StV: Precognition In Action

"This is the proposal," Dianna Salvatore said, gesturing to the screen. "Saint-Vincent and I can't bankroll the whole thing, not without returning to some activities that we both find distasteful. But you're still in the game. You have capital and to spare."

Bernie nodded slowly. "An automated factory. Producing what, exactly?"

"Mobility aids, for the moment. Powered braces like the pair that Saint-Vincent uses to walk."

"They look a bit clumsy," said Bernie, automatically pitching his tone to sound dubious.

Dianna caught his eye, and a slight grin quirked her lips. "Too late, old friend. I know you were impressed."

Bernie chuckled. "Caught me," he said, pausing to study the light green skin of his fingers before touching the screen to enlarge the blueprint in front of him. "And you say one of your students came up with this?"

Dianna nodded. "Armor. She's... this is her particular Anomaly." 

"Impressive," Bernie admitted. "So you basically have the sole source on this, and you can patent and produce it -- or license it out."

"Exactly," Dianna told him. "You'd get a cut of the profits, but we'd basically feed the rest back into getting Armor set up with the materials and infrastructure she needs for her inventions. Well, that and the school -- we've picked up a few more students who can't afford tuition than is really good for our finances."

Bernie chuckled. "Including, I'd guess, some of the ones who came to my rescue." 

"Yes, they--" Dianna trailed off, straightening. Her expression went blank as she stared into the distance. "Shit. You're in danger. They'll be waiting at your apartment when you get back. You don't die, because I send one of the teams back with you, but you're hurt."

Bernie frowned. "Age of Rebirth?"

Dianna nodded. "Yeah. And while I didn't actually see it, I'd bet good money that if they take you out, they'll come after my students next."

Bernie sighed. "I did warn them, but I guess they chose violence instead."

Dianna leaned down and pulled up the school's chat program. Bernie didn't recognize it; it was something proprietary, and probably highly secured. A window popped up, and Dianna said, "Larry? Can you get Team Phoenix together and have them meet us in front of the Office? And see if the new uniforms are ready."

StV: The Prophet and the Acolyte, Part Two

"I hear," intoned the Prophet. 

"I pray," Janet responded. "There has been progress since my last report. I located three of the other Deviants. They are students together at a particular school just outside of Eugene, Oregon. Likely their other friends are there as well. And Bernard Creswell has been in touch; he called me directly."

"I see," said the Prophet. "And have they been silenced?"

"You left it to me to choose the best method for that," Janet reminded him. "Creswell assures me that he will remain silent, and see that the students do as well. In return, he demands that we return his money, leave the students alone, and cease eliminating the Damned when they show their Deviant natures. He suggests that we refer them to him instead, and that we warn prospective members in advance that the unworthy will be Damned instead of Blessed."

"Does he?" The Prophet blinked. 

"Your Holiness, this could affect the success of the New World," Janet said carefully. "I know how I would judge, but I did not wish to proceed without your approval."

"Your wisdom does you credit," answered the Prophet. "How would you judge?"

"Destroy him immediately," she said, "before he can make arrangements to take this to the public, as he threatens. Then remove the students with some plausible accident. Finally, add further security to the Purifyings, to ensure that nothing like this happens again."

"Yes," said the Prophet. "I entrust this to your care. I will inform Gabriel that he is to follow your commands in this, and I will provide you with an additional Angel to watch over you until the matter is resolved. Use them wisely."

"Until the New World," Janet said, and released a breath as the Prophet cut the connection.

Challenge: Favorite Hobby

(This post is part of the Wednesday Weekly Blogging Challenge. You can find links to other writers' answers over at Long and Short Reviews. I kind of fell off last year, so we'll see how I do with it this year.)

Prompt: Your Favorite Hobby And Why

It's writing. You knew it was going to be writing. Of course it's writing. 

I do it constantly. I do it to entertain myself, I do it entertain other people, I do it to explore and organize my thoughts and feelings, I do it because it's cheaper than therapy. Even when the boys were young and I could barely find two minutes to rub together for myself, I was still writing. Even when I'd given up martial arts, climbing, game nights, and everything else, I was writing. 

I do still enjoy climbing; the combination of physical effort, coordination, and just, well, being way up high really works for me. (I am, however, here to tell you that it is not as easy as it used to be!) 

I miss doing martial arts, and the various sorts of swordfighting I used to do (fencing, SCA, etc.) I may even get back to them at some point; we'll have to see.

But writing? Writing has been part of my life since I was about twelve, and I don't see it going away.

 

StV: The Limits of Power

"Holy shit, Ben," Maria said, plopping down on the bench beside him. "I had no idea you could do that."

"Oh hey Maria," he said, looking up from his phone. "Yeah, I don't talk about it much."

Ben was lean and medium-tall, with black hair and golden-brown skin. His smile showed a double row of even white teeth, and he was grinning broadly now at her surprise. 

"Why not?" she asked. "I mean, with an ability like that you could easily be on one of the teams."

"You should know about that," he said. "But all right, I'll tell you: it's because when I do that, when I surround myself with rocks like that, it gets... sticky, you know? Like, the longer the rocks are there, the more they want to stay. And I don't want to be Rock Guy. I like sleeping in a normal bed. So I only use it for short periods. Fine for being part of your practice, but if joined a team I might have to keep it on for too long. Or I'd be turning it back off before it was safe."

"Oh," said Maria, taking a moment to digest that. "Well that makes sense."

"Yeah. They asked, but... naw. No teams for me."

"Well it was still a damned cool power," Maria told him.

"Thanks. You'll probably see it again. They like to pull me in for these."

StV: Money-Back Guarantee, part two

Bernard Creswell opened the top drawer of his desk and extracted the business card that had gotten him into all of this. He considered it for a long moment, then picked up the phone on his desk. 

"Janet Hendrix, please." He hesitated, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. "Bernard Creswell. We have business that I believe she'll want to discuss." He waited again, then added: "Have her call me at this number, then. We can have this conversation either privately or publicly, but I suspect she'd prefer to keep it private... Yes, I'll be at this number all day. Thank you."

He hung up the phone and sat down behind his desk. It took a few minutes to bring his computer to life: password, confirmation code through his cell phone,  a moment for Crista to confirm from her PC that he was, in fact, in his office. Fortunately, he'd decided to leave his cell phone at home when he learned that he wouldn't be permitted to have it during the ritual. Even more fortunately, he'd never turned on its facial recognition features. If he had, he doubted he'd be able to get into it now. 

A deep sense of unreality swept over him. This couldn't possibly be his life. He couldn't possibly have been turned into some sort of plant-person Anomaly overnight. And there was no way on Earth that he'd spent two days hiding inside various trees until a bunch of high school students came along and helped him escape. And on top of all that, there was absolutely no possible way that he was somehow back in touch with Dianna Salvatore.

His phone rang, and he picked it up. "Bernard Creswell."

"Mr. Creswell," said Janet Hendrix, her voice venomous. "What is it you want from me?"

"Three things," he said, and then waited. It was, he'd found, a very effective tactic under the right circumstances.

"What three things?" she asked finally. 

"One: a full refund. I found your service unsatisfactory, and I would like my money back. Two: you will leave the kids alone. I don't care how badly they embarrassed you, you will walk away and pretend you never met them. Three: no more trying to make your Damned disappear. Give them my number and send them home, but no more hunting them. And for fuck's sake, warn people in advance that this might happen to them."

There was a very long pause. "That is unacceptable, Mr. Creswell," Janet said sharply. "You want your money back? Fine. We don't want it. But you and those kids are a danger to the Order and a blight on the new humanity."

"Ms. Hendrix," Bernard replied, "I want you to consider very carefully just how far you wish to take this. If you will do these three things, I will remain silent and see to it that the kids do as well. If you will not, I will arrange some very public interviews about my experiences with the Age of Rebirth. You will, of course, attempt to sue me for violating the terms of our NDA, and I will ensure that such legal action draws even more attention to the activities of your group. You may, of course, threaten violence -- or even attempt it -- but once this begins that too is likely to attract the sort of attention that you don't want."

There was a long, stubborn silence. 

Bernie waited. He could be stubborn too, but in this case he didn't really think it was required. It wasn't hard to wait when he'd already thought through the likely outcomes. 

"I still can't agree to that," Janet Hendrix said finally. "I'll have to consult with... I'll call you back when I have an answer."

"I'll be waiting."

Music: Bohemian Catsody

 Music by Shirley Serban: 

StV: Money-Back Guarantee, part one

Bernard Cresswell parked his car in the private lot beneath the building and took the elevator up to his office. The doors opened twice on the way up, but nobody stepped inside. He did his best to smile pleasantly and nod politely each time, but he was surprised to discover just how much it hurt when the people outside the elevator doors gaped or froze or flinched back. He'd known it could happen, that it would happen, but knowing it and experiencing it were two different things. 

He stepped out of the elevator alone, and crossed to the ornately etched glass doors of his office. Crista -- dark-haired, aerobics-and-yoga slim, professionally dressed in a blouse, skirt, and matching jacket -- glanced at him and smiled, then did a double-take. "Mr. Creswell?"

"It's still me, Crista," he said, nodding drily.

She shook off her reaction with a sudden movement of her head, almost like a dog shaking off water. "Sorry, sir," she said, and reached for the door. "After you."

"Thank you," he said, unexpectedly touched by her reaction. "I know this must be a shock." 

She shook her head in denial, then turned to look him over. He knew what she was seeing: the pale green skin, the vine-like tracery atop his skin, the leafy hair. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally said, "I had a cousin, Mr. Creswell."

"Did you?" he asked, and she motioned him through the door.

"Anton," she said softly as he passed. "Woke up three weeks before his thirteenth birthday without a bit of hair left on his body, and every piece of furniture in his room floating three feet in the air.  His parents thought he'd shaved his head and broken everything in some sort of tantrum."

"But he hadn't, of course," Bernie filled in. "I doubt he was any less surprised than I was."

Crista hesitated, visibly weighing her words. "You're older, Sir. I'll bet it was even more of a surprise for you." 

Bernie chuckled. "That may be. Still... have I ever asked you to call me 'Sir', Crista?"

She grimaced. "No, Mr. Creswell."

"Then let's not start now. You're a valued -- and valuable -- member of the team here. I won't try to sell you on the usual 'we're a family here' bullshit, but...  if your cousin's still around and looking for work, we may be hiring soon."

"Sir? I mean... Mr. Creswell?"

"Depending on how the next few weeks go, we may have some openings soon, and there are going to be some very definite changes in our hiring policy."

Crista swallowed. "I see, S-- Mr. Creswell. I'll see if I can get in touch with him."

"It won't be preferential," Bernie said. "If he gets hired, he'll have to do the work. But if we have an opening and he can do the work, we won't turn him away."

Crista smiled. "You're planning to announce the New You, then?"

Bernie smiled back. "Absolutely. It's time to find out who our friends really are."

Challenge: Fictional Worlds

(This post is part of the Wednesday Weekly Blogging Challenge. You can find links to other writers' answers over at Long and Short Reviews. I kind of fell off last year, so we'll see how I do with it this year.)

Prompt: Fictional Worlds I'd Rather Not Visit

I mean, that's a lot of them. Most of Stephen King's oeuvre, for example. A pretty fair chunk of Clive Barker, too. But if I had to pick one in particular, I'd have to go with Athas.

