TTU stories

Dinosaur Gods

Mon, 10 May 2010 08:50:30 GMT

"Any more questions?" I asked. "No? Let's move on." I stretched a wing out in the direction of the next room. Behind the crowd, Jim made a smooth gesture with one hand, and the lights on the side of the doorway flickered from red to green.

"Remember," I said as we walked, "for the safety of these priceless treasures we do have a few simple rules. For this next piece in particular, I really need to emphasize: No touching. Holophotography is not permitted, either, but we do have high-quality holograms of our most popular exhibits at MATT's gift shop. Standard-spectrum flash photography is allowed, and you will definitely want your cameras out for this one."

I stepped with all four feet over the red velvet rope surrounding the statue and turned back toward the group, stretching my wings upward, being careful to hold them in line with my body. The comforting subsonic hum of the exhibit's force fields buzzed at the back of my skull. I sat, raised my forelegs to my chest, curled my tail in around my feet, and thrust my chest out, head raised proudly.

A chuckle swept through the crowd, and several of the tourists raised their cameras. I grinned, baring a muzzle full of sharp fangs. Posing to match the stone shape always got a reaction.

"This piece is one of the so-called Atacama Dragons," I said, holding my pose steady, "but the first thing you should know is that it isn't actually a dragon. At least, there's good archaeological evidence that it isn't."

I paused as several flashbulbs went off; the soft hum from the force field around the statue changed tone subtly as it compensated for the bulbs' additional light and heat.

"Aaron Whitley -- who was one of our island's major financiers, after he made his fortune cofounding Raven's Head -- was certainly looking for dragons when his divinations drew him toward this," I continued. "His goal was to find evidence that the Changes 15 years ago were not unique in Earth's history. Most scientists don't think this statue is that evidence. But it is something far more rare and special."

I gestured at the large hunk of pale marble, which had an entirely smooth and featureless exterior but was unmistakeably dragon-shaped.

"It's the oldest artifact of intelligent life on Earth."

I paused for dramatic effect, and a hush settled over the group.

I glanced around them, trying to tell by their faces if there were any fellow dragons on the tour. A surprising majority of mythics from overseas seemed to shift back to human form almost as a reflex when heading inside buildings -- it took a while for them to realize that New Atlantis architecture was designed with them in mind -- and so sometimes my first clue of a visitor's real species was their reaction to the exhibits. Of course, Jim -- as a security mage -- carried a copy of the tour group's visitor logs, so my guessing game had little value beyond our amusement.

The current group was a pretty standard mix, even for the midsummer priority-visa crowd: mostly human, in a variety of skin colors, with only three visible therianthropes. (Tourists drawn in by the island's reputation inevitably complained about how theris were given priority for landing visas -- but that same priority extended to human mages and political dignitaries, as well as the human family of residents. Given the relative population sizes, theri visitors were a small fraction of even the warm-weather elite.) Aside from the usual crowd of Asian and Caucasian families, students and retirees, there were a few Middle Eastern men wearing robes and keffiyehs hanging together in a tight cluster -- probably a political delegation -- and two groups of Hispanics that had been chatting earlier about their respective homes in Buenos Aires.

None of them had quite the right stunned gaze to be a mythic in hiding. The Atacama Dragon was the Museum of Applied Thaumitechnology's biggest draw, and everyone reacted strongly to it, but dragons tended to approach the statue with a reverence above and beyond the standard amazement.

There was one gray-haired man in the back of the crowd that caught my eye, though: He was smiling.

He was dressed in a faded collared shirt and ironed dress slacks, with weatherbeaten Mediterranean skin and a clean-shaven face that defied the wrinkles of his years. I stared at him, forgetting the tour for a second. Nobody smiled at the statue. Adults went silent at its aura of ineffable importance, and kids found it a boring hunk of rock.

My attention snapped back as the tour's only gryphon -- a kid barely the size of a horse, flanked by two older humans who were presumably his parents -- flattened his eartufts. "If it's not a dragon," he said in a high voice cracking with puberty, "what is it?"

I dipped my muzzle in acknowledgement, sneaking one more glance at the smiling man and refocusing on my job. "I'll get to that, but the answer will make more sense if I tell you a little about how this was found.

"Whitley's research led him to the high interior of Chile's Atacama Desert. The site was at the base of a small mountain that many millions of years ago used to be a volcano. Now, how many of you have heard of Pompeii?"

Most of the hands around the room went up. "It's a Roman city that was buried intact by a volcanic eruption almost 2,000 years ago," I said for the benefit of the others.

The old man's smile broadened, showing teeth.

"It," I continued. "Er. Was covered by a thick layer of ash, forgotten, and rediscovered in the 1700s. Well, something very similar happened to the Atacama site, except the volcano later erupted again, sealing the area underneath lava flows -- 40 feet of solid rock -- before it went dormant.

"That's where the statue lay for millions of years. And it would still be there now if Whitley's team hadn't combed the area, using spells to peer through the stone."

One of the tourists, a loud American who had been pacing back and forth with his camera snapping photos almost continuously, shouted out a question. "How old is the statue?"

I smiled and held up a forepaw. "It's at least 65 million years old, but beyond that, we can't say exactly. Give me a minute and I'll be happy to field all your questions.

"When Dr. Agustín Garcia-Russo -- who leads our research staff, by the way, and is a dragon like me -- took an archaeological team out there to back up Whitley's mages, they found not only these statues but over 100 dinosaur fossils. Many of which are here," I added, "in our Hall of Natural History, along with a life-size recreation of the Atacama dig." I always felt compelled to plug the Natural History wing; MATT's collection was world-class despite its young age, but our visitors invariably seemed determined to ignore it in favor of the magitech exhibits and the big-name historical artifacts.

"One of the major new species discovered was the dinosaurs who made this statue. They were coined 'Ctizosaurs,' builder-lizards. They were, ah --" I glanced behind me to refresh my memory; I had built up the habit of double-checking after blowing the family name several times -- "abelosaurids, distant relatives of T. Rex. And yes, at first glance they definitely resembled us dragons."

I folded my wings and leaned in toward the statue, extending a foreleg next to one of the statue's arms. "But start looking closer and you'll see the differences. Ctizosaurs were bipedal; their tiny arms were useless for walking and had only vestigial claws. Their heads were very tall, with short, blunt muzzles, a shape found on no dragons today. They had no apparent mechanism for fire-breathing and -- of course -- no wings.

"Now the statue, as a whole, looks more like a ctizosaur than a modern dragon. Its proportions match its creators. But it does have wings. So why did they make a winged statue? That," I concluded, "is the million-dollar question. ...

"Speaking of questions, let me open up the floor."

One of the theris in the audience -- a horse-headed anthro with a modest dress and laced leather hoofwraps over dappled fur that complemented her curves -- spoke up in a British accent. "They say the Changes are cyclical. Couldn't there have been some ctizosaur equivalent to dragons at the time?"

"Most mages do think that," I said, "perhaps with some justification. But scientifically, the jury is still out. Were there dragons in the Cretaceous? All we know is that we haven't found any -- at Atacama or elsewhere -- nor any six-limbed fossils that might have served as evolutionary precursors. Considering the new era of archaeology that magical detection has opened up, and the number of people that have been looking, a lot of scientists see that as a sign that there never were any dragons for us to find. But of course, our prior experience with the fossil record means little when dealing with exceptional events like The Changes ... and 65 million years from now I wouldn't blame scientists for being skeptical about me."

"But wasn't the statue itself carved by magic?" asked the college-aged human man behind her. "Isn't that itself proof of ancient Changes?"

"It's not so clear-cut. Human history tells us that it's possible to do some pretty miraculous things with no magic at all. On the other claw, carving stone without magic would require tools, and they didn't find any at Atacama. On the third claw, we do know that the ctizosaurs had crude opposable thumbs, and other clues at the site -- like pottery and building foundations -- are in line with a conventional primitive civilization. Right now, scientific consensus favors tool use."

"But then how did they bring the rock --" the student pressed on.

I interrupted with a smile. "I see you've done some reading. Yes, it's true that the stone of the statues was not local to the dig site. There are a number of veins of marble in that region of the Andes, so that isn't necessarily compelling evidence of magic. An expedition earlier this year may have settled that question by finding the quarry site ... but that's an entirely separate topic." I gestured around at the rest of the tour group. "Let's make sure everyone gets their questions answered."

One of the Middle Eastern men began speaking in his native tongue. A voice in my ear overdubbed his words. "You stated this was 'one of' the Atacama Dragons? There are others elsewhere?"

"The question was," I repeated for the benefit of the native English speakers in the audience, "where are the other Atacama Dragons. There were four statues found, in varying degrees of completeness. This is the only one that was found in one piece. A second with minor breakage was magically restored and is on display in the Museo Histórico Nacional in Chile. The third was sold at auction and the proceeds funded our History Institute. The fourth is in Aaron Whitley's private collection."

I pointed to a man at the back who had been waiting patiently with his hand up. "Did the statue originally look like this," he asked, "or was it once more detailed?"

"It was more detailed," I said, "but we don't know how much more. You can still barely see signs --" I pointed -- "of the largest of the grooves they carved in the rock. But 65 million years isn't going to be kind to anything, even stone. When rainwater leached through the ash after the volcanic eruption, the surface of the stone chemically reacted with the acids produced, and this is what was left."

"So why not fix it with magic?" the loud American asked.

"There wasn't enough resonance for consistent reconstruction."

"Hmph," the loud American said dubiously.

"To expand knowledge of the surface in detail," my translator voice muttered as one of the Japanese tourists, a middle-aged human in a business suit, spoke up, "could they not cast one of the historical replays as visible on Life Through The Ages?"

"The question was," I repeated, "why not use time windows to figure out what we don't know. Basically, because 65 million years is a long, long time ago. Magical impressions in objects and places fade over time. Mages can go back 100 years -- or 500 -- or, in cases with excellent resonance, a millennia or two. But once you start getting into the geologic time scale, it would be like trying to teleport to another planet. It simply can't be done."

"Is that why you guys don't know the statue's age?" said a loud woman who I guessed to be the loud American's wife.

"We do," I said. "Just, without divination, not as accurately as we'd like."

"Can't you, y'know, carbon date it or something?" asked one of the students as the loud American was opening his mouth again.

"Carbon dating is based on living things inhaling carbon-14 from the atmosphere," I explained. "Anyway, it's far too old for carbon-14 to tell us anything. Radiometric dating of the rock of the statue -- which is what I suspect you're talking about -- only tells us when the marble was geologically formed, not when it was carved. Our best date range for the ash that buried the site is from 82 million to 63 million years old, and ctizosaurs weren't alive for the last 2 million years of that."

A young woman at the side of the crowd -- a thin kid wearing a backpack, with John Lennon glasses and straight blond hair -- raised her hand halfway. With some relief, I pointed a wingtip at her before the loud guy could speak up again. "Go ahead."

"W...wasn't 65 million years ago when all the dinosaurs died out?" she asked faintly.

I nodded. "That's right."

"D...do you think ... the statue. Was it related?"

I glanced over my shoulder back at the marble, and allowed myself a chuckle. "One of the things about science is that a really great discovery can raise more questions than it answers. We find a 65-million-year-old statue that looks like a dragon, and for the last two decades we've had dragons of our own. Did their own version of The Changes kill the dinosaurs? What an important question, even more so because we don't have enough data to tackle it. If it's true, what does that tell us about ourselves?"

I spread open a paw, pointing down at the smooth stone floor. "The very ground we're standing on is proof that magic can change the shape of the Earth itself. It's easy to look at that sort of power and lose perspective. History reminds us not to get carried away. And archaeology -- science -- helps us to understand what we see. What we know and what we don't know.

"Science doesn't answer questions in the same way that magic does, but it's every bit as important, and when the two team up it's the most powerful force in the world. That's why MATT is one of the island's jewels."

Which is a really roundabout way of saying we have no idea, I added to myself as the crowd nodded thoughtfully.

Unfortunately, the loud American wasn't buying it. "So let me get this straight," he said. "You're saying you guys can throw an entire new island into the middle of the ocean but you can't cast a spell to answer simple questions about this thing's age?"

I considered explaining divination and resonance again, but it was the last tour of the day and I didn't feel like a long debate. "Basically, yes."

"So how's that supposed to be powerful?"

"This statue wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for magic," I said. "And we wouldn't know anything at all about it if it weren't for science."

"It doesn't sound like you do know anything. It might be such-and-such old! It looks like this but also like that! Someone might have carved it --"

He was interrupted by a strong tap on his shoulder. The loud American turned, ready to snap at the interruption, and I realized it was the old man who had been smiling at the statue earlier. He was smiling now, too, friendly but firm.

"Life does not geeve us all deh answers," he said in thickly accented English. "Let deh drahgon do hes job."

The loud American opened his mouth to protest, but glanced around at the faces of the rest of the tour group and closed it sulkily. The old man gave me a knowing nod once the loud American's back was turned.

"So," I said, recovering, "yes, there are a lot of things we don't know about the Atacama Dragons. People have written some interesting theories to fill in the gaps, and if you want to know more about those, we carry a number of books in the gift shop. But science's job here is to separate fact from speculation. That's the only way we can reach the truth. And as a scientist -- I'm working on my doctorate in archaeology under Dr. Garcia-Russo, in fact -- the truth is important to me. Sometimes 'I don't know' is the best possible answer -- because if you can be honest and say it, then at least you know what you need to find out."

I glanced up at the wall clock. It was almost 5:50. The tour had run much longer than I had expected.

"And with that," I said, "any final questions about the Atacamas? I want to make sure you guys have time to see the lobby exhibits and gift shop before we close."

The British theri raised her hand. "Have scientists figured out what the statues were for?"

"Well, I think --" I started, then checked myself. It wouldn't do to start in on that so soon after my lecture on truth. "Heh. We have thoughts, but no, we don't know. We do have some solid evidence. For instance, these statues were in the largest building in the settlement, and the only one with a stone floor -- which suggests their importance. There are clues such as the statues' orientation within the room -- which you can see in the exhibit in Natural History -- and the remains of the ctizosaurs and items found around them. There's no scientific consensus yet among the multiple theories that take that into account, although we're working on getting that settled."

The crowd digested that in silence.

"Thank you for the tour. Can you point me toward the bathroom?" a woman asked from the edge of the group.

"Sure thing! Scientific consensus says --" I paused, breaking my straight face as the tourists laughed -- "go through the doorway here, turn right and look to your right as you enter the lobby."

And with that, the crowd began to drift. A few tourists shouldered their way up to the rope for some better photos of the statue; others walked by and thanked me on their way out. As one of the Middle Eastern men wordlessly gave me a 10-scruple tip, I noticed the loud American and his wife making a beeline for the exit.

The gryphon ambled up to me, foreclaws clicking on the floor. "Uh, 'scuse me," he said. "You said you were getting a degree, right? What can you tell me about your work at AIT, cause after seeing this island, being accepted at MIT doesn't seem like such a big deal any more."

"Huh?" I asked, then held up a paw. "Oh, no, no. Atlantean Institute of Thaumology. They teach magic -- the world's best, I should add -- and I'm just an archaeologist. I'm actually getting my doctorate through a special arrangement with the University of Chile."

"Oh," the gryphon said, his ears lowering. "But doesn't AIT do other kinds of degrees too? My dad wants me to go into programming like him."

I shook my head. "I don't think so. I know there's a computer science division in their magitech grad program, but for undergrads they focus like a laser on spellwork."

"But he won't pay for a magic degree, and there's no way I could get a magic scholarship."

"I don't know what to tell you, then. Good luck."

He turned away, head drooping. "Thanks anyway," he said. "And thanks for the tour. It was really nice."

"Good luck," I repeated faintly. As much as I loved New Atlantis, there were moments when it broke my heart.

I tried walking after him -- thinking maybe I could put a good word in for the lad with his father -- when a woman with a camera and a flock of three young kids intercepted me. "Excuse me," she said. "I know this is going to sound a little weird, but would you mind posing for a photo with my children? This is the closest they've ever been to a real dragon."

I glanced down at the kids. They had been well-behaved during the tour, but had spent most of it staring at me and the other theris.

"Um," I said -- watching the gryphon and his parents walk away -- "sure." I settled down to the floor, making a mental note to get the gryphon's name from Jim, and motioned the kids over with my tail. "First day on the island?"

"We flew in last night," she said. I smiled -- the eyes of the boy nearest my muzzle went wide -- and the flashbulb popped. She smiled back. "I can't believe this place! Did they really raise the entire island out of the ocean with magic?"

"Every inch," I said. I made another mental note to ask Jim how the woman had gotten her landing visa; her questions seemed out of place for the summer crowd.

"Did you help with that?"

"No, ma'am. Emigrated in '08. Been working for the museum since it opened."

"Right, you're an archaeologist. Is there much archaeology to do on the island?"

"There aren't any fossils in solidified lava. But I help Dr. Garcia-Russo with his research, and we do a lot of traveling once the mages we work with identify dig sites."

"And he's a dragon too! Are you two related?"

I suppressed a wince. "No, ma'am."

"How funny. But I guess the odds are pretty good you'd find each other here!"

"Well, as far as I know we're Earth's only draconic archaeologists, but as you can imagine, living here had a lot of appeal for both of us." I tried to change the subject. "Have you guys been to the gift shop yet? You really ought to get some souvenirs before we close. The reproductions of the Atacamas are popular."

"Yeah!" her other son chimed in, as if on cue. "I want a dragon statue, mom!"

That started a round of pleading, and I used the excuse to slip away. Jim must have seen my pained expression, because he gave me a sympathetic grin.

I let out a long breath, thankful it was the last group of the day.

"Sometimes," a voice said from behind my shoulder, "tooreests are joost like dat."

I glanced back. It was the old man who had smiled at the Atacama.

"Thanks," I said, then automatically: "You don't have to speak English to me, you know. I've got a translator spell up."

"Ees better to know de language where you veesit," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Magic ees not -- how you say ..."

I looked over at Jim, pointed a claw at my muzzle, and flicked it toward the old man. Jim nodded, consulted his clipboard, and traced his fingers through several arcs in the air. I felt my tongue, and the back of my brain, tingle.

"Not perfect," I thought in English, and I listened to myself speak in smooth Italian. "But it does make things much easier."

The old man laughed and gave in, speaking back in Italian as the voice in my ear overdubbed him. "Yes. I lived for most of my existence in the world before magic. You think of me as old-fashioned, perhaps."

"It's alright," I said. "It can take some getting used to. And while the translator spell is very accurate, its grammar is sometimes awkward."

"It is. ... Thank you for the tour of yours."

"Thank you for your help with the loud man."

He grinned broadly. "Several times I have wished on my own tours that someone would cause to shut up the annoying man. Even though it was not my tour, it gave me great satisfaction."

I rumbled in a contented laugh. "Where do you work?"

"The Museo Archeologico Nazionale in Napoli." After some etiquette errors with foreign diplomats, the mages had rigged our translator spells to leave proper names alone. "I retired two years before. Now I travel, and as a tourist I am discovering, what is the word, karma."

Something clicked in my head. "Napoli. Naples. Near Vesuvius, yes? That was why you reacted when I mentioned Pompeii."

"Yes!" His face lit up. "The story of Atacama is much like the story of Pompeii. I wished to see this Atacama statue since its excavation. But last year I became father-in-law to the sister of a dragon who resides here, and for the first time this year our family achieved a visa."

"Congratulations, and welcome to New Atlantis." I held out two fingers for a handshake, and he gripped them with cheerful vigor.

"It pleases me to be here. I am named Fabrizio," he said, pronouncing the Z as a "ts."

"I'm Serebraxus, if you missed me introducing myself earlier." I pronounced the X as if I were clearing my throat.

I looked around the room; all but one or two of the tourists had cleared out, and we were speaking in Italian anyway. "Is there anything here you'd like to see in more detail? We're allowed to escort personal visitors around after hours. I'd be honored to show you around for a little while."

"Thank you," he said, walking up to the rope, "but only this. Your thaumitechnology is impressive, but there is nothing like the majesty of history."

"I agree."

We stood in silence, Fabrizio staring at the statue and me staring at the old man dwarfed by 30 tons of marble. The smile crept back onto his face -- the simple joy, perhaps, of standing face to face with a relic whose story was so familiar to him, even though its source culture was so alien. Closer up, his expression also seemed subtly wistful -- as if the statue were a joke that only he understood.

"I have to say," I interjected into the silence, "in three years here, you're the first person I've seen smiling at the Atacama."

"Yes. It does inspire a ... what is the word ... reverence, does it not?"

"It does. I'm curious -- is there something specific about it you find amusing?"

I watched his eyes scan the marble. The crowd noises in the background subsided, leaving the soft hum of the force field audible.

"So," he said after some time, "what do you think?"

"Pardon?"

"What the statues are for. You did not tell earlier."

"Um, right," I said, switching mental tracks. "It wouldn't be scientific to present guesses as fact."

"But you do have a guess, yes?"

"Of course." I chuckled self-consciously. "Actually, that's what I'm writing my thesis paper on. But the evidence is circumstantial. I don't want to put ideas in people's heads. At least until it's passed peer review."

"Still, I wish to hear your guess."

I sat, curling my tail around my hindlegs, and looked into the face of the smooth-worn stone. "Well, as I said, we haven't found any Cretaceous dragons yet. Honestly, most people keep talking like we'll find them if we keep looking, but I don't think there were any dragons before 1996. So the statues strike me as fantastic rather than representational. And based on the various symbols of importance surrounding the statues -- the building, other artifacts, and the huddled-up ctizosaurs around its base -- they must have had a profound mythological significance."

Fabrizio nodded.

"Put it all together," I said, "and I think ... these were the gods the dinosaurs worshipped."

He looked up at me, smiling again. "So perhaps you do understand."

"Huh? ... Understand what?"

"You asked what I found amusing. It is as you said. Today, gods walk the earth."

"I ... guess?" I said. "I wouldn't put it that way."

"Why not?"

"Never mind the differences between dragons and the statues. I don't believe in gods."

Fabrizio shrugged. "I always have. In this age of miracles, more than ever."

"Let's agree to disagree rather than getting sidetracked into theology," I said. "What I still don't understand is why the idea is funny."

He leaned forward, resting his hands on one of the poles holding up the rope around the statue. "How old are you, Serebrackus?"

I let the mispronunciation slide. "Twenty-seven."

"You were just a child when the Changes touched us." He chuckled. "Or was it a hatchling? Were you a dragon when Redwing stood up to America's president?"

"Child," I said, feeling a little defensive. "I first shifted at 16."

"Thank God there was never a war," Fabrizio said. "On one side, half the world's nuclear bombs. On the other side, the people who raised this island. I was six when World War II ended; I do not think our world would have survived a third."

I nodded in agreement.

"You must understand," Fabrizio said reflectively, "as a young child I prayed to the Lord God to stop the war. I have prayed through floods, famine, and bombings. Never once did it stop my countrymen from dying. You do not believe in gods ... but you are too young to have spent your life praying those prayers. Too young to understand the choice to have faith."

"So ... it's something funny about the idea that the dinosaurs prayed, too?" I guessed.

He held up a finger and stared into my eyes. "Ah, more than that. What were they praying for?"

"Considering that they were about to be wiped out by ..." I trailed off as his implication finally hit me.

He spread his arms, gesturing to me and to the Atacama. "I have had faith all my life. Faith in a god who was silent through disasters. Faith that, someday, I would understand that silence. Now, as an old man, I stand upon a tamed volcano, speaking face to face with a god who has answered the prayers of the faithful ... 65 million years late."

The look on my face must have been something, because when Jim glanced up at our conversation, he did a double-take, the literal kind with the head swiveling back and forth. I saw him trace a gesture in the air and hold two fingers up to his ear -- something I had seen him do before when he didn't fully catch a sentence I'd shouted at him from across the room. After several moments of listening, he raised both eyebrows, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Uh," I said. "I can't speak for the other dragons on the island, but honestly -- I'm just a scientist." I pointed a folded wing across the room. "On the other claw, Jim is one of the miracle workers who helped raise the place."

Fabrizio looked over his shoulder and let out a helpless burst of laughter. "And he is human?"

"He is."

"So it comes full circle. I wonder -- when humanity is nothing but statues, will the future call us your gods?"

After Fabrizio thanked me and left, Jim wandered over with a twinkle in his eye. "You know," he said, "I'm surprised none of us on this tamed volcano ever picked up on that particular piece of irony."

"Well, a volcano started our city, and ended the ctizosaurs'. Plenty of people comment on that. I just hadn't thought of it from the god perspective."

Jim stared at the Atacama appraisingly, smile broadening.

"I know that look in your eyes, Jim. What are you thinking?"

"Oh, nothing ... nothing."

