MV: Monster on the Loose

He slipped out into the hall after a quick look around the curtain. Clothing would be nice, but right now it didn't matter. No alarms were blaring, nobody was screaming, but he could still feel that presence approaching and the closer it got, the more he was certain that this was the same undead thing that had made him into what he was now. 

Finding the nurses' station was a relief, right up until the black girl in her early twenties caught sight of him and shrieked. Andy slowed his pace and held his hands up as he approached her, watching as she sat frozen. "It's okay," he said. "I mean, it's not, but I'm not going to hurt you."

The man behind her turned, caught sight of him, and reached out to slap a large red button. Now there were alarms blaring, lights blinking, and all the alarums and excursions he'd been expecting. He bypassed the woman, and handed the card to the man. "Call this number," Andy said tightly. "Tell him I said my maker was here."

The man nodded, then reached for the phone as Andy stepped away. 

"Hey!" said a woman's voice down the hall. "You there!" 

Andy turned, and found himself regarding a woman with hand on the pistol at her belt. She was taller than he was, stocky with muscle, and dressed in loose-fitting clothing. He raised his hands, waited. 

"How the hell did you get out of your room?" she asked, stopping three steps away. She hadn't actually drawn the pistol, but from there she had a good chance of drawing it if he came at her. Maybe better than I think, And admitted to himself.  

"Necessity," he told her. "Steve said to contact him if I could sense my master's location. Well... I can, and he's here. Or she. Or whatever."

The woman regarded him for a long moment. The nurse was speaking quietly into the phone. The other nurse was still frozen in her chair. 

Finally the woman said, "Fuck."  

MV: Premonitions

He'd been drifting again, not quite in that dismal almost-sleep that he'd found earlier, but... maybe dozing at the edges of it. The TV was still on, and someone in a helicopter was chasing a train, and also displaying a reckless disregard for basic physics. Andy would have changed the channel if he could, but the remote was out of reach and he was still strapped down. He'd lost track of the plot some while back, regardless...

Something nudged at the edges of his awareness. There was someone nearby, unknown but strangely familiar, coming closer. A wave of dread swept over him, and he thought, Oh, shit. 

He forced his eyes all the way open, looked around, and then thought, Oh, shit, again. He hadn't been dreaming it. There was definitely something nearby, outside the hospital but working its way towards him. "Nurse?" he called. 

Nobody answered. Of course they didn't. He tugged at his bonds. "Steve?"

Still nothing. He sighed. Could he trigger the alarm for his mental activity somehow? No, that must have been a one-time thing, or it would already have picked up on his distress. There was a call button for the nurse, but his restraints kept it out of reach as well.

Okay. Steve said wights had claws, so in theory I have claws. Or I can have claws. 

He considered his fingers, then flexed his hands. I hope so, anyway. If it was his murderer that he was sensing, he wanted nothing to do with it. He needed to be able to escape.  Come on... The shift was sudden, the transformation unfamiliar but unmistakable. Long, slightly-curved claws slid out from his fingertips, firmly anchoring themselves in a way that fingernails weren't, and he curled his fingers in and began working at the heavy leather bands around his wrists. 

They parted with surprising ease, and he moved to the strap that held his hips down; it parted easily as well. The collar around his neck was chained to the bed on either side, but he worked a claw under it and sawed at it until it parted. The restraints around his ankles were last to go. 

He was already sitting up; it was a minor effort to slip over the bed rails and put his feet on the floor. The hospital gown gaped open in the back, reinforcing the absurdity of his entire situation, but he forced his new-found claws back and scooped Steve's card up from the metal table. He needed to find help, or he needed a way out, and whichever he could find, he needed it now.  

MV: Reflections

Andy let his thoughts drift, but this time he didn't sink down into unconsciousness. He was dead, returned as a wight, maybe barely able to disguise himself as a living person if he took in enough of other people's... how had Steve put it? Youth. Vitality. Life force. Something like that. His family thought him dead -- rightly -- and his only allies were monster hunters and government caretakers. His first and only girlfriend was dead, and -- if they were to be believed -- not reborn as a monster. From what he remembered of the werewolves, he could believe that. They were supposed to be at their most infectious when they delivered a bite but failed to make the kill. 

Like that one did to me, he thought, remembering the pulsing wound in his shoulder, the shivering and loss of control even as he struggled to fend it off, the waves of heat and cold sweeping through his bone. 

But then the hand had come down over his face, and he'd woken back up as a wight instead.

He held himself still, let himself relax into the movie. Some guy with a Gatling gun in his passenger seat was trying to kill two girls and a guy in an armored car, while they tried to figure out how to shoot back without getting cut in half. One of the girls was returning fire, while the other cowered, obviously out of her depth...

Action movies. Action movies are normal. He kept watching, waiting to see what happened next. At this point, he needed as much normal as he could get.

MV: More Questions, More Answers

Carol was back fifteen minutes or so later. "Sorry," she said. "Usually they're better prepared for this."

"So this was... some kind of court-ordered thing for him?" asked Andy. 

The older woman nodded. "Yeah. Sometimes it's a way to work off a prison sentence, but people can also volunteer to do it meet community service requirements. We also have some people like Loida, who volunteer. But usually, by the time they get to us they've done this a few times before. I'm not sure how Gautam slipped through net on that, but... you handled it pretty well. Thank you."

Andy managed to shrug; his restraints didn't prevent that. "If I look anything like the thing that killed me, I can see why he'd be scared."

"How'd it go this time?" 

"Control was a lot easier this time. The hunger didn't try to run riot, and the beast just watched." He felt like an absolute lunatic saying that out loud, but Carol just nodded. "I think," he added cautiously, "that the hunger doesn't see touch as an invitation to feed unless I grab something, and the beast realized what I was doing and didn't feel the need to push it further."

"Huh," Carol said thoughtfully. "Do you think it would let me look inside your head now?"

Andy raised his eyebrows. "I'm not a psychic, but I wouldn't risk it."

"All right." She studied him for a long moment. "Listen, for whatever it's worth, I'm sorry this happened to you."

Andy nodded uncomfortably at that, because, well... he didn't care how she felt about it. She wasn't the one who'd woken up dead, learned that his girlfriend was dead, and been told that his family thought he was dead. Her sympathy might be well-meant, but it was useless. "Would you do me a favor?" he asked. 

"What kind of favor?"

"Turn on the TV. Find a channel with, I don't know, action movies. Mindless explosions."

"Oh." Carol's face went still. "Sure." She rose, found the remote, and turned on the television. It took a few tries to find a channel where a car chase was going on, but she managed. "Anything else?"

Andy shook his head, and she left his hospital room again.  

MV: Second Feeding

"Andy?" 

He came back out of the emptiness slowly, and found that he was still in the hospital bed, still on his back. It should have been miserably uncomfortable -- he must have gone hours without rolling over -- but apparently now that he was dead, his body didn't care. His restraints were still in place, of course. 

When he blinked and opened his eyes, Carol had returned. With her was a dark-skinned young man with black hair buzzed close to his head, and features that -- upon reflection -- were probably middle-eastern. "Oh," he said. "You're back. Hi."

"Andy, this is Gautam."

Gautam looked nervous, his shock just starting to shade over into terror. 

"Hi," Andy said again, looking at Gautam. "It's okay. I'm tied down; I can't hurt you."

"You... you can talk?" Gautam swallowed. He was young, probably close to Andy's age. "I mean, of course you... What...?"

Carol said, "Andy is what we call a wight. He looks the way he does right now because he hasn't fed enough to change it. Your job here is to give him just enough energy to help him along."

"...And that's going to knock ten hours off of my community service." Gautam swallowed. "Not lying, I was kind of hoping for a vampire girl, maybe even a succubus."

Carol shook her head and sighed. "Look, I won't force you to do this if you don't want to. But if you want to get your hours out of the way, this is a quick way to get it done."

Gautam hesitated, then turned to look at Carol. "And he won't kill me, or turn me into... that?" 

"Scout's honor," said Andy, though he'd quit the Boy Scouts in eighth grade.

"Well... okay. What do I have to do?" 

"Put your hand in his," Carol said matter-of-factly, "let him drain you for a minute, and then you get to walk out with ten hours off your sentence."

"Wait," said Andy. "He's nervous, and if we're being honest I am too. It seems like it's easiest for me to feed through the palms of my hands, but is that the only way? If I'm supposed to be working on control, maybe he could put his hand on my forehead or something. I could try feeding that way, and I wouldn't be able to grab his hand -- he could pull back any time."

Carol considered that. "All right. That's not... I mean, that's not usual, and it might not work, but we can try it."

Gautam looked relieved, but still approached the bed with slow, cautious footsteps. Andy stayed very, very still as the other boy stopped beside him. "Thanks, man. How long've you been like this?"

"Not sure," Andy told him. "A couple of days, I think."

"Sucks for you," Gautam said, but there was genuine sympathy in his voice. "All right. No more stalling. I'm doing this."

