Music: Prisencolinensunainciusol

 Adriano Celentano:

StV: A Favor For Your Mother, part four

Julie sat in the study with Mr. Maddox, the gray-haired older man who was currently guarding her mother -- or working with her, or something. He'd been introduced to the household as one of the Prophet's Angels, so maybe her mother was working with him instead. Regardless, he had instructions for her, so she kept herself still and attentive.

"This will be your story," he said, and she nodded. "You are Emma Vilde Gundersen. Three years ago, you woke up with gray skin, and the other features appeared over the next few weeks. Your parents took you out of public school and you were homeschooled for the last three years. Then you got swept up in a raid, and taken to a processing center -- which is where you will be when you have to explain this. You will be placed with one or more young people, all captured Deviants. Your job is to act scared and make friends with them."

"Friends?" she asked, shocked and mildly disgusted. Deviants were... well, they were Damned, except that they came to it on their own instead of by rejecting the Prophet's chosen gifts. 

Mr. Maddox studied her for a moment, then clarified: "So long as they see you as a friend, all will be well. The Prophet does not ask you to become friends with them, merely to pretend to it."

Oh. Well, that was nothing new; half her social circle consisted of that sort of friends. "I..." She made her voice firm. "I can do that." 

Mr. Maddox nodded. "We anticipate that they will either escape or be rescued, and take you with them. If that does not happen, we have someone on the inside who will see you safely removed -- and then we will attempt to insert you some other way."

"I understand," she said, and then reiterated. "I am to pretend to be a prisoner, become a friend to my fellow prisoners, and escape with them so that they do not suspect me."

"Precisely," Mr. Maddox said. "Young Angel, I look forward to seeing what you bring to the new world."

StV: A Favor For Your Mother, Part Three

Julie didn't immediately know what had happened. 

She was lying on her back on the floor, with both her parents crouched over her. Had she passed out? Had she fallen?

"Move slowly," said the Prophet. "It will take some time to adjust to your new strength."

That voice brought it all rushing back: the Prophet touching fingertips to her forehead, the flood of divine power pouring over her, filling her to overflowing. The sudden flash of connection, of understanding, the silent fire of being at one with all things, lost now except for a fading memory. 

She suppressed a sob. 

Her mom looked terrified. Her dad looked over at the Prophet: "Holiness, is she...?"

"You are Blessed," said the Prophet, addressing Julie directly, "but your Blessing is unique, for you among all of us will be able to take the appearance of the Damned."

Oh, you want me to be a spy. Why didn't you just say so? Julie motioned her parents back -- she'd heard tales of accidents at this stage of the ritual -- and then climbed slowly to her feet. It was ridiculously easy, and his Holiness had been right: if she'd tried it unprepared, she would have accidentally hurled herself at the ceiling, or maybe through some of the furniture.

"I rise, ready to serve," she said, completing the ritual, and the Prophet smiled beatifically. 

"Your work will begin soon," the Prophet assured her. "For now, regard yourself in the mirror."

The chapel in their home held mirrors on the wall; she approached one of them, looked at herself, and blanched. Her skin was gray, pebbly, and her eyes were actually glowing red. Her hair, incongruously, looked the same as it always had. 

"Now," said the prophet, "remember yourself as you truly are. Find that connection. Focus on it."

Julie tried, and watched in awe as she felt her skin shiver and reform, returning to her much of her former appearance, only... younger. A little more awkward. She looked like a fucking teenager. 

"Perfect," breathed the Prophet, and she hid her shock automatically. "You will be our agent among the deviant and damned, and you will lead the way to bring them low."

Julie resisted the urge to look at either of her parents, and focused on the Prophet instead. "As you speak, I obey." 

"Now, change yourself back."

Julie looked into the mirror again, blinked, and tried to picture herself as she'd awoken: grey skin, glowing eyes... She felt the change sweep over her. What has his Holiness done to me? She pushed the thought down immediately. Maybe taking a Deviant form brought Deviant thoughts with it; she'd have to be careful about that.

"It will take a few days to fully adjust," the Prophet cautioned her. "Then, you will be ready."

Dauntless: The Goblin and the Kobold

Galbra sighed to herself as she paced the deck. A fucking Urd, here on this ship. And she's not only charmed the feathery barbarian, she survived a knife to the belly. There was only one way forward... 

