her beauty in her smile and in her gracious curves. Walker couldn’t tell how long her straight black hair was, but, pulled back, it dropped out of sight behind her. He noted the ring of metal piercing the woman’s left eyebrow. That was new, he thought.

“Is Cindy available?” asked Walker. As he spoke, he sent out a mental calling, summoning Cindy from the depths of Wendy’s subconscious mind.

The woman closed her eyes, inhaled deeply through her nose, then exhaled through clenched teeth and tight lips.

“Walker!” exclaimed the woman, somehow looking older, wiser, brighter. She jumped up, out of her chair and hurried over to Walker, giving him a tight hug. She stepped back and looked up, meeting Walker’s eyes.

“Nice to see you, too!” said Walker. “I think I should stop by more often, if that’s the kind of welcome I can expect.”

“I’m so glad you found Wendy for me,” said Cindy. The woman’s voice was slightly different, and her posture was noticeably better, but otherwise, she looked the same.

“It’s what I do, Cindy,” said Walker. “Blame good fortune for the timing.”

“Don’t be modest,” said Cindy. “She is young, healthy, and very creative. Not much in the Talent department, but that is why you picked her, isn’t it.”

“It wouldn’t make sense to hide your Talent behind another’s Talent,” said Walker. “That’s what the Enforcers look for after all.”

“Besides that, it feels wonderful to be out of that emaciated body you found me in,” said Cindy. “What ever happened to my body, by the way?”

“It is under wraps for now,” said Walker. “Well preserved and very safe. If you ever need it, you are welcome to return to it. And, yes, you could even bring Wendy.”

“Wow, like a back up hard drive,” said Cindy.

“Since when did you know anything about computers?” asked Walker. “And when did you pick up the ring?” Walker pointed to the piercing.

“Wendy,” said Cindy, smiling like a school girl. “She hangs with some computer geeks and we listen and learn. In fact, Wendy keeps all her records on a computer database. Nothing like the old books I used to keep.” Cindy sighed. “As for the ring, Wendy did it on a whim, but it wasn’t that bad. I like it now.”

Cindy walked back to her seat and motioned for Walker to sit across the table from her. Walker joined her at the table.

“There has been some interesting events, recently,” said Cindy, speaking more seriously. “I have been seeing some unpleasant pictures in the cards, but there is hope. I see someone we can recruit.”

“Any more visions of Sameth?” asked Walker. When he said the name, the air seemed to get grow colder for both of them.

Cindy hesitated a moment, then said, “This new girl faced Sameth and walked away.”

Walker leaned back, eyes wide. “Show me.”

Cindy reached under the table and retrieved an old tarot deck. She fanned them out and looked at both sides. On one side, the cards were entirely white, seeming almost to glow from within. On the opposite side, the cards were so black that they seemed to emanate shadow. Cindy shuffled the cards, then pulled one out with a snap of her wrist, holding it between two fingers.

The black side was still black, but the white side was no longer all white. The border of the card was still luminescent white, but there was a picture that appeared to be painted on. There was a picture of a girl, probably in her late teens. Her face was severely bruised, her nose was broken and bloody, and her lips were split, swollen and bleeding. Those lips, however, were pulled back into a smile of intense joy, like a kid with a new toy. The background was faded from white on the right to black on the left, although the lighting of her face was from the left.

“What can you tell me about her?” asked Walker.

“All I can do is interpret the card,” reminded Cindy. “I thought maybe you can tell me more.” Cindy paused to look at the card. “I am not sure about the injuries. They were on the last picture I saw, but they don’t feel permanent.”

“Could Sameth have inflicted them?” asked Walker.

“No, I don’t think so. That demon seems to like extremes, and a simple beating is hardly her style,” said Cindy. No, I think it represents something else. I also don’t get the expression on her face. What I do get, however, is the lighting. The light coming from the left, her dark side, shows that she sees her dark side and accepts it without actually giving in to it. She is not angel, but I believe she could be a loyal ally.”

“Where can I reach her?” asked Walker.

“She will be at a bus stop in Los Angeles,” said Cindy. “I don’t know when they will get there, or how long they will stay, but this is the bus stop.” Cindy pulled another card from the deck. The white side showed a covered bus stop at a beach. The moon was high in the sky, barely in the picture. There were two girls on the bench, one was a rather unattractive Asian girl dressed in some kind of girl school uniform. The other was the girl they were looking for, dressed in a short skirt, high boots, and a leather jacket. The Asian girl was laying on the bench with her head on the other girl’s lap. There was sadness in the watercolor images, and the outlines were not clear, almost as if the watercolor paints had been smudged.

“I can get there in a few minutes,” said Walker. He pulled a cell phone from his leather long coat and hit speed dial #3. A woman answered. “I need to get to L.A. before morning . . . Just honk. I’ll meet you outside . . . Yeah, a milkshake and an apple pie . . . Bye.”

“They will slip back into regular time when you show up,” said Cindy, when Walker off the phone, “but I am sure that will attract the Enforcers, so get them out of there quick.”

“Will do,” said Walker. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” said Cindy, smiling, “Since when did you start on the junk food?”

“I have always had a weakness for shakes and pies,” said Walker.

Benders 03, Meeting Sameth

2007-04-28T23:57:00.000-07:00

Kittie stared at the slaughter in the alley. Her date’s breathing came faster and faster as the ugly Japanese girl tried to wrap her brain around the grotesque scene plastered on concrete and brick. Kittie could feel her date’s terrified grip lose strength as her nervous system slowly shut down from the overload. Kittie couldn’t take her eyes from the woman standing in the alley amidst the carnage. They had stumbled on something wholly unnatural and they knew it.

There was enough body parts and mounds of flesh for at least two large men scattered around a tall woman. The woman had her back to the two companions standing on the sidewalk. Kittie could see the woman’s beautiful long black hair, as straight as a razor, glistening in the harsh light coming from a single bulb over a rusted and locked door.

The woman seemed to be holding something in her hands, inspecting it closely, very closely, with her head bent down. Then there was a sucking, slurping sound that churned Kittie’s stomach. A weak and pitiful whimper came from her date, almost too quiet to hear.

The tall woman’s head came up, then cocked to one side ever so slightly. She inhaled deeply, then let the air out like a long satisfied sigh. The woman tilted her head down, then peered over her shoulder, as if being coy. Her eyes smiled with a mischievous joy.

Kittie felt like she was watching someone made of water in slow motion, the woman moved so gracefully. A half step, then another brought the woman around to face Kittie and her date. From the back, the silky gown the woman wore was sexy and smooth. As the woman turned, the could see that the front was sticking to her body due to the gore soaking through. It looked like someone had hosed her down with blood.

The woman’s smile seemed impossibly huge, and when her lips parted, instead of teeth, there were wide triangles of glass imbedded in her gums, and something hideously sinister twisted and squirmed within.

“Run!” yelled Kittie, pushing her companion aside. She wasn’t as strong as she would like, but Kittie had the gnawing feeling that her situation would change soon. Kittie watched the woman’s eyes follow the ugly girl stumble and fall to the ground near the wall, trembling, staring blankly at the ground.

The woman walked with unimaginable grace, as if choreographed by the best experts and put on film to catch only the best motion. Kittie ran forward to tackle the woman, but with a gentle circle of her hand, the woman flung Kittie into the brick wall. Kittie heard the cracking of bones. Then she felt tendons and ligaments tear as she dropped to the ground awkwardly.

The pain was a spark of energy and she started to move even before her broken body was mended, producing more pain, more power. Her head buzzed, and she struggled to maintain focus on her anger and fear. She tried to jump on the woman’s back, but the woman stepped aside like a shifting shadow. Kittie spun as soon as her feet hit the concrete. She felt her strength and speed come in, a sudden wave of power. She reached out to grab the woman, but the woman was faster, smoother.

Kittie found herself looking down at her own chest, the woman’s fingers imbedded just above Kitties breast. Blood started to bead around the woman’s fingers. When the woman withdrew her fingers with a dramatic flare, blood followed, arcing through the air.

Kittie had never felt such pain before, as arterial blood pumped directly from the heart out into the night air. Kittie’s blood pressure dropped, and she dropped to her knees, then sat on her heels. She stared at the woman now being sprayed in the face. The woman didn’t flinch.

The power rushed in again, matching the pain with pleasure, like a divine orgasm. Kittie couldn’t see anything as her eyes rolled back and her eyelids fluttered, but the bleeding stopped, and she got her lost breathe back.

Blinking away tears of joy, Kittie slowly stood. The woman stepped back with a faint mix of confusion and curiousity on her blood-dripping face. Kittie reached out and the woman did the same. Kittie grabbed the woman’s hand and squeezed with a crushing force. She could have turned bone to powder with the power flowing through her, but that did not happen. There was something other than bone in the woman’s hand. It felt hard, dense, almost metallic beneath the baby soft skin.

The woman cocked her head, then shifted her eyes from their hands to Kittie’s face. Kittie met her eyes with determination. Then the woman’s hand seemed to slip out of its skin. Kittie looked down and saw what appeared to be a soft glove made from human flesh, no seems, no breaks. When she looked up at the woman again, Kittie saw the woman looking at bare bones covered with muscle. There was no bleeding. As Kittie watched, the woman’s skin grew back, flowing from her forearm. Kittie saw the woman was watching her, staring intently.

“mynameissameth,” said the woman. It came out like a whisper on the wind, slurred together as one breath. “apleasuretomeetyou.” Then the woman turned and walked away, into the darkness of the alley. Kittie dared not follow.

Benders 04, Bus Stop

2007-04-28T23:56:00.000-07:00

The moon was high in the cloudless sky, but the wind coming off the ocean was strong and steady. Kittie brushed a look strand of straight hair from Ako’s face. Slowly, the hair moved back, as if it stubbornly belonged there. Kittie tried to smile at the thought of stubborn hair, but her sadness had weakened the muscles required.

“Rain is coming, Ako,” said Kittie. “It will wash away all the sadness.” Ako made no response, no hint of acknowledgement. The horror of this night had broken her mind. Kittie sighed.

She had only met Ako a week ago at an underground club known for extreme pleasures. Ako was a sensitive girl, not into pain, or even into physical pleasure all that much. She had a talent, though, for sensing the pain of another person. She knew how to inflict deliciously intense pain without actually damaging the body. It was her art. Each time she performed, it was different, unique. Kittie didn’t care about injury, either way. It was the pain this girl had promised.

Kittie first saw Ako play with some volunteers from the club. They were escorted up on stage by two massive sumo-types. The volunteers each in turn laid themselves upon the hardwood table in the center of the club. It was slightly raised and under a spotlight, so that the club members could watch people submit themselves to various tortures and pleasures.

More often than not, the volunteers couldn’t take it for very long and were begging for release. Only after the ‘magic word’, agreed upon before hand, was spoke did Ako let them leave, sometimes sobbing.

Then the veterans took their turns. They knew Ako and what she could do. They writhed in agony, pushing themselves, trying to stay on the table longer than they had before. Ako would then ask permission to leave marks, and they would submit. But eventually, the combination of different pains made them mutter the ‘magic word’, and they would be help off gently by the two escorts. (Kittie was always amazed at how gentle such giants could be).

When Kittie first laid herself upon the table, up on a raised dias, she was nervous. They had her remove her clothes, revealing her wiry limbs, her skinny body. She giggled at her own anxieties. Supercalifragilistic was the ‘magic word’. The crowd ooh’d at that, because it was hard to say, especially when one is trembling with pain. Kittie felt like a little girl at that moment. Next time, she had promised herself, next time how about a foreign word, something hard to even remember.

Kittie jumped at the first touch, despite Ako’s warning. It was soft and gentle, but Ako’s reputation had worked its way into Kittie’s mind, and that was enough. Then, the pain started. Muscles in her leg tingled and her annoying spots on her arm stung as Ako pressed pressure points and nerve bundles in a new and creative order. Ako tended to start with the extremities first with new volunteers. It was a slow introduction.

Ako sensed, however, that this new volunteer, this skinny white girl was something more. She took the pain with a smile, a genuine smile, not the grimace of someone fighting pain. Kittie gasped when Ako gripped the tendon on the inside of her thigh, near her groin. The surprise, and then the pain, caused Kittie to gasp, then gasp again.

And the power rose within her.

Ako continued, finding new and interesting places to grab and poke and twist. Ako escalated to bruising, with Kittie’s permission of course, and new heights of pain and agony coursed through Kittie’s squirming body. She gripped the edges of the table, lest she fall off, fall from Ako’s reach, from the ecstasy she provoked.

She had been holding back, trying to remain fully aware of her torture, but Ako pressed fingers underneath Kitties ribs, and an orgasm rippled through Kittie. As she arched her back suddenly, Ako’s fingers popped away, but the ripple became a wave, and she vibrated violently on the table, in front of Ako, who stood gazing with her mouth open, in front of a room full of silent onlookers, wide eye and themselves trembling with excitement.

Finally, Kittie was able to breath, releasing a scream of joy she had rarely known before. This was pure pain, not the pain that follows the crush of ribs, or a broken femur. It was pure, professional art laid out by the loving hands of an artist.

When Kittie opened her eyes and looked up into the concerned face of Ako, when Kittie whispered, then slowly raised her voice louder for all to hear, begging Ako for more, Ako bent over and gave her a tremendous hug, as tremendous at the little girl could.

They stopped then. The audience would have been disappointed, but for the show they just saw. Ako told Kittie she would relent to her begging in private, later that night. Ako began to experiment in the days to follow, learning that her new playmate could not be damaged, not permanently. She was amazed, even frightened, but she couldn’t stop, not with Kittie begging for more. Ako put on fabulous shows for the club, warming up with volunteers, then the veterans, then the grand finally, Kittie and her inhuman tolerance for pain. The orgasms she screamed out made half the club members wet, and the other half hard, and a couple a little of both.

The rain started, hard, bouncing off the concrete sidewalk and sprinkling Kittie’s knees. Tears made her eyes blurry, and she could not see where they fell. Ako made no response as one by one, a tear dropped onto her face. She only stared outward, towards nothing.

Benders 05, Car Dreams

2007-04-28T23:55:00.000-07:00

As soon as Walker had pulled his long leather coat into the car and closed the door, Stephanie hit the accelerator. Walker heard the idle rumble turn into a bellowing roar, and they eased forward down the one-way street.

Stephanie had cornrows in her hair and shades on her face. Her smooth brown skin and round features made her look younger than she really was, but the attitude she expressed was all business.

The door Walker had closed was a flat orangish color, almost like someone had intentionally painted it with rust, making sure the spread the oxidation evenly. The front and back quarter panels, as well as the rear passenger door, were all faded glossy green, a dark green. Any interior designer might have called it hunter green, but the car company gave it numbers and letters. The hood was black, new black, shiny black, with a big dent on the right side, near the front. The dent flared the near edges upwards, but otherwise it was securely fastened.

“Nice car,” said Walker, looking at the writing on the windshield. ‘$900’ it read, written with some kind of waxy crayon. “You didn’t really pay $900 for this car, did you?”

“Of course not,” said Stephanie. “I bargained it down to about $400.”

“Ah,” said Walker.

“Don’t laugh,” said Stephanie. “This car promised me at least a month. It has a good soul.”

“Do cars dream?” asked Walker.

“What?” said Stephanie. “Don’t be silly. If you insult the car, it might not want to take us anywhere.”

“I was serious,” said Walker. Stephanie gave him a sideways glance and saw that he really was curious about car dreams.

“They don’t have a mind, just a soul,” said Stephanie. “What part of a person does the dreaming?”

“Cities dream,” said Walker. “Mountains dream. I think it is the sum of the parts that dreams, the total personality, formed by history and experience.”

“Wow,” said Stephanie. “I never thought it like that.” After a long moment of silence, permeated by the background rumble of the car, Stephanie said, “I think they might. Could you reach a car dream?”

“I don’t know,” said Walker. “I never tried. I never thought of cars as more than modes of transportation, until I met you. Let me know when to try.”

Benders 06, Back Alleys

2007-04-28T23:54:00.000-07:00

Stephanie slowed the car before turning out of traffic and down a narrow alley. It looked like a narrow back alley found in any large city anywhere in the world, which is just what it was. They rode down the alley to a small unloading zone crammed in beneath the shadows of tall buildings. There was no way out.

“Wrong turn?” asked Walker.

“Never,” said Stephanie. “This is a quick way to Italy, but the turn around is a bitch.”
It took Stephanie five minutes of backing up and going forward to maneuver the car around to face the alley again.

“Do you have to go forward?” asked Walker.

“I do,” said Stephanie

“You know, I never thought about others doing what you do,” said Walker. “It was always something you did.”

“Others don’t drive cars,” said Stephanie, “Or, even talk to them. Often, the travelers that I have met usually walk.”

Finally, they pulled back into the alley. It looked different, somehow. It felt like the same alley, but the trash was different, and the lighting wasn’t quite right. When they emerged onto the main road, it was brick, and narrow, with no sidewalks. It was brighter, somehow, much brighter.

Stephanie came to another road, this one paved and lined according to European standards. There were cars parked on either side of the narrow street, leaving only a lane and a half in the middle.

“Welcome to Italy,” said Stephanie. “Too bad it isn’t night.” The beach was visible up ahead. “We could just drive right out to the waters edge. There are always plenty of pathways by the ocean.”

Stephanie pulled out a cell phone and hit a speed dial combination. “Hello?” she said. “Yes, this is Stephanie. Could you ask the lord of the manor if I may use his garage? Thank you, I’ll wait.”

She looked at Walker with a smile. “The old man looks exactly like his butler. I always thought of the idea that people and their pets tend to look like each other. I wonder if that works with butlers.”

“Yes, it will be quick,” Stephanie said to the phone. “Just passing through … Great, thank you.”

“Pulling in favors?” asked Walker.

“Kinda,” said Stephanie. “I like to remind him of his alternate modes of transportation. Besides, it makes the transition into night easier.”

“Why can’t you just do the alley thing?” asked Walker.

“That alley trick is all about timing,” explained Stephanie. “The indirect sunlight in Italy doesn’t reach that alley for another hour or so. New York City lights bouncing off the clouds was enough of a glow to open the path.”

“You amaze me,” said Walker.

“No different than you wandering through people’s subconscious paths,” said Stephanie. “Its all about the path.”

Stephanie turned the car down another narrow alley, this one covered by an arch When they came through the other side, the air was cooler, much cooler, and clouds covered the sky. The road was covered in white gravel and lead down a stretch lined with large oak trees. Beyond the trees, well-manicured green grass spread out over the low hills.

They came up to a mansion, and Stephanie pulled around back. She stopped in front of a set of wooden double doors, big enough for an old horse and carriage to pass through with a driver on top.

Stephanie honked the horn twice and waited. It was a few minutes before an old, grey-haired man in a tuxedo pushed the doors open. When the way was clear, he motioned politely for Stephanie to drive through. After they passed through the doorway, the old man pushed the doors shut and it became very dark.

The cement floor of the tunnel suddenly sloped upwards and they pulled out of an underground parking garage. A few blocks further and they turned onto the main road that paralleled the beach. It was a warm but rainy night. Stephanie put the windshield wipers on.

“What are we looking for?” asked Stephanie.

“A bus stop with two young women waiting,” said Walker.

“Are they looking out for us?” asked Stephanie.

“They have no idea we are coming,” said Walker.

Stephanie shrugged. “Your show, I guess.”

Benders 07, Rescue

2007-04-28T23:53:00.000-07:00

“Them?” asked Stephanie. They were parked across the street from the bus stop, watching the two girls sit on the bench in the tiny shelter. An Asian girl lay on the bench with her head on a Caucasian girl’s lap. Their stillness was interrupted only by the sitting girl brushing hair from the laying girl’s face.

“Yeah,” said Walker. “It doesn’t look good.” After a moment, he opened the door and got out of the car. The rain was warm, but Walker still turned up his collar and pulled his hat tight over his head. There was a coldness in the air that he couldn’t shake. He knew it was probably something only he felt, but he also knew it was from a vast emptiness growing in the girls. Walker approached the bench slowly, casually, from the front, so they could see him coming.

“Morning,” said Walker. “Are you two okay?”

There was a long moment of silence as the Caucasian girl slowly realized that there was someone in front of her, someone speaking to her. As acknowledgement came, so did caution and her eyes narrowed.

“My name is Walker,” he said.

“Who are you?” asked Kittie, as if she hadn’t heard Walker’s introduction.

“An ally,” said Walker, understanding that names are just names, sometimes.

After a long few moments, as Kittie considered Walker, she said, “Something bad happened.” It was about as close to the subject as she could get, emotionally, and, at least to Kittie, it felt like an understatement.

“I know,” said Walker. “Her name is Sameth.”

Kittie’s eyes widened and became unfocused as she flashed back to the woman’s seething, whispered voice. With a thought, Walker put up invisible, intangible walls so that he would not be caught up in the emotions of her vision. As it was, he could sense a tide of turmoil crashing upon his barriers.

“I can help you, and your friend,” said Walker. “Come with me.” He was being subtle in his subconscious manipulations. Kittie’s emotions were opening up to this stranger, making her feel safe in his presence, urging her from within to go with him. She was not used to being afraid of anything, though, and she started to question even her own feelings. She hesitated, saying nothing, doing nothing.

“I know people that can block her memories,” said Walker. “She won’t remember anything from this night, only that, as you said, ‘something bad happened,’ and it is not something she should pursue. They will use no deceit, only truth and understanding.”

“Will she be the same, afterwards?” asked Kittie.

“No one who encounters Sameth are ever the same,” said Walker, “But, she will be a functional person. She will be able to feel joy and sadness, to appreciate warm rain and a gentle hand.” Kittie looked down at her hand as it brushed the hair from Ako’s face, yet again.

“I want her back,” said Kittie.

“Come with me,” said Walker. Kittie looked down at Ako, then back up at Walker. Walker took the cue and stepped up to the bench. He squatted down, slid his hands under Ako’s limp body, and lifted her gently off the bench. Kittie stood slowly, as if weary and old, and followed Walker to the car.

Stephanie got out of the car and opened the back door. Walker stepped inside with one foot and laid Ako down. Kittie went around the car to the other rear door and climbed in. Once Ako and Kittie were situated, Walker and Stephanie got into the car. As Stephanie pressed on the accelerator, she and Walker heard Kittie say something, but it was just a mumble to Ako.

“This is Stephanie,” said Walker, turning halfway around in his seat.

“Kittie,” said Kittie. “This is Ako.”

A few minutes later, in the silence under the rumbling car, Kittie and Ako were asleep. Walker had put himself into a deep trance in an attempt to contact those that might save Ako from herself. Stephanie drove through the morning.

Benders 08, Asylum

2007-04-28T23:52:00.000-07:00

Kittie woke when her head rolled forward. The car had stopped. She looked out of the window and saw a yellow, stone cliff reaching up above her. She heard waves crashing and turned to look across Ako’s sleeping body and out the other window. The morning sun hadn’t hit the beach sand, yet, but it glittered off each wave that crashed against the shore.

“Where are we?” asked Kittie.

“Still in California,” said Stephanie. She was standing outside the driver’s open window, leaning against the car, staring at the ocean.

“Well, yeah,” said Kittie, regaining some of her composure and attitude. Kittie’s sleep hadn’t been wrecked by nightmares, and she was beginning to believe that last night was really a very, very bad dream. Even Ako looked peaceful in her sleep.

“We are waiting for the ocean to settle down,” said Walker. “Stephanie says it has to be smoother before she can reach the path.” Walker was standing on the other side of the car with the passenger side door open. He was also staring at the ocean.

“What path?” asked Kittie, feeling confused. There was plenty of beach. Even the high tide mark left plenty of room.

“Just wait and see,” said Walker. “It is better to experience this, than to have it described.”

“’This’ what?!” Kittie exclaimed. No one answered her. She sat, fuming quietly, ignoring the rumble in her belly until Stephanie got back into the car. Walker did the same, and they were moving as soon as Stephanie turned on the ignition and pressed the accelerator.

“Man, this is one sorry vehicle,” said Kittie, trying to get a rise from Stephanie.

“Yup, sorry and beaten,” said Stephanie, “But, it is willing to give me a few months of work in return for some interesting travel adventures.”

“What does that mean?” asked Kittie. She looked forward, through the windshield, and saw that they were heading straight into the surf. The waves were much calmer, now, no longer crashing, but she could see out into the distance that bigger waves were on their way. “What the hell are you doing?” yelled Kittie.
Then, they hit the water. Kittie leaned over Ako protectively, but there was only a slight jolt as the car hit the water. She sat up and looked forward again and was smooth ripples on the water. She looked out her side window, then behind, through the rear window, but all she saw was smooth water. The beach they were just on was no longer there.

“How?” was all Kittie could say, stunned.

“Neat, eh?” asked Walker. “Stephanie, I think this is the best trick you have showed me.”

“Oh, this is nothing, just a matter of patience and timing,” said Stephanie. “It is harder to do, though. Corners and alleyways are much easier to navigate. But, this will get us to the monastery in no time.”

“Where are we?” asked Walker.

“Yeah,” said Kittie, “Where the hell are we?”

“I’m taking a short cut through the Faerie lands,” said Stephanie. “I’m not sure who presides over these lands, but if we don’t make too much of a disturbance, we should be fine.”

“The what?” asked Kittie.

“I’ve never been to the Faerie,” said Walker, “Except where it touches a dreamscape.”

“Just keep an eye out for a low flying cloud,” said Stephanie.

“Like that?” asked Walker, pointing off to the left.