Athas is the homeworld for the Dungeons and Dragons Dark Sun campaign setting. It's a post-apocalyptic desert world -- sort of like Mad Max, but without the car chases and gun fights, and with elves and dragon-folk and insect people instead. Resources -- notably water and metal of any sort -- are scarce. Unlike most D&D settings, Athas is closed off from other planes of existence, so if I somehow wound up there, there would be no going back. 

And unless I was extremely fortunate, I'd last maybe a day or two before being robbed, sold into slavery, or murdered. If I was unlucky, well... it take a bit of time to die of dehydration, heatstroke, and hypothermia in the desert. 

So yeah, I would very prefer not to be isekai'ed to Athas.

StV: Opportunities

Cat didn't know the girl who sat down across from her. Her face was familiar, of course; Saint Vincent's was a small school, and everybody knew everybody, within limits. One of the white girls, though not so pale as some, with nut-brown hair and eyes. Amy? Something like that. The girl had one hand on the table and was absently tapping out a nervous rhythm with her fingers.

"Stop that," Cat said reflexively, and the errant hand went still. 

So did the other girl's face. "Sorry. Um. I don't mean to bother you, but..." 

So don't, Cat thought, but she managed to keep the thought to herself. "I don't..." She wondered if she sounded as awkward as she felt. "I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."

"Abby," the girl supplied immediately. "And, um, there's no reason you should. I mean, I'm a Second Year, we don't have any classes together, and I wouldn't know your name either if you weren't..."

"On Team Kraken?" Cat supplied. 

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm... I'm not sure how to ask this, but..." 

Cat braced herself. Shit like this was why she hated talked to people. The girl would ask to join the team, or for Cat to put in a good word with Tempest, or maybe just if they could hang out or help her develop her powers. If she was lucky, she could refer the girl to Tempest or even to Ms. Salvatore. More likely, she'd have to figure out how to let her down gently, which was exactly the sort of delicate social interaction that she hated, mainly because it stressed her right the fuck out. 

The girl glanced around to make sure that there was nobody near the table Cat had picked out on the back porch, then asked: "Did I see the new boy come out of your room the other morning?" 

No, absolutely not, why would you even think that? Cat's brain was shaping the words, but her traitor mouth was already replying: "Yes, but if you tell anybody else I'll deny it."

"Um." The girl swallowed. "So are you two, like, together?" She flushed, then added hurriedly: "I'm not asking for gossip. I have a reason, really."

Do I really want to know? Cat wasn't at all sure that she did. "Okay," she said finally. "How is this any of your business?"

"I mean, it's not. It's just that... if I were to... proposition him -- hypothetically -- I'd want to make sure that I wasn't cutting in on somebody else's relationship."

Cat hesitated. "All right. If I had slept with him -- hypothetically -- I'd reassure you that it was just a temporary thing, and you wouldn't be cutting in."

The girl paused, and for a couple of heartbeats  Cat thought the conversation was over. Then Abby asked, "Was it good? I don't want my first time to be a disaster."

"Yes," said Cat, "Yeah, it was good. But... look, you're a Second Year. You're young. I mean, I'm young too--" Oh, God, she was getting this all knotted up. "--but..." She stopped, shook her head, drew a breath, and then asked: "Why him? Why now? It's not a race, you know?"

Abby folded her hands together, then put them in her lap. She remained silent for the better part of a minute. Then she said, "Because I'd like to see what it's like while I'm still... me. And you know how it is -- a lot of people talk, but I never know if they're actually doing anything or if it's just talk. So when I saw him coming out of your room, well... I thought, Here's someone who's actually having sex, and it seemed like maybe this was my opportunity."

Cat absolutely did not know how it is. She avoided that kind of talk; she avoided a lot of different kinds of talk. She'd made her own private decisions, and it had never even occurred to her to consult anybody else about them. Still... "Okay, but... what do you mean, 'while I'm still me'?"