...And she hated it. 

"Hey," she said, from her spot on the deck. 

"Kurtulmak!" shrieked the kobold, and threw herself into the air. 

That was satisfying, at least, Galbra thought. "So you're staying around."

"You're still here!?"

"Yeah. Thought about it, decided to hang around. If I promise not to try to stab you again, will you settle back down?"

"...Maybe? I mean, you stabbed me pretty hard."

"I promise not to try to stab you again. Not unless it's self-defense or I've warned you first."

There was a long pause. "All right. I think Archangel still wants to kill you, though."

Galbra sighed.  "Of course he does. What I want to know is, what's your angle with him?"

"Aside from his massive bird-cock and the fact that I can't possibly get pregnant?"

"Yeah. Aside from that."

"You're a clever one, aren't you? Work it out."

 As answers went, it was precisely as unsatisfying as Galbra had expected, but that didn't bother her at all. She'd been planning to do that anyway, and at least now they were talking.

Writing Busy

So... I lost track of the previous dark fantasy project, as you might have guessed from the world-building stuff I've been posting here. Current project is Horny Superteens, and I'm... seven chapters in? Yeah. It's not smut, exactly, but it could be if I wanted to fill in the more explicit bits. So far I've been fading to black instead.

And yeah, some of that is probably because if I'm writing Horny Superteens I'm not reading the news and getting depressed about the fall of America and the fact that we're not going to have Social Security by the time I can truly retire. The chance to imagine myself as a horny teenage superhero just starting to decide how to build his powers is, well, a wonderful escape from all that. 

The new job remains a profound relief -- the extent to which this is just a much better environment to be working in is hard to overstate, even if yesterday's meeting drained most of my brain of anything resembling thought. But, I mean, that was the new CFO and the Director of Finance wanting to learn more about how our financial workflows were set up, and look at some possibilities for making them more efficient. At Old Job? Gods, I'd never have been allowed anywhere near a meeting like that, and the IT folks who were allowed to talk would have spent the whole time giving them incorrect information. 

I wish I was mistaken, or even bitterly exaggerating, about that. 

I'm not. 

This is SO MUCH BETTER. 

Meanwhile, in my copious spare time, I'm plotting out a possible future book where a necromancer and a mad scientist find themselves in competition over the fresh graves at the local cemetery. So hey, I have a likely future project. 

Secondborn has been doing better at school; I've also bought him some axes, and he's been taking apart some excessively large stumps that we'd brought over to our back yard. I figure, it gets him outside, in the sunlight, and exercising, and even given the cost of a good axe these days it's still cheaper than therapy. I had given him one of my old knives to work out his angst with, but, well...

 

Yeah. He has a lot of angst to work out.

Music: Wake The Dead

Chuck Prophet: 

StV: A Favor For Your Mother, part two

Her mom looked more like a slightly-older sister, just as her dad looked like potential boyfriend material to her friends -- and for the same reason: the Holiest, the Prophet and his blessings. And now it was her turn, and she found herself unaccountably worried. Just how young would she look? Would people still take her seriously? And more importantly, what the hell was going on here? Julie supported her parents and the Age of Rebirth, but the last time they'd discussed her potential induction, both her parents had insisted that she should be at least thirty, with an established career and her own fortune and influence.

Which meant they wanted something. Or the Prophet did. 

Her dad led her over to where the Prophet was standing next to her mother. He was tall and strong, larger than either of her parents, with eyes like stormclouds and a face like an Old Testament judgement. If anybody was going to lead world back to making sense, she thought yet again, it was going to be him.

"Ah," he said, as she approached. "Julie. A pleasure. I realize this comes unexpectedly, but the Age of Rebirth is facing a challenge, and your mother has need of your assistance."

"I suspected so, Holiness," she said, setting aside her misgivings and miming a curtsy. "I stand ready to serve."

"Your faith will be rewarded," he said, "and your rebirth will be a benefit to all of us."

"Would it be a failure of faith to ask what blessings you intend, and what you want me to do with them? I will do your will regardless."