He dodged the subject for the rest of the evening. The next morning, when I flew in to work, there was a button on his lapel.

"TAMS," I read, folding my wings. "Dare I ask?"

Jim put on his best innocent look. "Mr. Chiu approved it this morning. He agreed with me that, given the full range of our job duties, the security group ought to look a little more visually distinctive."

"What's it stand for?"

"Translation And Museum Security. See, it's like MATT backwards --"

"No. What does it really stand for. I saw your face last night."

Jim smirked. "I admit it. I couldn't let your comment go to waste."

"My comment?" I thought back. "You mean when I called you a miracle worker?"

He drew himself to his full height, down at my shoulders. "Exactly! You're looking at a proud charter member of the Tardy Abelosaurid Miracle Squadron. No problem too large -- if you've got the patience."

I couldn't help but laugh. "That's horrible. And you're a horrible little man. What did the rest of your team think?"

"The name has already stuck. Lily's buying the hats."

"Hats?"

"Tam o'shanters, of course."

I raised a claw to my face. "Oh, gods."

News: It's been a while ... but there's still plenty more in store for TTU! Check out the TTU Wiki for the latest stories, background material, etc., from the setting.

At this point, if it wasn't obvious: Legend of Hero should be considered on permanent hiatus. It was a noble experiment, and it remains a story worth finishing; but my life has moved on in other directions. I'll change the setup of this blog to reflect that at some point.

- Bax

Change of Mind (3 of 3)

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 08:58:24 GMT

( Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 )

"You know," Randall said, "he was right."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Randall," Alethea shouted into the phone, "that is not what I need to hear right now."

"Maybe it is!" he shot back. "That's what Thoth's Mirror is about. Stripping away the mental blocks and laying bare what you need to confront to grow."

"Not for me! I'm the caster, Randall! It was a goddamned mistake!"

"Was it now."

"A stupid side effect! Like the shifting! And I'm getting so sick of that, having to call you every time --"

"Alright," Randall interrupted. "Then stop calling me."

"... What?!"

"It's harmless! You never schedule any clients the day after a Mirror, so it's not keeping you from work. I've told you, over and over, the polysynchronization is inherently fragile -- it destabilizes after 24 hours and some sleep. And yet, every damn time, I get a panicked call interrupting me from my job. Just once, can't you live with the effect until I'm done for the day?"

"I don't recall asking for a fucking lecture."

"Well," he said, "I don't recall asking to fix all your problems for you."

Alethea stared into the phone, speechless.

"Yet here we are, so I might as well try. What are you afraid of, Alethea?"

She hung up on him, then burst into tears.

* * * * *

A week later, Tamara walked into her office.

"Oh my god, Tammie," Alethea said, standing.

"Hi, Leeth."

"What are you doing here?"

Tamara closed the door behind her, not advancing. "Good to see you too."

"I mean --" Alethea started. "I'm glad you're here, but where have you been? It's been ... God, my shift to anthrocat was a month and a half ago!"

"Around," Tamara said. "Friends' couches. Campus. A hotel, for a week."

"It was like you just disappeared! Do you know what it's been like waiting to hear from you?"

"You could have found me. You've done enough freaky things with the phone. The whole time I kept wondering when you were going to call."

"Christ, Tammie, I wasn't going to magic up a call to you after the argument we had. All I could do was wait for you to come back -- or get your stuff out of the house." Alethea paused. "Is that what you're here for?"

"No, I'm back."

"Good --"

"On one condition."

Alethea instantly slumped. "I'm not stopping, Tammie."

Tamara walked forward and dropped $800 in crisp, single-folded hundreds onto the table. "Here's the deal. I'm overreacting to your magic."

"Oh," Alethea said.

"When Randall first told me, I didn't listen, but now even my friends are saying so and they're not even mages. Clearly this is my problem. And you can solve it, Leeth. Today." She leaned in. "Cast your Thoth spell on me, so I don't have to hate your work any more."

"Jesus." Alethea stared at the bills. "Jesus. Tammie, that's not a good idea."

Tamara exhaled through clenched teeth. "Alethea. You win. I'm telling you to mage me. I'm telling you I'll put up with your spells and your claws. I'm giving you what you've always wanted and I'm even paying for it with my own fucking money. What more do you want me to do? Grovel?"

"It's not that simple. For one thing, there's the psych screening, the four weeks of prep work --"

"There wasn't with Randall."

"That was before I worked out all the safety issues."

"He turned out okay."

"We were lucky. I'm not going to rely on luck --"

"Luck! When I was leaving you couldn't tell me enough about all of the extra safeguards you've put in."

Alethea felt her face redden. "Tammie --"

Tamara slammed her hand on the table, sending one of the bills skidding off the side. "Dammit, Leeth! Don't try to blow me off like this. Do you think my choice was easy?"

"Do you think Thoth's Mirror is easy? Tammie, I've done this to over 100 people. I know when the spell is a bad idea."

Tamara's tone grew icy. "Alethea. Are you going to keep giving me excuses, or do you want me back?"

Alethea opened and closed her mouth. "Fine, Tammie. Fine. ... Go sit in the circle."

She felt Tamara's eyes drilling into her during the entire ten minutes of buildup. As she started each chant, there was a palpable, silent awkwardness she had to focus and push through. When she reached the point of no return, she hesitated: a small part of her, unnerved by the pressure, screamed that there was no way she had cast the spell cleanly.

This is just going to invite trouble, the inner voice echoed.

The rest of her leaned forward and touched Tamara on the forehead.

* * * * *

Tamara let out a deep breath, head exploding with thoughts, reciting her script on autopilot. "Keep your eyes closed. Now start wiggling your fingers and toes one by one. Count backward from twenty, one for each wiggle."

As her head wrapped around the numbers, fumbling for the syllables of twenty, she felt the hazy brush of awareness of physical sensation. Her mind snapped to attention and anxiously seized on it.

Was anything wrong? There had to be -- there was. The room wasn't usually so quiet upon returning; there was usually a quiet rustling of fabric from across the circle as the motions of the target's silent countdown took place.

Tamara preempted her numeric march. "Leeth?" she asked.

Oh shit, she cast the spell wrong! Something happened to Leeth! her inner voice screamed, and terror engulfed her. She flailed around in the darkness for help and a safeword drifted past her thoughts. "Shatter!" she shouted, tugging at the energies woven into the word, and suddenly something came loose inside and her eyes -- Alethea's eyes -- snapped open to see Tamara looking at her in confusion.

Alethea glanced down, disoriented, seeing the dark slacks on her crossed legs, knee to knee with Tamara's faded blue jeans. She tried to make sense of the room, and her head started swimming amid the harsh backlash of the safeword's instant grounding.

She lunged for the bathroom, slammed open the door with her shoulder, and stared at the face in the mirror until a fit of nausea caught up with her and half-processed Caesar salad sprayed all over the sink.

Shaking uncontrollably, she hugged the square of porcelain, legs buckling underneath her, breathing hard and gagging, the stink of acid in her nose. Somewhere in the vertigo, the first glimmers of understanding sparkled. The fear was real and raw and overbearing, but it wasn't hers. It wasn't hers.

Tamara's afraid of magic, she repeated like a mantra.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder. "Not any more."

Did I say that aloud? Alethea thought, and heard herself speak.

With that, Alethea succumbed to a round of dry-heaves, and then to catharsis. Bawling, she crumpled up on the linoleum.

Tamara shuffled over to lean against the bathroom wall and slowly sank down to the floor, resting a hand on Alethea's shoulder. The touch was comforting -- real somehow -- and finally, a long, silent minute later, Alethea tamed the shakes and the sobs, sitting up to accept a paper towel and a glass of water.

"Jesus, Tammie," Alethea said. "You went through that for me?"

Tamara looked away.

"I'm sorry." Alethea started to cry again. "You were so afraid of losing me, but you loved me, you actually loved me -- everything you did. Everything. Even --"

"Leeth," Tamara quietly cut in. "I should thank you for putting up with me as long as you did. But mostly ... thank you for today. Thank you. More than I can repay, except for this."

"Oh, Jesus, no." Alethea's blood froze. "No. Tammie. Don't."

Tamara shifted her hand and gently touched Alethea on the nose. "I forgive you. Goodbye."

"No!" Alethea screamed. "Tammie! That's just the mirror screwing things up! Listen to yourself!"

Tamara stood. "No, Leeth. It's me. You showed me myself, and you showed me you, and what's best for us is clearer than it's ever been."

"Tammie, where the hell are you going, I can't handle this right now --"

"I'm leaving. But for the right reason this time." Tamara walked out, but paused at the office door, tilting her head. And her words were a twist of the knife: "Because your spell worked. That's all you ever wanted, wasn't it?"

* * * * *

Randall picked up the phone, concern in his tone. "What's wrong?"

"You should be proud of me," Alethea said weakly. "I waited until after work this time."

It took Randall a moment to place the context. Then: "Shit."

"Yeah."

"You're -- are you still at your office? I'll chalk a circle --"

"No, Randall. Don't you dare try teleporting on my account. There's nothing to fix."

"What happened?"

"I did the single stupidest thing I could have possibly done."

"... You Thothed a courtroom on live TV?"

"Worse. I Thothed Tammie."

"Oh," Randall said, "fuck."

"Yeah. So, you know how you asked me what I was afraid of? I found it."

"By the Lady, Leeth, what were you thinking --"

"Does it matter? Listen. Can I ask you the biggest favor I've ever asked?"

"Stop right there. First things first: You are done until you get your shit together. I can't keep cleaning up your messes. No more Thoth until you --"

"I spent the afternoon cancelling with everyone in my appointment book. I am done."

"... Oh."

"For good."

"Wait. What?"

"Which is why I'm calling. If I asked you, would you cast Thoth's Mirror? Just once. On me."

Randall paused only long enough for the request to sink in.

"Absolutely," he said. "When do we start?"

"Hang on!" Alethea protested. "I wasn't done."

"Truth be told," he continued, "I was wondering if you were ever going to ask."

"For one thing," Alethea pressed on, "I don't meet my own criteria. I'm turning to the spell out of desperation, not to augment an existing desire for change."

"I don't know how you can say that, given your complaints of the last month and a half."

"Because I haven't been serious about fixing it. You know that, Randall. I've been too afraid of the shit I'd have to face."

"Fear is fine. Your spell accounts for that. You've got safeguards and visualizations and the caster's guidance --"

"Randall," Alethea interrupted, "wait a moment. What I asked is not trivial. My mind is such a scary place even I don't go there. I've been spending the last year and a half fixing other people's problems just so I can avoid my own. And it's not just me that thinks so. That gryphon guy saw inside my brain and I lost all of my referrals from his psychologist. Tammie saw inside my brain and she left me."

"So now you need to identify and address your self-destructive behavior. Thoth's Mirror is excellent for that."

"I'm not finished! On top of that, I picked up Tammie's fear of magic. The thought of the spell is giving me panic reactions."

"That'll go away in a day or two, just like all the other polysynchronizations."

"You'll have to face my secondary memories of all my clients' traumas."

"Do they emotionally affect you? They'll only bleed through to me if you react to them."

Alethea exhaled in frustration. "Randall, stop justifying away all the reasons not to Thoth me!"

"Leeth, thirty seconds ago you asked me to cast it."

"No, I didn't. It was a hypothetical. If you had said no, I could have retired the spell with a clear conscience."

Randall chuckled. "You know better than that. You're asking for simple. Magic is about complications."

Alethea stared into the phone, an idea dawning.

"Hello?" Randall asked.

"So," she said slowly, "what if I were to ask you to Thoth me because I didn't want to be a mage any more? Would you still do it?"

Randall paused, longer this time.

"Cute, Leeth," he said. "But you and I both know you wouldn't give up magic."

"I know. It's my whole life. But with Thoth's Mirror I could fiddle with my characteristics until I ended up with someone with no desire to cast spells any more. Someone who was genuinely happier without it."

"Hypothetically you could also Thoth yourself into a fatal delusion that your arms were wings. But in reality it only works if you have an honest desire for the consequences of that change."

"So if wingy-army guy asked you --"

"No, Leeth, I wouldn't help him either," Randall said impatiently, "Look, do you want me to cast Thoth's Mirror on you, or not?"

Alethea smiled in weary triumph. "I do. No more hypotheticals. I am asking in all seriousness -- will you Thoth the magic out of me?"

* * * * *

"I can't believe I talked you into this," Alethea said as Randall chalked symbols onto her kitchen floor.

"It's simple," he said, double-checking the designs. "I'm calling your bluff. Once you go under the spell you'll change your mind and make a more productive alteration."

"You're making a mistake," Alethea said. "You're underestimating me, and how sick I am of everything that's happened."

"If it's a mistake," Randall said, waggling the chalk at her, "then why aren't you stopping me? I am still, I must point out, doing this at your request."

"Because it's also a groundbreaking experiment that no other mage would be stupid enough to try. That appeals to my pride." Alethea looked around at the circle and her well-worn notes scattered over the counter as if she were seeing them for the first time. "Randall, this is insane! Why are you encouraging me?"

"Because now that you've got this idea in your head, you're not going to let me Thoth you any other way."

"True, but this can't end well. I'm frankly dumbfounded. You're not taking me seriously."

"Last time I made that mistake," Randall said, smiling, "it brought us Thoth's Mirror in the first place."

Alethea stared at Randall, then threw up her hands and exhaled sharply. "You know something? I was almost ready to call this quits, but now I'm going to go through with this just to spite you."

"Mwa ha ha. Give in to your anger, young Skywalker. With each passing moment you make yourself more my servant."

Alethea chuckled despite herself. "Nerd."

Their conversation stalled as Randall bent down to rechalk some of the symbols. Alethea watched his editing with growing impatience.

"You're being a lot more paranoid about your runes than usual," Alethea finally said.

Randall set down his chalk and scanned the lines once more. "It's my first time. I want to get it right."

"I think you're just trying to delay the inevitable. Having second thoughts?"

"Nope." Randall stepped into the circle and sat. "Are you ready?"

Alethea looked around, bit her lip, and joined him. "Yes."

She found it strange to sit silent through the chants -- listen to the words, feel them build up power -- rather than consciously shape them. With nothing to do but sit still, she began to wonder why Randall seemed so unconcerned. Did he think he could guide her change? Was he going to modify the spell in some way?

Randall had adapted the Mirror to his own style of magic, but she found she could still instantly identify each element of the spell by its structure and the way energy gathered. With each new chant, she sifted through it looking for evidence of changes -- but he was remaining faithful to her notes, right down to the order of the safeguards.

The final effect wound to a close, and the energy around them tensed -- poised and shimmering.

Alethea tensed, too, waiting to see if any further chants were forthcoming.

"Well, this is it," Randall said. "Ready to trigger it?"

Alethea nodded and took a long breath. The point of no return.

"Sheni kheperek dihauti mauher," Randall intoned, and Alethea felt the spell's energy surge and grip her.

"Well," Alethea said, relieved and disappointed, "it was nice working magic with you."

"... About that."

"What?" Alethea said, instantly on guard. The spell was already soaking in. Too late to cancel or change. He wouldn't dare --

"Tamara told me everything," he said.

"What?"

"Thursday. When she came over to drop off your house key."

"Randall," Alethea said, "this isn't funny. We're in the middle of a spell --"

He raised a hand. "I know. But I had to tell you that so you understand. I know why you're doing this, Leeth."

"Randall," she pleaded, growing frightened. "The spell."

"I know," he repeated, leaning toward her with his hand outstretched. "And now that I've thrown off your focus, there's just one thing left to say."

The room wavered and distorted. She listened, speechless, as the lines and colors started pooling and blurring.

"I forgive you, too," he whispered. "Now it's your turn."

She felt an almost electric tingle as his fingertip pressed against her forehead. Then the world spun away.

News: Wow. Well, that's it. I think that as much blood and sweat went into Change of Mind as I've put into the entire run of Legend of Hero so far. Glad to have that behind me.

Given the extensive revisions this story has gone through, I'd love to get your feedback in the comments section. Good, bad, unsatisfying? Clear or unclear? Did it keep up a fairly even pace? Was the ending unfair? Did any of the characters cross the line from justifiable dickery into unsympathetic assholery? Too much subtext or too much exposition? Any clever "i see whut u did thar" moments?

Anyway!

With my month of unintentional hiatus behind me, it's now time to get back to Legend of Hero. Updates will hopefully start next week, though you may have to bear with me as I attempt to build my post buffer back to acceptable levels.

Change of Mind (2 of 3)

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 09:01:46 GMT

Legend of Hero is on break; in the meantime, please enjoy this three-part story set in the Tomorrowlands Universe.

( Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 )

The monster came out amid a late spring rainstorm, when Alethea woke up with whiskers and a black-and-gold muzzle.

When she opened her eyes, it seemed right, at first. Then consciousness dawned.

Alethea thrashed to her feet, yowling, tangled in the covers. Tamara screamed and flailed. Alethea fell and hit her head. Tamara scrambled naked around a corner and screamed a few more times. After Alethea hid in the closet, Tamara finally stumbled back, sobbing. Bleeding.

Tamara called Randall's new work number in a blind panic.

"She did what?" he said. "I'll be right there."

Randall convinced Tamara to let him heal her claw gashes -- after an ominous discussion of how awkward it would be to explain large-cat wounds to the authorities -- and chalked a circle on the bedroom floor. When Tamara retreated to the kitchen, Randall coaxed Alethea out, and half an hour later, the cheetah's body had unfolded back into a crying and apologetic woman.

The argument didn't start until Randall left.

"I'm so, so sorry," Alethea repeated. "I didn't even realize I was a cat until it was too late."

"Why didn't you tell me you were a theri?"

"I'm not! That's why I panicked."

"Then how did you change?" Tamara challenged.

Alethea was silent.

"It's your job," Tamara asked, "isn't it?"

"That's all I can think of. Yesterday's client was a werecheetah."

"Leeth. That's it. You need to stop."

Alethea looked away. "Tamara. Please. I can't."

"Yes, you can. You've been humoring the mental cases for long enough --"

"My clients," Alethea said, raising her voice, "are normal people who want to fix a problem in their lives."

"And the guy who came to our house at 1 AM shouting about the spiders?"

"Jesus, Tammie, I never even let him into my office for the first consultation. I don't even take calls from the public since then -- I'm only taking referrals from psychologists --"

"I don't care. This is the last straw, Leeth. No more spells for money."

Alethea tried to change the subject. "Think of what you're saying. Your paycheck will barely cover the house payments --"

"Alethea, for three years I've given you so much and only ever asked you for one thing --"

"For three years I've told you I'm not giving up magic."

"For three years I've asked you to keep magic from complicating our life!"

"Tammie," Alethea said, grabbing her hands. "I swear. This will never happen again."

"You're right," Tamara said. "It won't."

* * * * *

It did.

A month and a half later, Alethea slept through her alarm clock, but not Tamara's shriek. She sat bolt upright as Tamara fell out of bed and crabwalked back to the wall.

"Tammie?" Alethea asked, looking around, vision sleep-hazy. "What's wrong?"

Tamara fumbled behind her for a bathrobe, not taking her eyes off of the bed, her eyes filling with tears. "Goodbye, Leeth," she finally choked out.

"Tamara!" Alethea said, reaching out in confusion. It was then that she noticed her human-shaped arm was covered in short, silky black and white fur.

Alethea chased her into the kitchen, endured Tamara's shouting, and begged her to reconsider.

"Shifting isn't dangerous," she said. "You're not going to get hurt unless one of us panics. Look -- if it makes you feel better, I can sleep in the guest room the night after I've worked with a theri."

"No, Leeth," Tamara said. "This isn't about theris. You promised you'd stop your mirror thing."

"No I didn't."

"Back when I told you I was willing to accept magic paying the bills. You said you'd stop and go back to finding bail jumpers."

"That wasn't a promise. I said I'd think about it."

"Well, then promise me! Right now!"

"I can't. Thoth's Mirror is too important."

"You keep saying that. Why?"

"I see its effects every time I cast the spell. It changes people's lives, Tammie."

"Like it's changed mine?"

Alethea called Randall after Tamara left, so shaken that she had to try twice to navigate his office's phone tree. Randall listened to her disjointed story and promised he would help after leaving early for lunch.

Alethea spent several restless hours pacing in her backyard, hooves clicking on the patio.

* * * * *

The third time, as Randall let himself in, he jumped and dropped the magical supplies pouch he was rummaging through.

"Holy shit, Leeth," he stammered, "what the hell are you?"

"Damned if I know. The last guy was a piece of work. Called himself a chimera, but I don't think he meant what the mythology says."

Randall looked up and down the bizarre body, a black-scaled, feathered-winged, llama-shaped quadrupedal form with exaggerated front claws and a human face. "By the Lady."

"I made lunch for you. I figured it was the least I could do while I waited."

She sat patiently on the hardwood kitchen floor while he chalked his runes around her. By the time he had figured out how to modify his spell to account for the bizarre form, the food had grown cold.

When they finished, Randall slumped back against the pantry. "Alright," he said, "seriously, Leeth. Twice in ten days."

"This one's completely my fault," she said, getting dressed. "I made a change I thought would stop the bleedthrough of their self-image into me. It backfired."

"You know better than that. You have to take time, test these things, stop casting under stress --"

"This is not about Tamara," Alethea said, raising her voice.

"I didn't say --"

"She's left before. She'll be back again, and until then, I'm coping just fine. It is not interfering with my work."

"Something is," Randall said cautiously.

"The last bleedthrough was before she even left."

"Have you considered," Randall asked, "taking a vacation while you figure it out?"

"I worked out my rate of sustainable casting before we started. There's no reason to modify that. I just need to figure out something for the damn theris. I've got a month before I Thoth the dragon. I can do it."

Randall let his head fall back against the wall. "If you say so."

Alethea finished buttoning her blouse, sat down against the cabinets facing him, and let out a long sigh. "Anyway, thanks."

"Yeah."

They stared at each other in uncomfortable silence.

"Look on the bright side," Alethea said with forced humor. "I've been an unqualified success compared to Judy."

"Who?"

"Come on! You know. 'Eyes of Thoth.' The thing on the TV that got me started --"

"Oh! Titania."

"Yeah."

Randall started repacking his supplies. "What ever happened to her after the big courtroom escape, anyway?"

"While you were taking your week in the woods figuring out the new you, some mages working with the police tracked her down. She sent Dennis Redwing to the hospital --"

"No shit!"

"-- no shit. Then flashed out, under fire, with another gryphon thing that came out of nowhere. Never seen again. The spooks confirmed a teleportation accident."

Randall bit his lip. "I guess she had it coming to her."

"I guess." Alethea shrugged. "You know, I fixed one of her victims pro bono? One of the TV cameramen. He went into a huge spiral of depression after she Thothed him. His therapist finally got desperate, somehow found out about me and called from California."

"Really? That's awesome! You never mentioned that."

"I probably still shouldn't. They made me swear to complete secrecy. The media circus around that would have been ridiculous."

"Well, good for you anyway. There's some cosmic justice in that."

"It felt less like karma and more like a loop closing." Alethea's eyes unfocused. "She shapeshifted, cast the spell and hurt people. I cast the spell, helped people and here I am shapeshifting."

"Well," Randall said, "don't you go disappearing like Titania did."

"Tamara's got that covered," Alethea deadpanned.

Neither of them laughed.

Alethea looked away. "She'll be back."

* * * * *

"Welcome back, Mark," Alethea said, not smiling.

"Hello again. Today's the day, right?" asked her latest client, a nervous young brown-haired man in a bland shirt and slacks who looked like he hadn't shaved that morning. "That you're actually casting Thoth's Mirror?"

"Maybe. First, there's one thing we need to discuss."

"Oh?"

"Why doesn't your registration form say that you're a gryphon?"

He squirmed in his seat. "H-how did you --"

"It's not important how. Answer my question."

"It shouldn't matter what race I am," Mark evaded. "That's not why I'm here."

Alethea leaned forward. "I'm only going to give you one chance, Mark. The spell opens up your whole mind, with me along for the ride. I need to know exactly what we're getting into. I cannot cast it unless you are completely honest with me about everything I ask."

Mark looked away. "I'm sorry. You're right, I lied. I was afraid you were going to turn me down because of my race. My health insurance has given me no end of shit, and the only psychiatrist they'll cover insisted that I would have to enter one of those ex-theri programs in order to make progress. This is all out of pocket and you're my last hope."

Alethea stared at him, then threw his registration packet onto the desk. "Did you lie about anything else in your registration?"

"No. I swear to God."

"Did you lie at any point during our conversation the last two office visits?"

"Only about my therianthropy. Nothing else."

"Did you omit any relevant information on the form?"

"I answered everything else you asked as honestly and completely as I could."