Abby looked at her for a moment, then unbuttoned the right sleeve of her uniform shirt and shoved it up past her elbow. She extended her arm, showing off the mass of pale, milky-- 

That wasn't scar tissue. That was armor. There were spikes, small but distinct, growing out of it. "What...?" Has Tempest seen this? Gods, she would love to examine this. The thought was out of place here, so she pushed it away.

 "I'm changing," Abby told her. "That's where I fell off my bike and scraped my arm, so you can see it there. It healed different. But it isn't just when I'm injured. My whole body's doing this, just... more slowly. Probably since I was twelve or thirteen." She pushed her sleeve back down. "And even that isn't done," she continued. "Those little spikes? They weren't there a month ago. I noticed them when I tore the shit out of my pillow one night."

"Hostia puta." Cat swallowed, trying to imagine. "That... that must be terrifying."

Abby looked like she was about to burst into tears. "You... you really have no idea."

"No chingues." The situation had, it seemed, finally gotten so uncomfortable that Cat had relaxed into it. She stood up, came around the table, and squatted down beside Abby so she could put an arm across the younger girl's shoulders. "Do you have any idea where it's heading?"

Abby shook her head. "No. The doctors didn't know. The faculty don't know. I don' t know. I have monthly checkups with Ms. Campbell, but I can't really talk to her about what it's like."

"All right," she said. "Yeah. That's pretty fucked, but I can see where you're coming from on this. So... yeah, Lyceus and I were just a fling. You wouldn't be cutting in." She hesitated. "And if you need somebody to talk to, well... I'm kind of shit at that, actually. But... I can try."

"Oh my God, please?" said the younger girl, and Cat nodded.

Music: Seven Year Ache

Roseanne Cash:

Music: End of the Road

Noga Erez:

StV: The Prophet and the Acolyte

"Escaped, you say?" The Prophet's voice was mild, but then the Prophet's voice was always mild. The cares of this world did not touch him, and his divinity had placed him beyond all human pettiness and spite.

"I believe so, Holiest." Janet Hendrix kept her voice even, because none of that meant that she was not in danger. The Prophet cared about the Work, and attempting to transfigure a Deviant interfered with the Work. Having a deviant then escape...? That could be a disaster. "He was helped by other Deviants."

She didn't know that that was true, but she was not about to explain to The Prophet that she and Jefferson and Michael had gotten their assess handed to them by a bunch of teenagers. And since both Creswell and the teenagers had vanished into thin air, it seemed very likely that they'd done it together. 

 "That is troubling," The Prophet observed. "I had hoped you could handle this alone, but even I had not expected outside interference. Are they known to you, these Deviants?"

"No, I'd never seen them before." Janet swallowed. "I have one of their names: Emily Hubbard. Emil is running a search already. And Bernard Creswell is likely to cause chatter if he reappears."

"Very well." The Prophet nodded thoughtfully, then looked towards the heavens. "Find them -- all of them -- and see that they do not interfere further. Protect our reputation through whatever means you deem effective. I trust to your discretion in this. Should you need additional resources or assistance, pray to me and I will provide."

"Yes, your Holiness." Janet bowed her head. "It will be as you say."

"In all things," The Prophet agreed, and left the call.

Janet heaved a sigh of relief. She wasn't honestly sure whether or not the Holiest could strike her down over a video call, but one way or another she would be removed if she threatened the Work. They were remaking the world, after all; remaking humanity. Mistakes could not be tolerated. 

As for Mr. Creswell and those damnable teenage Deviants, well... perhaps they would see reason. Or perhaps they could be influenced. Or, if all else failed, they could always be removed the hard way. Blessed Savior, she hoped they could be removed the hard way.

All she had to do was find them.

Oh no!

The Decemberists: 

Team Kraken: Debriefing, Part One

"So," asked Mr. Saint-Vincent, "How did it go?"

Kimberly Lynn Evely looked from him to Ms. Salvatore, then glanced at the students seated behind her. "I'd like my team to offer their impressions first, if you don't mind." 

"Very well," said Saint-Vincent. "Armor?"

Ally Colvin looked up from her design pad. "Yes?"

"Your impressions of your new teammate please, Armor." Saint-Vincent sounded dryly amused. 

"Oh. Um. I like her."

Saint-Vincent waited, but Ally just looked curiously at him. "Very well. Nightfall?"

Cat Montoya tilted her head slightly, studying the headmaster as he studied her. "Maria's solid," she said. "She kept up, she helped out, she worked with us."

The headmaster smiled slightly at that, then turned to Gaunt. 

"Nightfall's right," he said immediately. "We haven't seen her powers in action yet, but she worked well with us -- and on the first time out, at that."

Saint-Vincent turned back to Kim. "You have a different opinion?"

Kim hesitated. "Not exactly. Maria should definitely be part of Team Kraken. That said... I'd like you to pay attention over the next several practices, and consider the possibility that she should be team leader instead of me."

"Kim," said Gaunt, but she shook her head. 

"I'm doing my best, and I appreciate that you all support me in that. But--" She looked at Ms. Salvatore. "--and correct me if I'm wrong -- I think I only really have the position because I've studied Anomalous powers, and nobody else wanted it."

Ms. Salvatore frowned, slightly. "Don't sell yourself short, Miss Evely."

Kim shook her head. "I'm not. I think I'm doing a decent job. But Maria suggested today's strategy, and it got us through successfully. I might have come up with the same approach, but she saw it while I was still trying to think about what would work best. That's why I'd like you to monitor the next few practices: so you can see if that's a pattern. If it is, I'm perfectly fine with turning the team over to her and staying on as a blaster and a subject-matter expert." She glanced back at the others. "And I'd like the rest of you to be thinking about it, too. If you'd rather have me, okay. But I promise you I am not going to be hurt if it turns out that Cloudburst can do a better job."

Team Kraken: Introductions, Part Five

Maria -- Cloudburst -- gasped, "Ben?"

He smiled at her as he strode forward. "You could just do this the easy way and hand it over," he said. 

Armor lifted an arm, but Ben swelled up as a layer of shifting stones surrounded his body and the twin needles from Armor's wrist-gun glanced off them and fell to the dirt. 

Gaunt? Cloudburst asked again, hoping that he was still paying attention. 

Yes? Oh. Yeah. More are coming. 

"Come on,"  she said, and pushed Nightfall back towards Gaunt. "Let Armor and Tempest hold them off. We need to get that box to its destination." Raising her voice she added, "Knock him down and let's go!"

One of them must have done something because she felt the impact through her feet as Ben hit the ground. Then they were all running, Gaunt in the lead and Armor and Tempest slogging along at the back. 

They broke into a clearing, and there was Goblin: short, wiry, with teeth like a shark exposed in a very wide grin. It was the combination of that mouth and the notably green tinge to their skin that gave them their name; their actual name was Vic. "Here," they said. "Give me my box."

"Spread out," said Nightfall, and the world went black. 

Cloudbust had never been blind, and for a moment she was simply too disoriented to react. Then Gaunt's voice spoke into her head: It's just dark. Move slowly and spread out. Nightfall's handing the box off to Goblin. That was... okay, she'd known this could happen. But knowing it and being in the middle of it were two very different things. 

Cloudburst took one careful step, trying to move slowly and stay quiet, and then another. She wavered; she'd never realized how much she relied on visual cues to keep her balance. I'll have to work on that as well. She'd managed four full paces and stopped again before the darkness brightened and she could begin to see again. A moment later the woods were back to their usual moderate shade, and Goblin was gone. 

Mr. Craven stepped out from behind a tree. "Well done," he said.

Den of Thieves: Strategies

"I found them," Faldor said, as he came in the door.

"Hush," said his wife Eloida, though she tempered the word by turning a fond smile in his direction. "The baby's almost down." She went back to the soft stream of soothing words, and Faldor smiled, momentarily distracted by the sight of their daughter Aniora. 

She was getting too big for her basket; pretty soon they'd have to get her a real bed. There was room beside their own bed; it wouldn't be too much of a burden. And they could afford it; Talons Mirrak was still using him as a runner, and while some of his freelance jobs had dried up others seemed to come in from people who wanted to hear about what had happened to him. Cedric had even arranged for him to speak with the other, younger runners -- four different groups of them now -- to explain how it had been done and talk about what to watch for.

The Mist Eyes had stood by him, and if he could get information on this new crew to Cedric Bloodblade, he would. 

Aniora's breathing deepened and became more regular, and after a few more minutes Eloida let her singing grow softer until it finally trailed off. Then she stood, and gestured towards the door back to the main room; Faldor nodded and slipped out, quick and silent. Eloida followed, and eased the door closed behind them. 

"Now then," she said quietly. "What was that? You found them?"

"I found them."

"The ones who robbed you?"

"They were at Bilk's place, dealing with a bunch of kids. I managed to follow them, but they saw me and I had to drop back. They were on one of the main spokes, though: mid-city east. Had some of the local kids with 'em, too."

Eloida narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "You're certain?"

He nodded. "Same voices. And I'd bet money they're the same ones who knocked over the furniture crafter up in Greycloak territory, too."

"That's dangerous," Eloida said slowly. "I need you to be very, very careful. Just because they haven't killed anybody yet, doesn't mean they couldn't. And desperate people do desperate things."

"So," said Faldor, "we have to make sure they don't feel desperate until it's too late."

Challenge: Memorable Acquaintance

(This post is part of the Wednesday Weekly Blogging Challenge. You can find links to other writers' answers over at Long and Short Reviews. I kind of fell off last year, so we'll see how I do with it this year.)

Prompt: A story about a memorable acquaintance

Heh. All right. 

This is back in college, when I was sharing a dorm room with a young man whom I'll refer to as J. J was a computer science major, extremely bright, and exactly my kind of odd. He loved playing with ideas, particularly about obscure esoterica: the illuminati, the idea that somewhere there was a list of all the really smart people on the planet, what if there really was a hollow earth, and like that. He didn't really believe in any of it, but the absurdity of it all appealed to him. And, of course, he was the destined savior of the human race. 

We all just pretty much took that last one in stride. He'd mention it every now and again, but it wasn't a regular topic of conversation or something he really insisted on. 

Anyway, the two of us were up very late one night, discussing the gods alone know what. Probably something vague and philosophical, possibly related to religion. I genuinely don't remember at this point. 

What I do remember is the very end of the conversation. I was already up in the top bunk, and he was sitting on the bottom bunk, and it was time to go to sleep. So he got up, crossed the room to the light switch (which was beside the door), and concluded whatever point he was making with, "After all, I'm the destined savior of the human race." He flipped the light off, then added: "Funny thing is, sometimes I actually believe that."

Then he crossed the room again (in the dark), tossed himself down onto his mattress, and missed by a good two feet, thus crashing into the floor instead. No harm done, but the timing could not have been any more perfect.

Post-Event Assessment: Rock Climbing

We took Secondborn to the rock climbing gym this weekend. He's had summer classes there before, so he was already on file and certified to use the auto-belay. Beautiful Wife and I were not, so we filled out our waivers and went over the process with the staff so we could be on record as officially certified. 

(For those who don't already know: belay is the term for the safety line that keeps a climber from falling to the ground if they lose their grip. It also allows them to be lowered back down once they reach the top of the climb. For a manual belay, the belay line basically goes up to a pulley and you have somebody on the ground to pull the rope so it stays tight as you climb, and then to feed it back out gently to lower you down. A lot of the modern climbing gyms have auto-belays as well, which are rigged to a spring-and-pulley system. On their own, they will retract all the way up to the spool, but with a person clipped to the end of the line they will keep the rope tight until you fall or let go and put your full weight on it. At that point, it feeds the line back out slowly, so you land gently on the ground.) 

Secondborn, as I said, has done this before, and recently. Beautiful Wife and I have also done this before, and not recently. So he clambers around on the bouldering areas, and scampers up the climbing walls with considerable agility, and returns to the bottom smiling. 

Me, not so much. I tried four climbs and a bit of bouldering, and I will say this in my defense: at least I can still do it. I have to take about a ten minute break between climbs, but I can do it. So my assessment looks like this: 

Good:

• Grip strength and upper body are still equal to the task.
• Agility and technique are still there; I remember how to go about it.

Bad:

• Cardio is desperately in need of more work.

So, we're going to do their one-month trial -- which looks like a pretty good deal -- and see if we can't get back in better shape while giving Secondborn a regular family outing that he loves. 

Events of note: Secondborn showed us how he can go up a section of the wall devoted to timed trials -- not anything complicated; the first two-thirds is basically a series of wooden rungs with a nice, heavy lip that's very easy to grip. Harder than it looks, though, because the rungs are about two feet apart. So, after watching this, I informed Secondborn that he was going to get to watch me beat his time.

I made it halfway up -- if we're being generous. It was probably closet to a third. I really need to lose some belly to make that work. Secondborn was, of course, suitably smug about the whole thing. 

Den of Thieves: A Momentary Sighting

"You asked to see me?" Vallista Greycloak eased back from her desk, weighing him with her eyes, and Bassom swallowed. 

He knew he was only still a Greycloak by courtesy, and because he had gone for help when he fled. Derlina and the rest of the crew had been down by then; he'd done the sensible thing. But since the other three -- and Derlina in particular -- had gone down fighting, everybody in the gang thought of them as heroes... and him as a coward. It wasn't right, it wasn't true, but there it was and he was stuck with it.

"Yes, um, Boss. I heard news, and you'll want to hear it to. Bilk Tendal, down on lower city north? He had a group of kids had made a hideout in the back of his shop. Wannabe gang, it sounds like, but still just kids. Anyway, this group came in and helped Bilk bust 'em out: pried 'em out of their hideout, dressed 'em down in the street, then made 'em clean the place up and marched 'em home to their parents."

Vallista Greycloak leaned forward, studying Bassom closely. He managed not to swallow again, but it took an effort; Vallista was old Anderlin's daughter, likely to take over the gang if her father ever passed. "Why, exactly, did you think I needed to know this?" she asked quietly.

Oh, right, yeah. "'Cause they was the same group as done us," he said. "A dragonborn, a dwarf, an elf, and a couple'a humans. Has to be the same ones, dunnit?"

Vallista leaned back again. "And how long ago was this?"

"Two days ago, maybe three," Bassom admitted. "I came as soon as I heard the word."

"Well," said Vallista Greycloak, "You're the first I've heard it from, so that was wise."

She extended a single finger, tapped it on the arm of her chair. "Very well," she continued after a moment. "Should I call in Derlina? Or do you think you can go down there and ask some questions without attracting attention?"

"They ruined my rep," Bassom said. "I'd rather take care of it myself."

"Hm. Nothing without my permission, though."

"That's why I'm here," Bassom assured her. "I'm loyal -- to the 'Cloaks and to the Guild. Maybe I screwed up, but I want to do this right." There, he'd said it. He wanted to earn his place back -- his real place, not this shunned role out on the edges of everything that mattered to him. 

"As you wish," Vallista told him. "See what you can find out: who they were, who they know, who they're working for. You report directly to me until I say otherwise, and you don't breathe a word of this to anybody else. Until we know who these people are and who they're working for, we move very quietly on this."

"Not a word to anybody else," Bassom told her. "I swear it."