Andy took hold of his hunger, but this time it didn't surge at the touch of a living hand. Come to think of it, it hadn't when Carol had put a hand on his shoulder earlier, either. Interesting. He reached out with it, found the connection to Gautam's hand, and let it pull in a little of... he wasn't sure. Heat? Glow? Life? He kept it slow, controlled. 

"Ah. Cold," said Gautam, but he kept his hand in place. 

The beast stirred in the back of Andy's mind, but this time it was content to sit and watch. This wasn't the kind of feeding it knew, but it still recognized it as feeding. Better... It was easier this time, or maybe it was just easier this way. 

"That's enough," Carol said gently.  

"Okay, I'm going to try to stop now," Andy said. "Pull your hand away if I can't."

He pulled the hunger back, and Gautam removed his hand. "Huh," he said. "All right, that wasn't too bad. Not like I was expecting."

"Right, well, good luck," Andy told him. "And thanks."

Gautam hesitated. "Yeah, you too." 

MV: The Dreams of a Newborn Monster

With the grownups gone, Andy let himself sink back into a sort of dismal darkness which wasn't sleep as he'd known it, but wasn't wakefulness either. Peaceful numbness enfolded him, and he rested there for a timeless time...

Something was hunting him, stalking him through a barren, stony landscape beneath a dark and starless sky. It was the beast, restless and hungry, barely glimpsed as he twisted and turned, trying to elude it. Too late for that, he knew with dreaming certainty: it had his scent, and no matter how he crossed and re-crossed his own trail through the twisted stone shapes it still drew closer. Finally he turned, hearing a soft step behind him, and saw a pair of gleaming eyes and the curve of one long fang just emerging from the shadow of  rock. 

No. He shoved the dream away, and fell back into gray nothingness. 

This time he was standing on a hilltop with the beast at his side, overlooking the blasted, cracked landscape. In the distance there were two small structures of dark stone, rising above twisted stone and winding trails. One, he knew, was a mausoleum -- a resting place with only a single occupant. The other was a cenotaph. 

No. He pushed that dream away, too, swam free of it, and sank back into formlessness. 

He was home again, back in his own house, logy with fear as he tried to drag Amy away before it could happen. They were out of the living room, down the short hall to the kitchen... Behind them, he heard the front door give way with a massive CRACK! and shatter inwards. If they could make it outside... 

He threw open the back door, and Amy screamed.

The back yard was gone, replaced by that barren wasteland of twisted stone shapes. Behind them, the noises in the living room suddenly fell silent, then began again as an avalanche of varied steps racing their way. The kitchen went dark, lights flickering and giving way, and Andy tried to fling Amy outside and slam the door shut behind her. 

He was a heartbeat too late. No. Something caught her, hauled her back. No. He spun around and a pale, skinless hand was reaching for his face. No! 

Darkness, again.

EPIC Dreams!

I fear I've lost some of the details, but I had this completely awesome dream last night... In retrospect, it's a bit less coherent than it was at the time, but with a bit of spackle and some duct tape it fits together just fine. 

Stage One was venturing out in the wake of some sort of disaster to get people to safety. A bridge had collapsed, or maybe exploded, so being unharmed and on a bicycle let me get people out of immediate danger to where emergency services -- or what was left of them -- could triage them, or just move the relatively intact ones back to the safe area. 

Stage Two was trying to move around in this kind of post-disaster setting, which meant switching over to gathering batteries -- very sci-fi looking batteries -- moving quietly to avoid threats. Somewhere in there I stumbled across a big alien spider-monster just as some bad guys -- raiders? enemy soldiers? alien invaders? -- caught up with me from behind, with the result that I decided that getting out from between them was the priority, and ran away. 

Which promptly turned into a hoverbike chase scene, and somewhere in the middle switched over to Stage Three.

Stage Three was full-on video-game mechanics, where I had to remember how to swap weapons, reload, return fire, etc... all while racing back to the safe area from Stage One. Definite learning curve even in the dream, but it was very cool. I even remember halfway-waking up long enough to think that I'd have play more of this later on, and then being kind of pissed that the game doesn't actually exist in real life. 

All of which was a vast improvement over the dream from a week or so earlier, where "my family" -- not actually my family, just a bunch of random people who were my family in the dream -- had gone to a sort of waterpark/nature preserve... where they (we) murdered somebody for some inheritance. And of course one of the cousins screwed something up, and had to hide a body on the fly instead of disposing of it as planned. 

This led to the nightmare sequence when I'd realized that the body had been found, there were investigators on the scene, and I was trying to grab my stuff and get off the property. Meanwhile my "parents" were insisting that everybody needed to stay calm and act normal and the cops definitely wouldn't figure out what had happened. And then getting out was incredibly difficult, since the park perimeter was blocked off, as were the areas around the rides, and... yeah. All for a murder that I hadn't wanted to be involved with in the first place. 

MV Secondary: Evaluation and Consensus

"Okay," said Steve, when the three of them were safely down in a small meeting room two floors away from the patient. "What do we think so far?"

"Any word on the rogues?" asked Carol. "I'd love to know more about where he came from."

Steve shook his head. "Not yet. We have two field teams after them, but we think between what they did to those two kids they had enough oomph to disguise themselves as regular humans and throw off our pursuit. It didn't help that the local cops tried to move in without our support."

"I think he's sweet," Loida said. "Did you see how concerned he was about hurting me? And when he got scared about his control, he called it."

Carol nodded slowly. "That thing in his head worries me, but if he was modulating his hunger and holding it back, he must have a will like iron. It might balance out."

"Yeah," said Steve after a moment. "That was kind of how he struck me when I was questioning him. Self-possessed, controlled, cautious." He shook his head. "I fucking hate wights, but he might actually be able to keep it under control."

"I have two younger brothers," Loida said thoughtfully. "Vas was eager to learn to drive. He wanted to go places, visit people, see what he could do. Anton was terrified of the idea of being in charge of a multi-ton vehicle, and only learned to drive because our father forced him to. You want to guess which one totaled a car in the first nine months, and which one went three full years before he even got into a fender-bender, which wasn't his fault? ...This kid reminds me of Anton." She yawned. 

"I'd still like it better if I could get a feel for his mind," Carol said, then sighed. "But if I had to evaluate him right now, I'd mark him down as 'take precautions, but go ahead and integrate him'." 

Steve nodded. "Thank you both. It's too early to make recommendations, but I'm grateful for the feedback." 

MV: A First Success

"He's really never done this before?" Loida asked, massaging her hand as she looked at Carol. 

"Nope," answered Andy. "Sorry."

She looked down at him. "Don't be. For your first time out, your control was excellent."

"I'm told it gets easier," Steve assured him. 

"Why did you tell us to stop?" asked Carol, studying him suspiciously. 

"It... moved. That thing you woke up. Started to come out. I couldn't manage both, so..."

Steve was staring down at him, but looked away when Andy tried to meet his eyes. 

The room seemed brighter, now; the noises in the hallway outside clearer. 

"You look better," the hunter said after a moment. "Maybe only a fifty-year-old corpse, and you've got some skin back." 

I've got some skin back? What does that mean? Andy swallowed. "So, um... what now?"

Steve hesitated, then said: "I won't shit you, kid. This is going to be a process. It's going to take time to get yourself back under control... though in your case, maybe not as long as some others. Right now, we need to get you through the change, and show you as much as we can of the basics. Once you're back on your feet, so to speak, we have some facilities -- more like schools -- where you can practice controlling any other abilities you develop. After that, well... you'll finally have some decisions to make about what to do next."

That... didn't sound unreasonable. But... "And my family?" He swallowed. "Can I see them? Or rather, can they see me?"

Steve looked at Carol, who actually laid a hand on Andy's shoulder. Andy kept the hunger firmly in check and focused on whatever she was about to say. 

"You died," she said simply. "That's what happened, and that's what we told them. We didn't mention that you came back like this. Maybe, at some point, you can tell them -- but you also need to think about whether or not you should. Between anti-supernatural prejudice, grief, and the dangers of trying to reunite newly-turned monsters who might not be able to control themselves with the people closest to their hearts, well... letting the family mourn and move on is often the better path."

Andy took a long, long moment before he answered that. When he did, he said, "All right. Thank you for just... telling me." He watched as they filed uncomfortably out of the room.

He wondered if he should have been crying, but all he felt was empty.  

MV: Patient Care

He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there when the curtain was swept back again, and a pair of women entered. Both were wearing scrubs and nametags, though from this angle Andy couldn't read either of them. 

"Hi," said the older one, smiling. "I'm Carol, and this is Loida." 

Carol was, at a guess, somewhere around his mother's age: a grownup, sandy blonde and wearing glasses; her voice was warm and her expression concerned. Loida occupied a more nebulous territory, a few years older than he was but but still young and pretty enough for Andy to think of Amy and feel a pang of guilt for finding her attractive. She was dark-haired and olive-skinned, with her hair tied back into a ponytail. She met his eyes and nodded, and he hurriedly looked back to Carol. 

"Andy," he said. 

Carol held her smile. "We're part of your care and rehabilitation team. Our job is to help you adjust to your new condition."

He wasn't honestly sure he wanted care, at this point. Amy was dead, and he might as well be. It might be better for everyone if he was dead -- less danger to everyone around him. After a moment he said, "Okay."

"Now, the way this works is that I'm going to monitor your mental state, and Loida is going to take your hand long enough for you to feed on her just a little bit."

Andy recoiled, jerking back against the restraints, and a half-second later the big hunter came through the curtain, eyes finding him immediately. 

Carol held up a hand. "It's okay, Steve. He wasn't trying to hurt us."

"You want me to feed on her," Andy said, half-strangled with revulsion. "Won't that hurt her?" He looked at Loida. "Hurt you?"

"Not if you're careful," Loida said, in a surprisingly husky voice. "It's like donating blood. I can spare a little, and I'll recover and be just fine."

A little shiver went through him. He was hungry, though the sensation wasn't centered in his stomach. It was a coldness through his entire body. "That... I don't know."

"You really should," said Carol. "You'll feel better, be more in control. And you need to learn how to do this -- now, while we can keep you from hurting anybody." 

Andy forced himself to relax. "Fine." 

"Good. Now, I'm going to..." 

He felt a faint touch against his awareness, a sensation he would never have imagined possible. Then something stirred in the back of his mind, and the touch vanished. Carol took a quick step back. "Okay, that might be a problem."

"What?" asked the big hunter, whose name was apparently Steve.

"There's something else in his mind. Another presence."

"His maker?"

"I don't think so. It felt more like... a second self. Feral."

Steve scowled, stepped gracefully around Loida, then bent down and -- of all things -- sniffed at Andy's exposed arm. He hesitated, then straightened. "No," he said. "He's a wight."

"Yes, well, then he's a wight who might very well tear my mind apart if I try to touch his thoughts again." Carol looked down at Andy. "Can you feel it?"

"I didn't," he said. "Until you did... whatever you did, I didn't. I think you woke it up." He could feel it moving around in the back of his mind, prowling, impatient. 

"How does it feel to you?" she asked gently. 

Andy hesitated. "Ravenous. Ravening. I don't... I don't know if I want to be in here with it."

Carol turned back to Steve, eyebrows raised. He shrugged and stepped to the side, circling to move the metal cart out of the way so he could stand beside Andy's bed. "Then we do this the hard way, I guess." He looked down at Andy, still strapped firmly in place. "You seem like a good kid, kid. Can you keep control while you feed?"

Within his restraints, Andy managed to shrug. "Can you pull her loose if I can't, old man?"

Loida -- of all people -- huffed a laugh. "Let's get this over with." She came around to stand beside Steve, then put her hand in his. She didn't hesitate, and she didn't flinch; if she found his body loathesome, she didn't show it at all. 

"Okay," said Carol, "Now, you're going to need to--" 

Too late. The hunger in his body knew its business; it came roaring open, eager to sate itself. Motherfucker! No. He forced it back, paused a moment to make sure he had a firm hold, then let it out in a trickle. 

Loida stiffened slightly, but made no effort to draw back. "Good," she said. "Just like that."

Andy didn't answer. The thing in the back of his mind had suddenly reared up, and he had his hands full holding it back while restraining the hunger as well. It didn't really fight him, but he kept a metaphorical hand on it, telling it to stay calm, stay back... 

"Stop," he tried to say, and he must have gotten the word out because Loida broke contact immediately. The thing, the beast in his mind, circled and then padded away to curl up somewhere in the back of his head; he could almost feel it moving. It felt... disappointed.

Turning his attention outward, he drew a deep, shuddering breath that did his body no good whatsoever. That sense of filling his lungs with oxygen was simply gone, along with the comfort it had once provided. "Almost," he said, then let some air back out so he could speak instead of wheeze. "Almost lost it."

MV: The Interview

"How're you feeling, son?" asked the big man, looking him over carefully. 

Andy resisted the urge to respond with sarcasm; he was strapped down, and very much at this man's mercy. "Did you happen to get the number of that truck?" he asked, after a moment's hesitation. Okay, so I'm in the hospital, they have me strapped down... They're either worried that I'm infected, or they know I am.

The big man chuckled. "You're Andrew, right? Andrew McFall?"

"That's me," Andy answered, nodding. He drew a slow breath, listened to the sounds of the machines...  

"I need to ask you some questions, Andrew."

Andy hesitated, then nodded carefully. "Can we take turns? I have a lot of questions too."

The man frowned, but after a moment he shrugged. "Seems fair," he admitted. His dark hair was in a buzz-cut, and his face was almost impossibly square-jawed; he looked like he'd just walked off a recruiting poster, except for the long and very obvious scar along the back of his left forearm. 

He unlocked his phone, pulled something up, and set it on the metal tray beside the bed. "We're recording," he said clearly. "Andrew McFall, Medical City Plano, May third, nine forty-seven p.m. Let's start simple, Andrew: how much do you remember?"

It took a moment to sort things out in his head, and to decide how much information this hunter would really want. He had to be one of them, specialized law enforcement -- though there were some mercenaries -- who dealt with the unclean things of the world to keep humanity safe. Finally he said, "Short version? Amy and I were, um, studying on the couch when we heard sirens outside. Then the front door kind of... exploded. There were three of them..." He hesitated. "Some sort of animal, something that looked like a corpse with white hair and skin, and the third one... I'm not sure. It seemed to have shadows all around it."

"Keep going, if you can."

Andy swallowed. "The beast bit me, but I shoved the lamp in its mouth and was trying to hold it back... it turned on Amy, and then the corpse shoved me down and put a hand on my face. Then everything went black."

The hunter nodded as if that was more or less what he'd expected. 

"What happened to Amy?" Andy asked quietly.  

"I'm sorry, son," the hunter said gently. "She didn't make it. If it helps any, it was a clean death -- and fast, as these things go."

A clean death, Andy repeated to himself. Not like mine. Because he was fairly sure he'd died, and if he was answering questions now, well... it hadn't been clean. 

"My sister?"

The hunter snorted. "Technically, it's my turn, but I'm going to pretend you asked what happened to everyone else. Your sister Judith... she's a sharp kid. Heard the commotion downstairs, came down and saw you and your friend, then locked herself in her room and called 9-1-1. Your parents flew back in; they're with her now."

Wait, how long has it been? He decided not to ask -- not yet. It was the hunter's turn, and the man was being unexpected generous with... with whatever the hell I am now... He nodded and waited. 

"Do you know which way they went?" asked the stocky man. 

Andy shook his head. "No, whatever the corpse did put me out completely."

"And you don't have any sense of them?" 

"I think it's my turn," said Andy, and offered a small smile, "but let's count that as part of the same question. No, I don't have any... awareness? Connection? I'm not sure what you're hoping for, here."

The hunter nodded, looking resigned. "It was worth checking, at least. Most victims don't, but every once in a while, for certain kinds of monsters..." He shook his head. "Your turn, I guess."

"All right. Um. What happened to me?"

The hunter sighed. "According to the doctors, you came back as a wight -- like the corpse-guy who put you under. They're... kind of like vampires, but they don't have fangs -- just really big claws. And they don't drink blood, they drain... youth, vitality, life-force, something like that. I'll see if one of the nurses has a mirror if you want, but... well... right now, you look like a hundred-year-old corpse with no skin and white hair."

Andy felt himself go numb, even as he was thinking, Of course I do. That's how it works. The bite you, or they kill you, and then you turn into one of them. It didn't work that way for all kinds of monsters, but it was common enough that he'd expected it. 

Of course, expecting it and hearing it stated outright were two very different things.  

"Last question for now," said the hunter. "Did they say anything? Plans, directions, anything that might tell us what they were doing?"

"Nothing," Andy said, regretfully. "There was some snarling and growling, but that's all I remember. There were sirens outside, and I think voices too -- I think it was regular cops, not hunters. If I had to guess, they were in a hurry to feed and then move on."

The hunter smiled. "Sharp kid," he said. "For what it's worth, that's what our analysis looks like so far." He stepped forward and started to reach for his phone.

"Wait," said Andy. "If you've got a business card or something, could you leave it on the cart? If I do start getting any sense of where they might be, I can have somebody call you."

The hunter paused to study him for a long moment, and finally said, "I'd be grateful if you did." 

MV: In The Hospital

He hadn't expected to wake back up. The bite in his shoulder, made by that thing that wasn't quite a wolf but wasn't quite a panther either, had been pulsing -- shivering his limbs, paralyzing him, burning him up in waves that made his bones ache. Then the hand had come down over his face, not-quite-cold leaching everything out of him, weakening him beyond the point where the pulsing could lock up his muscles... and then finally the world had gone dark. 

Waking up in the hospital room was a profound surprise. The restraints, once he thought about it, were less so. Rogues. Oh God, I was attacked by rogues. Amy?

It had to have been pure, dumb luck. There was no reason to target his house, especially with his parents out of the country and his little sister Judith upstairs in her room, studying for finals. He should have been studying too, but Amy had come over to study with him and they'd... well, they'd gotten distracted. 

Sirens outside weren't uncommon. Sirens on their street were, and they'd been in the process of straightening themselves up and looking for cover when the trio had burst in through the front door. If they'd been hidden, instead of right there in the living room...

Amy had screamed. Understandable, but not helpful, since it turned the monsters' attentions onto them. On the other hand, it might have kept them distracted from Judith, who as far as knew had been studying with her headphones on upstairs.

There were no IVs here, no attempt to introduce blood or even saline into his veins. A couple of tabs were glued to his chest, but he couldn't hear anything that sounded like a heartbeat and his body felt weirdly cold and still. Not uncomfortable, just... empty. Some sort of headband monitored what he suspected was his cerebral activity; that machine was starting to whine in a way designed to draw doctors and nurses...

...And hunters, evidently. 

The man who pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the room was probably six feet tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a thick leather belt that held a variety of devices and pouches. 

Andy licked his lips and said, "Hi." 

Dauntless: Bright Future

The boy named Bright Future pulled himself out of the bath -- a hot bath in a big tub, all to himself! -- and reached for a towel. He couldn't get used to this place: two floors just for the single family and servants, a comfortable bed of his own, clean sheets and clothes, and so much to learn. 

Strangest of all was having a new father and an older sister.  

He'd been cautious at first -- "diffident," his new father Baleful Flowering had called it -- but he was slowly coming to accept that he was wanted here, that he wouldn't be beaten if he was trying his best. And he was eager to try his best. He'd never had anyone try to teach him anything before, not properly. But Bale wanted him to know numbers and letters and books of both, and his sister Terri -- short for Terrible Grace -- was eager to see if he could learn magic. 

There were rules, of course -- so many rules -- but he was eager to learn those as well. How to dine at a proper table, how to dress to match his new station, the correct ways of speaking and how to say certain things without putting them into words. 

This new world was a puzzle, and he rejoiced every time he solved another piece of it. 

Wrangling My Schedule

I spent last week sort of half-sick, and would have like to spend the weekend recovering. Alas, 'twas not to be; Secondborn decided that she needed a second prom, and went to one that a friend had mentioned -- at a community center about half an hour away. Which made for two one-hour round trip journeys Friday night, followed by the child's birthday party on Saturday. The birthday party theme was "Build Your Own Boffer Weapon" and I did an initial demonstration before turning the kids loose. They had some kind of Capture The Flag game over at the nearby park, ate a pretty fair amount of pizza, and generally had a good time. 

One of her friends gave her a harmonica, though, and I'm not at all sure we're going to survive that. 

I did my best to have a restful Sunday -- a bit of D&D (playing, not running), a bit of writing, a bit of reading Vampire Smut -- but was still a bit later getting down to sleep than I would have preferred. Not as late as Secondborn, though. I'm pretty sure she was still bouncing around at 4:30 a.m. and I think I'm going to have to inflict a bedtime on that child.

::SIGH::

I'm back at work and catching up this week, at least, which is kind of a relief. Still need to pull together some follow-up from the conference, and jump back on some things that slipped through the cracks and/or have proven ridiculously recalcitrant, but at least I'm in a condition to work on them again.

Valthor: Family Horrors

Valthor leaned on the railing and looked out over the ocean, trying to remember the dream. Sy, the cleric of the Harvest Maiden who had attached himself to their group, had suggested that the strange dreams he had in the darkness of the underground prison were likely to be significant, but...

His sister had come to him, he remembered that much. Darkness and mist... She'd spoken of the blade he'd taken from her corpse. Not his mother's work, as he'd initially suspected, but far older... it was a family blade, older than the Starfall, born of deceit, betrayal, broken oaths, and murder. To fully unlock its power would require him to follow in that family tradition... How had she put it? 

It will grow in power as you deceive, betray, and especially kill those to whom you are bound: benefactors, liege lords and loyal servants, friends, allies -- and of course, your kith and kin. 

If he was being completely honest with himself, Valthor didn't like the taste of that. He wouldn't mind killing some of his kin, and he certainly wasn't above a certain amount of artful embellishment when it came to certain kinds of facts, but if there was one thing he'd learned as part of a mercenary company, it was that he was strongest with trusting and trustworthy friends working together. Betrayal and Oathbreaking held no appeal for him... 

Well, mostly. As a jackalwere, his brother Vildern had always been stronger than he was, and his attentions were damnably hard to avoid.  He could see a scenario where he pledged his loyalty to Vildern with the intent of betraying and murdering him when the opportunity presented. So yes, he could probably work with this. 

More than that, though, could he change it? If it was a family blade and had taken its character from his family, could he afflict it with his own trust in well-chosen loyalties?

He'd have to see.

"Valthor?" 

He turned, blinking, to find Kiela standing beside him -- wiry, nimble Kiela who was frequently manning the crow's nest when she wasn't up in the rigging, inspecting the sails. "Oh. Hello." 

"Are you well?" she asked. "You looked pretty lost in in there..." She reached up and tapped the side of his head with a fingertip. 

"I was," he said. "I'm back now, though."

"Should I ask?"

"Probably best if you don't," he said. "I... A lot of my life is very difficult to explain."

"Oh." She hesitated, running a hand nervously through her short red hair. "Listen, a few of us were going to play cards down in the hold, and some of us would love to know how you and your friends managed a jailbreak out of that place. Would you--?" 

"I'd love to," he told her. 

DS: Companionship

It was just before dawn when Jalua slipped into the druid's pocket alongside Borgios. He had been dozing, but he stirred at her approach. "Wha...?"

"I found my father waiting," Jalua said, chittering in that way that only another wererat would understand -- though a good hunter could distinguish it from the sounds of ordinary rats. "He blessed us, said I could stay with you. He's worried by this demon -- there were stories, two generations back. We have to keep the clan informed, and they'll inform others."

"That's..." Borgios managed not to yawn. "That's wonderful." 

"Yes. For now, we get to be rats together."

"That was a quick decision," Borgios observed.

Jalua nipped gently behind his ear. "I told him about your clan. My father, he prizes survivors." 

DS: And the return

Borgios slipped back down the alley. It was nearly dawn, and the sounds of a woman's voice were clearly audible: 

"That young man said he'd give me to someone who could get me home, and instead I'm just lying here in the palm of some drunken lout. A dirty back alley is no place for a woman of quality like myself. Tivros? Tivros, you promised to take care of me. Where are you? How could you forget you were carrying me around like that?"

Borgios slipped the gloves into the druid's pocket, then dropped the pile of clothing next to its unconscious -- but still living -- owner. All in all, a good night's work. He thought of the time he'd spent with Jalua. All in all, a good night. The temptation to depart here, join her clan, and stay with her was strong, but... I don't know. Rune was stronger than he was, and likely didn't need his help -- but he'd been kind enough to take in a stray rat when Borgios had been in desperate need of shelter, and as much as the wererat hated to think of himself as honorable, he still felt a debt there. 

"So this is your druid?" asked Jalua, from behind him. 

Borgios nodded. "This is him."

"Oh, great," said the amulet. "Now there are rats. Merciful Yondalla, I beg you to get me out of this place. I have always been a pious woman..."

"Why is his face glowing?" Jalua had slipped up into human form again, and was looking down at Rune. 

"He has a demon trapped inside him," Borgios said. "The runes hold it in. Its power is trapped separately."

"That sounds... worrisome. Are you sure you'll be safe?"

"He thinks I'm just a rat," Borgios said. "And besides... I owe him." 

DS: The Merchant's House

The merchant's house was protected, of course, but it wasn't too hard for a pair of perfectly-ordinary rats to slip inside during the hours just before dawn, when servants were drawing water and preparing for the day ahead. There were still plenty of shadows; evidently the merchant was a spendthrift when it came to candles or lantern oil. 

Jalua took the lead, and Borgios followed. She traced their way through long, expensively-appointed hallways, moved cautious across open intersections, and hesitated beneath a table at the bottom of the stairs while the servants carried heated water up for their master's bath. 

Their clothing was tucked away in a neat bundle just outside the back gate, which could have been awkward if wererats had any sense of modesty. Fortunately, they didn't; the transformation made nakedness far too commonplace to sustain any sense of embarrassment. 

It was a bare flash of nudity to open the door, and then they were both inside the merchant's bedroom. He snorted and rolled over, and they froze -- then dashed for the underside of the bed. 

He didn't rise, though. Likely he was used to servants coming and going while he slept. Servants would lay fires, prepare outfits, and who knew what else? Borgios certainly didn't.  

They rose up into their human forms, and Jalua glared down at the sleeping merchant with an expression that said she was considering smothering him with a pillow. With two of them here, it could be done, but... Borgios touched her shoulder, then mimed drawing on a glove. She hesitated, sighed silently, and then nodded, looking around. 

There was a pair of gloves on the table beside the bed, and Borgios raised his hands questioningly. Jalua grinned, then nodded. 

DS: Early Morning Adventures

"You left your druid behind," noted Jalua. "What is it you're looking for? Gold?"

Borgios shook his head. "No, he'd notice if that showed up in his pocket with me. I'm trying to figure out a way to smuggle some weapons for myself, and also stay in practice for the sorts of things we do. Something like a bag of holding, but smaller."

Jalua considered that, then grinned. "Gloves. Magical gloves. And I just happen to know of someone who has some. They'll only store one item each, but..." 

Borgios shook his shoulders out, tension dissolving into relief. "That could work. That could very well work."

He swept her up, spun her around, and set her back down. "Jalua, you're a genius. What do we need to do get these?"

"Well," she said, "We'll need to rob this merchant. The clan won't object; he keeps trying to stiff us, so an... object lesson like this might even help us. Come on, I'll show you where he lives." 

DS: Inconvenient Family Ties

"You're not one of our clan," said a voice from overhead. "One of us, but... outsider. What brings you here, Outsider?"

Borgios slowed, decided that this was interesting enough to justify postponing his plan. "A job went wrong some months back. I took shelter in the pocket of a drunken druid, who thinks I'm nothing more than a rat."

"And your clan?"

He swallowed. "Hunted by the guard and another band of adventurers," he said. "Father told us to go to ground."

There was a soft laugh, and then the whuff of impact, tuck, and roll behind him. He turned slowly, beheld a seemingly-human woman of roughly his own age behind him. A fellow wererat, of course; born into it, by her smell.  "You have a name?" she asked softly. 

"Borgios," he told her. 

"Jalua," she responded. "You're in our territory, so I can't let you do anything that might draw attention to us. I suppose I'll have to keep an eye on you." 

"Oh?" he asked, trying to sound suspicious rather than intrigued. "In that case, come along. Or lead me where you would." Yes, he was definitely prepared to overturn his plans for the opportunity of some seemingly-friendly company. Keeping himself hidden for the last few months had been more of a strain than he cared to admit.

DS: Friends in Low Places

"...Who? Where?" Borgios kept his voice soft. 

"Down here," said the voice. 

He turned, frowning as he scanned the mouth of the alleyway. 

"On the ground. Just over..." 

"I see you, I think," said Borgios, bending down to pick up a silver necklace with an unfamiliar amulet suspended from it. 

"Yes! That's me. Oh, thank you, kind sir." It was a woman's voice, despite coming from a piece of jewelry. "I do so hate being down in the dirt like that, but my husband Tivros... well, he was drinking, and forgot I was in his hand. If you could return me to him, I'd be most grateful."

What in the Nine Hells and all the elemental planes? A talking amulet was definitely going to be a liability for anything he did tonight. Borgios considered, then decided that the easiest way to handle this was to pass the burden. "I fear my time is limited," he told the amulet. "I must return to being a rat before too long -- a family curse, and no escape from it. But I will deliver you to someone who can see you safely back home in the morning."

"Well, I suppose if you can't do it yourself..." There was hint of... not exactly accusation, but definitely disappointment... in her tone. "...Then yes, please get me to someone who can help."

Borgios turned and retraced his steps up the alley, then set the amulet in Rune's unconscious hand. "There you go," he said, then turned and fled.

DS: I Smell A Rat

Borgios slipped out of the druid's pocket as the two orcs dragged him to the back door and tossed him out into the alley. Neither of them noticed, but then neither of them would likely have cared. Riding around in Rune's pocket was actually a pretty sweet deal: he was warm and clean, and got to eat his share of scraps, and then when Rune wasn't paying attention he could slip out and take care of his own business -- which mostly meant keeping his skills sharp, and remembering how to move around in human form.

It could be awkward; unlike Rune, when Borgios changed shape his clothing and equipment didn't change with him. So his first step was usually to sneak around as a rat until he could find some clothing to steal. 

Fortunately, Rune wasn't the only one who had passed out inside The Old Wastrel and been carried out the back. There were two others, a human and a halfling, and the human's clothing would--

He aborted his transformation just in time, as the back door banged open again, and the two orcs emerged carrying a bloody-faced human. One of the fighters, maybe? Or maybe the woman had injured herself when she passed out. Regardless, Borgios waited patiently -- just another rat -- as the orcs dropped her beside the wall. 

"They should really know better," growled one of the orcs, reaching down to empty the purse at her belt. 

"Eh, good ale can make a fool of anybody," said the other.

When they'd gone back inside, Borgios changed and set to stripping the human male. The fit was close enough -- Borgios had been small and wiry all his life, probably thanks to his heritage -- and when he straightened he felt inconspicuous enough to stroll casually down the alley. The night was warm; likely the man wouldn't freeze to death, and he could drop the clothing beside him when turned back into a rat. 

He had just reached the end of the alley when a voice out of nowhere said, "Hello?" and he very nearly pissed himself. 

StV: The Uncertain Soldier

Paul Caswell sat in a pool chair behind his Alpha Hound and did his best not to gape openly. It was, he reminded himself, his first real mission as a Hound, and he still didn't know how everything worked. This, though... this was a lot to take in. 

He glanced at Tara, but she was apparently focused on the conversation. Either she didn't find this disturbing, or she was much better at hiding it than he was. 

We were sent here to find whatever Deviant was stealing people's bone marrow, he thought, frustrated. Then we find a whole group of Deviants in the damned hospital with the the victims, and Bloodhound -- the Alpha Hound who's acting as our Hunter -- not only fails to give the order to bring them in, but leads them back here to the hotel to talk. Clearly, Bloodhound knew these people. 

Try as he might, Paul couldn't figure it. Was Bloodhound a traitor? She couldn't be. Her own Hunter, Hearne, would have reported her. Was she expecting a bunch of deviants to help them? That didn't seem possible either. He knew her stats and her rep; Bloodhound might be younger than he was, but she'd brought in everyone she'd ever been assigned to capture. 

What the hell was going on here? Mind control? Something else? 

He'd wait, he decided. He'd wait, and watch, and then figure out what he needed to do.  

StV: Florida Man: After The Trial

Hey kid,

I was hoping to see you at the trial but I guess you were busy. It went... I was gonna say "badly," but it's you so... "badly" is better than I expected. Gonna have to spend some time in prison, and that means no drinking and only fighting if I have to. And no powers. I mean, I've still got them, I just can't use them if I want them to let me out. 

But it's a three year stint, and I think I can do it. You were right about the meds. Huge help. I'm very, very angry with you about that. So thanks. 

You were right about the offers, too. Some mercs, some even bigger assholes, but some... I mean, I wouldn't think that many people would want a guy with alligator powers to work for them, especially with my history, but I got an offer from the damned park rangers. Said it'd be nice to have someone on the payroll who could protect the Everglades from Anomalous threats. Pay's not as good as some of the other offers, but there's retirement. 

Hell, kid. Never even thought about that before. Anyway, sorry I didn't get to see you again.

~Florida Man

* * *

Tom Wilson, you fucking idiot, 

I was right there. Red wig, heavy makeup, nice skirt and suit jacket. Any of that ring a bell? You winked at me four times from the witness stand. Swear to Jesus, I thought you'd figured out it was me. And yes, the trial went badly for you, but it could have been so much worse. I was very, very impressed. 

Tell you what. Keep your head down, do the time and stay out of trouble as best you can, and when you get out we can schedule a big old knock-down, drag-out fight if that'll make you feel better. I know I did you kind of dirty bringing you in like that, but I still think you have what it takes to be a lot better person than you realize. 

Meanwhile, you take care of yourself -- in a good way, this time. 

~Cloudburst

 * * *

Kid, 

Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I had no idea. I'm glad you were there, but this. Awkward. I know I can be kind of a creep, but I don't hit on high school students. Thanks for showing up for me. Again.

Might take you up on that fight. Might not. Gives me something to think about besides being in prison, though. Araktul, you really are good at this. 

Keep writing. 

~Florida Man 

 

PotM: Prisoners and Evaluations

He had to be the Moon. Somehow Leandra had found him, and given him a Key, and sent him back to end the Interregnum. Ser Liosha Sobinhan, Chosen Marshal of the Sun, was sure of it. Something had changed; something in the air, in the sky overhead, in the ground beneath her feet. She couldn't see it yet, but that could be the dark of the moon -- the time of hidden movements, stealth and secrecy, and betrayals performed or redressed. 

She could not reveal that to the knights gathered here, not matter how much it might give them hope. It would cause too much of a stir, and despite all their efforts there might still be spies among them.  No, if the Prince had returned he must be preserved and kept secret, and so this was only a lone traveler, uncorrupted, who had stepped in to aid a pair of knights in their time of need, and then nobly submitted to arrest until they could establish that he wasn't a spy. 

There would be other questions as well: he carried blades that were not him. To most of her troops, that suggested a magus who might intend to restore those knights. Keeping him locked away with the blades prevented the knights from asking him too many questions, and increased his value if he did turn out to be an ally. 

It gave this Sean Paul Keegan a certain cachet, but also allowed her to surround him with guardians who would both imprison and protect him. Liosha served the Sun, not the Moon, but even with some things still unknown and other poorly understood, she knew that the return of the Moon was critical to re-awakening the Sun. Their enemy would know that as well, and likely in more detail and with a better understanding. 

With the enemy once more on the move -- actively, not infiltrating and corrupting -- she wanted to keep this quiet for as long as possible. He didn't look like the prince she remembered being selected forty-seven years ago, but if he'd spent all that time in the mortal realms, infected with mortality...

That was the plan, she thought, and was overwhelmed with momentary rage. That was the basis of the Usurper's whole plan... 

StV: Powers and Responsibilities

"Okay, here's what I don't understand," Cloudburst said softly, as they sat beside the fire. "You can give yourself new powers. You can adjust other people's powers, or give them new ones. So... why did you shove all your new powers into your Blood God form? Why not just give yourself those powers, um, outright?"

Harbinger leaned closer to the fire, closing his eyes to feel the heat on his face. "Given the choice, I wouldn't have them at all. I wouldn't need them. Do you know how many lives paid for those powers?"

Cloudburst shook her head. "I know you fought your way out of the DAAT compound. That's all anyone's said about it."

"I'm a murderer, Cloudburst. Or at least a killer, since it was self-defense. So primus, I don't like the idea of just... strengthening my usual self that way. Secundus, I don't want to get in the habit of using that kind of power. I need it -- my parents are millennia-old gods who might show up looking for Charm and me at any time -- and I need some way to..." He hesitated for a long moment. "...to discourage them if they do. Which is why I've gathered that much power at all."

"Self-defense," she said, and squeezed his hand.

He nodded. "Charm is a talented sorceress, and getting better all the time, but our Mom is also a sorceress and has a power like mine -- and several thousand years of using it to strengthen herself. If we want to be able to force our independence, then we're both playing catch-up -- and that's not even accounting for our father, who has... very definite ideas about how personal power relates to leadership and godhood. Having them both show up would be... catastrophic." 

She nodded slowly. "So you... what? Gave yourself enough power to be hard to kill, but not so much that you're a danger to other people, but still keep the option to go to your Final Form in an emergency?"

He nodded. "Something like that, yeah. Because if I were carrying that much power around all the time, I'd want to use it. I already do, but at least this way I'm not out there doing horrible things to horrible people constantly. I don't want to become Solar."

Cloudburst nodded, then stood and found another log to place on the fire. "Lead us not into temptation," she said quietly. Solar was a famous villain, at least as far as the media was concerned; she was arguably an Anomalous Rights Advocate, but she was also a radical and had publicly incinerated several prominent politicians in at least three countries, and organized other Anomalies to act as terror cells. No, Harbinger wouldn't want to become that. He understood just how double-edged those kinds of actions were. 

PotM: Secrets Shared

Leandra pretended to be surprised, though she'd long since figured it out. The Moon and the Sun brought forth children, with each other and sometimes with other members of the court; occasionally, their attractions fell differently, and only a few heirs were introduced. Given their other responsibilities, that was considered an acceptable outcome to the matching, and various nieces, nephew, and cousins moved into play as potential replacements when the Sun and Moon ended their reign and ascended at the end of their thousand years. 

There were no such issues this cycle. Vishan was one of six borne of the Moon, with the Sun as their father; there were two others raised to the role, one from the Moon and her Lord Crescent and the other from the Sun and his Lord Marshall. He worked dutifully to learn the things he would need should he be chosen as either Sun or Moon here in the Neverworld, but so far as Leandra could tell he wasn't depending on any particular outcome. If two of his siblings were chosen to rule the next cycle, he would be utterly content to have earned his blade and serve as a knight or lord. 

Leandra knew she would never be more than a knight; her origins were too humble for anything else. She also knew that once she earned her blade, she would pledge herself to Vishan in whatever role he eventually rose to in the Realm. He was, and would always be, her first friend here.

So she smiled, and promised not to speak of it to anyone else, and clenched their friendship with secrecy and trust.

When her father and mother returned at the six-month anniversary of her arrival at Margull, they found her standing in the company of a knight in crimson and gold, with a young man in dull grey watching from behind and grinning madly as the knight handed out the judgement of the school: Leandra was worthy, and would continue her training until she earned her blade.  

More Dreams - the hidden beast at the renfaire

Slept hard last weekend, and woke up late. Dreams were... something to do with an eldritch monstrosity showing up at, more or less, a renfaire or at least a small community that existed in a sort of perpetual state of renfaire. I was a kid of about twelve -- not my actual self at that age, just this one kid -- and there was a lot of running into the woods and hiding in the brush or behind the piles of *stuff* that everybody had accumulated for their projects. 

There was also, I should note, a whole-ass renfaire going on at the time, with booths, and people in garb wandering around, and shops, and like several hundred people any one of whom could be the monstrosity.

When the monster finally found me, it was in the form a woman with a sort of fractal array of arms and legs, which was a singularly disturbing image. I woke up shortly after that. 

Ah, the Ritual...

Having come into a bit of money, we're now looking at moving to England. Found a lovely fixer-upper at a very affordable price, and it's probably not even haunted. So... look for big changes (and probably a serious disruption to my writing here) over the next six months or so as we start getting ready for this next stage in our lives. 

Where will we be living? Well, take a look! 

PotM: The Fall of Shanlinn Firehand

There you are, thought Shanlinn Firehand as the Captain of the Watch, Vikor Creuller, swung out from the back of an oversized jaguar which had grown a police car around its spine. He was massive, nearly eight feet tall and half that wide, armed with baton and pistol and various other tricks hidden beneath his long black leather coat. 

She'd killed the two guards who had been following the Moon, though, and none of the rest of them knew she'd been anywhere near him. She had to be a tempting prize; they'd been hunting her for decades, now. The dagger in her hand was a potent weapon, but not so potent as her sword; she was betting that even Viktor wouldn't note its absence until it was too late. 

If this had been an ordinary operation, she would have had an escape route mapped out, with a half-dozen others as fallbacks. Instead, what she had was desperation and sacrifice.

Viktor studied her for a long moment, held at bay at the back of an alley by a group of guards with spears. "Take her," he said. 

"Dawn," she answered, and let the Sun flow through her. 

It was a blessed death, the light searing in this ever-dark city, carving through the City Watch, their bestial vehicles, and a substantial portion of the park beyond. She hoped the Moon had made his way through; she'd given him as much time as she could manage. 

Four decades of gradually-increasing nightmare would end for her, here and now, and her sword was safely in another's keeping; she held to the hope of being reborn. And for this select group of suborned assholes, she would bring a fiery death. 

PotM: Victims -- aren't we all?

Warden Viktor Creuller looked down at the body in the box. It was dead, of course; a perfect stab wound, right up under the ribs. So very, very precise. Oh, the knights are going to pay for this... 

There were only a few of them left, Shanlinn Firehand chief among them and despite her origins the most adept at evading his patrols. This should have been a standard encounter, one of his men preventing the citizens from trying to help each other. Now that man was dead, and the murderer... 

Vanished, he admitted to himself, clenching his teeth. No tracks, no traces, for all that old man Telomere had called the intrusion in. The upper floors of the tower were empty, derelict; a few long-dead bodies, but no signs of life, hidden or otherwise.  The murderer might have been Shanlinn herself -- she was known to use a dagger, betimes -- but he didn't think so. No, this was something else. Something new. Something Braderick Cytosene -- old man Telomere -- had sensed in his city. 

There were back ways, of course, but the Watch stood guard over those. The streets would still be busy; a bold murderer might travel that way. Or, there might be a nearby bolt-hole, hiding the perpetrator away. 

"Sir! Sir." The Watchman who stopped beside him was one of the constables. "We have her. Shanlinn Firehand.  We have her cornered down by the park!"

Viktor grinned. "Excellent," he purred. "Have your fastest beast carry me there." 

That was a mistake

I did it. I did the thing I shouldn't have done. I knew better, and I did it anyway.

Folks, I looked at the news. 

That was a mistake. 

I was immediately treated to video clips of the President of the United States of America spouting a steady stream of bullshit that sometimes veered into outright nonsense -- as in, "those words do not mean anything when you put them together in that order". This, while everybody else at the table just sat around nodding along. I don't see how it's possible to see that and not conclude that that the man's health -- both mental and physical -- is visibly declining. And on national TV, yet.

Meanwhile, we're winning the war with Iran (we aren't), they're begging to make a deal with us (they aren't), we have a plan to decisively end this conflict if they don't fall in line (we don't), the Strait of Hormuz will reopen completely any day now (it won't), and the economy hasn't taken a massive hit (it has). All of this while spending about a billion dollars a day, after decades of being told that there was no money for healthcare, housing, infrastructure, education, or anything else that might actually help people.

So now the Pentagon is preparing to ask Congress for another $200 billion just as we're slashing medicare, and congress has apparently zero information on how they plan to spend it. 

 Y'all, I'm so, so very tired.

 

StV: Meanwhile in Downtown Dallas

None of this should have been complicated. The bank vault was walled in reinforced concrete with a heavy steel door, impassable except that Antaeus could slide through from below and punch the door off its hinges from the inside. That would set off the alarm, of course, but the Witch of the Mists could offer cover while Evil Gecko slid in and helped Antaeus bundle up the take. After that it was just a matter of walking out, while the mists foiled cameras and any guards on site.

It was the spotlight glare cutting through the mists that was the first sign of trouble. The masked figure that dropped down in front of Antaeus was next, but Antaeus punched her into the next block. 

"This way!" called Evil Gecko, as Antaeus hauled their spoils clear of the bank and The Witch of the Mists held her position, hiding them. 

Gecko lifted a manhole cover, and motioned Antaeus down. "That way," she pointed. "Three ladders, then come back up. Spider should have a van waiting."

The Witch of the Mists came up beside her. "Hold your breath and drop," she said quietly. "I'm going to make it very unpleasant up here."

Evil Gecko nodded and dropped down the manhole, rolling as she landed at the bottom. Likely the witch would be climbing down after them, and... yes, that scraping was the manhole cover being pulled back into place. Whatever band of heroes they'd run afoul of, there was a decent chance they'd gotten away. 

Stretched Thin

"I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread."  ~JRR Tolkien (Bilbo Baggins)
The Fellowship of the Ring

I'm not feeling quite myself lately. I have trouble getting motivated, staying focused, and doing work... but also writing, playing video games -- I haven't touched a Playstation in like two months -- and even reading. (And I've had some really fascinating things to read lately, several of which have been a big help in keeping me cheery.) Dungeons and Dragons remains a high point, whether I'm a player or the Dungeon Master, but while that cheers me up for as much as a day or so, I go back to being sort of blah afterwards. 

Is it because of this thing at work where we're no longer allowed to attend conferences out of state, and have to do battle with a committee to get permission to make an exception? Maybe, partly. I mean, flashbacks to my last job there, and also I'm enrolled for a conference in early April and I still don't know if I'm attending, which is an additional bit of stress on top of the part where attending a conference at all is weirdly stressful for me.

Is it personal/family stuff? Secondborn is going to have to repeat tenth grade next year, but I think at this point we're just kind of relieved to have that sorted out, and she made the selection on where she would attend to do that -- and seems pretty cheery about it. We've the D&D campaign going again for her and her friends, too. Plus, Firstborn is home for Spring Break. So I don't really think it's that.

Is it the unseasonably warm spring and associated allergies? Maybe, partly. I feel like I may have missed my window for a camping trip this spring, just because before long it's going to be too damned hot to go. I can't imagine what it's going to be like by the time May rolls around. 

Or is it watching our federal government -- which my tax dollars help pay for -- being run by the worst people in existence, and making unforced errors with easily predictable consequences that are now impossible to reverse? Because constant exposure to that shit -- and it is constant -- sure as hell isn't helping anyone's mental health. Even trying to be careful about how much news I take in, I find myself overwhelmed. (Not to mention how insulting I find it that this war-that-isn't-a-war is costing us incomprehensible amounts of money each day, after I've spent years listening to politicians try to claim that there isn't enough money to fund the postal system or provide public healthcare or offer public housing or pay our teachers more or-- Y'know, anything that might actually help people.)  And yeah, that's definitely a big part of it too.  

Anyway, if I'm a bit erratic in updating the Blog o' Doom here, that's why. 

Villain: Witch of the Mists

Name: Nadja Jane Whitaker
Alias: Witch of the Mists
Age: 38
Appearance: 6' tall, with medium brown hair and milky skin, blue eyes and a slender, leggy build.
Job: Thief

Nadja Whitaker was set for a life in law enforcement. She had a major in Criminal Justice, a minor in sociology, and a background which included both target shooting and various martial arts. She was on the cusp of getting hired by the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department when her background check dug up an incident involving Anomalous powers -- back in middle school. She found herself rejected from the job, and blackballed from the entire industry. 

Enraged, she turned to crime instead, using her knowledge of the system and her Anomalous powers to pull off robberies, foil police, and make her mark on the world. She takes particular pleasure in bringing down dirty cops -- or at least exposing them -- and has been known to help protesters escape from kettling and other police entrapment. 

Her powers include summoning fogs -- harmless, nauseating, or deadly -- and assuming a mist-form herself, though that means leaving behind clothing and equipment. Outside of her profound dislike of law enforcement, she is generally easy-going, and likes to spend her days exercising and her evening drinking beer and playing pool or card games. She has been working informally with Antaeus and Evil Gecko lately, and Evil Gecko's non-violent ethos has encouraged her to stretch her powers far enough to develop a sleep mist that renders its victims unconscious.  

Valthor: The Ancient Book

"Oh, the last third of the book has spells, and we've been using those to build a lexicon so we can translate the rest of it. It's disturbing stuff: necromancy, and conjuration related to necromancy . What really interests me, though," continued the scholar, "is the first section. The title of it is something like, 'story' with markers for both truth and obscurity, followed by 'ground' or 'world', and then 'primacy'. Taken together, it's something like 'The Secret History of the First World'."

Sy, who wasn't a bad fellow for being a human and a priest of the Harvest Maiden, stiffened. Valthor managed not to glance at him, because he had a pretty good idea of why the cleric looked stung. 

Among the peoples of the daylight world and servants of the gods, it was generally taught that this was first and only world. To claim otherwise was generally considered heresy, though the degree varied somewhat from place to place. And there was a very specific belief, not uncommon in the court where he'd grown up, that the Harvest Maiden herself was the last survivor of the gods of the previous world.

Here, and particularly among the clergy of the Harvest Maiden, such a belief was not just heresy but blasphemy. In the court of his former home, the belief had been something else: it had been taught as a warning. 

No, he was definitely not going to bring that up with Sy. Not unless, for some unimaginable reason, it actually became important to know.

The scholar had finished reassuring the priest that he meant no insult, and that perhaps they should expect that a book of evil magics might also include a heresy or three. Sy had settled back, though he still looked disgruntled. 

Valthor couldn't blame him. Ominous didn't even begin to cover this. 

Valthor: The Truth of the Blade

"Thank you," said Valthor, as Tizrin handed the rapier back to him. "What's the verdict?"

The little rabbit-man artificer looked up at him. "Well," he said in his soft, almost furry voice, "it isn't cursed. It's just... bound to you, somehow. And it's a pretty basic magic weapon, enchanted to make it more likely to hit and to do a bit more damage... except, it has some hidden magics sealed away. Abilities that haven't been activated yet."

"Oh?" asked Valthor. He'd grown up around dark magics and even less savory practices, but he wasn't a spellcaster himself. 

Tizrin nodded. "Oh yes, and what's very weird is that its bond to you is connected to the seal. You'll still need to attune to it, and after that maybe you can figure out how to unlock more of it."

"Thank you," Valthor said again. "I will."

It was later, alone in his room, when Valthor would draw the blade again and study it. It felt good in his hand, light and ready. He made a few passes with it, then sheathed it again. 

Well, she was definitely my sister, then. What were you up to, Mother? He could make no guess on that front; he simply didn't know his mother well enough. She had taught him magical theory, shown him the bladesinging style she used with her sword, asked him questions designed to to make him think about his other siblings: what they wanted, how they went about getting it. She had never never discussed her own feelings about the rest of the court or her interactions with them, though.  

What were you up to? 

PotM: Leandra and Vishan at training

Swords were the weapons of nobility, and to be knighted was to enter the lowest of their ranks. Still, there were other weapons, and Leandra learned them all alongside her fellow students: spears, axes, maces, poleaxes, halberds, bows, crossbows. Some of her cohort had been training since they were very young, and she struggled to catch up to them. 

Horses were another matter. Leandra had been riding for nearly as long as she could walk; she knew the beasts and their moods. Warhorses were larger and fiercer, but she took to them all the same, and when it came to charging with shield and lance she found herself at an advantage. 

That was where she first met Vishan. Proud and self-assured, he had mounted his horse without preamble, and immediately been thrown. She had rushed over to check on him -- dark-haired and grey-eyed and athletic, but clearly no friend to warhorses -- and the first words out of his mouth were, "You didn't see that." Then he'd groaned, inhaled sharply, and tried to push himself back to his feet. 

"Didn't see what?" she'd asked innocently, widening her eyes and smoothing her face to hide the laughter. She held out a hand, he took it and let her help him to his feet. 

They'd been inseparable after that: practicing together, teaching each other, eating together... It wasn't until three months later that Vishan let slip that he was a Prince of the Realm. 

PotM: Leandra at Margull

Before the rise of the Usurper, Margull was where people came to test and train themselves for knighthood: an isolated training post from long ago, now with a city grown up around it. The High Reeve ran the fort and its four fortalices, and served on the Mayor's Council; the Mayor and Council managed the town and its governance. 

Leandra traveled to Margull when she first came of age. The journey was a gift from her parents, celebrating her entry into womanhood with a trip in the family's cart, driven by her father and pulled by one of their two plow-horses. They were greeted at the gates of the training post, and granted permission to enter. A knight in clothing of crimson and gold came and spoke to them, and then took her away for testing. 

When they returned to her father, the knight granted his permission for Leandra to enter the training. He asked her father to return in half a year for her first evaluation, where she would discover whether they thought she had the makings of a knight, or whether they judged that she would do better on her parents' farm. Leandra and her father cried tears of joy and sorrow, and in the morning he departed alone. 

Leandra remained, and began her study of the blade.  

Fighting Monsters

I wish I'd paid more attention to last night's dreams. There was a lot of Being Attacked By Monsters and also Fighting Them Off, and the monsters themselves were varied and bizarre. Admittedly, it's been a long week -- don't ask, or at least don't expect me to answer -- but still, this was the kind of material I could use. And the sense of fighting back effectively was reassuring. 

The setting was... a lot of uncertain ground -- moving from place to place, climbing and descending, but that's about all I recall of it. There were things that seemed like people, and things that were unmistakably monstrous; most were animal, but some were mostly or partly vegetable. 

Gah. I should have taken notes while it was all still fresh in my head.  

Inspirations: Final Fantasy

I mentioned that the Final Fantasy games were a big inspiration for my long-ago writing project, so here's the into to Final Fantasy VIII -- which is maybe not the strongest entry in the series, but it's the one I was playing around the time I wrote that book, and it has a lot of intriguing peculiarities to its world-building and its magic system. 

I'm going to see if I can find a way to replay it, I think, just to look at that again.

Re-reading my own work

I mentioned my old Warrior's Legacy project a couple of days ago, and one of my friends asked to read it. Apparently describing it as the "Pulp Fantasy Wuxia Cyberpunk novel" made it sound appealing. I finished the first draft back around 2003, and always meant to work through a second draft for it, but I never could quite get that going and eventually tucked it away in the writing drawer. Having sent it over to my friend, however, I started re-reading it, and...

It's not bad. It's actually pretty good. It's fun. Could it use a bit more editing? Of course. Does it suffer from Kitchen Sink Syndrome? Oh, absolutely, but that's also kind of baked into the setting -- it was inspired by a number of the earlier Final Fantasy games. I think its big weakness is that I didn't really know how to wind it up when I was writing it, but I haven't gotten far enough along in my re-read to decide if that's actually true, or just a lingering but mistaken impression. 

...Am I going to give it a sequel? Um. Definitely not right now. I have at least two other projects that I want to get back into first, if I can ever get my head on straight again. But for the moment, I'm find the story itself enjoyable, and the fact that it is enjoyable deeply reassuring. 

 Heh. Also, I was using a different pseudonym at the time.

That feeling when...

...you're so disgusted with the state of the world that you literally can't think of anything worth posting.

Ecuador?? Fucking Ecuador???

I'd just like to point out the screamingly obvious here: Kamala would not currently be bombing Iran, kidnapping foreign heads of state, or doing... whatever the hell it is we're doing... in Ecuador -- Ecuador? Did I even read that right? Nor would she have CBP murdering citizens in the street.

 

"Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad," sure, but right now the President is visibly succumbing -- on live TV, yet! -- to both Dementia and physical health issues, and simultaneously being directed and channeled by some of the worst people on Earth. And if we're being honest, he was neither all that bright nor principled (aside from self-interest -- I guess that's a principle) before his health started going.

 

Would a lot of bad shit still have been happening, out of sight instead of out in the open? Yes, absolutely. ICE and CBP should both have been dissolved after Trump's first term. Do we now know the names and faces of a bunch of horrible, evil people who need to be stripped of wealth and influence and relegated to financial and social exile -- Homan, Bovino, Musk, Miller, Rubio, Bessent, etc.? Absolutely. 

 

Look, if you voted for Trump and are now regretting it, well... welcome to the party, I guess -- but I need you to sit with yourself and take a long, hard look at how you got there: who you were listening to, what information you trusted, which predictions you took seriously. And I need you to seriously consider how you got it so wrong, so you don't fucking do it again. I don't want to hear "nobody could have predicted--"  or "I had no way to know" or anything like that, because there were voices worth listening to that were absolutely screaming that this -- exactly this -- was going to happen. 

 

And the ones who were opining -- on major news networks or opinion columns, for example -- that it really wouldn't make any difference who got elected? They need to be ruthlessly mocked, remembered for their failures and enabling of all this, and faced with consequences for helping this happen. (I'm not saying murder them, but, like, when you get something this wrong you shouldn't still have a job where you get to tell a large audience what's what.)

 

Meanwhile... if we do manage to put American boots on the ground in Iran, it's going to be the aftermath of the invasion of Iraq all over again, but on steroids. If -- may the gods help us -- we move against Spain for refusing to host us while we're conducting an illegal, unconstitutional war of choice , we're now at war with NATO and that is absolutely going to end badly. (Yes, that was an exercise in the fine art of understatement.) If, if, if... and all the people in charge seem determined to make the worst possible choices.

 

Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other. There's a lot going on out there. 

No more adventures!

Okay, so these were pretty cool people and I was happy to help them... until now. I mean yeah, okay, a wood elf with glowing runes imprinted on his face; a dragonborn berserker who thought he was a lizardfolk; and a humanoid frog with poisonous skin who acted as their priest. It was a weird group. But they saved me when my magic ran wild and the insects I was enlarging became huge instead of just big. So I threw in with them. 

It worked out pretty well. I could enlarge the dragonborn and let him do his thing with the flaming sword, and  then hang back and throw the easier spells that didn't require my concentration. That was right up until we went down into the Sunken City, and started dealing with all the mechanical beings they'd left behind. 

Alvedes was the guy who'd hired us, and he was pretty cool but he wasn't a warrior in any sense. He wanted Ahriman's Tome, the grimoire of the long-dead witch-king.  He led us in, directed us to the Planetarium and took the mapping crystal from it. Then we discovered the Sunken Palace, where we found several useful things, but also a lot of mechanical defenders... and for the most part, we were doing well, until we got close to the King's Library. 

A thousand tons of fallen stone had closed it away, and a Steel Predator roused itself to chase us out. I've never come so close to dying in my life. 

We made it back to Riftguard. I'm going to join the college here, and stay the hell away from any ruins in the Rifts. 

Iran

And now we're bombing Iran. 

I'm just sitting with that.

We're not At War, because the President can't do that by himself, and Congress hasn't even been informed, let along declared war. Instead, we're just... at war. But at least we have good reasons for going to war, even if nobody's actually managed to say what they are or what the plan actually is. 

And of course the first reports I'm hearing is that we've already managed to bomb a primary school full of little girls, with eighty-five dead.

I hate this. I hate it so much. It's going be Iraq all over again, on steroids.

The things I would be doing right now if I had Vast Supernatural Powers... 

Update: the air strike killed more than one hundred children.  

Friday morning thoughts

In addition to the sleeping and dreaming issues, I've just generally been off this week: not feeling entirely well, stuffy head, and difficulty concentrating. Turns out cedar pollen is back up, plus we've had some high winds, and that certainly explains a lot. 

(That difficulty concentrating may be partly because of what I've been trying to work on, which is studying for a certification that I meant to complete back in December. The course material is this weird combination of helpful insights and way overthinking some pretty basic things, and the online course has been... fraught. Chunks of text that aren't in the right place, videos that won't play in the course, obvious typos... and really no excuse for it. It's just sloppy.) 

The other part, I think, is just moral injury from watching some of the worst people in the world trying their damnedest to break the country and everyone in it. (I did not watch the State of the Union, just followed along with some people who were commenting on it.) CBP and ICE -- our homegrown American Gestapo -- are still busy terrorizing anyone they can, some heinous fuckery just went through in Kansas, and  House Republicans are pushing for a national book ban. I'm trying to limit my exposure because being simultaneously heartbroken and incandescently angry isn't good for my mental or physical health. And it helps to help out where I can, even if that's largely been limited to donations for mutual aid.

I still think the whole thing falls apart as soon as Trump has a major medical event, and given how he's looked lately I can't imagine that will take too much longer -- but dear ye immortal gods, the damage that's being done in the meantime...

I'm so tired.