“Exactly,” said Stephanie. She turned the steering wheel and the car arced towards the cloud bank that seemed to sit right on the ocean.

“What happens if a storm comes?” asked Kittie, still unable to fully understand what was happening.

“Let’s not go there,” said Stephanie.

As they approached the cloud, it seemed to stretch out two pseudo-pods of mist. Stephanie drove the car right down the center. Up ahead, a wall of cloud did not recede, so Stephanie slowed down. As they came closer, they could see a stone wall in the mist. It did not touch the water, however. It hovered in the mist, solid and stable, but unearthly.

Stephanie brought the car up along side the wall and drove slowly until she found a stairway built into the wall. When she rolled down the window, a person appeared, as if that person were not visible unless seen by the naked eye, with nothing, not even glass intervening. The person in gray robes stood on the bottom step, hands clasped together below a smooth pale chin. The person’s head was clean shaven, and the softness of the features clouded the person’s gender.

“Welcome to our sanctuary,” said the person in a gentle and caring voice.

“I have come to ask for asylum on behalf of one who cannot ask,” said Stephanie.

“All are welcome,” said the person. Kittie climbed across Ako and rolled the back window down. She was trying to figure out if this was a boy, a girl, or someone who spent too much time watching cheesy kung fu movies.

Walker opened his door and stood up and out of the car, keeping his feet dry inside the car. “We have a young woman who has seen something that traumatized her mind, shattering her beliefs and perceptions. I patched her mind in the short time that I had, but she needs longer care to become whole again. Do you have any among you that can knit her mind together?”

“With patience and warmth, we will mend the woman,” said the person.

“We want her back,” said Kittie, abruptly, coming half-way out of the window. She felt self-conscious when Stephanie and Walker looked at her in surprise.

“She will leave when she wishes to leave,” said the person, bowing.

“It’s okay,” said Walker. “Help them with Ako’s body.”

“Them?” asked Kittie, but she backed into the car as the person stepped forward, above the water, hovering like the mist and the wall. The person leaned in through the window and lifted Ako’s legs. Kittie struggled and managed to lift Ako’s shoulders. Stephanie and Walker watched as Kittie and the person got Ako through the window. Kittie was amazed at how strong the person was for how soft and weak his or her appearance was. She felt silly, then, knowing from her own experience that appearances don’t tell the whole story.

The person held Ako easily in both arms and started talking up the steps. When the two were out of sight, another appeared, almost a twin, and came down to the last step.

“When you come back, she will be awake,” said the person. Then the person turned and was gone up the steep stone steps. The mist seemed to be getting thicker.

“Everybody in,” said Stephanie. When they were all secured, Stephanie drove them deeper into the mist. It was only a few minutes before Kittie realized that they were driving through long shallow puddles covering very solid ground. The mist was still surrounding them, but Kittie could see shapes and forms hiding out in the gray air.

Suddenly, they were into clear air, driving out of a wide tunnel. Behind them, steam rose up from a vent in the pavement. Around them, the city had the look of fresh rain, as if the night was one of storm and thunder, but the sky was fairly clear.

“Let’s get some food,” said Stephanie.

Benders 09, Lunch

2007-04-28T23:51:00.000-07:00

“So, when is someone going to explain what is going on?” Kittie’s question sounded more like a statement, even a command. She was resting her chin on the palm of her hand, elbow on the picnic table, and playing with her fries in ketchup.

“Which part?” asked Walker.

“That car trip was freaky!” exclaimed Kittie. “I mean, I’ve hit some pretty hard drugs, but nothing ever sent me on a trip like that.”

“I just find a path between two points,” said Stephanie, picking at her chicken salad with a plastic fork. “Just like most people do, when they want to go someplace.”

“No, no, no,” said Kittie, “Not ‘just like most people’. Most people stop before they get to the water.” Kittie sat up to better express her exasperation. Idly, she started shredding a thick french fry.

Walker looked at Stephanie, glanced back at Kittie, then said to Stephanie, “You don’t seem satisfied with your salad?” Kittie glared at Walker, feeling ignored.

“It tastes like plastic,” said Stephanie.

Walker looked at Kittie and said, “First, tell us how you survived your encounter with Sameth.” Kittie’s face went pale and her irritation faded. Walker continued, “Most people don’t walk away from her.”

“No,” said Kittie in a soft voice, “They don’t.” Ako’s blank face haunted her.

“I suspect that you walked away, because you can do something that most people can’t,” said Walker, “Just as Stephanie can find paths that most people can’t travel.”

“And like mister counselor here can stroll through your mind,” said Stephanie, her mouth full of lettuce and chicken.

Kittie eyed Walker for a moment, then looked down at the squished little pieces of fried potato. Her brow knitted, then she looked up at Walker, again. “You can do what?”

Walker sat up straight. “I am a doctor of psychiatry. I am familiar with the inner workings of the mind.”
“Damn straight,” said Stephanie, heavy with sarcasm. “You are more than familiar. You have been there.”

“Much in the way that Stephanie can follow hidden paths between locations, I can walk the paths of the mind, both within and between.”

“So, what, like, you are a telepath, or something?” said Kittie.

“Less like a Hollywood telepath and more like a . . . guide,” said Walker. “Like the Indian scout that leads cowboys through the wilderness.”

“Is that as freaky as the car trip?” asked Kittie.

“Girl, the car trip was nothing more than you sitting on your ass looking out the window,” said Stephanie. “What Walker does is pull you through your own mind, digging up all the forgotten dirt and hidden nightmares, climbing over mountains of emotional baggage, and walking across tender scars.”

“When can we go?” asked Kittie, sitting up straight.

“As soon as we get to a safe place,” said Walker. “There are something things I would like to teach you. They will help if we run into old company.”

“Speaking of . . . Who or what is Sameth?” Kittie almost stuttered when she said the name.

“There are a few theories, but they all come from different paradigms, perspectives,” explained Walker. “I don’t think anyone really knows for sure.”

“I think ‘demon’ comes closest,” said Stephanie.

“But without the spiritual context,” added Walker.

“I was never much on the whole religion thing,” said Kittie. “How about ‘bitch’?”

“That will work fine,” said Stephanie, pushing her finished salad to the center of the wooden table.

“Now, what is the deal with that cloudy place, where we left Ako?” asked Kittie.

“Ako will be fine, there,” said Walker. “They are healers of the spirit, but when the spirit is healed, the rest follow.”

“You don’t look all new agey,” said Kittie, “But you sure sound like it.”

“Can’t help it,” said Walker. “They took all the language that we can relate to.”

“I’d like to see you in tie dye,” said Stephanie, cracking a smile.

“It’s been done,” said Walker, giving her a mock mean face. Looking back at Kittie, he said, “They will pull the trauma out, so that she can move on from that point in time. I did a quick patch by gathering up the larger elements of her memories from last night and bundling them up, but eventually they will have to be dealt with one way or the other.”

“Whatever,” said Kittie. “So long as I get her back.”

“She will be back,” said Walker, “But she may not be quite the same.”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” said Kittie. “Tell me about how that misty castle thing works.”

“I don’t know if either of us can do that,” said Walker. “That was on the edge of the faerie lands, and they have rules of their own.”

“Where are the faerie lands?” asked Kittie.

“Not here,” said Walker. “And I mean, not in this visible realm. They are parallel, overlapping, and apart from everything you know. They are permeated by the dreaming, just as this reality is, but it is given form by the spirit, and that changes everything.”

“I don’t get it,” said Kittie. She held up her hand. “I don’t know if I ever will, so let’s give it a rest until I have had time to try to wrap my brain around it all.”

After a moment of silence, Stephanie said, “Where are we going next, boss?”

“I think we need Daniel’s help,” said Walker. “Some training is in order for our little friend.”

Walker stood up and gathered his trash, then headed to the trash can. Kittie remained confused, but followed anyway. Stephanie grabbed her car keys and picked up the remaining trash, giving Kittie a scowl. It slowly began to occur to Kittie that she was being led around by the nose, and it surprised her that she was not angry. Then she scowled at Walker, because he might be manipulating her, and she didn’t know what his real agenda was.

Benders 10, Paintings

2007-04-28T23:50:00.000-07:00

“Please check the door,” said Tasha, absently, dabbing some acrylic paint onto a large square of canvas. Rachel, familiar with Tasha and her way of ‘knowing’, put the Play Station 2 game controller down on the coffee table and stood up. On her way to the door, she picked up a bottle of water from the kitchen counter and unscrewed the top. She took a sip before peeping through the spy-hole in the thick metal door of their studio apartment.

Rachel saw a short, skinny white girl with an attitude standing in front of a tall white guy in a black leather hat and a long leather coat. Barely in sight, a black girl leaned against the wall across the hall. When Rachel recognized Walker, she frowned and forced her mind into overdrive. Everything seemed to slow down, but at least Walker wouldn’t be able to follow her thoughts. She could see Walker’s friendly professional smile fade and his smug uplifted chin drop slightly. It all took time, to Rachel’s speeded up perception, as she compressed her own seconds.

“Tasha,” Rachel yelled across the large room. “It’s your psycho friend, Walker. He has some sorry looking punk girl and his cabbie.” She knew her words would easily carry through the door into the hallway. She had to focus on slowing down her speech so that Tasha would hear a normal voice instead of a speeded up squeal.

“Well,” said Tasha, pausing while she arced a line of white across a dark background, “Let them in.”

“You know how I feel about that control freak and his minions,” said Rachel, no longer yelling.

“He is a friend,” said Tasha, smearing the white into something else, something blurry.

“He just uses you,” said Rachel, unbolting the door with some aggression, “Just like he uses everyone else.”

“We have company,” said Tasha, her voice raising a little, bordering on a scolding tone.

Rachel opened the door and stood back, motioning with her arm for everyone to enter. As Walker passed, he said, “Think modems, compression algorithms, conflicting speeds.” With those words, he triggered Rachel’s mind into following a line of logic she did not like.

When two computer modems of different speeds communicate, the faster one has to wait for the slower modem to send, and once the faster modem sends it’s data packets, it has to wait for the slower modem to capture and read each data packet. It isn’t very efficient, but the two modems can still communicate. The slower modem can still read the data coming from the faster modem. And thus, Rachel realized, Walker could read her thoughts as she expected him to do, despite her mental time dilation, albeit, not quite as efficiently.

Rachel’s face screwed up into a tight scowl and she slammed the door after Stephanie, the last of the trio, came through the door. Stephanie stood wide-eyed, staring at Rachel, not sure where the offense was, as Rachel stormed off into the bathing area, sectioned off by some tall Asian blinds.

Tasha gently put down her brush and approached her new guests. “Hello, Walker,” she said. “Who are your friends?”

“This is Stephanie,” said Walker. “You have heard me speak of her before.” Tasha nodded. “And this is Kittie. I think she can help me with my current interest.”

“Yes,” said Tasha, slowly, thoughtfully, almost as if she were in a daze. She continued, “Well, we shall see, won’t we.” She turned and headed back towards her painting area. Halfway there, she stopped and motioned for her guests to follow.

They stood around a half finished painting. There was a clear spot in the middle stretching down to the bottom edge. All around this area was shadow and darkness, hints of roiling clouds and faint faces. The canvas seemed to move, as if this were a computer animation rather than a still painting. Each observer saw something slightly different.

“That’s you, Walker,” said Kittie, pointing to the left side of the canvas. “You can barely make it out, but that face is definitely you.” They all focused on the left side. Stephanie cocked her head and squinted. Walker just knitted his brown and pursed his lips.

“And that’s . . . her,” said Kittie, pointing to the right side of the canvas. There was something dark and wet on that side, hidden in the shadows and clouds.

Stephanie realized she was holding her breath. When she exhaled, she said softely, “It is more difficult to see, but easier to feel.”

“Very good description,” said Tasha. “That’s what I thought.”

“Geez, Walker,” said Kittie, “You and . . . the two of you appear to be standing over me like divorced parents in a custody battle.” She crossed her arms and scrunched her face.

“Your not in the picture,” said Walker.

“Well, I’m going to be,” said Kittie, looking at Tasha. “It’s my portrait that goes in the center there, right?”

“Very observant,” said Tasha. “Did you see that, or is that just a guess?”

“It’s obvious,” said Kittie.

“To you, yes,” said Walker, “But I think Tasha wants to know if you actually see yourself in the picture, or are you just drawing conclusions.”

“Duh,” said Kittie, “I’m not painted in, yet. It’s blank.”

“I can see her aura reflecting off the clouds,” said Stephanie, quietly. She looked at Tasha and said, “I am very impressed.”

“And I as well,” said Tasha. “Your perceptions go very deep.”

“Whatever,” said Kittie, impatiently. “Am I supposed to sit somewhere? I mean, this is why we are here, right? Paint me in, then off to save the world. Man, you are totally whacked with your priorities.” Kittie shook her head slowly as she walked to the other side of the canvas, looking for a stool to sit on.

“Not quite,” said Tasha. “I don’t paint with my eyes open.”

“Besides, we are here to see Rachel,” said Walker. “I’m hoping that she can give you some basic martial arts training.”

There was a moment of silence. Kittie stood, full of attitude, arms crossed, hips cocked, one foot out slightly. “Oh, really?” is all she said.

“Some offensive training would compliment your regenerative abilities nicely,” said Walker.

“Is she always a bitch?” asked Kittie, jerking her thumb over her shoulder in Rachel’s direction.

“Are you?” asked Stephanie, quite matter of fact.

Kittie lost some of her attitude and smiled. “No, not really, but thanks for noticing.”

“Why don’t you leave,” Tasha said to Walker, “and I will introduce Kittie to Rachel.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Walker. “I have some people I would like to see. They may help with some information.” Walker headed towards the door and Stephanie followed.

When they were gone, Tasha walked to the door and reset the bolts. From across the room, Kittie said, “I got the munchies.”

Tasha turned slowly and looked at her guest. All she said was, “Tofu?” She smiled as Kittie’s eyes pleaded for something else.

Benders 11, Kittie's Training

2007-04-28T23:49:00.000-07:00

Rachel and Kittie stood facing each other, eyeing each other, trying to figure out how the other fit into the world. Rachel seemed not to move, not even a breath, as motionless as a statue. Her eyes stared blankly, unfocused, reading all of Kittie at once. Kittie tilted her head to one side, squinted, fidgeted, stared at Rachel’s eyes, then her hands, then her breasts, then her legs. Her posture changed every time she shifted her gaze.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask me some stupid questions without answers?” asked Kittie, breaking the silence that annoyed her so much. Silence was only enjoyable after a good, long orgasm, in her opinion.

Rachel knitted her brown and tilted her head to match Kittie’s.

“You know,” said Kittie, impatiently, “Like, ‘What is the sound of one hand clapping?’ or something like that.”

Rachel raised one hand open and quickly closed it, slapping her fingers against her palm. The sound of a hollow clap echoed off the bare walls and floor. Rachel tilted her head to the other side and raised her eyebrows.

“Huh,” said Kittie. “I never thought of that.”

“So, that’s where we will start,” said Rachel.

“With clapping?” asked Kittie.

“No,” said Rachel, “With what you never thought of.”

“Are you going to teach me how to expect the unexpected?” asked Kittie.

“You watch too much TV,” said Rachel. “I am going to teach you some things that you can expect, things that are possible and practical.”

“If I am supposed to face off against what’s-her-name, shouldn’t you be showing me things that aren’t possible?” asked Kittie.

“Start with the basics,” said Rachel. “You can’t build a house without a foundation.”

“Tree-house,” said Kittie, defiantly. Rachel glared.

“How rough do you want to start?” asked Rachel.

“I’m not much of a scrapper until the pain starts,” said Kittie. Usually, the idea of pain turns her on, but here she was facing this bitch named Rachel, and that was such a turn off. She though of Ako and tears started to well up in her eyes. Kittie started to wonder if this would be like cheating on Ako.

“Let’s just see what you can do,” said Rachel. “Should I slap you?”

“Broken bones work better,” said Kittie, just as serious as Rachel.

“Okay,” said Rachel with a slight shrug. Rachel took a moment to warp time, to compress her frame of reference. Then she moved. Rachel was a competent martial artist, dedicated to the journey of perfection, but in her ten years of study, she had met masters with thirty or more years of experience. They were faster, stronger, wiser. Her talent with time, however, evened the score. Her strikes were too fast to be seen. Her hits were so sudden, the body couldn’t react. And she was never in one spot long enough to be hit.

Kittie took the hammer fist to her clavicle. Her body jerked down to one side, and her legs gave out. The pain was instantaneous, followed closely by a wave of pleasure. Light headed, she smiled and looked up. Her broken collarbone slid back into place with a muted click.

“Again,” said Kittie. Rising to stand on shaky legs.

Rachel stared for a moment, amazed by what she had seen. Again, she was a blur, striking with both palms open, sending shock waves of kinetic energy into Kittie’s little body. The force of the impact sent Kittie through the air, slamming against the cinderblock wall with the crunch of more bones breaking, falling a few feet onto her tailbone.

Kittie lay on the floor, eyes fluttering. Her body started to twitch as it put itself back together. Ruptured internal organs unruptured and broken bones unbroke. Her eyes snapped open. Her eyes were dilated and her heart was racing. She leaned forward into a squat, one hand on the floor, one hand on her knee.

“How rough can I play?” asked Kittie, smiling with glee.

“Let’s just keep this a slap fight, now,” said Rachel.

“Ah, the searing sting of five fingers,” said Kittie.

Kittie leapt forward, landing in the spot Rachel had just been standing. Kittie spun, following the blur of Rachel she could just barely make out. Kittie stayed crouched and took a slap from Rachel. Rachel had moved in, struck, then stepped to the side. Kittie put her hands straight out behind her. Again, Rachel moved in and slapped, leaving a red handprint on Kittie’s other cheek. This time, however, Kittie swung both hands out wide and caught Rachel as she passed to the left. It was a random shot, but between Kittie’s strength and Rachel’s speed, Rachel spun out of control, landing sprawled out on the floor.

Rachel stood slowly, settling into a defensive crouch. “Impressive,” she said. Kittie smiled like a deranged kitten.

Rachel stepped up to Kittie and threw some basic punches and kicks into Kittie. Kittie couldn’t block them, and didn’t even try to avoid the strikes. With each crunch of bone and slap of skin, Kittie seemed to heal faster and react quicker.

Suddenly, Kittie went on the offensive, pressing forward with attempts to hit and grab, but Rachel blocked, parried, and evaded each attack. Then, in an instant, Kittie was flipped off her feet and slammed against the floor.

Dazed and vibrating in ecstasy, Kittie lay for a moment, trying to focus on what she was doing.

“Okay,” said Rachel. “We need to work on balance and stance.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Kittie.

“With your strength so disproportionate to your size, you need to fight compact and stable,” said Rachel.

“Yeah, whatever,” repeated Kittie.

“How long before your buzz wears off?” asked Rachel.

“Who cares,” said Kittie.

“We will talk later,” said Rachel, getting annoyed. Rachel went to her incense and candles and began to meditate. There was so much potential to work with, but so many obstacles to overcome. Basics, thought Rachel, Just the basics.

Chess 01, First Pawn

2007-04-25T23:59:00.000-07:00

When I first met him, I knew he was a King. Or rather, the King. He was my King. I felt his presence, his royalty and immediately felt compelled to bow down to him. By the same token, I was immediately recognized as one of his subjects. I am merely a Pawn.

I was pulled aside by the Bishop and gently interrogated. He was tall and lean, dressed in a conservative business suit under a hooded robe. The Bishop had such a way with words. I didn't realize how thoroughly I was grilled until after I had time to think about it. Once he pulled all the information he wanted from me, he began to explain, in rather vague terms, what I had stepped into.

"You are familiar with chess, one assumes." Now that the charm of gentle interrogation was no longer needed, I could feel his arrogance like a weight. I wanted to wipe his contempt from me with a rag. I said I knew chess. He said we were pieces in a chess game. Or rather, the chess game. And it wasn't a game. People died. One moment, I was a bicycle courier, the next moment, I was part of a life and death game of Chess.

He said I was a Pawn. He asked how I felt about that, but I knew he was only interested in my stability and loyalty. I never had high ambitions, so I just shrugged and said, "If I am not a threat, I won't be a target."

The Bishop chuckled and with a chilling breath, he whispered: "No one underestimates a Pawn."

I was introduced to another Pawn, Rachel. She asked if I had seen the "other side", yet. I had no idea what she meant. She said reality had many layers, and the action of the game took place on a different level. I still had no idea what she meant. When I first saw the Enemy, then, I knew exactly what she was talking about.

It happened when I was in the mall. I was told to run an errand. Rachel said she would be watching over me, but that didn't ease the chill I felt. Somebody was standing on my grave, and they wore heavy boots.

I was supposed to buy a book that had been ordered at a used bookstore there. Everything went smoothly, although I was rather paranoid the whole time. As I walked out of the bookstore, I could see Rachel through the glass wall of the mall structure. She was standing in the parking lot by my car holding a long spear in her hand. Fear froze my body, but my mind sped forward. I thought, maybe she was going to kill me. Pawns could be sacrificed, after all. But I realized how silly that would be. Why would she use a spear out in the parking lot? Wouldn't it be easier to just shoot me in private? I suddenly noticed that the book in my hands was a large shield. It was then I realized we were on the "other side".

I saw a large man walking along the row of cars, heading towards Rachel. His ordinary clothes were overlapped by plate armor and his umbrella became a great battleaxe. Rachel saw the large man and stood her ground. She lowered her spear and thrust it at the man's face. He pushed it aside, gripped the shaft with his free hand and swung the axe down at Rachel. She let go of the spear and side stepped the axe, then turned and ran for her life.

My heart raced with hers.

The large man let go of the axe that was buried in the pavement and gripped the spear to throw it. Rachel was almost to the doors of the mall when the spear skewered her, pinning her body to the stone arch that framed the entrance.

My heart stopped with hers.

My eyes flashed back to the man in the parking lot. He was eyeing me casually. When our eyes met, he winked, but never smiled. He leaned over and picked up his umbrella from the ground. I looked down at my hands now holding a book once again. When I looked up, the large man was nowhere in sight. I ran to where Rachel had died. Lying where her body should have been, I could only find a pen with Rachel in gold script on it. I stood in the shadow of the arch for a long time.

Chess 02, Second Pawn

2007-04-25T23:58:00.000-07:00

I was told to follow the Rook. He had taken out one of my fellow Pawns. The newest of my brethren had witnessed the whole thing. He had not been told how bad it could get, but I don't know if knowing ever helps.

I had shadowed the Rook to a gothic church and was waiting in the night’s shadows of a dark alley across the street. It wasn't long before I saw one of our Bishops at the corner of the church, leaning against the stonework like a large praying mantis waiting to strike. They really give me the creeps.

I heard movement behind me. In the darkness, I saw a silhouette with a spear. I was in no danger from him. He was one of us, but something was about to happen. I turned back to face the church. The Bishop hadn't moved. He was staring directly at me. I felt very cold.

Behind me, I heard my fellow Pawn shuffle his feet. I turned to scold him with a look. Even the slightest sound could get us killed. My warning came too late. He was dangling limp in the hands of the Rook. The Rook laid the body on the ground and looked up. Our eyes met and I could not look away. Terror held me tight.

I heard the creaking of old hinges as, across the street, the massive doors of the gothic church swung open. The Rook stepped forward in eerie silence. I trembled, still frozen by his menacing grin. He reached out and grabbed the top of my head and slowly turned me around. I watched as a tall woman stepped out of the doors. She radiated power. I was entranced as she casually looked in my general direction and nodded approval to the Rook.

In a sudden burst of speed, the Bishop blurred towards the Queen. But the Queen was ready for him, as if she knew she was walking into an ambush. She jumped over the railing and floated upwards, out of the Bishop's reach. I could see contempt and defiance in the Bishop's eyes. Then lightning crackled and hissed from the Queen's fingertips. The Bishop twisted in agony. He fell down the concrete steps, writhing uncontrollably. Then there was silence.

I realized that the Rook had let go, but still I could not move. Was I to be left for the Queen? From behind me, I heard the Rook gurgle, then I felt him trip over me. I fell to the ground under the weight of his massive body. The wind was knocked from me. Blood showered down upon me from the Rook's throat. My Queen’s Knight was pulling me roughly to my feet. His sword dripped with blood. He was watching the Queen intently. I looked over my shoulder and saw she held her hand in front of her. A ball of lightning glowed above her palm. Like a pro baseball pitcher, she drew her arm back for the throw. I turned back to the knight in time to see, the ground rumple like a rug and the Knight fall into darkness.

Then, the night crackled with a flash of bright pain.

Chess 03, First Knight

2007-04-25T23:57:00.000-07:00

I entered the Royal Chambers and raised my hand high in salute to my King and Queen. A Bishop was in attendance as was the new Pawn. The King beckoned me with his hand and I marched across the checked marble floor and knelt at my Liege's feet.

"What do you have to report, Knight of the Queen?" asked the King.

I met his cold, vacant eyes and said, "The Rook is dead." In my peripheral vision, I saw the new Pawn look up from the darkness he was dwelling in. He probably still felt the loss of the Pawn known as Rachel, as Pawns were apt to do.

"Good deed," said the King. "Now, I need you to take this new Pawn to the monument in the park. After that, you are free for the evening. Dismissed."

"Yes, My Lord." I nodded my acquiescence and bowed with respect. I turned and walked out of the room. Behind me, I could hear the hesitant footsteps of the new Pawn. He was three paces back when I entered the prison cell. I could see confusion in his eyes, but no fear. The darkness behind his eyes was still there, however.