Her father frowned and shook his head sharply, but the Prophet smiled, unperturbed. "Your curiosity is natural, and not to be criticized when you come willingly. I will make you persuasive, like your mother, but also strong and fast like my angels. There is a young man who has caused us some considerable trouble; your task will be to trap him."

Julie considered that, but only for a moment. "As you say it, Holiness, so shall it be done."

She knelt, trying not to think of anything as he approached. 

StV: A Favor For Your Mother, part one

"Julie, honey?"

Julia Kensington Hendrix looked up from the video she'd been watching.  Her father was standing in the doorway, looking young and trim. Her friends giggled over him -- Imagine having a dad that hot! -- and it made Julia a little crazy, though she was careful not to show it. 'Dad?"

"Your mother needs a favor," he said. 

"Um," she told him. At twenty years old, she was already suspicious; when her mother asked for a favor, it was generally something that she thought would benefit her career and increase their fortune. "Sure, but... why isn't she asking?"

"She's lost her voice," Dad said. 

"Oh," said Julia. "Like, Laryngitis?"

"Something like that," Dad told her. "Anyway,  your mother needs you to come and speak to the Prophet."

"Wait-- what--? Me?"

"Yes, you. It's a little sooner than we'd intended, but it's time for you to receive your blessings."

"I... Okay. Of course. Just let me..." She stood up, looked around, and then realized that she didn't really need anything for this. Blessings were blessings, after all. And to be blessed by the Prophet directly... that was a great honor. "Should I dress for...?"

"No need," her dad told her. "Just come."

StV: A Rooftop Parting

"There." Bloodrose spoke with faint disdain. "A clean escape, as agreed."

Janet Hendrix tried to speak, failed yet again, and tapped her throat in frustration. The younger woman just watched, scowling behind her face paint, the spikes on her leather jacket gleaming in the fading light of the setting sun. Janet pulled out her phone, opened a note, and started typing again. 

Can you get the other two? She turned the phone so Bloodrose could see the screen.

Bloodrose glanced at the note and shook her head. "The bargain was that I'd keep you safe and help you try to kill Groot, or whatever the plant-guy's name is, and you'd pay my standard rate." Her scowl deepened. "Even if they'd been part of the bargain, though, I don't think I could pull them out now. Whoever you're up against, they took out my demons almost immediately and I don't think your buddies fared any better."

Janet glared, but the deviant girl -- damn her anyway -- was probably right. She went back to typing. You did the work. You'll get you pay. I may even have another job for you before long. She turned the screen again. 

"All right," said Bloodrose, "but it's going to cost extra if you want me to take those people on directly."

Janet shrugged. They could work that out when they made the next bargain; hopefully by then she'd be able to talk again. If they met in person to work it out, Janet could practically set her own terms. With her voice gone, though... This better not be permanent. I will kill that little brat.

Maybe I could set Bloodrose just to kill him? No, there were simpler and less expensive ways to get that done. Whole government programs devoted to dealing with the threat of Anomalies, in fact. She just needed to report him to the proper authorities. And it was increasingly obvious that the order needed to take down that whole school, and salt the earth where it had once been. They couldn't keep this quiet anymore; they needed to move, and move fast. 

Team Kraken: One Final Question

"Okay," said Maria. "So I do have one more question: why are we called Team Kraken?"

Kim sighed and Gaunt looked away.  

"Seriously," Maria said, leaning forward. "I'm the only one with water-based powers, and I just got here. And thankfully there doesn't seem to be any kind of tentacle theme to our abilities, either."

"No, you're right," said Cat, and chuckled. "It was the best we could come up with."

"...Seriously?" asked Maria. 

"We were looking for something that sounded powerful," Kim said, reluctantly. "I mean, we're following Team Dragon and Team Phoenix. Where do you go from there?"

"Team Vampire sounds like exactly the kind of Anomaly that terrifies the normies," Gaunt said quietly. "Team Unicorn sounds like a bunch of schoolchildren who want to feel special; nobody would take that seriously."

Maria shook her head. "So Kraken was... what? A compromise?"

Kim nodded. "Because nobody wanted us to just be Team Three."

"...All right," Maria conceded. "I should probably just be glad that we don't get sponsorships. I'm really not prepared to be part of Team Coca-Cola."