Alethea stared into space for several seconds. "Well, you're not lying now. Thank you for that."

"But?" Mark asked, bracing himself.

"I will help, but I need to warn you," Alethea answered. "The spell's got some -- side effects -- with theris. For one, you might have trouble shifting for up to 48 hours afterward."

Mark's face fell into an uneasy mixture of relief and frustration. "Thank you. I really do appreciate your help."

"... But?"

"But I flew here today. I don't know how I'm going to get home."

Alethea sighed. "I'll call you a cab if anything happens. Do you need help with cab fare?"

"It's okay. I brought this on myself. I'll call my housemates." He looked out the window at the distant shrouded cap of Mount Rainier. "What do you mean 'might'?"

"It's happened to four theris I've worked with. They were stuck in human form until they fully reoriented from the spell, but they did recover their abilities on their own. And if worse comes to worse, I do know an excellent transformation mage."

That's four times now I owe Randall, she thought.

Mark chewed his lip. "So this is a side effect of the -- the --"

"The link, yes."

He nodded. "I'm curious. Does the spell have that effect on you too?"

Alethea picked Mark's paperwork up again and made a show of scanning it, her cheeks reddening. "Don't worry about me. The better you stay focused on your problem, the easier it will be to solve it."

"Alright."

"Ready? Good. Sit there, on the line of the inner circle."

As usual, the ten minutes of chanting felt like forever, but the spell itself seemed to fly by.

Alethea let out a deep breath, head exploding with thoughts, reciting her script on autopilot. "Keep your eyes closed. Now start wiggling your fingers and toes one by one. Count backward from twenty, one for each wiggle." She did so herself, and felt awareness of her form return.

Alethea sorted through the overlapping sensations in her head. Thirst: "There's a bottle of water on the table behind you." Fatigue: "The tiredness is normal; grab a chair, or lie down on the floor if you need to." Itchy nose: She grabbed a tissue. Need to urinate: "The bathroom's on your left."

"Yeah," Mark said. "Suddenly I feel like I need to pee."

Suddenly? Alethea thought. She had been aware of it since before the ritual. She refocused and cracked open her eyes, looking down at her body. "Never mind, that's me. I'll be right back. Your sensation should pass."

In the bathroom, she cursed under her breath. Confusion of physical sensations -- warning sign #1. She ran through the checklist again. She was fairly certain that the fatigue she felt had been his, but she was definitely tired too -- warning sign #2. Well, it was too late to do anything about it now.

* * * * *

Mark was lying on the floor when she returned. He sat up. "Hey. Um. Before we say anything else, I have to apologize --"

Alethea gently interrupted him. "That fantasy about me? Don't worry."

"Yeah," he said, not meeting her eyes. "It was completely inappropriate --"

"And that's why you kept it inside your head, where it belonged," Alethea said. "You're hardly the first --"

"And it was also silly of me to think," he continued, raising his voice, "about asking you to dinner afterward. I'm at peace now with ... you know. Not being your type."

She felt her face flush. That went beyond warning sign. She had screwed up the spell. The mirror had exposed her too -- reflected them both to each other.

There was no denying it: she was going to wake up the next morning as a gryphon.

Mark misinterpreted her embarrassment. He cringed. "So I really am sorry. I came in because I did need help. The other stuff was just stupid wishful thinking --"

Alethea cut him off firmly. "Mark. Please listen for a moment. One, you're far from the first person with thoughts like that. The brain drifts through a thousand embarrassing ideas every day. Two, I will take it as a compliment that you find me a worthy object of fantasy. Three, it is a sign of your respect for me that you did not let your fantasies interfere with our professional relationship. Thank you for that. You don't need to apologize for your thoughts."

"Oh," Mark said. "Alright."

"Now let's please get back to the remainder of your session. I want to confirm that you're satisfied with the spell's outcome, and help you unpack what you encountered so you and your psychologist can more easily return to any insights that need clarification."

Mark considered.

"What?" Alethea asked.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I just have to say one more thing first."

She sighed. "Speak."

"Maybe it's none of my business. You're right, we're here for my problems. Still, as long as we're clearing the air ... you're right, she was an idiot to leave you, but it really is for the best."

Alethea stood speechless.

"It has nothing to do with my feelings!" he quickly protested. "It's just -- what I saw --"

She pointed at the door. "Get out."

>>>

Change of Mind (1 of 3)

Fri, 19 Jun 2009 09:09:46 GMT

And now for something completely different!

I know I disappeared off the face of the earth for a few weeks after BayCon. (I have more to say about that in my own journal.) I do apologize if my silence has been a letdown. But the important thing is that I've returned from the e-wilderness back to e-civilization with a story!

The "real world" of Legend of Hero is an alternate Earth known as The Tomorrowlands Universe, where a dragon was caught on a live news broadcast in late 1996. Since then, a number of people have transformed into creatures of legend and magic is a very real force. Today's story skips into the new millennium, where magic is easier to take for granted and creative wizards have started to push the boundaries of applied willpower ...

"Change of Mind" -- which blossomed from quick filler into sprawling epic -- will run today, Monday, and Thursday, after which normal Legend of Hero goodness will resume. Enjoy the change of pace.

( Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 )

"What do I think?" Randall repeated in disbelief. "It's a horrible idea!"

"Oh, come on," Alethea said. "Give me one reason why."

"Where do I start?" He pointed to the television, where the chaos was still unfolding amid general media panic. "Even assuming she caused no permanent damage, she's sending dozens of people to the hospital and might touch off sympathetic symptoms in millions more. Millions!"

"The spell has potential," Alethea said, twirling a pale finger through her straight brown hair. "Her execution was the problem."

"I don't care how much potential the 'Eyes of Thoth' have, the mere mention of them is a ticking time bomb."

"Give me some credit, Randall. I wouldn't use the same name, and I wouldn't cast it on the public, only on people ready to face the effect. Instead of a misguided act of hostility --"

"Misguided!"

"-- it would be a therapeutic tool." Alethea spread her arms. "Strip away your mental blocks and get a look at the real you. Thoth's Mirror."

"By the Lady, Leeth." Randall sighed. "I can't believe you. Some nutbar commits magical assault on an entire courtroom full of people and the only thought in your head is how to recreate her effect."

In the distance, the front door opened and shut.

"There was more to it than assault. If her goal had been damage --" Alethea stopped mid-sentence, cocked her head at the door, and flicked her fingers at the television. The screen changed to the disaster movie playing on HBO, the soundtrack merging smoothly with the earlier news report.

"I'm back!" Tamara said, walking into the living room with a smile on her olive-tanned face, the snow-dusted arms of her overcoat wrapped around a large bag from the liquor store. "Our party tonight is gonna -- oh, hi, Randall."

"Hey."

"I thought I heard chatting when I came in. What were you guys talking about?"

"Mage stuff," Alethea said before Randall could answer.

Tamara's lips pursed in disapproval. "C'mon, Leeth. You know how I feel about that."

"I do, Tammie."

When Tamara went to the kitchen to unload the liquor, Randall leaned in. "In all seriousness, let the idea go. It's just going to invite trouble."

Alethea cupped her chin in her hand, then a mischievous smile spread across her face. "Not if you help me with it," she murmured.

"What?!" Randall whispered, restraining his voice with an effort.

"You're the most level-headed, cautious mage I know. Help me design the spell. If we can't make it safe enough for you, I'll give it up. If it doesn't help you, I'll give it up."

"Leeth, whether I help out or not --" Randall began. Then the full implications hit him. "You want to cast it on me?!"

* * * * *

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Randall grumbled as he chalked symbols onto the cement floor of the garage. "I swear, if I didn't hate my job so much ..."

Alethea flipped through their eight pages of notes. "Admit it. It's not about that. You're curious."

"It is about that. Completely. I loathe software QA and I could probably double my income by quitting and doing freelance mage work, but I still drag myself to the office every day. Why am I torturing myself?"

"And yet, even realizing that, you're trusting your answer to a reworked magical assault spell. Face it, you're curious."

The phone in Randall's kitchen rang. He wiped his forehead, leaving a streak of chalk dust across his already-pale skin, and stared off into space. "Tamara's calling to see if you're here. She seems mildly disturbed."

"Oh, for ..." Alethea started, then sighed and muttered an incantation under her breath. Concentrating, she pointed into the kitchen, then gestured at herself, and the cordless phone rocketed through the garage to her waiting hand. "What's wrong, Tammie?"

The phone was briefly silent.

"... Leeth? What are you doing at Randall's?"

"I told you last night. Don't you remember?"

"No. I was trying to find you. I didn't expect you to answer the phone. I hate it when you freak me out like that."

"What do you want, Tammie?"

"I'm sorry. ... I just thought you were going to help me clean up the party mess."

"I am. When I get back from Randall's."

"You said we'd have the day together once the house was clean. I've only now found you and it's eleven."

Alethea walked into the house and glanced at Randall's wall clock. "I'm sorry. I'll be back as soon as we're done."

"When will that be?"

"Maybe a couple of hours."

"Leeth!"

"I'm sorry. This is important."

"More important than me?"

"Tammie. You're being passive-aggressive again --"

"I'm sorry."

The rest of the conversation passed in a spiral of criticism and placation. Alethea hung up with a sigh and returned to the garage to find Randall leafing through the notes.

"Sorry about the interruption," she said. "The usual."

Randall shook his head. "I wish I understood how you two do it. Argue so often, I mean. And yet you're still together."

"It's just disagreements. It's not like we're fighting."

"Even that time she spent the night at my place?"

Alethea shrugged. "She needs time to cool off sometimes. But we both know that we do better together than we do apart."

"... I'll take your word for it."

Alethea pursed her lips in mild disapproval. "So are you ready?"

He gestured at the notes. "One thing first. The safeguard you wrote last night basically makes you invisible to me while the Mirror's up. Why did you also add an effect to inhibit your self-perception?"

"Honestly? I'm not sure the safeguard's enough. Once I establish the mental link for monitoring, if something I do draws attention to the fact of my presence, you might see what I see -- including myself. If even I don't know I'm there, I can be sure I won't cause a distraction."

"But you'll lose your sense of self entirely for the duration of the spell!"

"That's why I added the safeword. If either of us thinks I'm stuck, it kills the spell and regrounds me immediately."

Randall flipped to the last page. "Which will prevent disasters, sure. But we already addressed the disasters. I'd be more worried about the side effects."

"It means extra reassurance of the spell working safely. I want this to work."

Randall tried again. "Do you really think you need redundant safety at the cost of big personal complications?"

"If I didn't need complications," Alethea said, "I'd give up magic."

* * * * *

Randall gradually became aware of a hand on his shoulder.

"The spell's done," a male voice said from up above him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Randall said, but it was in Alethea's voice. Puzzled, he opened his eyes to find himself sitting cross-legged on the floor in Alethea's body, with a second Randall standing over him.

"Hold on," the sitting Randall said, realizing the situation. "The self-blinding effect is still up." With a moment's focus, he located and undid the extra effect he -- Alethea -- had layered into the spell, and his -- her -- original consciousness flooded back in.

Alethea let out a long breath and collapsed back onto the floor. "By the Lady."

"You can say that again," Randall said, sitting down alongside her.

"It's like there are two people in my brain," Alethea said. "Give me a minute. I need to remind myself that I'm Alethea again. What about you?"

"It worked," Randall said in a faraway voice.

They sat in silence for half a minute.

Alethea brought up a hand, waved it slowly in front of her face, and very deliberately curled her fingers into a fist. "I'll be grounding myself back into my body for a little while yet. Movement seems to be helping."

"You should write the grounding in," Randall suggested. "Next time, add a trigger on spell completion -- have that kill the blind and start a mantra with some self-reinforcing autohypnosis."

"Yes. Yes! That would do it."

"And include your target too. I'm not having the two-brain effect you are, but it's going to take me a while to process everything."

"I'll do that," Alethea said, sitting up. "So -- it worked. What was your epiphany?"

"... What do you mean? I saw myself -- I mean, you -- watching the whole time. Didn't you see everything I did?"

"Actually, no. Remember, I needed to keep some distance in case you hit something overwhelming."

"Ah."

"I was focusing on your emotional reactions to what you were experiencing. When you had a strong reaction, I'd get an echo of the trigger, but I get the sense I missed the big breakthrough."

"Yeah. The actual change didn't feel like that big a deal. The shock was in facing --" Randall stopped, staring at Alethea in dawning realization. "Oh god. You saw --?"

"Um," Alethea said, "yeah."

"Shit." Randall buried his face in his hands. "Leeth, I can explain --"

Alethea shifted uncomfortably. "It's alright, Randall."

"I was young," Randall said desperately. "I was stupid, really stupid --"

"Randall," Alethea interrupted, "I know. I didn't just see ... it. I also saw all the guilt you carry around about it, and what you've done to make up for it. Really, seriously? It's alright."

"Please don't tell --"

"It won't leave this room."

Randall let out a long breath. "Thank you."

"... Don't mention it."

"By the Lady," Randall said softly. "Are you sure you want to keep casting this, Leeth? You'll have to go through this with everyone you help."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but it felt sort of ... liberating? ... seeing the skeletons in your closet." Alethea smiled sheepishly. "I'm curious now to see what other people beat themselves up over. I think I can do it without judging."

Randall stood and paced around the room. "I think I know what you mean. It's also liberating knowing that you've seen the worst of me and didn't run away screaming." He laughed. "But here I am obsessing over my little fears when the spell just changed my whole damn life."

Alethea climbed up into the folding chair at his workbench. "So what happened when we got started?"

"It felt like I was being pulled out of myself," Randall said. "Then I saw ... possibilities. I saw all these different mes, like looking in a funhouse mirror at just the right angle. And I knew, when I looked at one particular version of me, what was different about it -- both the good and the bad."

"That must be what brought up all the memories."

"Yeah. Make sure your other clients are prepared for that. I finally managed to focus on my original question, but as a mage I'm used to focusing my willpower despite distractions. Someone not ready for it could easily have gotten sidetracked for the spell's duration."

"I see what you mean," Alethea said. "I can meet with my clients a few times beforehand and teach them some focusing tricks. So what was so illuminating about the multiple Randalls?"

"It wasn't magic-for-a-paycheck holding me back -- it was the self-promotion! I found the me that would truly succeed as a consultant, and it was because he was good at aggressively selling himself. That change came at the expense of reducing virtues like humility and introspection. That's when I started sifting through the other variations nearby, and I found a solution whose tradeoffs were all positive."

"Awesome! What is it?"

"Go work for a magitech firm! They're always looking for folks with the right skills, the pay is good, and all it would take is enough momentum to actually quit my current job. So I chose a Randall like the old me but more open to risks and less submissive --"

"Wait, wait," Alethea said, jaw dropping, "you chose a new you?"

"Yeah," Randall replied, staring at her as if she had questioned that they were speaking English.

"You just picked a personality from the menu, like you were ordering dinner, and boom, that's you now?"

"It wasn't quite that miraculous," Randall said. "Just nudging existing characteristics around, emphasizing or nullifying various influences. I don't think I could have ended up with anyone who wasn't essentially me. But, yes -- I became a new Randall, and I felt the difference as soon as I made my choice."

"Jesus."

Randall walked over to Alethea and knelt at her side. "Leeth. Do this. Needless to say, I'm sold."

Alethea stared down at the chalk circle and shook her head. "I figured that out when your first reaction was to tell me ways to improve the spell. But it's still weird to hear you say it."

"Granted, this comes with a big grain of salt, because it's the new less-cautious Randall's advice, but even the old me couldn't deny the power of the spell any more. I saw what drives me, and I was able to shape that consciously." He stared intently into her eyes. "Someone with the honest drive to change themselves could walk in to you and fix their lives in the span of 20 minutes. Kick a self-defeating behavior pattern. Nullify a crippling fear. Abandon an addiction. This is a spell the world needs."

"Jesus," Alethea repeated. "You -- Randall -- are begging me to go cast Thoth's Mirror on strangers."

"I am."

"I don't know whether to be glad that I won you over, or afraid that I've unleashed a monster."

>>>

Sneak preview: LoH book bonus story #1

Wed, 20 May 2009 13:14:27 GMT

Edited to Add, 5/28: I'm really sorry for my radio silence. BayCon completely ate my brain and I've been playing catch-up since I got home. 'Change of Mind' will post hopefully Friday night. -B

Hey, folks, Baxil here. This is a news post: no story segment today.

I know I said I'd have something here on Monday night. I certainly didn't fail for lack of trying. I've written 6,000 raw words (for comparison, that would be 2-3 weeks' worth of Legend of Hero) in the last three days.

My dilemma is that, having written a lovely 3,500-word short story, I promptly realized that it would make great bonus material for when I assemble a printed copy of LoH. As such, the smart thing to do was hold it back.

I immediately started work on a second story -- a Writing Requests follow-up -- and as of press time Tuesday night it's about 85% complete. Which means I can't post that here yet, either. It should be written and edited by the end of BayCon, so I'll post it next Monday (5/25) as filler. No Thursday post: I'll be spending all evening either driving or editing the convention newsletter.

I had really been hoping to post that story tonight, but it'll be worth the wait. In the meantime, enjoy this teaser of the Legend of Hero dead-tree bonus story, which offers a look into the office of Trent's contact in Trent: Act II.

"And this," Elf said, opening the door, "is the office."

Penny stepped inside. Her first impression was that the spacious room was the bastard offspring of a college dorm's living room and an insurance office. Thrift-store desks with sprawling mounds of paperwork; black leather office chairs that still smelled of the store; a garish corkscrew green floor lamp with a pair of bat wings taped on. One entire wall was papered over with letters and what looked like celebrity photos, opposite a glass outer wall with a sliding door and an enormous balcony overlooking the Tenderloin. Three muted televisions fruitlessly flashed newsroom images in a desperate bid for attention; a silver bowl of salted cashews crouched temptingly next to the shiny "Elf Warren" nameplate on the central desk; and in the chair off to her right, a wolf -- not a wolf-woman, an actual canine -- was chatting animatedly into a headset.

"Right then," the wolf said into her microphone, "the new girl's here. Cheerio." She waved a paw and the light on the phone winked off. "Good afternoon, luv."

"Wow," Penny said, not sure how else to respond. "... Uh, is Mr. Redwing in?"

"Oh, Red's off at some press conference. But do make yourself at home. We're ever so glad you're safe."

"Thanks," Penny said. "I mean it. Thank you. I can't tell you how grateful I am. I don't know what would have happened to me if I'd stayed. Things were rough enough after The Meeting, but when they found out ..." She left the rest unsaid.

Elf gestured to the glass wall. "If you want to stretch your wings, I can key you to the balcony wards. You can take a flight before you settle in. You'd be surprised how many of your new coworkers commute in by air."

"Oh," Penny said, "no, no. Not now. Maybe later. Right now I'm still just taking all this in. It doesn't seem real yet, you know?"

The wolf chuckled. "I've been told we do have that effect."

"I mean it. Working for Dennis Redwing! The dragon who started the Changes, the mage who stopped the Los Angeles riots, the leader who stared down the whole government to save us --"

Elf waved her to silence. "You'll be taking it all in stride by your third bag of mail. Cashew?"

Full story will be available in print ...

Crissy: Act VI

Fri, 15 May 2009 08:27:15 GMT

Note: Some of the conversation here references the last time Crissy met the Archon. It might be useful to read that as a refresher.

The Sunlit World

The imaginary phone number on Crissy's business card no longer died in silence.

The first time she dialed it, a tinny automated voice said reassuringly: "Please hold while your party is contacted." Then the line dropped. Crissy held the phone handset uncertainly until the grating off-hook beep began to blare in her ear.

She hung up and looked around her room, but she was still alone. Thrown, she tried dialing it a second time. This time, the standard female recording entoned: "We're sorry, but that number has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again."

Crissy did -- repeatedly, with no further change, and got progressively more antsy with each failure. She found herself tempted to go back to Kevin's -- but no, the Archon had given her some pretty specific directions. If you're not able to travel along with your friends, go home and wait in your room, and we'll talk further.

Finally, she gave up and opened her backpack for some schoolwork. She pulled out her American Government textbook, intending to work on the essay due Friday, but ended up distracted by Mrs. Henderson's brush.

Kevin's mysterious real-life video game had somehow brought forth Rosalind. Also inside was the Dragon Knight that David had met -- what was his name? Emile -- and thus presumably Dragon Legend 3's Lord Blue. Didn't that suggest that Reimi, the game's young angsty magical sketch artist, was also waiting to be discovered?

Maybe there was some real magic in the brush she had been given. The conversation with Mrs. Henderson, so soon before her lunchtime encounter, certainly didn't feel like coincidence.

Tentatively, Crissy picked up the brush and gestured through the air with it, the same way Reimi did in the game. Crissy didn't really expect anything to happen, and so it wasn't a shock that nothing did; but even so, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

She stared at the brush thoughtfully, then wiggled its tip up and down again. "Well, nobody ever said magic was easy."

But none of her experiments seemed to work -- not air-painting, not tracing letters, not geometric gesturing, not subtle motion. She even fished out one of the back issues of "Nintendo Power" that David had loaned her as a Dragon Legend art reference and started waving the brush to match one of its secret codes: Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right --

"Sorry," a voice said from behind her. "Earth doesn't let you stockpile extra lives."

Crissy turned. A college-aged man in a deliberately rumpled tieless suit was sitting on the corner of her bed. She would have described him as attractive yet forgettable, with a round, clean-shaven face whose lack of distinguishing features was itself almost notable.

"It's you again ... right?" Crissy asked, inwardly marveling at the calmness with which she was handling a complete stranger appearing in the middle of her bedroom. It had been, what, less than a month since the Changes and only a day since she had heard about Rosalind, and already she was taking all this in stride?

"Well-dressed," he said. "Yes. Sorry about the delay."

"It's alright, I guess," Crissy said. "It gave me time to fiddle with my new brush."

The Archon chuckled. "It's not going to do anything for you until you spend more time fiddling with what's in here." He gestured to his chest. "There's no magic in things except for what you threads put into them."

Crissy sighed. "I should have expected there would be some 'the power was inside you all along' moral. I -- wait. 'Threads'? Didn't you say that earlier, too? What are you talking about?"

"Yes. I -- hm. We do have a deal, right? It's easier to simply show you." The Archon reached out his hand.

"Yeah, okay." Crissy tentatively reached out to take it, and as her finger brushed his palm, the world exploded into light.

It was as if the substance had been scooped out of everything, leaving only the outlines -- squiggles of pretend-existence in a featureless white void. Her own arm was -- she was -- a single line, messy and sprawling but real, stretching out behind her to Kevin's house, to school, looping back around herself, stitching together the patterns of her life, weaving through the coils and kinks of her friends, her parents, her siblings off at college --

She saw all of them, then -- Dad at the wheel, enduring commute traffic back from the city; Mom annoyed at the poor quality of the grocery store's bell peppers; Sarah studying in the university library; Tom eating an early dinner in the dormitory -- and the thrashing knots of their own lines, the connections with yet more lines buzzing through, around, within the world like an anthill out to its own horizon, and in front of her, a billion tiny writhing threads, as if she was looking at the entire tapestry in a funhouse mirror --

She flinched backward, gasping, and the lines jerked and whirled back into familiar shapes, the room around her resolidifying. "You're --" she gasped.

And then he grabbed her hand again, squeezing her fingers, and somewhere in that sharp discomfort the command Watch -- then the explosion of lines, and as she flailed in fear, she felt her armlineself shift, guided, plucking Tom's line like a guitar string; and she watched him in a moment of distraction drop his fork.

Magic, another voice responded, her own, and she saw, and she knew.

Look at me, bade the voice from the tapestry -- from outside the tapestry? -- from the mirror, the billion threads guiding her own -- and she stared into the abyss of writhing humanity and saw -- and saw -- there, in the weave, a thread dancing loose from the center, its ends curling inward to form two spirals, orienting to face her, looking back at herself -- and the spirals blinked, and that broke the spell and the spirals resolved back into the eyes of Crissy staring into her face, and then she blinked again and it was the Archon, the servant, the jailer, and she knew that, she knew things, the taste of Tom's spaghetti and who the cop behind Dad was going to pull over and the cramp in the wing of the bird soaring down the block and what the "W" stood for.

She collapsed at his feet, trembling, wanting to cry but too overwhelmed, as all of the images and facts and possibilities in her head built up to a pressure beyond her contemplation, leaving only a shapeless and infinite awe and the knowledge of what she was capable of.

"I'm sorry," the Archon gently said, from both inside and outside her, and his voice pricked through her senses from two directions, and she thought she was going to burst into tears but instead just deflated.

The Archon -- the young man standing over her curled-up body -- cocked his head. "Sort of."

I do feel regret, Crissy mouthed, and "I do feel regret," the Archon said.

"Because I know you're about to feel betrayed," the Archon continued, pacing past her, "and that could complicate things."

But not guilt, Crissy felt herself say silently.

"But not guilt," the Archon said. "Because my duty is to the whole Weave."

Crissy shook her head, reasserted herself in her own skin, struggled for strength in trembling arms and pushed herself up to her elbows. "What the hell did you do to me?" she shouted, desperately clinging to her own voice.

"I fulfilled my end of the bargain: to help you find out for yourself what happened to your friends."

"What did you do?"

The Archon crouched down and tilted her chin up with his fingers. "I taught you magic."

Crissy flinched back. "No you didn't! I mean, you did, but that's not all you did."

Look, a voice in Crissy's head whispered, and the room blurred again, not disappearing but hiding behind the overlay of terrifying lines, and in the mirror of the Archon Crissy saw a tiny reflection of herself reflecting the reflection.

"You," Crissy said, losing a little ground in the fight to remember her body, words slurring, "you left a piece of yourself in me."

"No," the Archon said. "Cut bits of thread are useless. It's just a link -- an extension so that I can keep watch. The disorientation is already passing, and then you'll be all yourself again."

"Keep watch on what?" Crissy asked.

The Archon stood, turned his back and paced over to her bedroom window. "You know," he said, "teaching you magic was against my rules."

"Yeah," Crissy said, knowing that but already no longer able to remember how she knew.

"The singer" -- and an image of the Shadow King, the black unicorn, flashed into her head -- "reminded me of that." The Archon turned to face her. "He threw my first request back in my face ... and in so doing, showed me respect by deliberately pointing out something useful I'd overlooked. I'm still not sure how to feel about that."

Vertigo returned to Crissy. She staggered to her feet and lurched over to the wall. "Keep watch ... on the Shadow King," she said.

"And your friends, if you wish," the Archon said. "But I leave that up to you. They're just threads, after all."

Cut bits of thread are useless, the voice inside Crissy's head echoed, at the faint outer edge of her hearing.

Crissy's blood ran cold. "What," she asked slowly, "did you do to me?"

"I fulfilled our deal," the Archon said. "Then I found a violation of the tampering rules. I applied the standard punishment."

Crissy stared at him, speechless. Her memory flashed back to the first vision of herself: a single line, stretching backward but not forward --

And the last bits of her self fell back into place. Suddenly, the well-dressed young man was no longer there. He didn't vanish -- he was simply not there, hadn't been there for a minute or more. She had been talking to a reflection of the reflection of herself.

In a blind panic -- knowing, but desperately hoping she was wrong -- Crissy whirled and ran for her bedroom door.

She flung it open.

A warm blast of dusty air hit her in the face.

News: This act draws the Complications arc to a close. From here on out, it's into wild, uncharted territory ... as the last major character jumps on the plot train and the analogy speeds out of the station.

As for scheduling: Having reached the end of the immediate "story" (but not by any means the end of Legend of Hero!), it's time to pause and recharge before hurtling forward into Arc 5. There will be something here on Monday night -- probably a related TTU short story.

Also note that with BayCon coming up, I will be taking a convention break for the last two updates of May. Things will really get hopping the first week of June.

Trent: Act III

Tue, 12 May 2009 07:38:07 GMT

The Sunlit World

"He's doing this?!" Trent's jaw dropped.

"That's what I think. The way magic works, it would be odd to find someone without conscious control of their power. Odd ... but not unknown. He's clearly coming to grips with surviving something that should have killed him -- and his internal battle is taking the form of a game and its characters, since that's the framework in which magic makes sense to him."

"... Wait. You're saying the Shadowlands themselves are inside Kevin's head?"

"More or less, in some metaphysical sense, yes."

"But if they're not real," Trent protested, feeling a little weird to be on the other side of the argument, "how did the fish-bull nearly kill me?"

"If it is inside Kevin's head -- and remember I could be wrong, but that explanation makes everything make sense -- then anything inside would be able to influence your brain in a virtually unlimited number of ways. Make you feel pain or fear, make you feel like you're dying, look and sound like anything he could dream up. But it would only be an illusion. Look -- remember the healing potion you mentioned?"

"Yeah ..."

"Any physical injury that took place inside this illusion wouldn't be reflected in the real world, and if you came back while hurt or dead, then waking up whole would shatter your belief in his world. That's why you found the potions -- Kevin's subconscious realized it had to justify you guys returning to normal before exiting. And admit it, clothes-healing potions don't make much sense otherwise."

"You're right," Trent said, surprised. "... And you've never heard of the Shadowlands except from me?"

"No."

"Hmmm." Trent considered. "Two things don't make sense. First, if it's in Kevin's head, how are David and I getting in?"

"If his subconscious is powerful enough to create worlds, I don't see why it wouldn't be able to share them. And if you were Kevin," Elf said, "wouldn't you be scared of this strange and powerful force appearing in your life? It only makes sense that as he tries to come to terms with it, he'd call on his best friends for help. He probably doesn't feel strong enough to explore his issues on his own."

"Alright, I'll buy that. Second, if this started with the accident and Rosalind, how come we're only seeing the portal and everything weeks later?"

"Well ..." Elf said, thinking. "His first manifestation was to save his own life, and then nothing happened until yesterday. I'd guess it only comes out in high stress. Did he have to deal with any strong emotional triggers before he called you over to use the pendant?"

"Oh my god!" Trent said, floored. "How did you know? He almost got beat up at school yesterday! And when we talked about Rosalind later, he freaked out and ran home crying."

"Well," Elf said, "there you go."

"My god," Trent repeated.

"Let me get your number, Trent," Elf said. "Just in case -- in the unlikely chance -- there is something more to this, I can keep an ear out and call you back."

"Sure thing." Trent rattled it off. "Hey -- assuming this is in Kevin's head, should I go back in?"

"If you do, you have to remember it's only dangerous to the extent that you accept it on its terms," Elf said. "And who knows? Maybe you can help Kevin find what he needs to face in order to accept himself."

"So ... yes."

"Well ... maybe. You might also learn things you'd rather not know, or have to face up to your own fears. Just because it's not physically dangerous doesn't mean it can't leave scars. But from everything you've described, it's worth your time to consider. He's let you and David in his head. If anyone in the world can help him, it's you two."

Trent pondered. "I'll tell you, the in-his-head thing makes a hell lot more sense than anything else I've heard. And I am curious to go back -- it was a pretty incredible place we saw. I just don't want anything bad to happen for the sake of a made-up world, not when there's real magic to chase now, here on Earth."

Elf chuckled. "And how is the magic in his head not real?"

Trent opened his mouth and stopped, stunned. "Huh?" He'd expected to hear that from Kevin, but ...

"Magic is about changing reality via the application of willpower," Elf explained. "The change in your lives is every bit as big as if Kevin had learned to throw fireballs or teleport. By definition, any place that can have that sort of impact is real ... whether it exists or not." He paused, and spoke a little quieter. "And keep in mind -- if his subconscious is trying to teach him magic, that's one hell of an opportunity for you, too!"

"It is?"

"It doesn't matter if that 'fantasy' world is inside someone else's head -- because magic's not in anything you get there, it's inside you. Learn how to change the Shadowlands, and those skills should have some direct application to our 'real' Earth."

Trent lowered his head. "You're right. And all this time I've been telling them it didn't matter. I think I owe Kev and Dave an apology."

"I'll leave that to you," Elf said. "Now, I do have some calls to make, so I hope you'll excuse me."

"Yeah," Trent said. "Thanks. Thank you a lot."

"No problem," Elf said. "Good luck. And let us know how it goes."

"I will." Trent listened to the phone on the other end fall dead, then thumbed off his handset and let out a long, slow breath.

In the silence, he heard muffled talking on his porch.

Curious, Trent got up. It was Kevin and David -- he recognized their voices. He tiptoed to the front door, leaned in, and put his ear against it.

"Look, just let me do all the talking," Kevin said. "We don't know if he's still mad at you."

"But you still haven't met Emile or Joix," David said. "He needs to hear about them."

"We'll take that as it comes. The important thing is to get him to realize we can take care of ourselves."

Trent stepped back and opened the door, guiltily. Kevin and David, facing each other, both glanced over at him in surprise.

"Hey," Trent said meekly. There was an awkward silence.

"Trent," David burst out, "I'm sorry! But please listen --"

Kevin turned to face Trent and elbowed David in the ribs, cutting him off. "Look, you're probably still upset," Kevin said placatingly. "You have every right to be --"

"It's okay," Trent said, raising his voice to interrupt Kevin. "Guys, really, it's okay. I'm the one who owes you an apology. For everything. I freaked out, and you didn't deserve that. I'm sorry."

The porch fell back into awkward silence.

"Um," David said. "Me too."

"Well," Trent said, smiling in an attempt to lighten the mood, "I'll accept yours if you accept mine."

"And I owe you an explanation," Kevin ventured, looking down. "I promised you one from the beginning, and every time I start we've gotten distracted."

Trent thought back over his talk with Elf. If it was in Kevin's head -- and it really did seem to be -- would it make it better or worse to bring that fact out into the open? He decided to tell them about his phone calls later, after he'd sorted everything out. "Yeah," he said. "The Shadowlands do seem pretty interesting. I'd love to hear it."

"Interesting doesn't even describe it," David blurted. "You've got to see --"

"David!" Kevin said sharply. "There will be time for that later. He deserves the whole backstory first." He turned to Trent. "We're not going to demand you do anything. But David has shown me some incredible stuff in there, and I think once you hear everything we've learned and done, you'll want to join us in there again."

"I bet I will," Trent said. He ushered his friends in and closed the door.

Trent: Act II

Fri, 08 May 2009 08:50:46 GMT

The Sunlit World

Trent dialed the fourth number, wondering just how long it was worth persisting.

The Pitt Creek news editor had referred him to the state paper. The reporter there didn't know either, but had given him the number of a friend at the New York Times. Raul Espinoza had listened to his question and tried to transfer him to the Lifestyle editor, but their phone system had dropped the line and Trent had had to call back in.

Once Trent finally got through, Julia Nussbrenner listened patiently to his flustered question.

"Talking to Dennis Redwing?" she said. "The world's first dragon. Without even counting everything he's been involved in since, that is a pretty tall request."

"Yeah, it is," he said heavily. "Sorry to waste your time."

"Hang on," she said as Trent was reaching for the hang-up button on the handset. "I didn't say you were. Can you tell me why you want to talk to him?"

"Ah," Trent stammered. "I-is this going to be in the newspaper? I don't think that's a good idea."

"No -- this can be off the record if you just need information. I meant in general terms, to give me an idea of how important this is."

"Well," Trent said cautiously, "my friends and I have a little problem, with something that it seems like he might be able to tell us something about, and I don't know who else to call."

"Magic, then? Or has someone turned into a werewolf?"

"It's weird. I'm not sure how to answer that. Let's say magic."

"Well," Julia suggested, "if you just want to talk to an expert about magic, that would make it a lot easier for you. We ran a special business section last week with listings -- I can look up one in your area. What ZIP code are you in?"

"N-no!" Trent said. "A local mage might not be a good idea. That might be the problem. It's hard to say."

The line went silent for a few seconds. "Alright then," Julia said, "I'll tell you what. I don't want to get your hopes up, but when I first tracked him down for a quote, his office manager gave me their number. He made a point of telling me that -- while they didn't want it publicized -- I should give it out to anyone that seems to need it."

"Are you serious?" Trent asked, heart pounding.

"I have no idea what counts as 'need.' I mean, what do I know about dragons? But if you've gone this far to get his number, maybe that means something to him."

"I don't know if this counts, either, but I swear to God I'll be responsible with the number."

"Let me warn you that you're probably not going to get through. They screen their calls. But it's worth a try, right?" Julia recited the number to Trent; it was in the San Francisco area code.

"Thank you," Trent said. "You don't know how much that means. Thank you."

"Good luck," Julia said before Trent hung up.

He bit down some nervous jitters and dialed the final number.

The phone rang twice. "Redwing's office. Elf speaking."

"Um," Trent said, surprised to be talking to a live person, "is he in? I had hoped I could get his help."

The high, fluid male voice shifted tone, becoming more gentle and personal. "You can tell me anything you would tell him. I'll see what we can do. Can I ask who I'm speaking with?"

"My name's Trent," the teenager responded, embarrassed. "I'm really sorry for bugging you guys. I'm just trying to understand something really weird that happened to one of my friends."

"Well," Elf said brightly, "we know from weird. I'm an elf, my boss is a dragon, I'm sitting two chairs down from a talking wolf, and our combined magical experience is probably older than you are. What's going on, Trent?"

The voice was just so trustworthy, and Trent was so tightly wound from the string of calls, that he started shaking with relief, and found his whole story spilling out. Elf listened patiently, interjecting occasional affirmations or questions.

"I don't know how you can believe me," Trent said as he wrapped up. "I'm having a hard time believing it myself."

"The one thing I can guarantee, Trent, is that I know you're sincere. Did whoever gave you this number tell you about our screening system?"

"No."

"Dennis is, I can say with some understatement, a celebrity. People find this number in a variety of ways, and there are a lot of calls not worth picking up. Autograph seekers. Death threats. Hoaxes. The mentally unhinged. Tabloid rumormongers. Product endorsements. The short of it is, we'd go insane if we had to deal with all of that, so our phones don't even ring unless the call is on the level and worth our time."

"Wow! How do you do that?"

Trent could hear the grin in Elf's voice. "Magic, obviously. We shouldn't get sidetracked with the details. But I will say this: If the venture capitalists figure out how to properly integrate magic and technology -- and they're working on it -- you could see this sort of call screening in your living room within a few years."

"That's incredible!" Trent said. "But ... um ..."

"About your problem, yes." Elf paused. "I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of scanning you for etheric links while we were talking. Normally, I'd ask for permission even for that, but I didn't do anything invasive, and if I'd waited for you to confirm, anyone eavesdropping might have been able to break away."

"That's fine," Trent said, not even certain what scanning for etheric links involved.

"I didn't pick anything up. So if a mage is behind this, they're either covering their tracks really well or they're doing all this without magically monitoring you. Either of those would be an absurd level of effort for the effects you described."

"So," Trent said slowly, "does that mean it is a game?"

"Well. Game in the sense of mass-market entertainment?" Elf clarified. "No. Not even possibly. The sort of technology necessary to embed magic in an object is still crude, barely functional. I don't think it's an artifact from before the Changes, either. I've talked to literally hundreds of mages by now and I haven't heard a single credible report of an item that can do anything like what the pendant did."

"Then how --"

"Whatever it was, had to have been an active effect. A mage produced what you saw in real time, using the pendant as some sort of focus ... or distraction."

"So someone is messing with Kevin!"

"Not necessarily," Elf said carefully.

"I don't get it."

"Kevin is a big video game fan, isn't he?"

"Yes. We all are."

"And aside from the pendant -- which seems like a prop -- and the portal that can only be seen by the people Kevin gives the pendant to, there's no visible effect of any of this on the real world, right?"

"... Right," Trent said cautiously. "Except perhaps Rosalind."

"Who nobody else has seen. Right. I'd urge you to consider," Elf said, "that perhaps the car crash knocked some power loose within Kevin, something he doesn't understand and can't consciously control."

News: As mentioned over at baxil, Monday's post was suspended due to a mental health break. I was freaking out over some severe digestive system misbehavior and the extra few days of reduced obligation really helped me reorient. Thank you for your patience.

There are two more Acts left in the "Complications" arc ... at which point we'll be approximately at the 65,000 word mark, and my buffer of written-but-not-posted story will be exhausted. I'm going to see if I can keep going without interruption after next week, but it would also improve the quality of the story to pause for a while and properly plot and draft the next arc or two out. For the moment, I'll play it by ear and keep y'all posted here.

Deliciously Dangerous Swordsman: Act II

Fri, 01 May 2009 05:54:16 GMT

Hall of Heroes

"Ha!" the count cried, showing off a triumphant, toothy smile as Kevin thrust in. The light in the rapier's sapphire burst forth, turning the entire weapon a blazing blue.

Kevin felt his sword get swatted to the right before he even saw the rapier move. Staggering sideways to keep his balance, he fought to control his blade as it nearly leapt out of his hands. And the body in front of him was spinning, leaving behind a blue trail as the gleaming rapier danced away, and then --

"Touché!" the count cried. Kevin barely had time to flinch before he felt the guard of the rapier slam into his chest. Pain speared through him.

As the count yanked the bloody sword free, Kevin staggered backward, lost his balance and sat down with a tooth-rattling thump. He realized numbly that the blade had gone clean through his body.

"And now you see ze full extent of my glorious skill," the count gloated, bowing with a lengthy flourish. "Surrender, and I might accept your apology."

Several other things fought for Kevin's attention. The most pressing was that it hurt to breathe. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw that David -- curled up on the floor, jacket growing a red stain -- had managed to pull a healing potion from one of his pockets. Out of the other corner, he saw a fierce blue glow from the gem mounted in his sword. And in front of him, he noticed with a flash of morbid amusement, the feather on the count's hat was still on fire.

"Kevin!" David called. "Catch!"

Kevin turned his head in time to see David throw a vial of healing potion at him. He reflexively lifted his right arm -- new pain flaring out in his chest -- before realizing that he was still holding the sword. He tried vainly to open his hand up enough to catch the vial anyway, misjudged the throw, and felt the vial hit his arm.

The glass instantly shattered, as if it were thinner than his fingernail, and fizzing liquid splashed all over his body.

"Shit!" Kevin and David cursed simultaneously. But even as Kevin was scrambling to salvage the remains of the vial, he noticed that the liquid was being absorbed into his clothing. He felt a funny tingling in his chest, and a sudden coolness where the earlier shadowling scratches had been.

Kevin looked down. Fabric was knitting itself back together.

"Oh. No way. No way," David said, open-mouthed. "We can throw potions."

Kevin took a deep breath -- pain and adrenaline receding into an elusive vertigo -- and stood up. He narrowed his eyes at the winged shadow and leveled Diune's sword -- gem still flaring a brilliant blue.

The count sighed. "You sunlit whelps and your healing magic. Be that way. You are only prolonging ze inevitable end." He raised the rapier sideways again, gem pulsing back to life.

Kevin looked down at his own sword, gem outshining the shadow's. Insight hit him between the eyes. He smiled.

"You mean the end where we kick your ass?" Kevin asked. He heard thumping and cursing in the background as David tried to activate another vial of healing potion by whacking it against his body.

"Excusez-moi?"

"You heard me, Cheesy," he said. "You want a piece of me? You think one lucky shot makes you some sort of superstar?"

"Zat does not sounds like surrendering," the count said crossly. David gave up and uncorked his potion.

"Come try that again," Kevin taunted. "I want to see which is worse -- your swordsmanship or your taste in clothes."

The count slowly brought his sword in line with Kevin. "Such appalling manners," the shadow said. "Almost as poor as your defense. You'll regret them both."

Kevin thrust his hand out, lowering his sword to a sideways line. He visualized energy flowing from his body into his sword -- as David had showed him while he was trying to figure out his special moves earlier -- and felt the gem almost grab it, devour it, coiling it up like a snake ready to strike. Kevin grinned madly, light-headed, the hilt of the sword almost seeming to pulse in his hand.

The count beat his wings, surging toward Kevin blade first, and Kevin let control of that energy go. His body flew into motion, as if it was being moved like a puppet.

He heard the clash of metal as his hand twisted and his arm whipped sideways -- Diune's blade catching the rapier and flinging it away. The world spun around him as his body twisted toward that arm, sidestepping and pulling the pommel of the sword in close to his body. The count spun back into view, trying to bring his rapier back in line, and Kevin's feet caught and shoved, launching him forward as his sword arm extended. Kevin felt his bodily control return, just in time for his hurtling form to slam fully into the count, who staggered backward with a heavy wheeze.

As he also fell back, Kevin tightened his grip on his sword, and felt it slide free of something soft and yielding.

Kevin sat down again, head spinning. He stared at the count, who was picking himself up from the floor, looking down in horror at a huge black stain on his cheery green shirt.

"Ah!" the count said, touching his wound with his left hand. "Inconceivable!"

"Kevin!" David said, grabbing him under the arms and hauling him to his feet. "Did he hit you again?"

"I don't think so," Kevin said, looking at his sword. The gem was dark once more.

"My consummate swordsmanship has failed me!" the count said. "Against such a ... rude little child!" He narrowed his eyes at Kevin and pointed an accusing finger. "You ... you ..."

"Yes?" Kevin said, settling back into a fighting stance, heart pounding exuberantly.

"You haven't seen ze last of me!" the count said, whirling and spreading his wings. "You'll regret this!"

The shadow leapt, wings beating, and circled through the air above the pool. Kevin and David watched the flaming feather on its hat spiral up, then dive toward a wall out of reach of the ramps in the upper half of the chamber. A section of the wall faded into a black square just in time for the form to fly through, and then the portal disappeared again with a quiet pop.

David raised his fist. "Alright! That was awesome!"

Kevin let out a whoop, high-fiving David and then pumping his fist in the air. "Kevin learns Counter!"

"Didn't I tell you this game kicked ass?"

Deliciously Dangerous Swordsman: Act I

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 08:56:16 GMT

Hall of Heroes

"So much for having killed the level boss," Kevin muttered, shifting into a defensive stance and raising his sword toward the shadow.

"Shadow King?" David asked. "Kevin, I thought you said Eversor had killed their leader?"

"Non! A mere pretender to ze throne!" the shadow scoffed, folding his wings inward and straightening his hat. "Our true king has, shall we say, an understanding with the dragon."

"So what does that make you?" David cracked, eyeing the shadow's bright yellow boots, sky-blue pantaloons, jet-black belt, and green frilly shirt. "The court jester?"

"D-- Scipius!" Kevin said, remembering just in time David's bright idea to use an alias inside the game. "Don't antagonize the boss."

"I will ignore your faux pas," the shadow said with a flourish of his hand, "because I am a gentleman of high breeding and consummate generosity. My name --" and he stood straight and clicked his heels together, rattling off a rehearsed barrage -- "is Count Ronaldo Alphonse Belacardi du Guillemet, Second Lord Saprostomous von Fromage."

Kevin, despite himself, had to stifle a giggle. David, who was also taking first-period French, burst into incredulous snickers.

The shadow narrowed his white eyes. "What?"

"You can't be serious," David said, laughing. "We're about to fight Count von Cheese?"

"Scipius!" Kevin protested, but couldn't hold back a smile.

"Impertinent whelp!" the count snapped. His hand whipped down to his belt, where he grabbed the handle of an ornate, thin rapier that had a large sapphire like Kevin's woven into the filigreed bell guard. He drew his sword with a clear shing -- and a straining of fabric as one end of his belt caught in the guard, puling taut right before the end of the sword cleared its sheath.

"Merde!" he muttered. As the shadow struggled to pull the sword free, the belt buckle came undone; with one final yank, the rapier came free and the belt end snapped back, retracting through the buckle before catching on the last hole. The count's pantaloons fell to his boots, revealing skinny black legs and white boxers dotted with delicate red hearts.

David doubled over in laughter, leaning on his staff. Kevin laughed out loud before clapping his free hand over his mouth, and stood there, stomach shaking with the effort of holding it in.

The count looked down, glared at the teenagers, then -- with as much dignity as he could salvage -- yanked his pants back up and readjusted the belt with one hand.

"Oh, man," David said, trying to steady himself. "We found the joke boss! I wish Trent were here."

"We will see who has the last laugh," the count said, swishing his rapier through the air. "The Shadow King will bring a new age of glory to ze Shadow Kingdom, and no mere rebel scum shall stand in his way. I was sent here to capture you, but first I think it is time to teach you a lesson." The sapphire on his sword gleamed, and he whipped the rapier in an arc out to his side, the blade leaving behind a brief blue afterimage. The count dipped forward stiffly in a brief bow.

"Whatever, dude," David said, whacking the base of his staff on the ground. "Fire." Flames erupted around his gem, then atop the count's hat.

"Fire?" the count asked, throwing back his head in a laugh. "Ha ha! Quel dommage. My lovely chapeau makes me immune to your pitiful flames."

Kevin stared at the burning hat. "Um ..."

The count narrowed one eye. "What?"

The flames on the hat died down, leaving only the feather ablaze. A thin wisp of black smoke curled up from it as it continued to burn. "Nothing," Kevin said.

David shrugged. "I get it. No fire. We can do beatings too."

The count grinned. "Ah, so you think to face me in a duel, then? Even though my consummate skill at ze rapier is legendary throughout four and a half continents. Perhaps there is some spirit in ze rebellion after all."

"Sure." David pointed. "Sic 'em, Rathgren."

"What?!" Kevin squeaked.

"Just roll with it. You'll be fine."

Kevin glanced back and forth between David and the shadow. "Um, Count? Could I trouble you to give us a few seconds here?"

The shadow bowed low. "I am a gentleman of honor. If we are to duel I would not wish you to face me unprepared. After all, my patented, inimitable Von Fromage Consummate Self-Defense Technique is invincible."

Kevin turned to David and lowered his voice to an agitated whisper. "Would you shut up before you get us into real trouble? It's already going to be hard enough for us to run away now that you've pissed him off! What's gotten into you?"

David let out an exaggerated sigh. "Game logic, Kev. Stay with me here. Didn't you just agree five minutes ago that this has to be an RPG?"

"Well, yes, but --"

"He's got some cheap arbitrary protection against magic," David whispered, "so this is clearly meant to be the one-on-one duel where you find your inner strength and realize you can take care of yourself."

"Or maybe this is the unwinnable boss fight where we get beat down to show how far we still have to go. Or maybe this is where we get captured so the real heroes can rescue us."

"They wouldn't do 'unwinnable' without our whole party, and it's too early in the game for a jail sequence. Besides, epic sword fight. Come on."

"I don't think I'm supposed to be the swordsman, though," Kevin whispered. "All I can do is swing this around like a doofus. I didn't even get to pick out a weapon like you two did. This is Diune's."

"You unlocked a gem setting on it. And it's the legacy of your fallen mentor. That has Plot written all over it."

"Listen. Seriously, David. We should run and get Trent."

"Kevin," David whispered, grabbing his friend's shoulders, "You. can. do. this. He's the joke boss, Kevin. Red heart underpants! And I've got healing potions, just in case. Don't back down now."

"Whenever you're ready," the count called out.

Kevin sighed. "You'd better be right." He turned and stepped forward, blade up. "Let's do this, I guess."

The count pulled the rapier tip back, holding the blade in a horizontal line in front of him. The gem in the hand guard flashed to life and held a steady blue glow. "En garde!"

Kevin felt a surge of panic at the gem activation. He was outclassed. "Are you sure?" he asked David, arm trembling.

"I'm sure" David said, exasperated. "He's completely harmless."

Kevin bit his lip. "Okay." Game logic. Game logic ...

"Harmless?" the count spat at David. "You want to see harmless, you ill-mannered brat?" And with a flurry of wings, his body was in motion.

Kevin reflexively ducked backward as the bright colors of the shadow hurtled his way. But the count swept right by him, lunging at the surprised David. There was a quiet squelch as the rapier blade punched through his jacket and into his gut. The shadow yanked the sword back out, blade red with blood, and hurtled backward in a wing-aided leap to square off against Kevin again.

"C'est bon!" the count said smugly. "Now it can be a proper duel."

"David!" Kevin cried.

David staggered backward and his legs gave out. He landed heavily on his knees. "Ow!"

"You and your joke bosses," Kevin muttered. A single-hit takedown, right through their new armor. He had called it -- they were in serious trouble. But it was too late to do anything about it now except hope for the best.

Kevin leapt forward, swinging his sword at the shadow. "Take this, Cheesy!"

Hall of Heroes: Act X

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 09:05:15 GMT

"I'm telling you, Kevin," David said, "don't let the fact it's a game get you down."

Kevin sulked. "I guess."

"This place is incredible," David said, gesturing around the hall. "Even if it's 'just a game,' look at it! I want to explore every square inch of it, meet everyone, save the world, fight all the optional bosses -- hell, I'll even volunteer for the letter sidequest if you want. If someone walked up to us on the street and handed us a copy of virtual-reality Dragon Legend 27 from the future, flat-out telling us it was a game, we'd think it was the best thing ever -- so why should you be disappointed just because we figured out it's a game for ourselves?"

"But ..." Kevin trailed off. "Let's not get into the discussion on meaningfulness again."

"Not until you explore the place, anyway. You'll change your mind about the game once you see more of it."

Kevin sat down, staring at the potted tree. "I'm really not sure I should. I'd just cause you more trouble."

"Like bringing magic into our lives and opening the door to the Shadowlands? Bring it on!"

"But I didn't actually do anything for those. Rosalind saved me and Diune gave me the pendant, sure, but all that took was being in the right place at the wrong time. Trent was the one who activated the pendant and killed Quinotauros, and you've explored the Shadowlands, learned magic and found a teammate and merchant. What have I done? I got Diune killed, got Trent hurt and dragged us into a boss battle beyond our abilities." Kevin looked at his sword. "I can't even use any special abilities. Maybe I wasn't ever meant to be here."

"Kevin!" David said, horrified. "This is all about you! It has been from the beginning. If it weren't for you we'd all still be stuck in Pitt Creek staring in envy at the TV."

"No, you wouldn't. I would. I'm always holding you guys back."

David pointed at Kevin. "You say that now. But look the computer games we play. Don't they always start out with a reluctant hero who doesn't recognize his own power? That means you're the perfect person to fit the role. We need you, buddy. You have to be here."

"C'mon, David," Kevin said. "That's only works in --"

"Game logic?" David interrupted. He grinned.

Kevin chuckled despite himself. "Touché."

"So please," David said. "Give yourself a chance."

Kevin examined the crossguard of his sword. "I guess I can't argue with that. Still, shouldn't we go back first? Fiddle with the pendant and find a way to bring Crissy in, or call Trent and try to smooth things out?"

"I -- I think we should give them both more time to calm down."

"Maybe, but now that we know it's a game, I feel guilty about coming in here. They're our friends, and they're real. We should patch things up with them before goofing off any more."

"Kevin --" David looked around, and lowered his voice -- "I want to fix things with them too. But that means showing them why I came back in, and I can't do that alone. Trent's pissed off at me and Crissy probably thinks it's my fault she can't come. I need you."

"Need me?" Kevin said uncertainly. "For what?"

"Let me take you down the stairs, and introduce you to Joix and maybe Emile. It's safe -- the two of us can handle random encounters. Once you meet them, you can back me up 100% on how much cooler the game is now." David's face brightened. "Hey, and I bet Emile will know more about activating the pendants."

"Are you sure it's safe?" Kevin asked. "You're talking about leaving the level. Couldn't we hit another boss somewhere beyond the stairs?"

"Naw," David said dismissively. "Downstairs is still the Hall of Heroes -- just the next floor with a little bit tougher enemies. Emile and I wandered it pretty thoroughly. We won't see anything at all threatening unless we go outside, and she said she's camped close by."

Kevin finally gave in. "Okay. Why not? It can't make Trent any more mad than he already is. And I am curious to meet Emile."

David led them down the ramps, again setting fire to a group of shadowlings as soon as they got close enough for the things' claws to extend.

"Those are the monsters that nearly slaughtered us all?" Kevin asked in amazement, staring at the melting corpses.

"Seriously," David said. "Granted, they're a joke right now because I was level-grinding all day, but even just killing Quinotauros must have boosted us all up a few levels by itself."

"Wouldn't you think that if we 'leveled up' in some way, we'd feel different?" Kevin asked. "Or there would be some ding, or victory music, or flash of light, or something."

David shrugged. "Maybe it's something abstract, like knowledge or self-confidence. Maybe it's subtle things, like how the time it's taking me to recover between spells is a fraction of what it was when I started this morning. Clearly I'm building up a larger Magic Point reserve. But keep in mind that characters inside the game aren't supposed to be able to quantify their own statistics. It's going to take a little ingenuity for me to rig up a system for that."

"Hmm. Alright." Kevin filed a mental note to make some observations of his own.

"Hey, Kev? Why don't you take out the next group or two with your sword? I haven't figured out yet whether the game we're in splits experience between everyone in the party, or whether everyone has to earn their own. I think we'll be better off if everyone gains levels evenly."

"You sure?" Kevin said. "I mean, yes, new armor --"

David cut him off. "Worst-case scenario, I've got like 10 spare healing potions. That's another thing Joix can craft shards into."

"Oh! Cool!" Kevin said. "You forgot to mention that earlier."

David shrugged sheepishly. "There was a lot to cover. Oh, and I asked him whether he's got anything like the Dragon Legend games' Phoenix Feathers."

"For character resurrection? Yeah, that would ease Trent's mind a lot. Did you buy any?"

"Er, no," David said. "Joix said he'd never heard of them and he'd have to ask around later. The game's mechanism for death must work some other way."

Kevin's face fell. "He's not going to like hearing that."

"True. But with how quickly healing potions work, we should be able to stay out of trouble."

Kevin took point and leapt into the next group of shadowlings as they descended. The three tiny creatures mobbed him, scrambling to do damage as he kicked them away and dispatched them one by one. At the end, he had a few rips in his clothing and scratches on his skin, but nothing at all like the injuries of the previous day.

"Wow," Kevin said, checking his wounds. "I could go for at least three or four fights like that before even thinking about a healing potion."

"See? You'll be fine," David said, scooping up the shards. "Let's go downstairs."

They stepped off the ramps onto the stone floor and toward the huge, ragged hole that Quinotauros had headbutted open. "Should I be worried about any of the new enemies down there?" Kevin asked, gazing through the broad hidden archway at the torchlit staircase.

David's reply was cut off by high, throaty laughter from above them.

"Not as much as you should worry about ze ones up here!" the newcomer announced, voice smooth and confident, with a thick nasal accent that sounded vaguely French.

Kevin and David whirled, weapons up. Behind them, a thin black humanoid figure was floating down on outstretched wings of feathered shadow to land at the edge of the pool. Unlike all the other shadows they had seen, this one was wearing garishly colored clothes and a bright red wide-brimmed feathered hat. He held a small metal box in his outstretched hand.

They heard a hollow click from near the stairway. Kevin glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see bars of metal slam down from the ceiling to block the arched entrance.

The visitor tucked the metal box into a breast pocket and swept his hat off, holding it to his chest as he stooped in an exaggerated bow. "Ze Shadow King sends his greetings," he said. "And unfortunately for you, it will also be an au revoir."

News: Happy International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Wretch Day! April 23 is a day dedicated to posting free writing on the Internet ... I'm already doing so twice a week, but it's nice to have some sort of semi-official commemoration.

A little history behind the holiday is here, along with discussion of why giving your work away online can be a Good Thing.

Machinations: Act VIII

Tue, 21 Apr 2009 08:37:08 GMT

The Sunlit World

The view from the water tower had a stark, monochromatic beauty to it. Out to the horizon in all directions, plains of unbroken white stretched beneath the roiled grey of impatient storms. Lawns and trees and rooftops lay huddled beneath snow; only walls, cars and plowed streets provided any color to the scene, and even they felt muted, as if their colors were too busy struggling to protect civilization's thin foothold.

It almost, the singer decided, felt like the Wastes.

The thought was a cheerful one. The Wastes were the one place where the singer could taste freedom. The barren freedom of isolation, yes, but a refreshing draught for that. Everywhere else had rules, rulers and ruled -- even in the Shadowlands, there were formalities, duplicities, concessions, negotiations.

Someday, the singer would be beyond all that.

The shadow unicorn reclined, feeling the astringent touch of ice against the black fabric and fur of its back. It watched the slow dance of patterns in the passing blanket of clouds, and listened to the sounds of the Weave: the quiet hiss of distant cars, the sigh of lazy wind, the defiant chatter of birds too stubborn to migrate.

It was quiet, but quiet on the Weave was not like quiet beyond it. Elsewhere, the distant voices spoke up faintly in the silence; here, they spoke up in the noise of life and motion. It always took an adjustment to hear the chorus while visiting. But soon the singer recognized the tune, and closed its white eyes to sing along:

"The Archon feared I'd rise above my station;

and thus he made me Shadow Lord.

So soon he offers gifts of complications.

Perhaps he thinks I'm bored.

I've placed the players in my shadow game;

why does he seek to do the same?

Has he deduced that black outnumbers white?

He's only halfway right."

The shadow paused, sensing a shift. Here on the Weave, it was much easier to detect the Archon's approach. And the singer had no desire to offer him a song this time.

There was the soft squeak of fresh snow as boot-shod feet came down behind the singer's head. The unicorn opened its eyes; fur-edged cuffs and bulky down coat covered a human figure, and big brown eyes stared through broad-lensed glasses above an equally broad moustache and mouth.

"Well," the Archon said. "If it isn't my muse. Thank you for coming."

"I greet you, Keeper," the shadow said stiffly.

The Archon put on a look of distaste. "Why so formal? You shouldn't call me that. With all that's going on, we're practically partners."

"No, just aligned by common goals," the singer said, sitting up. "We're exchanging favors for mutual benefit ... if you can call the giant target on my back a benefit."

"... Does the magnitude of what I've given you mean so little, then?" the Archon asked. "The entire shadow world to toy with as you wish?"

"It means responsibilities," the unicorn responded. "Which I don't take lightly. It means diverting precious time and energy to consolidating my power there and to accomplishing your tasks. It's all part of the deal."

"Oh," the bundled-up man said softly. "That really is all this is to you. A deal."

The shadow turned, blank white eyes staring into the Archon's. "Why? Was it supposed to be something more?"

The Archon spread his hands. "Less about expectations and more about ... possibilities."

"I don't understand your disappointment, Keeper."

The Archon leaned in. "Look. I know what the Bound Ones want -- you think I don't listen to the celestial songs? And you're the only one to give up on their futile game ... the only one who has done anything to make my job easier. Clearly you're the most far-sighted of them. Surely you're also smart enough to see how rewarding it could be to have a deeper understanding with me."

"So an alliance ...?" the unicorn asked, standing and brushing off snow. Then its eyes narrowed. "No, you're not stupid; there's no utility in an ally who has given up the game. What else are you offering me, then?"

"No, Muse," the Archon said, face pained. "This isn't a deal. Stop trying to make sense of it that way. Not everything works like that."

"We do."

"You don't. I've watched you with the threads. You care about something besides yourself."

The dark unicorn shrugged. "Think what you wish. Is there anything else to discuss, Keeper?"

The Archon looked around and lowered his voice. "Look, Muse. I understand you --"

"You understand me? You?" the shadow interrupted, incredulous. "You can look at me and say that with a straight face?"

"I understand the pain of powerlessness that stares you in the face as a tiny piece in a large game," the Archon said. "I understand the longing, the loneliness. I understand the constant fear of being surrounded by others ready to backstab you the instant you turn around." He took a breath. "We're really not so different, you and I."

The shadow flinched as if slapped in the face.

"Well, Keeper," the shadow replied slowly, "I understand your gifts and trifles of praise. I understand the panic and self-doubt. I understand your attempt to bribe your way to forgiveness." The unicorn's voice dripped with venom. "Don't you deign to tell me how alike we are. I am a Weaver. You are a naughty little child desperately hoping that if he just acts nice enough, someone will tell him he's doing the right thing."

The Archon's expression stayed level, but his face drained of color.

"Singer," he said softly, "do not forget your place --"

The unicorn laughed, a sharp, incredulous bark. "Forget my place! As if I could look into your eyes without seeing the chains that bind me."

"I will not apologize for my purpose. But I have shown you the greatest kindness. Throw that back at me at your own peril."

"You have shown me courtesy," the shadow said, "and I will continue to respond with courtesy in turn. But there is no kindness while I remain bound. So do me another courtesy and keep our talk to business."

On the wind, the birdsong died away. The world seemed to hold its breath as the two beings faced off.

Finally, the Archon spoke, his voice holding an edge. "To business, then. You are setting events in motion. I need more oversight."

The shadow spread its hands. "You don't have enough? I'm already letting those three kids run loose -- despite the complications it introduces in our mutual goals."

"You know I can't deal with them directly. I want an outside party. Like, let us say, their friend Crissy. But," the Archon said pointedly, "she seems to be having some trouble entering your Shadowlands."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying? Beyond the hassle of a fourth wild card running free in my delicate games -- who reports directly to you -- you also want me to tote her back and forth from the Weave myself?"

"That's exactly what I want, yes. And more: I want her to have full access to your plans, unfettered communication with myself, free entrance and exit ... hmm. Sanctioned enforcement powers if she finds evidence of wrongdoing. Knowledge of your location at all times. And your personal protection."

The shadow was momentarily speechless. "Just off the top of my head, that's four of your own rules that you're ordering me to break. My rejecting your 'deeper understanding' must have really hit home."

The Archon's lips curled into a vindictive smile. "Ah, singer, there's the thing. I'm not ordering you to do anything beyond allow one additional thread in for oversight. Beyond that, I've merely expressed what I want."

"Hmm. I see. Clever. And the consequences of my compliance or inaction?"

"I make no promises either way."

"Naturally. Will you at least give sanction to any rules I break in pursuit of your desires?"

"You know I can't do that," the Archon said. "But may I remind you that I have nothing to gain from a petty game of gotcha."

The unicorn turned and stared out at the snowy plains, bringing a hand up to its chin. "Not when there are richer prizes at stake."

The Archon, waiting, said nothing.

The singer listened to the Weave, lost in quiet deliberation. "Perhaps," it slowly said, "you are beginning to understand something about me after all. You wish to play a game of respect, Archon? I accept. Let the game begin."

News: Ah, Muse and the Archon. It's about time that our schemers spoke to each other again.

Over the weekend, I rearranged all the Acts that were originally published out of order; the story flows much more smoothly now, especially in the "Companions" arc. If you've been following the story all along, no content has changed, so there's no need to reread. If clicking on a link to any of those sections takes you somewhere unexpected, please let me know.

Also, if you haven't seen the archives yet (they're linked from the left-hand sidebar), they're a great way to keep track of the overall progress of the plot and to find the last time a particular character had the narrative focus. Give them a skim any time you need to refresh your memory.

Machinations: Act VII

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 09:18:29 GMT

The Shadow Palace

Ron straightened his coat one last time. He wiggled his fingers at his mouth and rolled his tongue over his teeth, tasting the sudden burst of mint. He took a deep breath and knocked.

"Go away, Gavin," Riselmian immediately yelled. Too quickly to have been woken up by the noise. Ron quietly let his breath out.

"It's just me."

There were the sounds of motion from inside. The door jerked open to frame Riselmian like an angry Greek goddess -- piercing green eyes glaring at him as a naked arm held a pastel green sheet in place around her torso. Ron involuntarily looked down at her cleavage, feeling his face flush.

"What is it?" Riselmian asked.

"Ah --"

"Is the boss back?"

Ron forced his gaze upward to meet her stare. "Ah, no. I just wanted to drop by before I left to keep an eye on the kids."

"Oh," Riselmian said, tone icing over. "Lovely. Nice seeing you." She pushed the door closed.

Feeling his chance slip away, Ron wedged a foot in the door frame. Riselmian looked down at it, back up at him, and frowned. "What."

"I -- ah. It's just -- look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. We're going to be working together an awful lot --"

"Ron --"

"So I just," he hurried on, "wanted to apologize for Gavin."

Riselmian opened her mouth for a comeback, and stopped. After an awkward pause, she blinked several times and said: "I, uh, wasn't holding his behavior against you."

"Well, it's obvious he's aggravating you, and somehow I doubt he's going to say sorry on his own."

Riselmian adjusted the sheet and leaned against the doorway. "Against my better judgment, I'm going to ask: why are you feeling guilty enough to apologize? Were you the one that drove him crazy?"

"No, but it's my fault he's here." Ron lowered his head. "I told the Shadow King I wouldn't help him unless he took care of Gav too."

"Oh," Riselmian said faintly.

"I think Gav snapped when he was out by himself in the Wastes. Couldn't accept the whole world disappearing. And I ... I felt sorry for him. There but for the grace of God go I, you know?" Ron looked back into Riselmian's eyes. "I don't know anything about him except his name and the fact he's a mage, but I couldn't leave him behind. If I hadn't helped, nobody else would have."

Riselmian looked away. "You're probably right. He's lucky you found him."

"Thanks," Ron said, surprised. It was the first nice thing he had heard her say. Riselmian muttered something inaudible and glanced back into her room, but didn't move from the doorway.

"How many others do you think are out there?" Ron asked, trying to keep the conversation alive.

"I don't know. ... Were you thinking about going back out into the Wastes for them?"

"Honestly? I don't know. The Shadow King seems to have that covered. And I'm not sure how long I could stay out there without going insane myself ... or if I could even make it back here, or back to Earth, if I left. What about you?"

"Are you kidding?" Riselmian muttered, shaking her head. "I'm no mage. I hadn't even worked up the nerve to enter the Wastes before the boss found me. All I can do is help out with the big plan and wish like hell that I can make something worthwhile out of whatever pathetic half-life I've still got."

"You, uh, sound bitter," Ron said cautiously.

"Why shouldn't I be?" Riselmian said. "I'm a dragon, Ron! I spent my entire crazy-fundie childhood knowing I was different -- not even knowing why until after I ran away at age 18 -- and getting the shit beat out of me for it. Then the Changes hit, and I changed too. For a brief, shining moment I thought I had escaped -- I thought I had a new life in front of me, in a new world where the people who made my life hell were finally exposed for the frauds they were. Do you know what it's like to have that hope snatched away from you? What it's like to spend weeks praying you'll wake back up into your original nightmare of a life, because it was actually better than the new life you had always dreamed of?"

"Oh. Geez. No."

"Now we've gotten out of the Wastes by teaming up with some mindreading demon thing -- and with every passing day she's turning more and more into a stereotypical evil overlord." Riselmian threw up a hand. "You think I'm in on this because I have hope for anything? I'll consider myself lucky if I can just get revenge before I snap. And, believe me, that's the real challenge. Video game characters and green flashing martial arts strikes and shadows that turn into people and now our lives are controlled by prophecies? I'm sorry if I'm being harsh on the coyote, but it's hard enough maintaining my grip on sanity even without having to babysit a fucking lunatic."

"I hear you there -- the world we're in is definitely weird enough," Ron said sympathetically. "I had no idea what to make of the Shadow King's lecture about the stars, either. But I was going to wait until I found out more to say anything. I mean, I know for a fact magic works -- so maybe there's something to prophecies too."

Riselmian sighed heavily. "How do you do it, Ron? Stay sane in the face of all this."

"Me?" Ron said. "Uh, I used to do tabletop gaming a lot, before the Changes. I guess all this just doesn't seem as strange to me as it must to you."

"Tabletop gaming? You mean, like Dungeons & Dragons?"

"That sort of thing. But more modern. Secret conspiracies of mages, vampires in the shadows, things like that." Ron shifted his weight. "I'm used to getting inside my characters' heads, reacting like they would to all the freaky stuff. Honestly, I think I've been doing that since the Changes, except with myself as a character."

"Doesn't it bother you?" Riselmian asked. "That was all fantasy! Fiction! And now here it is all around us."

"Same with dragons."

"I didn't actually expect that to come true. When it did, I thought that would be the end of it." Riselmian sighed. "Now it's just too much. I need to know the life I'm living is real. How can I unless there's a line somewhere between real and imaginary? What if I did go nuts out there, like Gavin did, and now all of this is something my brain's making up?"

Ron glanced around and bit his lip. "Um. Speaking of Gav, has he been here? I haven't seen him since the meeting, and I'll be damned if I can magically locate anyone here in the palace. I really should make sure he's somewhere safe before I leave."

"Are you serious? He's been at my door the whole time. I can barely get a minute of silence before he pipes up with another nonsensical question. I'm ready to strangle him."

Ron blinked. "I didn't see him here. I swear I've checked this hallway at least five or six times. I didn't want him to bother you."

"Well, he did. He said he was done and that he was ready to be a hero now. Then lots of questions about which one of us was the refugee. Then he said I should stay away from the ocean. Then he asked me where the ocean was and whether the dark thing in the sky was the moon. Then asked why the stars aren't talking about Tarot cards any more. Then whether I had a Tarot deck and which card I thought he was. I said he was going to be the Hanged Man if he didn't go away. He said, 'Oh, that doesn't end well,' and shut up. That was a few minutes before you got here."

Ron sighed. "I'm sorry. I'll find him and lock him in his room with a Rubik's Cube or something."

"I'd appreciate it if you would." Riselmian reached up for the door. "Oh, and Ron?"

"Yes?"

"Good luck with whatever you're doing with the kids." As she pushed the door closed, Ron thought he caught a fleeting smile on her face.

"Thanks," he called, smiling himself, and trudged off through the palace.

Trent: Act I

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 08:43:02 GMT

The Sunlit World

"Mom? I'm home," Trent called, flinging his backpack onto the couch. "I'll be in my room. ... Mom?"

He walked around the house in a cursory search. Her car was gone from the garage. And there, on the kitchen counter, a note in graceful cursive: "Off with your dad at Engineer's Society social. Will bring home dinner -- afterschool snacks in cabinet. Congrats again on grades. Love, Mom."

"Great," Trent muttered. "Well, I guess, at least I don't have to explain to anyone why I'm so pissed off."

He flopped onto the couch next to his pack. "Dammit, David," he said softly. "I can't believe you guys. How could you be handed something so huge and treat it so irresponsibly?"

Trent stared for some time at the blank screen of the 60-inch projection TV his dad had bought the house for Christmas, then over at the Playstation and Super Nintendo stacked in the entertainment center. "Or is it huge?" he said, and sighed. "It's just a game, isn't it? It isn't real." He unzipped the neck of his jacket and felt his ribs. "It sure felt real enough at the time. What if I hadn't been able to get to the healing potion?"

Trent stood and paced. "Dammit, Dave! I don't know which is worse, that you could have been killed or that you lied to us to go in there anyway. What was in there that was so important? All that risk over a game." He crouched in front of the consoles, picking up his own Dragon Legend 3 cartridge, a sturdy black plastic rectangle about the size of his hand. "And you're involved. Kevin said Diune came out to give him the pendant when his cartridge got cracked." Trent held the cartridge in both hands, considering, then blinked. "What am I doing? The last thing we need is another way into that deathtrap ..."

He thought. "But --" he said slowly -- "the more we know about it, the more responsible we can be about exploring." Trent looked around, as if to assure himself the house was empty. "And what I hate the most about this is that I do want to know what's going on in there. How Kevin got ahold of that game and what it has to do with Rosalind. So the game really is key ... we just can't afford to go back in and get attacked by another bullfish. And I can't let them just wander around until the next boss shows up and creams them into paste."

Trent deliberated, then broke the cartridge over his knee. It snapped messily in two, circuit board dangling out one end like a stuck-out tongue, a few shards of black plastic flying out into the room. Nothing strange happened.

"Well," he said, "that was anticlimactic." He let his breath out. "I guess at least there aren't thousands of kids across America getting sucked into lethal shadow worlds."

Trent walked to the kitchen. "... Probably." He stared at the phone and set his jaw.

A minute later, having dug through the neatly organized game manuals in the back of the entertainment center, he was on the phone to the Nintendo helpline.

"Hi," Trent said. "Maybe you could help me out with a problem my friends and I are having. We had a game cartridge break under ... um ... weird circumstances."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," the pleasant female voice on the other end responded. "Is it within the 60-day warranty period?"

"No, no. This isn't about getting it replaced. I just wanted to, y'know, see if we were the only ones."

"Excuse me?"

"Uh, with problems with cartridge breakage. Things happening after it snapped." Trent, beginning to suspect he was barking up the wrong tree, felt a little sorry for the Nintendo worker on the other end of the phone.

"Well, er, while our game cartridges are designed for durability and it's very rare to hear of physical problems, they're not indestructible. What were the circumstances under which it broke?"

"I can't exactly say," Trent evaded. "Can you just tell me whether you've been getting more reports of cartridge breakage than normal lately? Since the dragon sighting and the Changes?"

"I. Ah. I'm afraid not. You're the first I've heard, sir."

"Okaythanksbye." Trent thumbed off the portable phone and tugged at his jacket neck.

His call to Diamondsoft's game help line was no more educational.

"Hi," he said. "I've got some questions about your new Dragon Legend game. You know? The one you just released?"

"Huh?" the game tech said. "We haven't released any Dragon Legend games recently. Oh -- maybe you have some friends in Japan? Dragon Legend Extreme's release date there is January 31, but it's not shipping in North America until later this year."

"What system is that coming out for?"

"Playstation, as a 4-disc set."

"Oh. Not that Dragon Legend game, then. You know. The other one."

"... I'm not certain what you're talking about."

"I understand if it's meant to be a secret," Trent ventured, "but we're having some trouble with the bullfish boss and I really could use a little help."

"Look, kid, I'm sorry. If you're talking about Extreme, we can't support it until its official North American release date. And I don't recognize that boss anyway. Are you sure you have the right game company?"

"Yes! You guys make the Dragon Legend series." Trent changed tactics. "What about Dragon Legend 3? The bullfish boss in 3?"

"There isn't one. I've played the whole game through twice."

"In the Shadowlands. The big, green circular hall with the pool."

"I'm sorry, there really is nothing like that in Dragon Legend 3. Or in any game I've ever played. Have a nice afternoon."

"Look," Trent pleaded, "this is important --"

There was a soft click. The call disconnected.

Trent sighed. "Worth a try."

He thought for several more minutes. "It's a game, right? So someone had to create it. Unless what's going on in there is a genuine alternate dimension, which I'm not ready to believe, someone's calling the shots." Trent cupped his chin in his hand. "But regardless of whether we're being thrown inside a game or an actual portal to another world ... clearly magic is involved. A mage could answer our questions. Except I doubt there are any in Pitt Creek. And even if there were I'm not sure I'd want to take their word for it. If there's a mage in town, they might be the one behind this."

Trent racked his brains. "Hmm."

As he thought, aimlessly glancing around the room, his eyes settled on a crooked stack of magazines on the coffee table. Trent automatically reached out to straightened them, and the cover of the third one down caught his eye. He pulled it out of the stack. It was a Time magazine from late December, back before the incident in Times Square had changed the tone of the media coverage.

A large brown dragon with bright red wings -- the one that had been ubiquitous on TV since the First Sighting -- was sitting regally, claw touching the fist of a model dressed up as Superman. "The New Superheroes," the cover read. "Beings of myth and magic walk the streets -- can comic books tell us what to expect from 'therianthropes'?"

Trent stared at the cover. Then he went to the kitchen, flipped through a phone book from the lower cabinet, and dialed.

"Pitt Creek Gazette," a gravelly voice muttered.

"Hey," Trent said. "I've got a weird question, but I know you newspaper people deal with media figures all the time. So I was wondering ... and I know it's a long shot ... do you have any idea how I could get ahold of Dennis Redwing?"

Hall of Heroes: Act IX

Sun, 12 Apr 2009 01:18:50 GMT

NOTE: Thank you for your patience as I recovered from a bout of illness. Here is Thursday's chapter, following Kevin and David as they continue to explore the Hall of Heroes.

As compensation, an unlockable extra has been revealed in the Bonuses section. You can go look at David's notes on the Elemental Crystal System that their Shadowlands arms and armor seem to obey.

"Hyper cut!" Kevin yelled.

"Nothing," David said, kicking the one remaining shadowling away from his leg. "Again!"

"Um ... Leap slash!"

"Again."

"Whirlwind blow!"

"Again ..."

"Uh. Er." Kevin went for broke. "Raging shadow blade death strike!"

"Meh," David said, setting the shadowling on fire. "No good."

"Maybe I don't have any special moves," Kevin said glumly. "Most games don't even give MP bars to the fighter."

"No!" David protested, picking up the shards. "You're getting the gem to flash. You've got the focusing thing down. It wouldn't even do that if you didn't have something to unlock."

Kevin sighed and sat down against the wall. "Then I probably need to be higher than first level, or something."

"What are you talking about? You can't possibly still be level 1. We've already killed a boss!"

"That Quinotauros thing, you mean?"

"Yeah," David said, sitting down next to Kevin and pointing to a circular indentation on the crossguard. The hole had three golden prongs spaced evenly around the edges. "Beating it unlocked one of your crystal slots."

Kevin did a double-take. "Whoah! I hadn't even noticed. What does that do?"

"At this point, adding a crystal probably just boosts your magic power," David said. "Don't worry about it."

"What do you mean, 'probably'? How do you know?"

"Joix gave Emile and I some information on elemental crystals," David explained. "He only has the tools to craft the most basic fire crystals right now. He said fire is associated with spiritual strength -- probably meaning that in an attribute slot like the one on your sword, it raises your magic stat. I figured you'd rather have me use our shards to have him smith crystals into armor for all three of us."

"Whoah, whoah, wait," Kevin said, increasingly lost. "Crystals? Joy? Attribute slots? Shards? Run that all by me again, more slowly."

"Joix is the merchant Emile and I ran into in the basement," David said. "The shards the shadowlings drop are both currency and raw material. Once he's got the right tools, he can craft them into different elemental crystals -- fire, air, earth, water, shadow, and presumably light -- and we can mount those into our weapons or infuse them into armor. Weapon mounts have various effects based on the nature of the slot." He took a deep breath. "Look, let's take a break and compare notes."

"Alright."

David told Kevin of the adventures he and Emile had had over the course of the day, and what he'd learned from talking with Joix. In turn, Kevin described his experiences with Diune. They both leaned back and digested the new information.

"Well," David said, "that does put some of the game plot in context."

"I wish you'd stop calling it that," Kevin said, staring out into space.

"Don't take it the wrong way," David said placatingly. "Game or not, that doesn't mean it's meaningless. Maybe it's some sort of test for something bigger. Maybe the game world really is real."

Kevin's eyes caught on something odd near the top of the room. "Hey," he said, relieved to change the subject. "Is that a ... tree?"

David followed Kevin's extended finger and squinted. On one of the landings high above them, there was a carefully trimmed, oval-shaped four-foot shrub in a red pot.

"Huh?" David said. "That wasn't there when I left. Let's go check it out."

Kevin followed David up the ramps to the shrub, watching as David casually dispatched the shadowlings along the way with mass fire spells and then scooped up their obsidian shards. Up close, the shrub was exactly what it appeared to be from down below: a random piece of greenery set down on the edge of the landing.

Kevin poked it with his sword. "What's this doing here?"

"I have no idea."

"What should we do with it?"

David shrugged. "Well, it doesn't seem to be a flesh-eating tree or anything, so let's do what RPG heroes always do when confronted with strange greenery." He handed his staff to Kevin and started prying branches apart, searching the interior of the shrub.

"You don't ..." Kevin said, looking around uncertainly. "You don't really think that's going to work, do you?"

"Found it," David said with a smirk, pulling out what looked to be a postcard with a note clipped to the front.

"Ugh," Kevin sighed. "Goddammit."

"'Note to self,'" David read. "'Hide postcard for later. Send to Gavin c/o the Shadow Palace after becoming hero. (He collects them.)' It's signed with the letter C." He flipped over the card and stared at the front, which was a photo of their surroundings with "Hello from the Hall of Heroes!" in bold movie letters across the top and several grinning human-sized shadows posing with an assortment of weaponry over their shoulders.

"No, seriously, I give up," Kevin said, throwing up his hands. "You and Trent are right. It's all just a game. Maybe if it was only physics behaving differently, it would be one thing, but hiding items in scenery? And letter collection sidequests?" He kicked a stone at the pot; it glanced off and soared out into space, bouncing down the ramps to the floor far below.

David shrugged. "The rules are different here. Remember what I said. That doesn't mean what we're doing is meaningless."

"No, David. There's a line between game and gamelike. Postcards in shrubbery crosses the line. It would take someone absolutely insane to do that! This is too retarded to be real."

Hall of Heroes: Act VIII

Tue, 07 Apr 2009 08:39:07 GMT

NOTE: Due to illness, the Thursday 4/9 post will be delayed about 24 hours. Thanks for your understanding. -B

"You know, it sounds kind of stupid," Kevin said as he set his sword onto the floor and dragged himself out of the pool, "but Crissy actually took that better than I expected."

David -- who Kevin noticed was wearing a headband and thin cloth gloves, both a subdued maroon -- hauled himself to dry ground. "Yeah. I don't get it. Something weird must be going on with the pendant. ... Unless it really was you?"

"I don't think so. I mean, I'm still worried about everyone being safe in here, but I know you came back after a whole day alone. So it can't be that deadly, right? I just hope this isn't something I'm doing unconsciously."

"I doubt it," David said, mollified. "If you had that kind of control, I wouldn't have been able to get in either."

Kevin considered that, then changed the subject back. "Actually, when I said she took it well, I meant the Shadowlands in general. Crissy just accepted it all -- even seemed enthusiastic. She never seemed to get into fantasy or gaming with anywhere near that intensity."

"Are you kidding? Have you seen the picture of Gaia she's painting for art class?"

"No!" Kevin said. "Just some of the incredible sketches in her school notebooks. You never even told me she was an artist."

"I thought you knew! Don't you watch her draw during our D&D sessions?"

"No -- we sit across the table from each other, and I always figured she was taking character notes or something."

David unshouldered a brown leather backpack, kneeling to rummage through it. "By the way -- thanks for coming back to the Hall of Heroes with me. That means a lot."

"Hey, not a problem," Kevin said. "I'm really curious about what you found today. What were you saying about the other Dragon Legend character?"

"Yeah! Emile!" David's face lit up. "She says her camp's in the Subterranean Ruins. We can get outside by going down the stairs Quinotauros knocked open and crossing the basement level."

"She?" Kevin asked.

David's face reddened. He dodged the question, pulling some items made of deep red fabric out of his backpack and thrusting them up at Kevin. "Ah ... p-put these on. I made sure to get gear for all three of us."

Kevin took the items -- a headband and pair of gloves, matching the ones David was wearing. "Let me guess," he said, scrutinizing them. "Armor of some sort?"

"Like you're not going to believe." A grin spread back across David's face. "Okay -- seriously, check this out. Stand back and watch."

"What are you --" Kevin broke off as David sauntered toward a group of shadowlings milling around at the base of the ramp. "Hey, hold on!"

"Relax, Kevin," David called over his shoulder. "I'll be okay."

The shadowlings perked up as David approached. Three simultaneous hisses accompanied the ominous shing of claws.

David turned around, spreading his arms out. "Check this out."

The shadowlings leapt at David's back. Kevin choked back a cry. David stood there with a smirk on his face. As one, the shadowlings grabbed for David -- one at his bare arm, one at his leg, one at his side -- and flailed for purchase. There was the sound of ripping cloth, and the one on David's arm left behind a faint line that resembled a cat scratch, but then all three dropped back to the ground, looking a bit disoriented.

"Holy crap," Kevin breathed.

"And the best part?" David said, grin reaching maniacal proportions. "Our magic points automatically regenerate over time. So I can do something like this and it's not even a waste." He stared at his staff for a moment, and the huge ruby burst into brilliance with an inner glow.

David lifted his staff and slammed its end into the ground. "Fire!" he shouted. The gem set itself ablaze in what looked like actual fire, though its extra light didn't cast any shadows.

He lifted his other hand. The blaze at the top of David's staff winked out, and the shadowlings burst into flames.

All three of the small black bodies whirled, thrashed and dropped, burning as though they were pieces of charcoal soaked in lighter fluid. With high-pitched squeals and a surprisingly nonoffensive smell reminiscent of a distant campfire, the shadowlings stopped moving and dissolved. Their forms melted into the ground, leaving behind only three smoking shards of obsidian, which David scooped up and pocketed.

Kevin's jaw was still hanging open when David swaggered back over. "Not bad, huh?"

"How -- wha --"

"Emile taught me."

"Holy shit!" Kevin said. "That was -- did you? ..."

"I'll have to show you too," David said. "You probably have some awesome fighter special move the same way she does."

"Whew!" Kevin said, trying to find a sentence he could complete. "You're right. Trent really does need to see this. Wow."

"We should, er, give him a little while to cool down," David said. "In the meantime, put on your armor."

Kevin looked down at the red cloth in his hands. "Speaking of which. These flimsy things did that?"

"The cloth is imbued with elemental crystals crafted from the shadowlings' shards," David said, as if that explained everything.

"But -- I mean -- they protected parts of your body they don't even cover! Magic or no, how did they keep the shadows from hurting your bare skin?"

David shrugged. "They raise my defense. They give me more hit points. Something like that. It's just how the rules are, Kev."

Kevin inspected the gloves. He tried one on, flexed his hand inside it, and pinched his arm just behind the glove fabric. "That's bizarre. I don't feel any different. It just doesn't seem like it should work. Not that it's not cool, but it's weirding me out."

"I don't know. Maybe they generate some kind of force field?"

"I guess." Kevin chuckled. "I'm beginning to understand where Trent was coming from. This would give him fits."

"Why?" David asked. "He was right. We're in a game. So it's okay to stop thinking about it and chalk it up to game logic."

"No," Kevin protested. "No, it isn't. Rosalind stepped out of -- out of somewhere, probably here -- came to our world and saved my life. She saved my life, David. No game can do that. I have to believe there's something more."

David shrugged. "Maybe there is. But the place we're in plays by role-playing game rules."

"Why? How does that work?" Kevin asked. "And how come our world doesn't work the same way, even though magic works there now? Trent's right. These are big questions."

"Well, while you're waiting to find out," David said, "can you take your own advice and not look a gift horse in the mouth? Put on your armor, and let's get you some special moves."

Crissy: Act V

Fri, 03 Apr 2009 08:35:11 GMT

The Sunlit World

David appearing inside Kevin's locked house had been bizarre. Trent exploding at his friend and storming out had been surreal. But it wasn't until Kevin's curse broke the silence that Crissy felt the whole thing sink in. She looked around at her friends uncertainly.

"Dammit!" David said, deflated.

"David, why did you skip school to go back into the Shadowlands?" Kevin said accusingly. "He was right. That was stupid."

"I know it was," David said sheepishly. "But I had to prove there was more to the Hall of Heroes than getting scratched by shadowlings and gored by Quinotauros. And there is! You guys have gotta see it!"

"Kweeno who?" Kevin asked.

"Quinotauros. The boss." David's face lit up. "Oh! And the best part! There's another Dragon Legend character in there!" He grabbed Kevin by the shoulders. "One of Lord Blue's Dragon Knights! We explored the place together!"

"There is?" Kevin's face lit up. "That makes three. This can't be coincidence!"

"David?" Crissy interjected. "What's going on? Will someone tell me the whole story?"

"Yeah!" David said, grabbing Crissy's arm and pulling her toward Kevin's room. "Come into the Shadowlands with us. Trent was right -- it's a game, the best one there ever was. You wouldn't believe how real everything is. And just wait until you learn magic. Real magic, Crissy! I was casting spells! And the powerup system could keep us busy for days -- there's this crystal modification system, the weapons have four different types of slots and Joix can weave them into armor -- and, and ... and where did the portal go?"

Kevin, hustling to keep up with them, stared open-mouthed at his closet. "It's gone! David, what did you do?"

"Nothing!" he protested. "It was here when I came back two minutes ago, and all I did was put on my backpack and leave."

"Well, it's gone now." Kevin walked over to his closet and pressed his palm against the dull, solid wall.

"What's this portal you all keep talking about?" Crissy asked.

"Where's the pendant?" David said. He answered his own question by pointing over at the Super NES, where Kevin's controller was still tied around the two ends of the chain. He snatched it up and examined the golden sun. "Something must have happened to it."

"Maybe the portal's got a 24-hour time limit?" Kevin ventured.

"Guys? What portal?" Crissy asked, but they continued to ignore her.

"Then it wouldn't run out until after 4--" David said, glancing at his watch and breaking off with a cry. "It's 3:20! How'd that happen? I left the Shadowlands at quarter to 3!"

"Huh?" Kevin said.

"No wonder you three were home from school early. You weren't. My watch must have stopped."

Crissy sighed and tried to edge into the conversation again. "If that had happened," she pointed out, "wouldn't it still be reading 2:45?"

David stopped, puzzled, and looked down. "Huh. You're right."

Kevin took the pendant. "Well, let's reactivate it. Here, Crissy -- loop the controller cable around your neck."

"Why?"

"You can't see the portal unless you wear the pendant while it's activated."

"Ah!" David said. "That explains it. Crissy has never worn the pendant. So the portal must vanish in the presence of an outside observer."

"That seems pretty clever," Crissy said.

"We'll fix that soon enough," Kevin said, looping the cable around her neck. "Here, and touch the chain, too."

Crissy stood there while Kevin fiddled with the sun's rays, wiggling them gently.

"We'll have to make you a healer," David said. "That'll work best for party balance. We already have two fighters and a mage. Three fighters, if you count Emile. I can't be certain which weapon specifically would start you in the healer class, but there was this one staff --"

"David!" Kevin said. "I'm trying to concentrate here."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Now what?" Crissy said, looking over at Kevin's closet.

"Um ..." Kevin said. "Hang on."

"What's wrong?" David asked, worry edging into his tone.

"I don't know," Kevin said.

"You just move the little thing here." David grabbed the pendant and fiddled with one of the sun's top rays. "That's what Trent did."

"Well, it's not working."

Crissy waited, increasingly impatiently, for several minutes as David and Kevin prodded the pendant. Finally she slipped out from under the controller cord. "I'm going to go get a drink," she said. "Be right back."

She was nearly at the kitchen when she heard David cry out from Kevin's room. She turned around and poked her head through the door.

"Dammit!" David said, kneeling at Kevin's closet and staring into its shadows. "It's gone again."

"Crissy's back," Kevin told him, staring at her.

"Oh," David said, standing back up. "The portal reappeared just after you left."

"Ah," Crissy said caustically. "Isn't that convenient."

Kevin's face went deep red. "It's real, Crissy! I swear to you! Look -- if you go out to the kitchen, I can go through it and you can come back and see me be gone."

"Oh, I believe it's real," Crissy said. "It just doesn't seem to like me around."

"That's not true," David said desperately. "We just don't fully understand the pendant yet."

"Uh-huh."

"Give us more time and we'll make it work," David said.

Crissy stepped forward and examined the blank closet wall. "David -- Kevin. Let me ask you this. Do you actually want me to go in there with you?"

"Yes!" David answered immediately.

"Yes," Kevin said, then hedged, "I mean, only if you want to go."

"You do? You're really sure?"

David -- and then Kevin, slowly -- nodded.

"Because that portal isn't making itself vanish when I'm here. It's clear someone who can control it doesn't want me." Crissy picked up her backpack and paused on her way out of the room. "And I should point out that Trent's not around to see whether I'm in the room or not."

"Wait!" David pleaded, jogging up to her. "Stick around. We can fix it."

"Nah," Crissy said evenly. "I've gotta get home."

"You ... don't think I'm doing it, do you?" Kevin said. "Because I swear --"

"Look," Crissy cut him off. "I've had a long and kind of weird day, and I'm not in the mood for an argument over who's keeping me out of your video game. You can give me a call if anything changes, okay?"

Kevin looked down guiltily. "I'm sorry. I'll find a way to get you in. I promise."

"Sure. See ya."

As Crissy left Kevin's house, she stopped and looked back for several seconds. Then she shook her head and walked straight for home, sticking her hand in her pocket and closing her fingers around the business card.

Machinations: Act VI

Tue, 31 Mar 2009 07:44:00 GMT

The Shadow Palace

In a small conference room off the main hall, Ron and the shadow king listened quietly to Riselmian's report.

"And where is he now?" the unicorn asked.

"He checked his watch a little before 3 p.m. and said he had to go back," Riselmian said. "What day is it on Earth?"

"Wednesday. His friends will be returning from school shortly and wondering why he didn't show up today."

Ron chuckled. "Sounds like someone's encouraging juvenile delinquency."

"Diune did seem to take his heroes where he could find them."

Riselmian shifted in her chair. "And what about the cat-man? He's got to be from somewhere else. What's he covering up with that ridiculous story of his?"

"Everything he said is plausible, actually. The name Joix is not unknown here. It caused quite a stir among the shadowcats a year ago when he left for Dragon Lake. Of course, if you can find someone who knew him, we could confirm it for certain."

"A year ago?" Ron asked. "Wait. Have the Shadowlands had therianthropes for that long?"

"The 'Colorless' didn't just appear one day like the theris on your world did. When shadows reach old age, they become a flesh-and-blood version of their old shadow shape. Most walk into the Wastes before that can happen, but occasionally the Shadowscales persuade a reluctant one to stay and prepare for the journey to the 'Sunlit Land.'"

"Now you're telling me shadows grow up into people?" Riselmian asked. She shook her head with a disbelieving snort and glanced at the huge figure sitting across from her. "Maybe I should stop being surprised by things like this. I swear to god, Ron, sometimes it feels like I've walked straight into an insane asylum."

"Er," Ron said, "no comment."

"So how many more ex-shadows are we going to run into out here?" Riselmian asked.

"With luck, none," the unicorn said smoothly. "There's a reason my first target was Dragon Lake."

"I see. So you want me to take out Joix, too?"

The unicorn leaned forward, clasping its hands and resting its elbows on the thick wooden table. "No. Until further notice, take no action against him. In fact, unless it directly conflicts with one of your other missions, protect him to the best of your ability."

Riselmian sighed in exasperation. "Here we go again. Look, shadow king. I understand the purpose of befriending the kids -- it will help us reach to the center of the Resistance, and clearly you want something out of them that requires gaining their trust. Fine. But what possible good could come from helping the cat?"

The shadow king sat in silence for several seconds, considering, then stood up. "Walk with me, my dragon."

"Huh? Okay."

The unicorn strolled sideways to the modest balcony, then motioned for her to stop and circled around behind her, resting hands on her shoulders.

"Now," the shadow king said, "listen to the sky."

"Uh ... what?"

"You cannot see them from most of the Shadowlands, but there are still stars out there." The unicorn leaned in, whispering into her ear and tilting her head upward with gentle fingers. "If you cast your mind into the stillness of space, you can hear their songs."

"Shadow king," Riselmian protested, "what's this --"

"Sssshh," the unicorn whispered insistently. "Listen."

Riselmian swallowed and stared into the sky. As the balcony fell silent, she realized she did hear a distant and wandering melody -- a quiet, solitary hum with regular cadence and the occasional flourish of syncopation.

"I -- I hear something," she whispered back, uncertain. "But --"

"But what?"

"But it's not coming from the sky." Riselmian stepped forward to the edge of the balcony, looking around through narrowed eyes. She glanced down, did a double-take, and whirled back to the shadow king accusingly. "It's that stupid coyote."

Ron was out of his chair instantly, hustling over to look. "Shit. What's he doing wandering outside?"

"It's okay," the shadow king said. "He's tending the plants in the courtyard."

Ron cringed. "I'm sorry, my liege. I'll go downstairs --"

"No. Really, Ron. It's okay. I made him my gardener."

Riselmian smacked her forehead. "Great. At least if you ever want to convince the kids you're an insane evil overlord, the shrubbery will get the 'insane' part across."

"At least it seems to be keeping him usefully distracted," Ron said dubiously. "He looks like he enjoys the job well enough."

"Indeed," the unicorn said, walking back to the seat at the head of the table.

Riselmian caught up to the shadow king and grabbed its shoulder. "Now hang on. Before we get too distracted with your looney bin, what was that thing about the stars?"

The shadow king casually waved her back to her seat. "Prophecy."

"Prophecy," Riselmian said, not moving.

"The stars sing of those who will shape the world. The roles that need filling, and how their parts play out. The script is fixed, but the casting uncertain." The unicorn's eyes burned into Riselmian's. "That is our choice. That is our opportunity."

"That's crazy talk!" Riselmian exploded.

"Is it?"

She slammed down a palm on the table. "People's lives don't fit into some huge cosmic plan! 'Fate' didn't send me here. He did. And 'fate' won't win you the Shadowlands. You will. But only if you get off your ass and stop screwing around with so-called destiny."

"Riselmian," the unicorn said in quiet reproach.

The armored figure stared into the shadow king's eyes, then threw herself back into her chair with a snort. Ron looked back and forth uncertainly, and also sat back down.

"I'm not asking you to believe in destiny," the shadow king said. "But realize how many others do. And in any world where belief magically shapes reality, that makes prophecy crucial. If we can stay on the right side of prophecy, any unexpected opponents will have to fight destiny itself to stop us."

"And how is that worth the intricate plotting and huge amounts of time you've invested, when we could simply crush the entire resistance in an afternoon and be done with it?" Riselmian asked.

The shadow king raised a finger. "There are other hands at play in this game, and every game we play is part of a larger one yet. I assure you, it's not wasted effort."

"Speaking of wasted effort," Ron cut in, uncomfortably changing the subject, "did you fix Gavin's tapestry?"

"Not yet," the shadow king said. "I'll take care of it later. Which reminds me -- I have some business outside of the Shadowlands when we're done here. Ron, when Diune's warriors re-enter, I'll entrust them to you, as we've already discussed. Do your best to keep them in the Hall of Heroes until I'm back."

Riselmian sighed, rubbed her temples and refocused. "Do you want me to join them as well?"

"No," the unicorn said. "You've had a long day. Take a break in your room. Get some sleep or play some Dragon Legend 3. I also suggest -- if you're not fond of babysitting -- lock your door."

The conference room door opened with a creak of hinges. Gavin staggered in, holding a red clay planter pot with a four-foot tree, its thick leaves clipped into a tall, perfect oval. The coyote was dressed in coveralls and work gloves, a jaunty bright red feathered hat on his head. A small white kitten mewed, following at his heels.

"Don't mind me," he sang tunelessly. "I just figured the room could use some greenery."

The kitten pawed at the shadow king's leg. The unicorn lifted her up to the tabletop and scratched her head, eliciting a purr.

"That's a nice-looking tree," Ron said, surprised.

"Thanks! I'm pretty happy with it, too. I tried a couple of different shapes, and these were the least obtrusive."

"I appreciate your hard work, Gavin," the shadow king said.

"Sure thing! Anyway, I'll be back with three more of these," the coyote said breezily. "They'll really brighten up the room. Break up the bare symmetry, you know? Give the eye a distraction moving across the harsh line of the corners."

Riselmian stared, stunned.

"Be back in a moment," Gavin said cheerfully. He sauntered out the door.

"What -- how --?" Riselmian sputtered. "He's lucid. What did you do to him?"

"Interesting," the unicorn murmured, absentmindedly stroking the kitten.

"Oh," the coyote said, poking his head back in through the doorway, "and since they all look the same, you only have to store one sprite in memory." He stopped, and his gaze wandered. "Soda machines!" he cried, and dashed off.

Riselmian sighed. "Question retracted."

Machinations: Act V

Fri, 27 Mar 2009 11:46:58 GMT

The Shadow Palace

When Riselmian returned, silver armor spattered with black shadow blood from the fights since her last healing potion, there was nobody on the throne. A cheerful blaze burned in the fireplace, and a rail-thin canine theri crouched in front of it, tail low, staring intently into the flames.

Riselmian looked around. The room was otherwise empty. The throne, while still carved of crude marble, now sported a sleek black cushion and some simple carvings atop the high back. On the far wall, three of the black tapestries had been filled in with bold linework, and now showed a unicorn head, a dragon head, and what looked like an childish cartoon dog with the word "woof" in careful lowercase letters underneath. Outside the window, the dark sphere had not moved in the sky.

"Shadow king," she said, kneeling in front of the canine, "I have returned. There is much to report."

"Have you noticed," the coyote said, "that the fire here warms but doesn't actually burn?"

"Uh," Riselmian said, "no, I hadn't. Would you like to hear what happened, or is this another lesson?"

The coyote's tail began to wag. "Lessons? I like lessons. They taste like oranges. But oranges are tasty, and lessons are bitter."

Riselmian shifted sideways to look in the theri's eyes. "Shadow king? Are you alright?"

"Never better!" the theri sang, leaping up and pirouetting away. "I sang to the stars, and they came to visit me. Now I have new friends."

Riselmian narrowed her eyes in thought, then stood. "Alright. So far the shadow king has shown himself to me as a character from two of my favorite TV shows. I don't recognize your form even a little. So you must be another of his recruits."

The coyote stopped, and loped over to put an arm around Riselmian's shoulders. His fur was thick and sleek, and smelled of shampoo. "Don't be silly," he said. "The shadow king does not need an army. The shadow king has Dragon Knight Emile, his favorite double agent, whose brilliance will ensure the success of his cherished plans." The coyote smiled. "So how did your mission go?"

"Uh," Riselmian said.

"The shadow king also has been decorating a bit," the coyote said, changing subjects effortlessly, sweeping an arm around the room. "Do you like the tapestries? Ron didn't want one. But Gavin got a little too excited at the idea --" the coyote leaned in confidentially -- "and snuck into the throne room to make one for himself after the shadow king left."

"Ah, I get it," Riselmian said. "I'm Riselmian. Nice to meet you, Gavin."

The coyote blinked and looked over his shoulder. "No, no. Gavin went away. It's only me now."

"Then who are you?" Riselmian asked, insistently pulling away the coyote's arm and stepping back.

"Why, I'm the lord high master of all the Shadowlands," the coyote said, drawing his naked body up proudly and thumping his furred chest. "Grand schemer of schemes, planner of plans, and once and future conqueror of Earth."

Riselmian stared, then sighed and planted her head in her hand.

The coyote looked down. "Wait. No, I'm not. I'm not a shadow. Hey, Riselmian, who am I?"

"You're nuts, is what you are!" Riselmian snapped back. "Bonkers! Crackers! Insane! Six screws short of being a screw loose! Now get out of the shadow king's palace before I bite your head off."

The coyote pointed at Riselmian. "Crackers! I like that. Crackers are tasty."

Riselmian closed her eyes and summoned up inner energy, releasing herself into her true form, feeling herself fall forward onto all fours as wings burst forth and her neck elongated. Her reptilian eyes flicked back open again -- and the canine theri wasn't in front of her.

She growled, a menacing rumble deep in her throat, and swung her head around. The room was empty.

Then an upside-down coyote head popped into view at the top of her vision, grinning. "Hey!" it said lightly. "You must be Dragon Knight Emile. I'm crackers. Have you met Riselmian?"

Riselmian screeched in rage and heaved her head upward, slamming it into the ceiling. She heard a satisfying crunch as her senses scrambled with the impact. She staggered backward, swung her head to dislodge the coyote and clear her vision, and noticed two new figures were now watching her, having just entered through the portal at the far end of the hall. One was what appeared to be a being of living shadow -- a tall silhouette whose shape was humanoid, but unnaturally tall, with an equine muzzle and a horn spiraling up from its head. The other was a huge brick of a human in a dust-beaten overcoat, whose exhausted bearing and tangle of beard marked him as a refugee from The Wastes.

The coyote was sprawled on the floor next to them, apparently unhurt, clinging to one leg of the unicorn-shaped silhouette as the human stared up at Riselmian with undisguised interest.

"I don't think the new girl likes me, Ron," the coyote said, looking back at Riselmian.

The shadow unicorn looked down at the theri, then up at the smashed-in ceiling. "Ah, Riselmian," it said in a light, androgynous voice, "I see you've met Gavin."

"Both of them left," the coyote said. "Gavin made me a tapestry though. Hey ... you're not Ron."

The human sighed and turned to the unicorn. "Much as I appreciated the tour, your majesty, I told you we shouldn't have left him. He's going to do nothing but get into trouble if we let him wander around on his own."

"Ron!" the coyote shouted, disengaging from the unicorn's leg and glomming onto the man's. "The nice lady helped me remember who I am. I'm crackers! Isn't that great?"

Riselmian stormed across the throne room and brought her snarling face to within inches of the unicorn's dispassionate muzzle. "Shadow king," she said with restrained rage, "I know I said I would do anything you asked -- even die if it helps your cause -- but you would do well to remember that I have my limits. There will be unpleasant consequences if you ever ask me to be your goddamn babysitter."

The unicorn dipped its head. "My apologies, my dragon. I will structure my plans accordingly."

Riselmian snorted -- hot air curling around the three figures menacingly -- and backed away, shifting to her human form and storming over to the window.

"... Does this mean," the coyote asked in a small voice, "I get to run the treasury?"

The Sunlit World: Act IV

Wed, 25 Mar 2009 09:47:58 GMT

Trent looked around -- noting with some relief that no other pedestrians were in earshot -- and lowered his voice. "What happened to Rosalind being a hallucination?"

"Maybe that's what I thought when she was the only weirdness in my life," Kevin said, remembering that they were in public and trying to restrain his emotions. "But when a living shadow walks into your bedroom and hands you a pendant from another Dragon Legend character, it's time to reconsider. How many times can characters really appear before you start wondering whether there's something real behind the game?"

Trent sighed. "Did none of what we discussed last night sink in? Real life doesn't act the way the Shadowlands acted. It's like you completely ignored everything I said. Speaking of which, I seem to recall -- no offense, Crissy -- you also promised you wouldn't tell anyone else about the portal."

"She insisted on the truth. She's a friend and she deserves that. Besides, she was the one who found out David was gone."

"Yet another person dragged into this mess." Trent shook his head. "Well, Crissy, be aware of what you're getting into here. This isn't Dungeons & Dragons. It's serious."

"Isn't Dungeons & Dragons exactly what it is?" Crissy asked. "You've already mentioned magic portals and weapons and healing potions and monsters to fight off."

"Well, it's not D&D in the sit-around-a-table sense. It'll hurt. Even going through the portal hurts, like you got hit by lightning or something, to the point that you can't even stand up for a while."

"Though it does seem to get better if you keep going in," Kevin chipped in.

"We don't know that," Trent argued. "Look. My point is: This isn't something to just waltz into."

"Yes, yes, it's not a --" Kevin stopped and stared. "Now wait a minute! I call bullshit. You can't tell us it is and isn't a game at the same time."

"Huh? I'm not --"

"Yes you are! You absolutely are. You don't want David and I to take it seriously because it's not real, and you don't want Crissy to go in because it's too real."

"That's not at all what I said!" Trent protested. "I said the game world is fake but the game itself is dangerous. That's not a contradiction."

"It is! By definition, a game's just entertainment. It can't affect the world. Once it can reach out and hurt you -- or heal you! -- it's not a game any more."

"People do dangerous, retarded things for entertainment all the time," Trent pointed out. "Like the senior who got killed two years ago dirt skiing."

"Dirt skiing?" asked Crissy, whose parents had moved to the area after the incident.

"Driving a truck and dragging someone on a rope behind you at high speed," Kevin explained. "It's kind of a cowboy macho thing some kids do."

"That is retarded," Crissy said.

"Exactly," Trent said.

"But I think I'm with Kevin on this one," Crissy said. "If it's some sort of video game -- someone had to design it. Why would anyone make a lethal video game, and how could they possibly keep it on the market?"

Trent sighed. "Whatever. We're here." He cut across Kevin's snowy lawn. "And why did we even go to your house, Kevin? Shouldn't we be triple-checking to make sure he's not at his house before anyone charges into the Shadowlands to rescue him?"

"My room has the portal and the pendant," Kevin said. "If anything was going to happen, it would start there."

"It's easy enough to call David's room before we leave," Crissy added.

"Hang on," Trent said, stopping at Kevin's front door. "What do you mean 'we'?"

"... Exactly what I said?"

Trent shook his head. "No. I can't let you go."

"Excuse me?" Crissy said icily.

"None of us should be going in there at all," Trent said. "But as long as we're mounting an expedition for a missing friend, we need to do it intelligently. So. One: Someone needs to stay here who knows what happened, if we don't make it back. Two: There's too much risk for you. Just going through the portal is damaging -- and we don't have any healing potions, so the first time you get hit by shadow claws it'll probably leave a permanent scar. Three: You're not going to be any use to us anyway, not unless you can pick up a medieval weapon and do more damage to the bad guys than to yourself."

Crissy's face flushed. "I can take care of myself perfectly well, thank you," she snapped. "And if it's as dangerous as you say, you're going to want a bigger team, right?"

"Guys?" Kevin said uncomfortably. "Maybe we can go in the house and talk this out, instead of yelling at each other on the porch."

Trent opened up the screen door and waved Kevin past him. Kevin unlocked the front door and went inside. Trent and Crissy, glaring at each other, followed.

There was a click from the hallway ahead of them, and Kevin's bedroom door opened. Kevin jumped.

David walked through, dressed in the previous day's jeans and jacket, backpack slung over his shoulder. His eyes widened.

"David!" Kevin said.

"Guys?" David stammered.

"You --" Trent started, staring at David and the door to Kevin's room. He glanced behind him at the previously locked front door.

"Are you okay?" Crissy asked David.

Before he could answer, Trent shouldered his way past Kevin, grabbing David and slamming him against the wall. "You did go in by yourself! What do you think you were doing?" he exploded.

The hallway flew into chaos as Kevin and Crissy tried to separate the two. David finally wriggled free and threw himself behind Kevin, cringing.

"Trent!" Kevin pleaded. "Stop it!"

"Look at what you've done!" Trent shouted. "Blowing off school -- breaking into Kevin's house -- lying to all of us -- and now getting your friends so worried someone else got involved! After everything we discussed last night!"

"Trent!" David said. "Let me explain! It's changed --"

"No!" Trent interrupted. "Shut up! Just --" he wheeled and shoved his way to Kevin's front door. "That's it. I can't take it. I'm not going to deal with you guys' damn suicide wish any more!"

David winced as the door slammed, rattling windows.

"Well, shit," Kevin said.

News: Thanks for putting up with the delay for today's section. At the time it was posted, the section was Wandering Moerchant Joix: Act IV, which has since been moved to its proper place in the archives. WMJ:IV is huge, twice the size of most Acts; there were a lot of plot threads to resolve as the "Companions" arc of the novel drew to a close.

The Sunlit World: Act III

Fri, 20 Mar 2009 07:11:26 GMT

Kevin met Trent in the hallway after sixth period.

"So, I was thinking, about David --" Kevin started.

Trent sighed. "Here we go again. Has anything actually changed since we talked at lunchtime, Kevin?"

"I doubt it, but --"

"Then let's not waste time on this now. Unless we're going to skip class to go check up on him, then thinking can wait for one more hour."

"Wait, this is important." Kevin lowered his voice and leaned in, trying to keep his words below the chatter of the their fellow students. "Both of us drank at least one healing potion. David didn't, and now he's too sick for school. Maybe the transfer process causes some sort of internal injury that takes a potion to fix."

"So? He had both of the spares, remember?" Trent said. "I'm going to Precalculus. Meet you afterschool."

Kevin didn't realize until after he sat down in American History that, if their weapons hadn't returned to Earth with them, the potions had probably also disappeared.

He stewed about it the entire period, watching the minutes crawl by on the classroom clock, not even bothering to take notes. Occasionally, he would glance over his shoulder. Crissy was writing carefully, face neutral -- alternated with wider pencil arcs that were probably more sketches. Once, he caught her stealing a glance back up at him. Kevin quickly averted his eyes and pretended to be reading one of Mr. Sparks' handmade 19th-century timelines.

As the class bell rung, Kevin stuffed his books in his backpack as quickly as possible and hustled toward the door. Crissy did likewise and fell in alongside him.

"So," she said, "let me guess. Off to find David?"

"No. Off to check up on him."

"Really!" Crissy said, curious. "Where is he?"

"I found Darren at lunchtime. He said David threw up at breakfast this morning and their mom sent him back to bed."

"So he's been home sick all day."

"Yes," Kevin said slowly, wondering what Crissy was getting at.

"Which is really interesting," Crissy said, "because I've tried calling him three times, and he hasn't picked up his room line."

Kevin's stomach sank. "Oh."

"And now you're going to tell me that you need to go talk to Trent and the two of you will check it out, right?"

Kevin shifted uncomfortably. "Um ..."

"He's heading toward your locker."

Kevin looked at Crissy strangely.

"And I'm going to come along with you when you meet him."

"Ah," Kevin stammered, but couldn't find an excuse to tell her no. "Sure, I guess."

"And you know," she said as they walked, "far be it from me to be presumptious, but wouldn't it be nice of you to tell me what's been going on with you guys?"

"How do you know Trent's heading toward my locker?" Kevin asked.

Crissy smirked. "Well! I guess we both have secrets now, don't we?"

Kevin held back his response as they passed a crowd of chattering sophomores. Then, quietly: "Okay. Look, you're right. I'm sorry. I should have told you. I've been avoiding it because this is just so huge and freaky and I was trying to keep it to the people I trust more than anything. If I tell you, you need to promise that this is a secret from everyone else, except me and David and Trent. Everyone."

Crissy thought back to whatever strange being had posed as Mrs. Weaver. "Yes," she lied.

"Alright," Kevin said. "Then let's grab Trent and go to my house. We'll talk on the way."

Trent walked up to Kevin's locker from the opposite direction as they arrived. "Hey," he said, then glanced over at Crissy. "Uh --"

"She's coming with us," Kevin said. "To my place."

"Why --" Trent said suspiciously.

"She called David three times today. He wasn't home."

"But Darren said --!"

"He probably lied," Kevin said. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"And she --"

"Crissy knows enough. She needs the whole truth."

Trent sighed. "God damn it."

Kevin waited until they left campus -- and were out of earshot of any other classmates -- before saying anything. "Alright," he started, taking a deep breath. "Here's the bottom line, Crissy. I got this pendant that opened up a portal to some strange new world called the Shadowlands. We went inside last night, found some weapons and started exploring. Some little monster things attacked us, so we came back. If David's not here ... he might have gone back on his own." He cringed inwardly, waiting for the inevitable ridicule.

"Okay," Crissy said.

"Okay?" Kevin repeated.

Crissy shrugged. "Well, it was pretty obvious something weird was up from the way you guys are acting. And with all we've seen on the news, I'm supposed to freak out over some dimensional portal?"

"Well," Kevin said reluctantly, "the world appears to work ... in some of the same ways as a computer game."

"It is a video game," Trent interjected. "A game that can kill you, but a game nevertheless."

"Kill you?" Crissy's eyes widened.

"Hang on!" Kevin objected. "It is not a game!"

"We fought this giant fish-bull thing, which stabbed me in the chest," Trent told Crissy. "If it weren't for a lucky healing potion I wouldn't be standing here now." He turned on Kevin, irritated. "We discussed this last night, Kevin. How is it not a game?"

The frustration that had been building up in Kevin since returning from the Shadowlands finally burst forth. "Because it saved my life when I got hit by a car!" he shouted. "Games don't do that!"

Wandering Merchant Joix: Act IV

Tue, 17 Mar 2009 08:15:10 GMT

Hall of Heroes B1

Joix lay sprawled in his sleeping quilts, staring at the unchanging illumination of the stone ceiling, listening to the occasional rustles and thumps of groundlings and flightlings passing by outside. He was alone and trapped. Sooner or later he was going to die.

What a giant, unholy mess. Could he have kept it from all going wrong? Gotten out, somehow?

Every time his mind wandered, it kept returning to that first conversation with Diune. The words played over and over in his mind ...

"So I guess it's safe to say you believe in the Sunlit Land?" the unicorn asked.

"I've heard some of the stories," Joix answered noncommittally. "Why?"

"The Shadowscales have been telling me about a Sunlit Land warrior with incredible power who will visit our world and fight against Eversor. They say that the warrior is our only hope of survival. With every passing day I fear more and more that they're right."

Joix fidgeted. "Surely it can't be that bad?"

"The Blade Legion alone used to be 200 strong. A tiny elite at the head of the Shadow King's army. And now? We'd be lucky to field that many shadows -- total. The irregulars you saw upstairs are half the Resistance."

"What happened to the rest of the army?"

"Defected. Or slaughtered like grazers."

Diune stared at Joix. The silence again grew awkward. Was there something he should have said?

"So ... what does that have to do with me and the Sunlit Land?" Joix asked, slowly.

"We're not short on food stores," Diune said, picking up a vial again. "So I can't imagine you made these with shadows in mind."

Food? Joix had wondered. Later, he would pry out of Hope that the potions were like concentrated rations for shadows. But at the time, uncertain of what he was supposed to know, he had pivoted the subject away. Had sticking to his story been a mistake?

"Well," Joix said, "Hope told me that you work with outsiders."

"Did he now," Diune said, tone perfectly even.

What had that meant? Had Diune taken that as an insult? Had he figured out Joix's secret?

"Ah -- I mean -- the Resistance --" Joix stammered, lurching into a meaningless "You know."

To Joix's great relief, Diune shrugged the subject away. "Rumors fly and truth trots. I've never met an outsider face to face, except for Eversor's beasts on the battlefield."

"Oh," Joix said, then flailed around for a conversational foothold. "Er -- then --"

"A friendly one apparently visited the Temple of Lost Light in the early days of the invasion -- a pink thing like a wingless shadowangel, wearing impossible robes the color of snow. But by the time the Resistance reached the temple, she was long gone." Diune rotated the vial in his fingers. "Stayed around just long enough to give the shadowscales some cryptic instructions about portals that they're still struggling to figure out. Didn't even leave her name."

Joix tried to act casual. "Oh."

Right there. He should have volunteered to check it out. His one clear link to humanity. If he had spoken up --

"And these outsiders my shadowscales mention -- assuming they're going to show up at all -- aren't here yet," Diune said, standing up and gathering the five vials. "I'll stow these somewhere safe upstairs, just in case. But with the next load of crystals, would you mind crafting things our warriors will find more useful?"

-- if he had volunteered, what would Hope have done?

After Diune dropped off another armful of crystals and left for the second time, Joix sat, frozen, barely warding off panic by organizing his mental notes about the tools. He didn't consider himself a timid person, but he knew he was in way over his head. Merely keeping straight his sorry excuse for a cover story was taking up all his brainpower. Never mind the impossible mountain of "craft something more useful."

Hope returned after what seemed like an eternity. He wouldn't meet Joix's gaze.

"Hope-cat sorry," Hope said, voice breaking. "Hope-cat has to go."

"What?!" Joix squeaked out, his plea for crafting assistance left unsaid.

"Hope-cat has to go," Hope repeated, "to Oncelight Temple."

"Temple?" Joix asked. "You ... you've found faith?"

Hope shot him a strange look, locked eyes with him for a fleeting moment, and nodded uncomfortably.

Strangely, that calmed Joix down. He was stuck in a world that was alien beyond his imagination. He was never more than one dumb word from a mistake that would reveal him as an outsider. He had a single friend, who was about to depart for parts unknown. But it was faith that was getting Hope so agitated ... and problems of faith? Those he knew, right down to his bones.

Joix got up, checked the hallway to make sure they were alone, and gave Hope a tender, sympathetic hug, heart pounding. "Hope," he whispered, "with everything you did for me while I was struggling with God ... I completely, totally understand. I promise I'll take care of myself. You take all the time you need with your faith, and let me know anything I can do. Anything."

Hope wedged a hand up against his chest and pushed him back a few inches, finally returning Joix's stare -- and jesus christ he was crying, trails of tears glinting in the unlight against the matte black of his fur.

"Joix-cat not understand," Hope said. "Not faith like lord-book."

"Huh?"

"Faith-cat."

Joix said nothing. Somehow, he knew what was coming next, as if the words had been custom-crafted from within his own heart to rip it apart as deeply as possible:

"Faith-cat is ... big friend," Hope said. "Hope-cat thought Faith-cat not want to see him again."

Another patrol of groundlings loped by outside, pausing to sniff at the smithing room's door before continuing onward. It was enormously ironic that Joix owed his life to the room wards; they had been designed to contain beasts waiting to be killed for shard harvesting. He wondered when someone was going to show up and harvest him.

Joix balled up on his side, running his claws slowly over the smooth floor stones and listening to the sound.

He had told Hope to go. He had promised to stay and wait for Hope's return. Nothing else would have been fair; his feelings weren't Hope's fault. And it had clearly been hard enough for the shadowcat already, without him complicating things.

He had sworn with great solemnity to maintain his secret identity -- no matter what. Hope had insisted. Hope still wanted to keep him safe more than anything. Well ... more than almost anything.

... Almost anyone.

And for all that the conversation was stabbed and seared into his memory -- it was a clean, cauterized wound. It didn't come with the self-doubt of his other interactions.

How could he have done anything differently?

Hope quickly left, too distracted to offer any further crafting lessons. Then one of the shadowscales -- the same one who had grabbed his leg? -- visited him in the basement with a third tool as a gift, and started teaching him right where Hope had left off. It was too dumb to be luck and too fortunate to be coincidence.

"How did you know I needed help?" Joix blurted out.

The reptile smiled inscrutably, then merely whispered: "If you were truly a crystalsmith, you would not be here."

"How do you know --"

The shadowscale pressed a cold finger to his lips. "Hush," he murmured. "The others will hear."

Joix learned to craft weapon crystals and to dye armor material with charged shard essence before the shadowscale abandoned him to his solitary labors. Time passed quickly as he worked.

After his first smithing shift, he took a break to watch the shadowmancers seal up the top of the pit, hardening the twohorns' diggings into thick, solid stone and camouflaging the roof's top surface into an unremarkable, grassy hillside. The Resistance was going fully underground.

Soon after the roofing project was complete, Diune told some twohorns to remove the spotlight -- and its segment of arch -- from its lofty home.

"Where are you taking it?" Joix asked.

"The Temple of Lost Light," Diune replied. "The shadowscales want it."

"What for?"

"They think they've cracked it -- a way to bring outsiders here from the Sunlit Land. There's no way of telling if they'll be friendly -- but we no longer have a choice. Once Eversor finds a way into the underground, we've got days, at best."

A connection to the Sunlit Land? Joix had almost volunteered on the spot -- but it was then that he had realized. "Oncelight Temple." The Temple of Lost Light.

He wasn't ready for Faith.

"Bring them back if you find any," Joix said. "I bet they'll need crafted gear."

But Eversor found the Hall of Heroes first.

Joix was crafting a weapon crystal when a low rumble built up to a splintering crash. The entire room pitched and yawed. Shouting echoed from upstairs, along with a bloodcurdling bellow. There were the scuffles and thuds of a fight. Screams. Roars.

Stampeding feet and hooves. The sounds of nearby death. Joix slammed the door shut, reflexively started to pray, and then realized he no longer had anyone to pray to. He moaned, sank to the floor, and waited for the end.

He had been in the room since.

Once, he had worked up the nerve to sneak out and try to flee. Only once. The instant he stepped foot out of the door, a pair of spiky shadow things the size and shape of Doberman pinschers with red glowing eyes had whirled around, growled, and charged. He had slammed the door shut again, and waited, heart thudding. They had sniffed around outside, puzzled, and walked away.

He had tried to call out for help, too. Nobody had answered.

So there was nothing left to do but consume his dwindling supply of snacks and water -- and dwell on his situation.

Finally, the memories yielded to uneasy sleep.

Then the crafting room's door clicked as someone disengaged the handle. Sleep yielded to adrenaline. "Aaaah!" Joix said, instantly scrambling upright.

Breathing hard, he stared into eyes he had given up hope of ever seeing again. Human eyes. A young woman in gleaming silver armor with green trim was staring at him in disbelief. Some teenaged boy in blue jeans and a disheveled jacket was staring wide-eyed over her shoulder.

Joix's mouth fell open. Someone from Earth! He was saved! They could go home --

-- No. Something felt strange. What was the deal with the strangely armored woman? Was she the "Sunlit Land" warrior Diune and the shadowscale had speculated about? Maybe Earth wasn't the Sunlit Land after all; the frightened-looking kid couldn't possibly be the one. Probably just a refugee from the Wastes like himself.

And then ... there was the promise he had made to Hope. Not only to keep himself safe, but to give him a chance, just maybe, to help the Resistance save Hope's world. If he broke his promise now, revealed himself as an outsider at the wrong moment, he might not ever get to see the shadowcat again.

As Joix's mind churned, the woman stepped forward, leveling a wicked-looking set of gleaming metal claws at him. "Identify yourself, stranger, and state your allegiance."

Joix swallowed. Here it was: another moment of irrevocable choice. His heart thudded in his chest.

"I'm Joix," he said. "You're with the Resistance too?"

"... Yes."

"Thank goodness you're here! I'm just a simple crystalsmith from Dragon Lake. I got stuck here when Eversor's beasts attacked. I thought I was going to die."

The woman slowly lowered her claw, startled. "Wait. Dragon Lake? Here in the Shadowlands?"

Joix nodded. "I can tell," he said slowly, "we have a lot to talk about."

Crissy: Act IV

Fri, 13 Mar 2009 08:54:25 GMT

The Sunlit World

Crissy stared. Was this Kevin's idea of a joke? It wasn't remotely funny. She crumpled the card in her fist.

"I'll kill him," she muttered.

Then she forced herself to take a deep breath. A lot of work had clearly gone into this, even as far as involving his mother. All to give her a fake phone number? It didn't make sense. Kevin wasn't that conniving.

She smoothed out the card and looked at the number again. It wasn't even his handwriting. Kevin's handwriting was sprawling, jotty and just on the near side of legible.

She sat down at the nurse's desk and refocused. The 555 prefix was for numbers that didn't exist. That's why they used it for movies and TV shows. But she'd never actually tried dialing one. Maybe there was some sort of weird trick at the phone company where they could route that somewhere. Or -- well, this was supposedly about learning magic, right? Why did it have to make sense? Magic meant doing the impossible.

Crissy bit her lip, picked up the phone, and dialed.

The line fell dead -- no recorded message, no ring, nothing.

"... Hello?" Crissy said.

"Good afternoon, Crissy," a familiar, cheerful voice said from behind her.

Crissy scrambled out of the chair, slamming the phone down. "Aaah! Mrs. Weaver! I didn't hear you come in."

Leaning against the closed door was the heavyset, bespectacled older woman with curly faded blond hair that had served as the school nurse since before Crissy's oldest brother had entered Dog River High. Mrs. Weaver was wearing her usual modest, crisp blouse; soft-edged white coat; and knee-length white dress; and had her arms crossed over her ample bosom. She smiled at Crissy. "I was wondering if you'd ever call."

Crissy's mouth fell open. "Wait. You're ...?" She looked back at the card. "Wait. I thought your first name was Jennifer. What does the W stand for?"

"Well-dressed," Mrs. Weaver quipped, walking over and sitting down in her chair.

Crissy didn't laugh. "What's going on?" she asked, bewildered.

"You have questions," Mrs. Weaver said. "It sounds like you're ready to hear the answers. So I gave you my card."

"You gave ...?" Crissy said, sinking into the white plastic-and-metal chair against the wall. She did a double-take. "You gave it to me? Not Kevin's mom? ... Who are you?"

"Not the school nurse." Mrs. Weaver pointed her thumb over her shoulder at the windowed door. "But privacy will be a little easier this way."

Crissy considered, then nodded. "Okay. That, at least, I guess makes sense."

"It's a start," Mrs. Weaver said with a smile. "So, Crissy, what's on your mind?"

Crissy took a deep, shaky breath, trying to tamp her adrenaline back down. "What happened to David?"

Mrs. Weaver leaned back and crossed her legs. "Is that really what's most important to you?"

"Huh?" Crissy stammered. "N-no! I mean, I like him, but ... um. I mean --" she forced herself to shut up until she regained some coherency -- "it just seemed like a much better question to ask than repeating 'What's going on?' until my brain falls out."

The nurse chuckled. "Well, that's a relief, because I can't actually tell you what's happening to David right now."

"You can't?" Crissy said, even more lost.

"I'm not omniscient, Crissy. I'm not even really the one running the show, even though that seems to be what everyone assumes. Which I guess is only logical."

Crissy's eyes widened. "You're --"

"No," Mrs. Weaver cut her off. "I'm not your creator. Let's get that straight, right off the bat. I'm a servant." She leaned forward. "My job is to keep this world from being destroyed."

Crissy shrank back into her chair, feeling very small. "That's what this is about?"

"No," Mrs. Weaver said. "If it makes you feel any better -- no. The world's in no immediate danger. I would know if it was."

"Then what --"

"Loose ends. Unwoven threads." Mrs. Weaver shrugged. "What the particular reason is that your friends are being dragged into this, I couldn't say. But there is a game being played, and they are pieces in it."

Mrs. Weaver looked expectantly at Crissy -- who felt obligated to say something. "What about me?"

"What about you?" Mrs. Weaver shot back. "I've answered some questions. Now you answer one of mine. Crissy Ellenberg, where do you fit into this?"

"I don't know!" Crissy said. "Isn't that what you're supposed to tell me?"

Mrs. Weaver chuckled. "Sorry, dear. Destiny doesn't work like that. How far you tug the Weave depends on how hard you pull. And now that's the decision you have to make. How much do you want the uncertainty, the fear, the eternal quiet self-doubt, the raw danger of shaping the world? Do you want to take that chance that when you pull, you'll get yanked in return, ripping your life apart around you?"

"That's ... an awful lot to worry about."

"It is." The nurse nodded soberly.

"Then why would anyone say yes?"

"Kei," Mrs. Weaver said, her smile returning, "what is magic?"

Crissy looked around the room, feeling incredibly self-conscious, some inner voice insisting she make sure there weren't half a dozen other celestial visitors around to listen and laugh.

"Being able to be who you really are," she said faintly.

"Some people find that worth the sacrifice."

"Did David make that choice?" Crissy asked, and then revelation hit. "Did Kevin? Is that what the whole Rosalind thing is about?"

"In ... a manner of speaking," Mrs. Weaver said. "They probably didn't get asked that question, in so many words. But everyone who faces up to magic faces it, by the very nature of the force."

"Magic ..." Crissy said, staring down at her hands. Mrs. Weaver sat quietly as Crissy thought.

At length, Crissy asked: "So, what did happen to David? Where did he go?"

"He's beyond my sight," Mrs. Weaver said. "He didn't leave town in any manner you or I could name, but you won't find him in Pitt Creek."

"Is he in trouble? Kevin sure seemed scared."

Mrs. Weaver spread her hands. "Probably. There are dark and powerful forces involved in this. But the truth is, nobody in this world could tell you."

"Oh," Crissy said.

"However," Mrs. Weaver said slowly, "you could find out for yourself."

The room froze, save for the ticking of the wall clock. Finally, Crissy said: "Tell me more."

The Wastes: Act VI

Tue, 10 Mar 2009 07:46:24 GMT

Animal House

Ron walked, eyes closed. Occasionally, a step wouldn't be exactly where he expected, making him stumble; occasionally, a step wouldn't be there at all, and he would activate a flight spell, mentally lowering himself until he touched ground again. But always, he walked, and always, he kept his eyes shut.

Until his face smacked into an unexpected wall.

He cried out in surprise, eyes flying open to see the dingy grey of an old apartment building spreading out to both sides. As his body fell backward, he activated his flight spell again, neutralizing gravity long enough to pull his legs back and catch himself. He rubbed his tender nose and looked around.

The building seemed to have been transported whole into the middle of the flat wasteland. There was no exterior landscaping, just dull stone walls catching the blowing dust, which had built up into small drifts. There was a big glass entryway into a foyer some distance to Ron's right, but no other ground-level features; above him, six stories of curtained windows and balcony doors lay silent and closed.

With one last glance at the featureless desert, Ron walked over to the foyer, pressing his face against the window glass. Inside was an empty front desk, an open elevator, a staircase that spiraled upward around a broad square stairwell, a row of wall-mounted mail slots, a large projection television, and several empty chairs. Ron closed his eyes again and scanned for life signs -- but something felt off. The building itself seemed to have a thin, even aura to it, strong enough to indicate something inside, but with no concentrations that might pinpoint any residents. Some effect was clearly interfering with his spiritual perception, probably related to whatever it was that made the wasteland outside so unnavigable and utterly devoid of life.

Ron tried the front door. It was unlocked. He chuckled. "Great omen, there," he said, as much to hear the sound of his own voice as anything. Days without any water beyond what he'd conjured up for himself had left his throat gravelly, and days without seeing so much as a single moving thing had gotten him doubting his sanity.

He let himself in, and slowly allowed the door to swing closed, checking to make sure it didn't do anything ominous like lock behind him. He scanned the building for life again: no change. Satisfied, Ron turned and called out in a loud, deep voice: "Hello?"

There was a rustling behind the front desk. Surprised, Ron raised his hands -- one open palm out, ready for defense; one with splayed fingers pointed forward -- and froze.

"Who goes there?" he called.

A golden retriever's head and paws appeared over the edge of the desk. Its dark eyes stared at him and floppy ears rose in interest. The dog disappeared behind the counter again, then pushed through the ajar gate to the side.

Ron leveled his hand squarely at the dog. "Stop or I'll blow your head off!" he threatened in his most menacing voice.

It trotted toward Ron with its tail up and wagging, oblivious. Ron reluctantly lowered his hands. "So you're not a theri, then. And I could be wrong, but I don't sense any danger in you." He crouched and extended a palm. "What are you doing here, pup?"

A soft thump in the background caught Ron's attention. He glanced up to see a human-shaped figure crouched at the bottom of the stairwell. It was golden-grey, soft-edged, with pointed ears and a fluffed-out, black-tipped tail. It locked eyes with him.

"Don't touch it!" the theri shouted, standing and raising its hands.

Ron felt the surge in magic even before his body moved, and he fought, thrusting his will downward and anchoring himself to the ground. Even so, his body skidded sideways before he brought his massive weight to bear and planted his feet against the carpet. At his side, the retriever's body shot away, hurtling into the air and crashing into the giant TV screen against the far wall with a surprised yelp.

Ron slammed down a shield against further magical attack and narrowed his eyes at the coyote theri. With a surge of willpower, he picked up his opponent's form and slammed it back against the railing, holding the coyote in place with a spectral hand.

The theri's grip on Ron evaporated -- but its focus on the retriever didn't waver. The coyote made several hand gestures. The dog's barking fuzzed away into an electronic hum as it was suddenly sucked into the television. Ron gritted his teeth and directed additional mental force to paralyze his opponent's hands.

"Get out of here, human!" the coyote shouted at Ron. "Save yourself, while you still can!"

Ron paused. With the dog gone, the theri was putting up no further resistance. Was it a trick? It didn't feel like one.

"There's nothing for me outside," Ron growled, cautiously advancing on the stairwell. "I'll take my chances. Who are you, and what's going on?"

"There's a virus!" the coyote said. "A -- ah -- my virus. Turning people into animals -- dumb animals, not theris. I'm the only one left."

Ron released his invisible grip with the wave of a hand. The coyote fell to the floor, sobbing, a frail shell of a beast next to Ron's huge, looming form.

"It was my fault," the coyote said raggedly. "I changed them all. I made a mistake. Destroyed their minds." The naked beast rocked back and forth, arms clutched to his chest, fur matted with weeks of neglect. "Nobody survived. You have to go."

Ron sighed, then paced back and forth, deliberating. Perhaps he really was in danger here ... but he'd already cheated death once, he was a highly capable mage, and he needed information. More importantly, he needed someone to talk to after his slog through the dusty wastelands. Virus or not, he'd stay. Ron turned back to the theri: "What's your name?"

The coyote looked up, and Ron realized with a shock that there was no recognition in its eyes. "Oh, hello," it said pleasantly. "Are you real? No human can live here. Perhaps you're dead? Who are you?"

"Uummm ... I'm Ron. What's your name?"

"Where did you come from? There's only dust outside. Only dust, only dust ..." Its muzzle swiveled to the window. "It's so dusty. When did it get so dusty? There's dust in my fur. It itches like memories."

"Jesus," Ron muttered. "First thing I walk into after days of desert is a freaking insane asylum. Hey. Coyote. You made sense a minute ago -- stay with me here. What's your name? Tell me your name."

"What is my name?" the coyote said. "You mean, what do they call me? Who is there left to do the calling? Only the stars. I cannot see them, so no-one answers. But when I hear them, we sing so sweetly, the stars and I."

Ron looked around. "You live here, right? Which mailbox is yours? Show me your mailbox."

The coyote stood up shakily. "Yes. Mail. There is nobody to deliver it any more, but the mail keeps coming. Postcards, full of shame and regrets." He loped over to the mail racks and peered into box 304. "Yes. There is nothing for me today. Today's mail must be for you. I'll find some to give you."

Ron looked over the theri's shoulder. Underneath the slot, on a neatly typed label, was the name "Gavin Freschi."

"Gavin," Ron said.

"I should write him again," the theri replied brightly. "Do you have a twenty-cent stamp?"

As the coyote looked back at Ron's face, he did a double-take. He whirled and screamed almost in Ron's ear, making him wince. "Human! You've got to leave! Save yourself!" Gavin cowered against the mail rack.

Ron sighed. "I'm going to regret this. I just know it." He traced some circles in front of him, brow furrowed in concentration, and held out his hands as a large leash wove itself out of thin air and dropped into his grip. He put the collar over Gavin's unresisting neck and tightened the buckle. "Alright, buddy. This place isn't doing you any favors. Let's make like pages and book."

The theri meekly stood straight, then his head swiveled and he stared over Ron's shoulder with a cheerful smile. "Oh, hello, mother!" Gavin said. "He followed me home. Can I keep him?"

Ron turned -- and literally jumped in shock. Leaning casually against the front counter was a chubby bearded clown with neon green facepaint and a curly black wig, wearing a plaid jacket straight out of the nightmares of a 1970s fashion designer over a long dalmatian-spotted white dress and giant, floppy high heels. The scent of lavender tickled Ron's nose.

"Gaaah!" Ron said, scrambling backward against the wall.

"Well, thith ith unexthpected," the clown said to Ron, then opened its mouth a few times, trying to compensate for the lisp. "You struck out through the wastes, did you? And even managed to find one of your fellow exiles. I could use someone of your talents."

Ron recovered his wits, but not his composure. "Who the hell are you? What's going on?"

The clown glanced over to one side -- where a small white kitten had leaped up to the counter to investigate the commotion -- and picked up the kitten, stroking its head. "I'll be happy to answer all of your questions, Ronald Adenson. But first, let me tell you about my plan."

Crissy: Act III

Fri, 06 Mar 2009 10:49:36 GMT

The Sunlit World

Fourth period: Crissy took notes ... and doodled. English involved actual brainpower, but she still had margins and boredom.

In her notebook, a mustachioed magician poised his hand above a hat, pulling out a blobby rabbit. After a moment's thought, she filled the bunny in black, gave it big white eyes, and added some gratuitous claws. She erased the magician's smirk and added in a terrified face.

David wasn't in English, either. But Kevin was. When the bell rang and they got up for lunch, Crissy reluctantly went over to his desk.

"Hey," she said.

Kevin avoided her eyes. "Uh, hey."

"Um," she stalled.

"So, er," he said, "I'm sorry about yesterday."

"Oh, it's okay," Crissy said. "You had a rough day. I'm sorry I missed you guys over at your house, though."

"You did?" He looked up, startled.

"Your mom didn't tell you when you got back? She gave me your card."

"Uh, no, she didn't." He shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject. "You heard anything from David today?"

"No. ... I was going to ask you that."

"... Oh."

"I saw Darren in the hallway, so I guess they didn't all die in a plane crash," Crissy said, flailing for a little humor to ease the tension.

"He didn't ... call you this morning or anything?" Kevin ventured.

"No ... why would he have?" Crissy narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Uh, 'cause you guys are on the phone all the time," Kevin said. "Hey, can I ask you for a favor?"

"What?"

"Can you double-check with Darren? I'll go see if Trent's seen him around."

Crissy stared at Kevin in horror. "Are you serious? Go give Darren some excuse to pretend I'm interested in him? No! Just ... no. Darren's got all the personality of a wood tick and none of the redeeming social qualities."

"Never mind," Kevin said. "I'll go ask him myself then."

Crissy bent down and craned her neck to look at Kevin's face. "What's going on? Seriously, Kevin. What's happened to David? Are you that worried that you can't just check on him after school?"

Kevin turned away and arranged the books in his backpack. "Naw. I'm overreacting. I just thought --" he considered, choosing words -- "with something he said last night, maybe he felt like he had to leave. But you're right. It's nothing."

Crissy sighed and picked up her backpack. Kevin was definitely hiding something. She turned to leave, felt weight shift on her back, and realized in horror that the zipper on her pack had come undone.

Crissy reached behind her back too late, as textbooks and notes flew out, blanketing their corner of the classroom. "Oh, crap!" she cursed, diving to pick up her papers.

Kevin knelt to help her. He reassembled a pile of loose school handouts, then stopped and stared at her government notebook, which had fallen open to one of her pages of sketches.

"Hey!" Crissy said, face flushing. She snatched it away and snapped the book shut.

Kevin looked sheepish. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to look. But those were really good. Why didn't you ever tell us you were an artist?"

"It's just something I do to pass time in Mr. Henderson's class," she lied, feeling her cheeks burn. "You know how he is."

"Yeah."

Crissy glanced around the room to make sure the other students had all left, and pressed back into her original subject. "Look, Kevin," she said quietly to keep Mr. Elrich from hearing. "Level with me here. You've been acting really weird, and now David's not at school and you're freaking out. What happened last night?"

She saw Kevin's cheeks redden to match her own. "We ... talked. Stuff I'm not sure I should repeat. We had to get out of the house so we walked for a little while."

"Is David alright?" she said, slowly emphasizing each word.

"Yes, I'm sure of it," Kevin said, too quickly. It was an obvious lie.

"Where is he, then?"

Kevin stood up. "I'll, uh, check with Darren and Trent."

Crissy zipped her pack and stood. "I'll call his house. If he's not there --" she said, making sure she looked as angry as she felt -- "I need to know the truth. I'm his friend too ... and I thought I was yours."

As she stormed off toward the office, she shoved her hands in her pockets -- and found her fingers brushing the card Mrs. MacArthur had given her. Kevin's card, with a phone number having something to do with "learning magic." He'd gone out of his way to get her that information, and yet he was being so evasive about David! She exhaled, confused.

Wait. Maybe that meant there was something he couldn't say. Curious, she quickened her pace.

She let herself in to the school office. "Hey, Mrs. Wallace," she said. "Do you mind if I borrow a phone? I need to call my mom."

"Sure," the administrative secretary said, offering her a handset. "What's your number?"

"It's, um, kind of private," Crissy said. "Could I maybe use the one in the nurse's office for a bit?"

The secretary looked around to make sure they were alone, and waved her around the desk. "Alright, Crissy. Just don't make it a habit."

Crissy smiled in gratitude. There were occasional advantages to being a quiet, nerdy kid.

She stepped into the office, quietly closed the door behind her, and dialed David's room. The phone rang. No answer.

"Well, Kevin," she muttered, "you'd better not be jerking me around."

She pulled the card out of her pocket. In a simple, compact serif font, it read:

W. Weaver Archon Enterprises Consultant

Crissy flipped the card over. In precise handwriting, with a thin red pen, it had only the number: 555-4263.

The phone number wasn't even real.

"You've got to be kidding me," Crissy said.