"Are you ready?" I asked. He shrugged. I reached out to the stone wall and pulled it back like a curtain. The evening air blew in and the Pawn gasped. "Watch your step," I offered and gently pushed him through my door. I followed him through and we found ourselves by the entrance of the Park. We both looked at the towering monument near the lake. "Here you are. I assume you have your orders?" I said. He looked at me and nodded. I turned my back on him and walked away.

I stepped up to the counter at Mah House, a coffee shop a block from the park. The King’s orders were very specific, regardless of how obscure [arcane?] the meaning was. I was surprised at his words, but pleased to have been given a break. It seemed the King believed in rewarding his servants for doing their duty. So, I ordered a coffee. House blend. Black. I used to be a law student. I used to spend many long hours studying here.

I sat down outside on the worn couch on the patio and watched the crowd mingle with the stopped traffic. It was past rush hour, but the theater was beginning soon. I didn't remember what was playing. I am more interested in seeing the people that go to the theater than actually going to the theater myself.

A fiery purple corvette pulled up onto the curb right in front of me. I knitted my brow at the abruptness, but smiled when a tall beautiful woman rose up out of the open T-top and said, "Is this spot taken?" Her eyes seemed to glow from the inside with much energy and life. Without breaking eye contact, she pulled herself from her car, and walked a beeline to where I sat. I could feel my blood pulse through my veins. I couldn't stop smiling. I couldn't break eye contact. Even when she knelt down and showed me her long vicious knife. Then there was blood. Lots of blood. But not mine.

A spear protruded from her throat. The spray of bright red arterial blood made me blink. My smile faded as quickly as the sparkle in her eyes. The Bishop slumped to the ground at my feet. I looked up into the eyes of the Pawn, whose darkness was lit by rage. He stood holding a pen pointing directly at me. When he lowered the pen, I could see lettering along its side.

His eyes bore into mine as he cooled and he said, "That was for Rachel."
I met his gaze and corrected him. "No. That was for the King."

Chess 04, Second Knight

2007-04-25T23:56:00.000-07:00

I stood at attention by my Queen. Before us, on the gray stone wall was a mirror with no reflection. She reached out one hand and slapped the surface of the mirror. There was an echoing sound of water splashing. Ripples of light spread out from where she touched the glass. I stared intently at the image forming.

"The King's Knight and our newest Pawn have taken out one of the enemy's Bishops," said my Queen. I saw the images of the two Players form as the ripples settled out of the mirror. Above them, a sign read ‘Mah Coffee.’

"But, now, the only thing standing between the King and a Rook is a single Pawn." I felt a chill at these words. My Queen showed me the image of a filthy homeless man standing outside an expensive restaurant. Inside, through the restaurant's front window, I could see my King. A dark figure stepped into view, eclipsing everything. The Rook. I looked up at my Queen.

"It is too late?" I asked.

"No, but you are to look after the Pawn." She paused, then waved her hand over the mirror, showing the same scene from a different angle. "I want you to wait by that phone." There were two teenage girls talking on a pay phone, giggling. I fought the tide of memories that threatened to overwhelm me. I used to have two girls, and they would be in their teens now. I used to have a husband, too. Somewhere in this world, they still lived, without me. I blinked the tears away. There was never time for tears, anymore.

"Yes, my Queen." I turned and stepped through the rippling reality as I drew aside a curtain of stone.

When the two girls looked up suddenly at me as I stepped through, I knew they were Pawns. They had stopped giggling and began to look around cautiously. One of them gasped when she saw the Rook standing in the parking lot. The Rook had seen my arrival and was not moving. We caught each other's eyes and locked into a contest of wills. I would not allow him to intimidate me. Suddenly, he smiled, and I could feel him give up the intangible struggle. I could see someone behind him, guarding his back.

I drew my sword and hardened my resolve. I moved as if to push one of the Pawns aside, but instead, I pushed aside the curtain. The Rook's grin dropped from his face when I appeared right in front of him. He raised his battleaxe to strike me down. I shoved my sword deep into his belly, just below his breastplate. He dropped his arms and fell backwards, dragging my sword with him. I struggled to free my blade, but I knew it would have to end like this. I did not look up when the spear point tore through my chainmail, into my shoulder. The next thrust pinned me against a van and threw my head back. I watched as the young overweight Pawn drove the spear into my belly. I gritted my teeth in pain. He gritted his teeth in fear and determination. I coughed. Blood trickled out of my smile.

They had no more Rooks.

Chess 05, Queen

2007-04-25T23:55:00.000-07:00

Now, it is my turn. The King told me to confront their Queen. As a dutiful Queen, I do as I am told, but I know only a fool would leave a Queen undefended. The King feels we have enough of an advantage to trade me for my counterpart.

I stand above the city in the night, high on a ledge overlooking downtown. She would be here somewhere. She probably knows I am out, but I doubt she realizes that she is the target. We all feel safe with a Knight or Rook watching our backs. Really, though, the only thing that keeps us alive is the King’s need for us to live.

I don't remember much about my life before the Game. I think I was a schoolteacher. Now, I am Queen, the most powerful Player. Yet, in the end, I am only a Pawn with more options available to me. I don't get a kick out of being feared.

I don't like sending people to their deaths. Well, maybe a Bishop, but they aren't really people. The Knight fought well, though. And she had plenty of reasons to leave this life. It is unfortunate that a Pawn had to take her. But, she did take out their last Rook.

I look down on the penthouse balcony of a nearby building. There she is, dancing in the moonlight. I see both her Knights in attendance. And there is her King, as cold and vacant as my own. I wonder if he sees what is about to happen. I wonder if Kings know everything we know. They must. How else can they know the Game as a whole?

It is time. I rise up from where I stand, floating free in the air, my arms spread wide. It will have to be fast. She will know I am coming at the last instant, but she will check for other threats to her King before defending herself. She will expect the threat of the Knights to hold me back.

I drift over the balcony and let myself drop. I land in a crouch. The dancing stops. The Knights draw their swords. The King is unmoved. The Queen's eyes glaze over as she scans the area with other perceptions. I raise my hands and strike. The air ripples with energy that crackles between us. She is knocked back, off the edge of the balcony, smoking and lifeless.

I look up and see a Knight's blade arcing toward my neck.

Chess 06, Bishop

2007-04-25T23:54:00.000-07:00

Pawns are so fragile. I watch three of them march to the front gates of a Citadel. Mere children. They move so slowly, slower even than the rest of the Players. I grin with anticipation. This should be fun.

They wait in the park across the street from the Citadel. The front gate is around the corner. These tender ones are looking to sneak in along the side. A flanking maneuver. How quaint.

They think they have the most choices in the Game, the most freedom. They can’t see they are being played like the pawns that they are, that the last vestiges of humanity left to them mean nothing. They are under orders, like everyone else, except for us Bishops. We are the only Players in the Game by choice. Even the Kings lost their free will long ago when the first challenges were taken up. Every game they play, another bite of humanity is taken from them, but by now, they are locked into the cycle.

The Pawns cross the street and two of them push the third over the wall. Then, a second struggles over the wall, leaving a single Pawn looking guilty and lonely on the sidewalk. He sees me and his eyes go wide and dart to the side. It is all so slow to me, though.

Suddenly, I see another Bishop sauntering to the Pawn's side. It is an older man in a business suit. The poor Pawn is surprised by the appearance of his companion. He probably only saw a blur as the tall man arrived.

I try to slow myself down for effect. Why should the Pawn be afraid of a little girl in a little skirt and blouse, wearing her hair in little piggy tails? I am so adorable, after all.

"Good day, good sirs!" I say to them. The Pawn cowers behind the older man.

"Good day, little girl," says the tall Bishop. "I see you have me at a disadvantage."

"Sorry, old man. Today, you cannot protect your charges." The Pawn looks at me with fear as I say this. I smile sadly in mock distress.

"So very true," says the Bishop. He turns to the Pawn behind him and says,

"You see, dear lad, this young thing and I are opposites and we shall never meet."

At his words, I step through the Bishop, as if he isn't even there. After all, he isn't in my world, really. He seems a pleasant enough fellow. If his Queen hadn't fried my colleague, it would have been pleasant to see him rip this Bishop into pieces. I wonder how long his charm would have lasted?

The Pawn tries to run, but his first moves take forever and I dance around him a couple of times before slashing his throat with a rusty razor blade. I like rust. It tends to add a bit of roughness to an otherwise effortless kill, tugging rather than slicing. He stumbles and falls to his knees, gurgling. With his hands wrapped around his own neck, he falls face first to the pavement.

I hear polite clapping behind me. I wonder if his counterpart was as charming? One of my Knights certainly thought she was. That angry little Pawn, however, had his own opinions. I turn and curtsey, not wanting to appear rude, Before running to the back gate. I mustn't waste too much time. We Bishops move so much faster, but time still does flow for us.

Once inside, I have no trouble finding the Pawns. I stop just behind the ear of one and say, "Boo!" then I run off laughing with glee at the terror in his eyes. Soon, he will try to make it into the house, but he isn't my concern right now. One of the Pawns is trying to get herself Queened.

Inside the Citadel, I wait until the ambitious little Pawn has found the library. I watch from the corner as she opens the great doors and steps inside. I am behind her before she knows it. The spells in any one of the books on the walls would allow her to smite me down. I wish I could see the look of pain in her eyes as I drive my stiletto into her back and twist, but some things must be taken on faith.

Suddenly, my body stiffens with intense pain. There is something wrong, very wrong. I look down and see a Knight’s sword protruding from my belly, blood staining my blouse and skirt. Tears well up in my eyes as I feel a Knight’s heavy boot shove me off the blade.

Dark Green: Marta's Morning

2007-04-21T12:46:00.000-07:00

Marta woke slowly. There was no alarm clock, or light timer, or even a courtesy call. She had trained herself through years of self reliance, to sleep deep, then wake after a certain time. When she could afford it, she let herself wake slowly to enjoy the peace and safety of a dome hotel.

She was in a luxury hotel room in Colum-D, as domers called it. The official name was Columbus Dome Complex, specifically, Dome Number Five. It would be a few more weeks before she could afford another visit to the Harris Heights Hotel chain, but she was certain she would be back.

The shower was hot and clean. Black marble with grey veins contrasted with an ivory colored ceiling and chrome trim. The glass door steamed over and Marta pressed her hand against it. Somewhere in time, a past she dared not forget, her daughter pressed a smaller hand next to Marta's print on steamed glass and the two watched as the handprints slowly vanished. Her daughter would have been eighteen this year. Her soft tears were invisible in the shower, and Marta smiled gently. "It was better to have lost, than to never have," she said to herself. Marta swallowed hard and sighed. The hand print, and the moment, were gone.

The big fluffy towels felt almost loving against her skin. Her dryweave body suit was comfortable, but she wore it for days, at a time, sometimes weeks. The towels were new, fresh, and were only visiting her skin, like an occasional lover that had other obligations, but took the time to pay attention.

Marta shaved her scalp, then rubbed a pale green oil onto her head and face. It was given to her by Shin-Shin, a tribal elder from the Blue Faced Tribe. The oil was effective at preventing spores from latching on to exposed skin. She wore protective clothing and a filter helmet, but that first day out in the Dark Green was when she found all the chinks in her layers. The seals were not air tight. They just provided a maze of layers that prevented spores from wafting in, but the armor was only reliable for a handful of days before something could slip in. Marta had more than a couple experiences with spore infections in her early years of Dark Green exploration.

Marta paid close attention to oiling her scars. Shin-Shin said it also made scars go away, but scar tissue was less resistant to spore infection. Standing in front of a full length mirror, surrounded by black marble, Marta stared at her reflection, noting the fading scar. After only a couple years of regular oil treatments, the scars were no longer visible.

Six years ago, Marta had been attacked by some kind of predatory bug, about the size of a large dog. The thing pounced at her when she got out of her truck clear an intake vent, landing on her chest and driving a stinger through her armor. She killed the but quickly, but struggled with the poison for days, holed up in her truck's cabin. By the time she was able to drive again, the spores had settled into the wound. The medics at the Dayton Dome had to remove the breast to remove the infection. They did a professional job that there was only a long scar where they stretched skin over the healthy muscle tissue. Now, after years of oil treatments, the scar was gone.

Marta's eyes lingered on her chest where her left breast used to be. She took her eyes off the mirror and looked down at her smooth skin. It was one more thing she had lost in her life, but at least she started with two of those. She smiled down at her right breast and said, "Just you and me, now."

Marta dressed in a standard, working class business suit and gathered her personal belonging in her shoulder bag. She had some business to attend to, and she wanted to blend in with the crowds. Dome Dwellers did not like to be reminded of what lay outside their habitats.

Village: Throwing Stones

2007-04-01T00:02:00.000-07:00

“How do you do that?” she asked softly.

“Do what?” he asked in return, almost absently. He threw a small stone into the pond.

“You don’t react the same way the others do,” she said. In the bright moonlight, she looked pale, lifeless, yet she spoke with her curiosity barely restrained.

He turned to face her. “I choose not to,” he said, very matter of fact.

“You choose not to,” she said, tasting the words, checking to see if they meant the same when they came out of her own mouth. “Can I do the same?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “Can you?” There was a hint of sarcasm and he regretted the affect it had on her. She seemed to tame her curiosity and the inner light retreated into eyes gone lifeless. “Yes, of course, you can,” he said, gently.

“Why did you do that?” she asked. There was hurt in her voice, but she controlled it well.

“Consider it your first lesson,” he said. His voice was still gentle, sincere.

“My lesson?” she said bitterly, “Who said I wanted you as my teacher?”

“Why are you angry?” he said.

“Because you hurt my feelings,” she said, with a look that did not hide the epithets she did not voice.

“But why did my words hurt your feelings?” he asked. “Did you choose this?”

She opened her mouth quickly, but closed her lips slowly. Her eyes were still angry.

“Choose your feelings,” he said. “Choose to be angry, and take responsibility for it, or choose not to be angry, and be responsible for the peace that follows.”

“Choose,” she said quietly. Then, the anger came back. “How do I do that?”

“Let it go,” he said. “Give it no internal value. Don’t choose to be happy. That will just cover up the anger. Choose to not be angry. Let it go. Give it no value.”

She looked at him and he could see the anger fading, zeroing out, becoming a nil. Then her mouth opened in awe. She was a statue before him, commemorating a brief spark of enlightenment that would smolder from this point on.

“Are you angry?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I do feel light headed.”

“That is from your paradigm shift,” he said.

“My what?” she asked.

“You will see things differently from this point on,” he explained. “How you interpret your world will be different than those around you.”

“I,” she said, then she paused. “I am not like them anymore?”

“No,” he said. “You took a step closer to being like me, but you are still you. Remember that. No matter how much you learn, you are still you. You are not your mentor.”

“People will notice?” she asked.

“Some, but not all,” he said.

“I think I will go sit quietly by the fire,” she said. There was a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I will disturb people with my new demeanor. And tomorrow, I will practice choosing my emotions.”

“When they drag you away in restraints, will you cackle with madness?” he asked. He couldn’t keep a smile off his face completely.

“I will yell something clichéd,” she said, “Like, ‘you think I am mad, but I will show you all’, and they will tremble in fear.”

“Or pity,” he said.

“Well, whatever,” she said smiling. “I will get my fill of s’mores before the night is over, then I will dream happy thoughts.” For just a moment, her expression brightened to the point of comedy. Then, she relaxed and wandered back to the fire.

He bent down, picked up a small stone. He examined it briefly, then threw it out into the pond.

Village: Dare Rocks

2007-04-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

The ocean waters were calm, so I borrowed Father’s canoe and rode out to the Dare Rocks. I remember, as children, we used to dare each other to swim out to the rocks. The Elders don’t have a name for the rocks. They never cared enough to visit them, and they didn’t care much for the games of children. But we cared.

Little Joey was the first of us to try. He was small and skinny, and didn’t have much endurance. He waded into the water, until his feet didn’t touch the muddy bottom, then he just treading water until Lindie waded in and pulled him to shore.

Little Joey was also the first of us to die in the water. It was a year later and he tried it again, but this time, he kept going. He hadn’t gotten much better at swimming, but I think he had gotten tired of being the smallest and the weakest. He made it half way before he went under the first time. It was Lindie that went to get help, but Joey was gone by the time any adults arrived. It looked like something had pulled him under, but I think that’s how I remember it, just so that Little Joey kept some dignity in death. I mean, it wasn’t like he failed. Something prevented him, right?

None of us tried to swim across without something to hang onto, but even then, it was very intimidating. Someone started talking about Joey’s ghost, and that made the trip seem even more frightening. Eventually, however, all of us had made it to the Dare Rocks with a plank or log keeping us afloat.

Robert says he swam out to the rocks once, when no one was watching. We all said it was such a stupid idea. First of all, he could have died. Second of all, not one of us would have done it without a witness. Except Marie, that is. While I believe that Robert could have made it to the rocks, he wouldn’t have done it without a witness. Marie, however, was a quiet one.

I remember one night during a hot summer, I bumped into her in the evening, when the moon was full and the village was rowdy. She was wet from swimming and she had a very secretive smile. I asked what she was up to, but she didn’t even make a sound. She just smiled, as if holding back her secret too so much effort, that if she even peeped, she might blurt it out.

She didn’t stop smiling like that for a year, until Robert finally did swim out to the rocks. Of course, his trip had the whole village watching, and my father was his escort, only five feet away in the canoe. Marie’s smile dimmed, but I can still detect its shadow to this day, whenever Robert brags about being the first to swim to the Dare Rocks.

I think she knows I am in on the secret, though. She asked me why I had a secret smile once, after Robert reminded us, yet again, about his magnificent feat. I just smiled, the way she smiled at me that night I bumped into her. Ever since then, she smiles widely at me in public.

Shadowrun: Ricci

2000-06-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I ran the shadows, once.

I was fifteen back in '55, thinking I was hot drek, and I was looking forward to a killer career as a shadowrunner. I was a driver, you see, and that meant when I was on a job, I had a vehicle between me and the danger. That's what I thought, at least.

Looking back, I can't figure out how I did it, but I wasn't with any gang. I was neutral territory. If anybody needed a driver, cheap, just call that ork, Ricci, and he will get you from point A to point B. He will be there when you need him, and when you don't need him, he will just fade. That was me. My rep wasn't hot. It was cool. Cool and solid.

I never got cybered up like a rigger, but that was in the plans. Once I saved up the money, I would be wired for wheels and nothing would be able to slow me down. But there are plenty of vehicles out there that don't have a black box.

I knew I was on the right track when I was approached by some car thieves. They wanted me to snatch cars and deliver them to locations. I never saw the people who paid us and that was good. I never saw the people who I stole from, either, and that was better.

They hooked me up with this human chick, Tyler. We hit it off real well. She would get us in the car and get it started, then I would take the wheel. We would lie low for a few hours before bringing the car in. Those were some hot times, with her. I'm sure you can figure out what two teenagers might get up to with a car and a few hours to kill.

Well, that was going smooth for about six months. The money was rolling in and my rep was stellar. The few times the heat came down on us, I drove us out from under the thumb of authority like a real pro. Then I got this call. It was just bad timing, but maybe life was trying to teach me a big lesson just before I screwed up everything good in my life.

Tyler and I were having an argument. She was talking some serious emotional drek, and I was not in the mood to handle that. Yeah, I said I loved her, but I was a rocket going up. I could feel it. I would take her with me, but she had to play it cool. Married couples don't run the shadows, now, do they?

Anyway, I get this call and she can't believe I just pick up the phone and answer it like we were doing nothing but watching the trideo. It was a cool break from the emotional heat she was laying down, so I welcomed it.

On the line was Jazz, a real local legend on the Seattle scene. He was a fixer by trade, but he was an ork. He was rolling in nuyen, contacts, and rep. He was the man to know, and when he asked, you didn't turn it down. He wouldn't come down on you, but people would know you weren't serious. The next job you got came with a side of fries.

So, I said yes immediately. I barely even knew what he was asking, and I said yes. I was stunned that The Jazz man was calling me. He said to get down to Renton** and pick up two runners. He needed the job done now and I was the closest and the best. I didn't know which was more important, but it didn't matter.

When I hung up, Tyler's face was pale as a ghost. She knew I was stepping closer than ever to the shadows I dreamed of, and she begged me not to go. It tore my heart to see her beg. She just isn't like that. I grabbed my driving jacket and headed for the door.

She said, "I can feel it in my heart that things are going to change forever tonight."

I stood at the door, turned and looked at her. She was deathly afraid of losing me.

"It is just a pick up, Tyler," I said. She started to sob.

I opened the door and turned to leave when she yelled, "I'm pregnant!" I froze for a moment, then hurried out of the door. I didn't have time for all that. It was a discussion I that would happen when I got back, but right then, my future was waiting for me to pick it up.

Jazz had instructed me to head to the old Wind Café, the one that had burned last year. He said speed was a priority. I knew the place. It was only ten minutes away. I got there in five with my lights out. I screeched to a halt and drew my Predator.

Suddenly, the driver door was open and I was staring down the barrel of something big. The woman holding was as big as I was and pumped on adrenaline. It was dark, but my eyes could see she meant business.

"Who are you?" she asked in clipped Citispeak.

"Ricci."

"Who sent you?" she asked.

"Jazz."

"Come with me," she commanded. I followed her into the burned out structure of the Wind Café. I could barely see, there was so little light. Then the woman pulled a glow stick from a pocket and my eyes adjusted to the sickly green light. A dwarf lay on his in a pool of his own blood in one sooty corner. He had a ball cap on backwards and a cigar butt hanging from his lips. His eyes were closed tight. His right hand was trembling.

"Pick him up and bring him to the car," said the woman. I looked at her and saw a black eye and a split lip. Her shoulders were soaked with blood. I don't know how much of it was hers, but there was also a small hole in the lower left hand side of her armor vest and blood soaked all the way down her leg. She must have carried the dwarf here after both were wounded. I looked into her eyes and saw many types of pain, but I also saw cold determination.

I picked the dwarf out of his puddle and threw him over my shoulder. He was very heavy, but I was able to carry him to the car and flop him into the back seat. The woman was already sitting in the front passenger seat with her feet still on the pavement. Once I was unburdened, I quickly went around the car and sat into the driver's seat.

"Where, now?" I asked as I started the engine. The woman still hadn't pulled her legs into the car, yet so I put my hand on her shoulder and pulled her back into the seat. She dragged herself from her stupor and settled herself into the bucket seat, then closed the door.

The answer to my question came as a burst of gunfire that shattered the windows, sending bullets and broken glass flying through the car. I hit the accelerator and the car jumped and ran. In seconds we were tearing through the neighborhood at 120 klicks. I pulled some tricks out of my hat to make sure we were not followed.

I have played ambulance before, so I knew some street docs in town. I headed to Schneider's. He was the closest. He was about twenty minutes away, even with the way I was driving. I slowed down once I got to his neighborhood. Schneider told me slow was good when near his home. It attracted less attention.

I pulled into the alley behind Schneider's house and shut off the car. The woman perked up when the car stopped. She got out of the car with her pistol drawn. I left my pistol in the car when I got out to open the back door. I pulled the dwarf's body out and put him back onto my shoulder. I couldn't tell if he was breathing, but his hand was still trembling. I didn't have much hope for him, but this is the Sixth World and miracles are as common as nightmares, sometimes.

I knocked on the back door of Schneider's house. The woman was right behind me. I knocked harder, rattling the window panes. The woman leaned forward and pushed a button beside the door. I heard chimes echo through the house. Lights came on inside.

Schneider shuffled down the steps to the landing by the door. He peered out through the window. When he recognized me, he frowned. His frown deepened when he realized it was a body I had on my shoulder. Still, he opened the door anyway and pointed down the stairs towards the basement. The basement was unfinished concrete with pipes and wires attached to the ceiling. There was a spotless countertop with a stainless steel sink. A stainless steel metal table stood nearby.

"Put him down on the table," said Schneider with his thick German accent. I followed his instructions, then stepped back near the foot of the table. The woman stepped forward and faced Schneider across the table.

"Are you able to pay?" asked Schneider.

"Jazz will be settling any bills," said the woman. I saw that she had long red hair pulled back into a tight braid. The heavy pistol hung in her limp hand by her side. She swayed slightly. The doc rolled the dwarf onto his front and started examining the shredded armor jacket. His eyes were Zeis, but they were old tech, like 20 years old. They worked, though, and that is what mattered. Schneider pulled the armor jacket off and revealed jagged metal embedded in bloody flesh.

I suddenly recognized these two runners. The tall redhead was Sequoia. She was cold and hard, like ice, but when angered, she was hot and fast. It was rumored that she could take down a troll with her bare hands. She was known to rip spirits out of the air and could shred a man's soul. There she was still standing after taking a hit, watching over her partner.

The dwarf was a former mercenary from the Eurowars. He was wired for speed. There was a story floating around the shadows that told of an ambush attempt on these two. A sniper killed Sequoia, but the dwarf killed the sniper and seven members of the support team. I thought about this, staring at the woman who was supposed to be dead, and my stomach knotted. I felt just then as if nothing good could come of that night.

"When did this happen," asked Schneider. The woman looked at her watch and mumbled something I couldn't hear. "Forty five minutes? Well, I really don't know what I can do for him. He has lost too much blood. Only the lingering affects of the trauma patch is keeping him from death. I don't know what kind of cyberware I am dealing with, or the full extent of the damages, either."

"You! Will! Save! him!" the redhead roared with rage. She had to struggle to say each word, and she didn't bother to raise her weapon, but I was sure intimidated. Schneider, however, met her gaze placidly.

There was a moment of silence, and in that silence, something happened. Something subtle, but devastating to my whole world. Sequoia's chin trembled. The stone face she-beast of urban myth was no longer holding back rage, but tears.

Slowly, Schneider dropped his gaze back to his patient. Slowly, he began mechanically going through the motions of preparing for a long night of futile surgery. Slowly, I realized what was at stake here. To Schneider, it was a sleepless night for which he may or may not get paid. If he failed in his task, he may acquire an enemy, he may even die, but he was taking this all in stride. To him, it was just another messy basement job.

But to Sequoia, it was something else. She wasn't just losing a hired gun. She was losing her partner. They had been running together for years and that was something, especially in their line of work. Tyler's words came back to me, then. All of them. Fear gripped me. I wasn't afraid for myself, but for Tyler. And that little kid who would grow up without a father. To the world, it would just be another one, but to Tyler, it would be mine.

"He is German," I said. They both looked up at me, puzzled.

"You think that German's are as tough as they claim?" said Schneider. "We bleed and die just like everyone else in the world." He bowed his head back down to the body before him.

"You are German," I said.

"So, you think that just because he comes from my motherland, The Motherland, that I will be more motivated to save him?" said Schneider, his head still bowed. Then he looked up at Sequoia and said, "More motivated than I already am?"

Sequoia blinked.

"He has German cyberware from the Eurowars," said Sequoia. "That's part of his problem." She pointed to the trembling hand, the sole indication that there might still be life in the dwarf.

"Very clever, you two," said Schneider. "Ricci, you are a smart one. Did you know that I did some of the original work on smartgun links in Europe? Or was that just an ignorant guess?" I didn't say anything. I didn't need to. Schneider was more motivated than before I spoke. Whether it was out of curiosity about the dwarf, or kinship for a fellow European veteran, or professional interest in ancient cyberware, I neither knew nor cared.

"Take the lady over to the chairs and see if there is anything you can do for her," said Schneider.

I gathered a medkit, a bowl of water and some hand towels, then gently grabbed Sequoia's arm and led her to a chair. She sat down, slouching. Exhaustion and blood loss was finally catching up with her. The pistol slipped out of her hand and onto a chair. I took the armor vest and shoulder holster off her, like a father undressing his child, and crouched beside her to look at her wounds. She wore a tight sports bra and a light shirt. I found a seem on the light shirt and ripped it until the whole thing came off easily.

"Hey, doc, I see two holes close to each other on her side," I said. "What does that mean?"

"Probably just a flesh wound. The bullet may have gone underneath the skin without doing any internal damage, other than bruising, bleeding and opening her up to infection."

"Oh, is that all?" I mumbled.

As I inspected her, I saw that the gun wound was not her only problem. She had black and purple bruises across her ribs.

"I would say you were run over by a semi, but semi's don't shoot people afterwards," I said.

"Trolls do," croaked Sequoia.

I looked up into her eyes and said, "Did you beat him?"

"Obviously not," she replied, breaking away from my gaze to look at her companion on the table.

I said nothing more as I applied bandages to Sequoia's bullet wound and wrapped her torso to support the broken ribs. When I finished, Sequoia stood.

"Let's go," she said.

"Where?" I asked.

Sequoia ignored my question. She turned to Schneider and said, "Keep him alive for another hour." The doctor looked up, nodded, then bent back down to his work. Tubes connected the dwarf to I.V. bottles hanging from the ceiling support beams. I heard the clink of shrapnel hitting a metal bowl as we climbed the stairs.

++++++++++++++++++++++

Sequoia gave me directions as we drove. I wasn't sure she knew where we were going, but eventually, she told me to park on a side street in a low class suburban neighborhood. It wasn't trashy, but there was definitely a lack of wealth.

Sequoia was barely able to get out of the car, but I didn't feel safe offering her help. We wandered in the darkness between streetlights for half a block before Sequoia stopped suddenly. She swayed slightly, brushed some loose strands of hair out of her face, and turned towards a boarded up house.

We went up the paved walkway and around to the side door. Sequoia stood in front of the door unmoving, so I knocked.

"I need your help," said Sequoia, suddenly. "A friend is near death."

"What?" I asked. She was talking to the door, seemingly oblivious to my presence.

"I know I am hurt, but my friend must take first priority," she continued. "This young ork knows the way. He drove." Sequoia gestured limply towards me.

Then there was a glowing girl hovering between us and the door. My feet felt rooted to the ground. My stomach knotted and my arms went numb. The girl looked at me and said, "Get your vehicle started. I'll be right out."

I nodded and nearly ran back to the car. I started it up and pulled closer to the house. The young girl was no longer glowing as she guided Sequoia back towards the street. After they climbed into the car, I drove back to Schneider's.

When I parked the car behind Schneider's house once again, the young woman and I had to help Sequoia out of the car. I could feel rippling tight muscles under Sequoia's cold skin. We entered the house without knocking. In the basement, we set Sequoia back into the chair she had stained earlier.

"This is Doctor Schneider," I said to the girl. She was staring with unfocused eyes at the dwarf's body on the table. The torn skin of his back was pinned back and raw muscle lay open to the air. Schneider had removed some of the metal fragments and was repairing some of the cybernetic connections.

"I am a healer," said the girl. She was wearing sandles, sweatpants, and an oversized t-shirt. In her hand was a leather bag.

"Hermetic or Shamanic?" asked Schneider.

"Mouse," said the girl.

Schneider nodded and asked, "Are you familiar with healing flesh that has cybernetic implants?

"I have never done it," said the girl, "But Mouse will guide me."

"Then, if that is the case," said Schneider, "this old soldier may just live through the night."

I faded back and watched from a distance. Between the two of them, they seemed to have everything in control. At one point, when Schneider removed all the metal fragments that didn't belong in the dwarf's back, the girl sprinkled a powder over the damaged skin and began to hum. The dwarf glowed and his back sparked. From where I was standing, I could see little, except that the skin was no longer peeled back. I stepped closer, quietly, and saw that the skin was closed. There was nasty scarring, but it looked like the damage had been done weeks ago.

I was close enough to the girl to catch her knees buckled. I helped her to a chair where she sat gasping for air. Schneider was beside me, then. All he said was, "She channeled some powerful magic into that body over there. Now, she just needs some rest."

I took a seat next to Sequoia. Schneider squatted in front of her and checked my first aid. He made a face that wasn't disapproving.

Sequoia raised her head and looked at me for a moment. Then, in a quiet, exhausted voice, she said, "He shot me, because I was winning."

"The troll?" I asked. She nodded. "So the rumors are true," I said.

"Some of them," said Sequoia. "This is the first time I fought a troll, one on one, though. It isn't something I want to do again."

"Did you kill him?" I asked.

"Hardly," she said.

"Tell me what happened," I said. I probably looked like a newbie wanting a run down on a new trid release.

"My companion was laying down suppressive fire when the troll came up behind us. He managed to disarm me and tossed my pistol aside," she said. "He thought I would be an easy mark. I stepped in close and tried to rip out his throat. All I did was scratch him, but it was more than he was ready for. He stepped back, drawing his pistol, and he put a shot into me. Thank you for patching me up, by the way."

"No problem," I said weakly. I tried to be cool about it, but my stomach was still in knots.

"I was going to go for his eyes next," said Sequoia, "but that's when the vehicle blew up. My companion caught a lot of the pieces, as did the troll. I stepped in again, hooked my arm around his wrist and shoved with my other hand. When he landed, his pistol skidded out of reach. I picked up my pistol, then returned to the dwarf. I slapped a trauma patch on him and threw him over my shoulder. From there, I played hide and seek until I found a working phone."

"That's when Jazz contacted me," I finished for her. She nodded.

I never saw her again. I don't know if the dwarf ever fully recovered or not. Sequoia had given me a good recommendation, because I kept my cool. That seemed to carry a lot of weight. When I told Jazz I wanted out, he knew it was because I didn't want to be in the shadows anymore, not because I couldn't handle it.

As payment for my services, Jazz got me a job doing low paying courier runs. I work regular hours for regular pay, now. Tyler is working as a mechanic for a independent shop. Her pay is better than mine, but we still live in a run down house in a low class neighborhood.

What is most important, however is our daughter is walking and talking, now.

Shadowrun: Mouse

2000-04-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

I saw my reflection in the broken pane of glass of the back alley door. My round, brown eyes and my soft round face smiled back at me from the dirty glass. A thin lock of my straight black hair had fallen across my face, which always amused me. It was just trying to get my attention, Mom used to tell me. My heart jumped and my smile fled when I saw the tall redheaded woman appear behind me in the reflection.

I opened the door, listening to the creak of old hinges. I went down the three steps into the dimly lit room. Light from the evening sun bounced off the concrete walls outside and filtered through the grime on the windows. Under my feet, the ancient floorboards creaked and moaned as I walked slowly and softly into the dark shadows and dusty stale air. The woman drifted into the room like a whisper, but the floorboards still creaked.

The woman walked across the room to an old massive desk. There was a black rotary phone that must have dated back to more than a century. She picked up the phone and said, "We're here." She put the phone down and waited.

After a moment, the door in the back of the room opened and a blonde woman with short hair came out of the shadows. She wore black combat fatigues and a boots, and moved like a troll compared to the redhead. There was a chrome pistol in a holster under the woman's right shoulder.

"Sequoia," said the blonde. The redhead nodded. "I've heard your rep. Impressive." The redhead nodded again. "I also heard you like the Colt Manhunter."

The redhead glanced down at the heavy pistol in a holster on her hip. "I like the name," said the redhead. They both smiled briefly.

"This is the mage?" asked the blonde.

"Shaman," I said, helpfully.

"Whatever," said the blonde. "Do you trust her?"

"I trust the one who recommended her," said the redhead.

I shifted uncomfortably, like I always do when people talk about me like I am not there. The floorboard creaked.

"Can she work out here?" asked the blonde.

"Sure," said the redhead.

"Have your Colt in your hand when I return," said the blonde.

"You don't trust your clients?" asked the redhead.

"They're regular customers," said the blonde, "but they fragged a job." Her disapproval lacked any trace of sympathy.

"Why did they come to you?" asked the redhead. "You're a weapons specialist."

"Like I said, they are regular customers," explained the blonde. After a moments hesitation, she said, "And they were working for me when the drek came down."

The blonde returned to the back door and disappeared. I looked around at the dirt in the growing darkness. It was not a good place to heal people. We stood in silence, waiting.

The blonde came back with her chrome pistol in her hand. Behind her two men limped, one supporting the other. The blonde walked to a stack of metal folding chair, grabbed two, and brought them to the center of the room.

"Have a seat boys," she said. They dropped themselves down into the chairs and looked around. "Okay, honey, do your thing," said the blonde, looking at me.

"You have to be kidding," said one of the men. "This mousy girl is our magical backup?"

I smiled for an instant before I realized that he hadn't meant it as a compliment. I could feel Mouse's presence, and Mouse was pleased. That brought the smile back to my face.

"Watch your mouth, boy," said the redhead. Her tone erased my smile and sent shivers down my spine. I could sense that it had a similar affect on the two men.

It was getting very dark as the sun, somewhere over the city, dropped to the horizon. I couldn't see much detail anymore, so I shifted my perception to the astral plane. The two men were glowing dimly, though, not the near death shadow that I have seen on highly chromed street samurai. They were both thin and underfed, but strong and stubborn.

One was mulatto. He clutched his side and breathed raggedly. He was suffering from blood loss and a severe of death. His ego was strong, however, and he would never admit to his fear, even in the face of death itself.

The other man was not quite as strong as his companion, but he didn't have any fear. I felt he just didn't have the brains to know when to be afraid. He was pasty white with jet black hair and a poor complexion. He was bruised and exhausted, but he would live.

I knelt next to the mulatto man and looked at his side. Blood oozed between his fingers and dripped onto the floor.

"How long ago did this happen?" I asked.

"Ninety-three minutes ago," said the blonde, peering at her watch. I looked up at her and saw that she was furious at these two men, although she hid it well. Her cold eyes did not blink, suddenly I realized. I glanced over my shoulder at the redhead. She was strong, healthy and calm. The chunk of metal in her hand did not glow like the blonde'' pistol did. The blonde obviously had a love for her firearms that the redhead did not share. It was just a tool to the taller woman.

I looked back to the mulatto's wound. I peeled back his hand and the crude attempts to bandage the wound, and felt the punctured skin with my fingertips. There was something sticking out of the wound, something jagged.

"What did this?" I asked.

"A pansy elf," said the white man.

"An arrow," said the mulatto man.

I reached into my vest and pulled out a small pouch from an inner pocket. I poured a small pile of powder from the pouch into my hand. I focused my attention on the wound and began to blow the light powder onto the wound. The powder landed on his skin and dissolved into his blood. The man began to squirm as his skin began to undulate around the broken arrowhead. After about a minute or so, when there was no more powder to blow, I placed my hand directly onto the wound, felt for the shaft, and quickly plucked it out. His body was ready to give it up, and the barbed arrowhead came out with ease. The man exhaled as the wound closed up.

"It will ache for a while, and there is still plenty of damaged tissue, but you won't bleed to death," I said.

"See, she can't fix him!" exclaimed the white man.

"Shut up," said the redhead and the blonde, at the same time. I saw them glance at each other in surprise, then they were both looking at me.

I shrugged. "His essence is low," I said. The blonde looked at the redhead with a quizzical look.

"He has too much cyberware," said the redhead. The blonde nodded.

The blonde reached her hand out towards me. I wasn't sure what she wanted, then blushed and put the arrowhead in her hand. It didn't look right on the astral plane, but I wouldn't have been able to see anything else in the darkness of the physical plane. At least on the astral plane, our living bodies gave enough light to see by.

"What about me!" said the other man. It was more of a statement than a question.

I turned to him and saw his armor jacket was ripped over his ribs, exposing broken ceramic plates. I pulled the jacket open and lifted his t-shirt. I felt the area and assensed his wound directly. It was just a severe bruising. His dermal plating had probably prevented his ribs from breaking.

"Ow! Watch it!" complained the man.

I drew a pinch of powder out of my pouch, blew it onto the wound and rubbed it in, gently. My magic pushed through his implanted armor, restoring his rib cage to a healthier color.

"It still hurts," he said, dissatisfied. I followed the example of the other two women and I ignored him.

"Drek, I think it is a transmitter," said the blonde. She had unscrewed the point from the broken shaft and found a thin wire in the shaft and attached to the arrowhead. She yanked the wire out. "Maybe that will hinder their tracking."

A moment later, the redhead cocked her head suddenly. "I don't think so," she said. "I think it just set them in motion." She swung her pistol towards the front of the store, but I didn't see anything.

"Drek, drek, drek," said the blonde as she ran into the back room. The two men drew their own pistols and stood up, and then there was silence. There was a sudden slam and the sound of locks snapping into place behind us. The two men turned to point their weapons at the blonde as she came forward.

"Put those down, you idiot!" said the blonde. She had an armor jacket on, and was carrying two assault rifles. She offered one of the assault rifles to the redhead, but she declined. She looked quickly at me, but I shook my head and drew my Colt America. It wasn't much, but she nodded approval. She finally gave the assault rifle to the mulatto. I could hardly believe the white man began to pout at a time like this.

I turned towards the front of the room in time to see an apparition drift through the wall. He saw immediately that I was astrally perceiving and attacked before I had a chance to react. I was able to fend him off, but he was so fast. I knew the others could not see him. They probably saw my dodging and defending as a strange dance with no music. Then my vision exploded with start and I was on the ground, flailing out with one arm and shielding my face with the other, sobbing.

I looked up in shock as the mage screamed in pain and rage. On the astral plane, these things can be felt as well as heard, and the force of his surprise was almost as powerful as his fist. I looked up and saw the redhead ripping into him, literally. Her fingers glowed in a rippling reddish light. She couldn't move nearly as fast as the mage, but she was moving fast enough to blur. She had attacked the mage from behind and was shredding his aura like he was a scream sheet. There was no blood, but when he dissipated, his essence covered the redhead's hands and forearms. She was calm, as if killing someone was not an act of extreme violence, but more of a physical exercise.

"What the frag just happened!" yelled the blonde. She was shaking from an adrenaline rush, but still had her wits about her. The two men were hiding behind the desk.

"A mage just came through," said the redhead. "He is no longer a threat."

"What?" said the blonde. The two men echoed her.

"She ripped him apart," I said meekly. Then I realized that at no time did I ever see her touch the astral plane.

"Can you do some recon?" asked the redhead. I nodded. She said, "Check how many we are facing."

I let my body slump completely to the ground and drifted up through the floor above us, then out one of the windows. I saw the glow of five people below me. They were wearing light security armor. I raced to the end of the alley and saw two unarmored men carrying a body into a black van. The body was dressed in a business suit. Bloody streaks were seeping through his clothes. I returned to my body.

"There are five armored people just out of view in the alley. Two others are carrying the mage into a truck on the street," I said. "You killed him." The redhead nodded. I was hoping for a flicker of something more than professional acknowledgement.

"Is there a back door?" the redhead asked the blonde.

"Down stairs," said the blonde, and she went to a book case behind the desk. She lifted one of the shelves until there was a quiet click, then she gently pushed the bookcase back into the wall. It slid to the side to reveal a staircase going down. "After you," she said us.

The two men were after her like two kids after candy. The redhead held out a hand to help me up. I hesitated before grabbing her hand. She looked over her shoulder at the front of the store, then ushered me down stairs.

In the basement, we waited only a moment before the blonde ran down the steps and through a crumbling doorway. We followed, hurrying after her. Then there was an explosion that shook the building and knocked us off our feet. Only the redhead remained standing.

"What was that," asked the redhead.

"I don't want them to find my office, so I left the bookcase open," said the blonde, as we picked ourselves up. "They know which way we went. I am hoping they won't look around for much else. To buy us some time, I set some grenades."

The blonde handed out small pocket flashlights and I returned my gaze to the physical plane. The emotions of fear and frustration were making my nerves raw. I still felt some apprehension towards the redhead, but Mouse didn't seem to think there was a problem. We walked cautiously through a maze of underground passages, splashing through inches of reeking water and ducking under wires, pipes and webs.

"Um, Sequoia," I said to the redhead.

"Yes?" she said.

"You're an adept, aren't you," I said, whispering.

"Yes," she said.

"And an initiate," I said.

"Yes," she said.

"Can I ask how far you have gone?" I asked.

"You can ask," she said.

"Oh."

After a while, we came to a narrow cement stairway that lead upwards. It doubled back a few times, and I guess we rose three floors. At the top, there was a metal door. The blonde pulled out a set of metal keys and unlocked the door. She pushed it open and stepped through into a dark hallway. She shut off her flashlight and instructed the rest of us to do the same. The redhead offered her hand to me as a guide. I gladly took it. We stopped in a small three-room apartment complete with a filthy kitchen, a painful looking couch, and a few mattresses. Light from the street bounced off the ceiling and illuminated enough for me to get around.

My adrenaline had faded and I was shaking. My head hurt and I was sure I was going to have a bruise. My eye didn't want to open all the way. I slumped down in a corner and focused my magic on myself. The throbbing in my head didn't help, but it wasn't that severe. In moments, I was feeling much better.

The blonde was interrogating the two men in tense undertones. The redhead came over to me and asked how I was doing.

"Just making myself presentable," and in moments, I have revitalized myself with a spell called 'healthy glow'. "I love this spell," I told the redhead.

"I can tell," she said, smiling. It was strange to see this cold killer smile so warmly. I think she saw my thoughts written on my face.

"What are you doing in the shadows, little one?" she asked.

"You tell me your story first," I replied.

"touche`," she said.

"I want to thank you," I started, but she held up a hand to stop me.

"You are my responsibility right now," she said. "I brought you here, and I intend to see you come out of this in one piece."

"And here I thought you were just a courier, bringing me to do a simple job," I said.

"I am," she said, "But you are worth more than both of those boys over there, and I would like to do business with you in the future sometime, if I ever need your services."

"It would be a pleasure," I said, smiling.

Her gazed drifted towards the trio discussing what went wrong.

"Can I ask you a question?" I asked.

The redhead returned her gaze towards me and nodded, then smiled.

"I know, I know, I can ask," I said, blushing. After a moment, I said, "you seem so calm about all this. Is that part of being professional?"

"You mean ripping someone's soul apart without remorse?" She said.

I shivered at her words. Not just because of the memory of the emotional intensity of experiencing someone die on the astral plane, but by the way she said it. There really was no remorse in her voice.

"That isn't professionalism," she explained. "It's emotional survival."

"You mean, if you let it bother you, it would make you hesitate the next time?" I asked.

"In the shadows, hesitation kills the wrong people," she said.

"Meaning your friends," I clarified.

"Yes," she said.

"Have you lost friends that way?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I lost friends many other ways, though." I could feel the loss through her body language.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't be," she said. "You didn't lose them for me. And not all of them are dead."

"Oh."

I began to understand why Mouse wasn't warning me about this woman. After mulling over what had been said, I realized the redhead was not telling complete truths. Mouse squeaked with joy. Mouse loved it when I perceived more than the face value of things.

"You did hesitate, once, didn't you," I said.

The redhead had been watching the trio again. She turned to face me again very suddenly. A spark of anger, or was it pain, appeared in her eyes, but she pushed it down.

"I'm sorry," I said, and again, she held her hand up to stop my apology.

"Once," she admitted.

"But it wasn't something you could have stopped, even if you had acted," I suggested.

"Maybe," she said.

"I think I know what you mean," I confided. "We know it up here that we couldn't have known what was happening," I said pointing to my forehead. Then I pointed to my heart and said, "But here, there are scars that won't let us forget a single detail. In retrospect, all the clues were there, but hindsight doesn't include the emotions of the time, just the emotions of the present. And in hindsight, we can see what we could have done, because we have plenty of 'if only' floating around in our heads."

"Yeah," she said, chuckling. "Something like that."

"Mom used to explain it that way," I said. A tear escaped my guard and trickled down my cheek.

"I think it is time to get our minds back to business," said the redhead. She stood up and walked over to the trio. I stood up and followed a few steps behind. The conversation was quiet, but heated.

"You are not getting paid until I the job is completed!" said the blonde.

The white man was redfaced and shaking with anger. "We caught all kinds of drek, because you didn't give us all the information about this run! If we had known there was another team gunning for this job -"

"I told you, I didn't know there were others," said the blonde, seething.

"And you expect me to believe that!?" Suddenly, there was a gun in the white man's hand, pointed at the blonde's throat. He had everyone's attention as he pulled the hammer back.

"Hey, man, what are you doing?" asked the mulatto man. "This isn't cool."

"Frag cool," said the white man. "I want my money. We risked our fragging necks. We deserve something."

I saw the redhead about to take the white man down. I don't know if she could have beaten the hair trigger of the cocked automatic. I whispered, "No, Sequoia." I don't know how her heightened senses work, but I hoped she would pick up on my voice. She glanced in my direction and held herself back. The blonde didn't glance at the redhead until it was well past the time it would have taken to strike. I could see in her eyes that she was getting concerned about the lack of back up.

I sent a spell towards the gun. I could see it over the white man's shoulder. With fingers of magic, I remotely held back on the hammer.

"I am sick of working with girls. You are always lying and cheating and looking for ways to take men down." The white man was ranting. I don't know what set it off. "Well, I'll give you something you can take to the great beyond!"

He pulled the trigger and nothing happened. Nobody moved. The redhead relaxed. The blonde was about to jump him, but confusion held her in place. The mulatto man was staying out of the scene altogether. The white man pulled the pistol away from the blonde's throat. I released the spell, hoping to scare the white man, but I didn't expect him to look down the barrel of his own pistol. Blood and bone spattered the ceiling and his body dropped in a heap. I puked on my own feet.

"What the frag just happened?" said the blonde for the second time that hour.

"Our little mouse just saved your ass," said the redhead. "She had a spell that was holding the hammer back."

"You knew right?" said the blonde. "That's why you didn't jump him . . . right!? Tell me you weren't going to let him blow my head off."

"I peeked into the other side and saw her wrap a spell around the boy's pistol," said the redhead. "I didn't expect her to kill him, though."

The blonde looked at me, glanced at the mess on my sneakers, then caught my eye. She said, "I don't think she expected to kill him either . . . did you girl?"

"N-no, I-I," I stuttered. I fought back the sob that was welling up inside.

"Go wash up, little one," said the redhead, pointing to the kitchen. I shuffled to the sink, pulled my sneakers and socks off and rinsed them in rusty water. I decided to leave the socks behind, and I put my sneakers back on. They squeaked on the cracked faded tiles. When I returned to the other room, the mulatto man was squatting down next to the white man.

"You always were a stupid fragger," he said.

"We are leaving now," said the blonde.

"And you," said the redhead, pointing at me, "Are going home."

"Okay," I said weakly.

"I'll see to it that you get paid," said the blonde. "I'll tell Jazz to give you a bonus, too. You did good tonight."

"What about him?" I asked, nodding towards the mulatto man.

"Sequoia is going to be my partner this time," said the man. "And don't feel bad about what you did to my friend. He wasn't smart enough for the shadows. It was his temper that fragged the job originally."

"I hope everything goes well," I told him. "If you need my help again . . ."

"Let's go," said the redhead. She ushered me out the door. On the street, the blonde and the mulatto man went a separate way. The redhead explained that she was taking me home first and I was to get plenty of sleep. We returned to her car a few blocks away from the blonde's office. We had to be careful, because the office was probably still being watched. I saw each of them after that night, so I guess the run went okay. Mouse met me in my dreams and let me know I did okay. That's all that really matters, I guess.