Kim responded with a theatrical shudder. "Perish the thought. We almost went with Team Colossus, but since there's an Anomaly who's already using that name, well, we thought he might take it the wrong way."

"Or we might get sued," Cat said quietly. 

"Yeah. Or that."

Villain: Mongrel

Name: Winston "Win" Davin Johnston
Alias: Mongrel
Age: 36
Appearance: 6'4", broad-shouldered, athletic, right-curled black hair, dark brown eyes, dark skin; usually barefoot, favoring loose sweatpants and a long coat.
Job: Anomaly-hunter for the CIA's DAAT program

At thirty-six years old, Winston Johnson is the oldest alpha hound in the DAAT program, and one of the chief reasons why its hunters are referred to as "hounds". CIA researcher and DAAT program chief Alexandra "Alex" Johnston was simultaneously appalled to discover that her son was a monster and impressed with the physical potential conferred by his abilities. She sought and received a special dispensation to study him, and when he proved able to reliably differentiate between regular humans and his fellow Anomalies she received a black-money grant to seek out others who could the same. That grant eventually became the foundation of the DAAT program as its increasing popularity and public concerns about Anomalies moved it into grey ops and then political popularity. 

Win thinks of himself as a monster who exists to hunt other monsters, channeling his monstrous abilities against his fellow Anomalies for the greater good. He channels his natural bloodlust into destroying the worst of his kind, and finds his redemption in recruiting those willing to join the cause. He is grim and intense in person, ill-suited to missions requiring any sort of social camouflage, and always on edge. So far, his abilities have proven sufficient to keep him alive despite his occasional disregard for his own welfare. 

Mongrel is a semi-canine shifter, capable of turning into a dog-like creature with armor plates like an armadillo and roughly the size of a horse. He has an intermediate form, bipedal but also clawed and armored, and is gifted with tremendous strength and stamina, enhanced senses, regeneration, and strong natural armor. 

His handler is a grizzled forty-year-old man who uses the callsign Huntsman and specializes in close- and mid-range combat, generally relying on firearms. Mongrel regards him as a second father, and takes any criticisms from him very much to heart.

Music: Paranoimia

A Max Headroom classic (also, well actually mostly, the Art of Noise):

Music: Hotel California

Cover by Violet Orlandi:

Music: As Above, So Below

Essenger and Cryoshell:

Eshdan'danvallor: Memories of The Fall

Dandan woke suddenly, shivering in his bed and drenched in sweat. It was the same old dream: he'd been flying towards the Heart of Knowledge, wings strong as rode the winds... and then his wings were gone, and he tumbled and fell, the air tearing at him as he plummeted towards the distant earth. Mountains like spears below him, the sky on fire above, his magics expended and his protections broken. 

He shivered again as he forced his breathing back under his control. An Elf of his venerable years should have no need of sleep, but even after all these centuries there were too many nights when he couldn't summon the calm necessary for the restoring trance. 

His blade still hung on the wall above his bed. Perhaps it was an ill reminder, but he still felt safer having it nearby -- and their link remained unbroken after all this time. "Have I been neglecting you?" he asked, and lifted the weapon down. 

It shivered in his hand, having shared his nightmare; the sword remembered just as he did. He kept his hand on its hilt, and finally felt it settle. "I'm sorry, old friend, I hear I've been neglecting you."

The sword quivered, but the sense he got from it was warm, forgiving. Still... yes, it would not hurt to practice again. It never paid to let the reflexes grow slack, though it had been a century and a half since anything truly threatened him. Still, word was everywhere of the Viscount's sudden return, of horrors encountered in the mines, and the desperate need for assistance from the Temple of Obdyros. He could hear the words yet unspoken, trace the shape of the coming winds.  

Yes, he would spend the morning at blade-practice. And if the newly-arrived heroes didn't come to him, he would seek them out himself. Perhaps it was word of the arrival of their airship that had triggered his nightmare, or perhaps they were the answer to it. Impossible to tell as yet; the future was endlessly predictable and endlessly malleable, and for all his skill he was no diviner. 

"Come, my friend," he said, and belted his blade on over his robe. "Let me find some breakfast, and then we can renew our strength."

Music: Vatican Rag

A bit from Tom Lehrer that's been lurking in my head for a couple of days now: