Manaplex: Merlin

My teacher of Magic, the ancient multi-dimensional wizard from legend. An older man with brown hair and a beard, typically in robes, sometimes in a suit. Occasionally gruff and bossy and harsh and demanding. Wise and very smart. Knows much lore. Able to fashion magic objects. 

Lesson of the Key, Lesson of the Staff, Lesson of the Amulet, Lesson of the Scroll*

Role: guides during magical work for self and others. Provides knowledge and inspiration and technical expertise. Motivates and inspires and teaches.

Feelings: reasonable, urgency, frustration, authority, clarity

Conditions: working on design ideas, talking about magical work or therapeutic work

Symbols: staff

Signs: voice and language tone

Abilities: casting spells, designing rituals, analyzing patterns, teaching lessons and mysteries, teaching techniques, binding demons, naming spirits, recognizing omens and signs

Blessing: useful and creative and energizing

Curse: lack of compassion, overly technical

Tools: staff – will, secondary appraisal, detachment, direction

C2IP Update.3

Marshal stepped into Mick's apartment. He had used a Neo-Linguistic Programming technique from a library book to convince the superintendent to give him access. Mick had only disappeared a few days ago but somehow there was already a thick layer of dust coating every surface, almost like ash. 

The kitchenette was a mess of take-out packaging. The living room was a ruin of videogame cases and controllers (many smashed in rage), cigarette butts, CD cases, sketches and hand-written poetry.

In the small bedroom (just a sleeping bag on the floor) Marshal found the map Mick had been working on, pages pasted to the wall with lines and circles connecting them, a shot straight out of a conspiracy movie. It was the outline for Mick's next novel. 

Marshal had read Illiciterati and Evanjaculist and had been eagerly awaiting Mick's newest book. Except he had been having all these strange dreams and when he performed his ritual meditations to Odin and Merlin the gods had been telling him that something more was happening, that Mick was involved in something deeper. Then Marshal had started having these really potent daydreams at work, imagining uncovering a covert war between something called The System and a group calling themselves Counter, and it was all connected to Mick's writing. The dreams and visions and daydreams became more and more intense until he was compelled to come here...

One page was titled 'Chronoplex'. The name 'Suki', 'version GrownUp?', 'version Grandma?'. 'Project Realtime?'. 'Can we access the Missing Season?'. 'Can we learn what happened during the Millennium Incident?'.

Another page labelled 'Paraplex'. 'So what happened to the Initiated Dragons?'.

The next: 'Ultraplex'. 'Are these reports that the Counter-System was broadcasting? Or are they made up? Propaganda or just fiction?'.

'Hyperplex'. 'The Plureality Dragons Upgraded'. 'The Diner Dragons?', crossed out. 'Darius?', circled and crossed out.

'Omniplex'. 'Art, journals, music, RPGs?'. 'Project Horizon?'.

'Synchroplex'. A list of dates.


'Manaplex'. Mostly illegible. 'New job?' circled. 'Project Ellipses?'.

And in marker, scrawled over many of the pages: 'BETRAYAL'.

Marshal had no idea what any of it meant but could feel that it somehow explained everything.

He also noticed a copy of a magazine on the floor. Profile Celebrations. The cover story was about a man named Vlad Akimoto. Marshal scanned the article:

International fitness business empire mogul. Founder of "The Timeless Warrior" training regime, based on ancient lost arts of body purification through testing one's physical limits, combined with the introduction into your healthy diet of designer herbal infused beverages. Proposed by some in the fashion industry that Akimoto was the father of the "hipster" movement. Rumoured a) to be majority owner in the up and coming "Citadel" independent music label, b) to have founded the online "Barbarian" clothing line which specializes in custom design t-shirts, c) to own a number of fashionable craft beer eateries in Tokyo, St Petersburg and Munich.

Why was Mick researching this guy?

Happy Halloween 3

Previously on Halloween...

The Dragons' Costumes (version.Sense8)

(Max, Tatter, Suki, Goner, Frank, Angst, Marshal, Maggie)

The Professor and Morganfokker's Costumes (version.Sense8)

Morganfokker's Costume (vesrion.HalfLife)

Max's Costume (version.Multiversity)

Escalation

Marshal double-checked that the office door was locked. He turned back to the computer terminal. The desktop picture was from Serial Experiment: Lain. There were three video-chat windows open, conferenced with each other. "Ok, go."

Angst spoke in the first window. "Yeah, so. Not good. So not good. None of the contact rituals for Odin, Merlin or Kele-De are working. The Infrared Lodge and the Ultraviolet Lodge are in open conflict. And the Ashen Tradition is claiming to be on the verge of locating a relic they are calling 'The Hyperplex'."

Frank was next. "LEGACY has apparently negotiated a truce between the Manticores and the Basilisks. If that's true they will undoubtedly try and loop in the other Legend Gangs as well. There's also rumours that they are looking to recruit Lanight into the fold."

Marshal sighed, "So things are fracturing in one direction and consolidating in another. Everyone knows by now that something is happening."

Goner spoke up. "More bad news: my intel says that Throckmorton, Angus Mode, Mr. Clean, and Verdi are all bidding on an assassination contract. Maybe Nell and Ally, maybe Meelos and Legos. Or, maybe, The Future."

Shit, Frank thought and they all heard him.

"And the target?" Angst asked.

"Max," Goner said.

"Well, Max better watch out," Marshal said.

The others looked confused. 

Office Spacetime

Marshal glanced around and noticed that he and Javier were alone in the office. “Any leads?” he asked.

Javier waved him over. “I’m running a Mask,” he explained as he tapped at the keyboard, letting Marshal know it was safe to use the computer. The screen changed colours and a new graphic appeared.


“I found these buried in the tags of Launchpad’s incoming emails," Javier said.  "I’m going to check Altar’s next.”

Marshal scanned the list. He didn’t recognize the data:


Delta Fox
Charlie Ten.7
Angel Cake 1.7
Indigo
Elephant Cobra

“I think they’re tracking Versions,” Javier said. “Think about it: wouldn’t a master-list of all variations of plureality make controlling them all that much easier? In fact, they probably couldn’t have achieved their spread of influence without having a trans-variable method of structuring and coordinating their activities. Sure, it’s creepy but you can see how useful it would be…”

Marshal nodded. He saw the appeal but there were implications, if it was even possible. Versions weren’t just parallel realities; the existence of parallel realities was a variable within a given version, a sub-criteria. Not all versions contained parallel realities.

He pointed at the screen, the list of data. One of the lines stood out:


5102 PARAPLEX

“What’s that, Frank?”

Javier stood up quickly, looked nervous. “Who’s Frank? Marshal, what’s-“

Marshal grabbed Javier and took him down, an elbow to his throat. “Who are you?”

“I-I’m the Counter… Your Counter c-contact…”

Now Marshal stood up, releasing Javier. He looked confused.

Mandatory Training

"Some of you may have worked together before, others will be from different departments, so let's take a moment to introduce ourselves," the instructor said.

Max was the fifth person to speak. "Marshal Montgomery," he said. "I work at the Altar Station, incoming data mostly." He was just trusting the words that came into his mind.

The others continued sharing their names and departments. 

Max, is that you? Frank's voice sounded in his head. Max suddenly realized that the man who had introduced himself as Javier Alvarez from Launchpad Station was Frank; he looked different, probably in the same way that Marshal somehow looked different than Max, but it was him.

Marshal gave a questioning look to Javier. Max wasn't sure that anyone besides he and Maggie (and Morganfokker) had demonstrated polysonae before...

I'm not sure, either, Frank sent back. I was practicing with some trancework, meditating on what we've learned about the System, and I ended up piggybacking into Javier... Is this what it's like for you? 

Marshal shrugged slightly. The truth was that Max had been sleeping and hadn't been entirely sure this wasn't a lucid dream. Now he suspected that this Agency was a System or Counter-System front; maybe he and Frank could learn something. 

The introductions had finished.

The instructor continued, "To appreciate the importance of the Emergency Response Protocols we are learning today it's useful to understand an Emergency as a situation where there has been a loss of control; these Protocols will help to regain that control."

I wonder why they are providing this training now? Frank asked in Max's mind.

v.Thespian

It's almost time for the Annual Morningstar Festival of One-Act Plays and the Jones Heights community theatre troupe Noo Media Productions needs a hit. For the last five years they have come in last in the competition, while popular (and well-funded) groups like Legacy Stage or The Angus Mode Players take home the trophies. It's all supposed to be a fun, friendly contest, but it's theatre and that means a lot of feelings and a lot of egos are involved...

So how are NMP looking this year? Well, the Board decided to bring in a first-time Director, Mallory Magrielle. And she decided to mount a production of a notoriously difficult play called 'Maxed to the Third Power'. Will great risk bring great reward? Except that the Set Designer Miguel Rogen and the Costume Designer Charlotte Stang are constantly arguing over what period the story is set in, while the Director refuses to weigh in because she feels that "conflict is essential to the creation of great art". Which has left Suki Fujimoria, the Stage Manager, over-worked and highly stressed - and Suki is known for her temper. No one has seen the Musical Director (and local DJ) Vlad Tiamook in over week; apparently he is furiously remixing the entire soundtrack to a create a "meta-temporal vibe" that will fit with whichever setting wins out, Rogen's or Stang's.

As for the cast... Ms. Magrielle gave the Lead Female role to Jones Heights' only (semi)famous citizen, Marnie Waters, who had a (semi)successful stint as a pop diva. Pandering or a subtle critique of celebrity? And instead of giving the Lead Male role to the long-standing, well-respected, troupe mainstay Frank Thamin - who thought the part could be his Prospero, but will instead be playing the Narrator - Ms. Magrielle cast THREE unknowns. That's right, she's having one character played by three different actors! How exactly Marshal Montgomery, Simon Light and Mick Scribe will split up the dialogue and action remains a closely-guarded secret.

Will opening night bring triumph or tragedy? Rave reviews or farcical folly?

Fallen Final

"One day he was gone.

"Max had already been burnt out by the time we stormed the Temple. All the shifting, all his 'cubed' experiences, all the stress and uncertainty. Then being trapped here. Losing Maggie, again. None of us were totally surprised that he left. Dex was bitter, Wraith was angry, Callan was resigned, but none of us were surprised.

"And I was the least surprised of all, because Max had told me that he was going."

Wraith straightened in her seat, her frame tense. This was new to her, a story she hadn't yet heard. Darius glanced at her as he sipped his tea, and continued.

"He had come to believe that he was the problem, that Morganfokker was behind all of it and that he was carrying Morganfokker's signal, his sickness, with him. He thought that he had screwed up and gotten all of us trapped here. And he realized that as long as he was around we might never find our way clear of all the bad weird shit. I know, it's pretty egotistical when you think about it, but he might have been right.

"So he said that he was going underground, that he would go into hiding, use some of that weird identity magic he knew, and we would see what happened. And that he would try and find a way to make things better, and if he did he would come back. I nicknamed it the 'Once and Future Cube' plan. Make no mistake, things were still bad after he was gone - the Demons were relentless - but... Things were less weird without Max around."

Wraith was shaking her head but it was impossible to tell what she was feeling behind the mask.

"So," Marshal said. "Why did he tell you? When he didn't tell anyone else?"

"I'm not sure," Darius replied. "I've wondered about that. Why do you think he might have told me?"

Marshal considered. "The way you talk about everything, you seem to understand a bit of what it was like for Max."

Darius considered, a glimmer in his one eye. "I like to think I did. I tried to. So is that why you decided to tell me?"

"What?" Marshal blinked.

Darius smiled slightly. "You can tell me now, why you decided then to tell me about the 'Once and Future Cube'."

Marshal took a deep breath. A strange look on his face. "I... I knew..." He wasn't sure if he was making things up or remembering them. "I knew that I would need someone's help to get back."

Wraith stood up. Darius asked, "And why would you be coming back?"

"Because there was a chance... A chance to make things better."

"And what would it be?"

He thought about everything he had studied in Haven, everything he had learned from the Arcana. He thought about what he had seen in the borderlands, the ruins, the Demons. The Dragons and the stories that Darius had told him.

"If... If you could use one of the Grids to take control of an Eye... You could fly the Eye through one of the Gutters, out past Frontline... To where the Demons come from. It must be a portal. That would be your way to get out. Or shut them down. Or both. And now that the bulk of their forces have advanced on Haven..." He blinked again.

Darius grinned. "Alright Max, let's try it." Wraith nodded. "And we'll see what happens next."

Fallen Six

Previously in the Metaplex... 

“Things had gotten strange. Even stranger, I guess. And they had gotten desperate. More fragmented than ever. Things were happening out of order. Max was experiencing different versions with a different team. One of them had died but they got her back. Then another was killed. The man they called The Professor was experimenting with something they called Plexotron technology, remixing events like they were music. And another man was hunting Max, a man called Morganfokker. 

“It seemed like everywhere we went Morganfokker was waiting, and people started to get hurt. Memphis, Precious, Summer, Amber... He got to all of them. As a way to get to us. And Max thought he had figured it out. Morganfokker was able to track us through plureality because we were a convergence. Our signals were amplified because we were all in sync. So the answer was to separate.

“We needed to hide, to go our own ways. Go to dark places, dangerous places. So that Morganfokker couldn't find us. It was the only way we could keep each other safe, keep other people from being used as pawns against us. That's why we broke into the Temple, fought our way to the final chamber. The Seven Lotus Portals were our way out. It was an escape plan. 

“We would keep seeking, keep trying to find a way to fight back, and hopefully reunite someday. In the meantime, no one else would get hurt. 

“Except that when we went through the portals we all ended up here, together. Trapped. And the Demon invasion had already started. So we did what we were used to doing, teamed up and fought back. And the invasion became a war."

Darius didn't have any answers about the Eyes, the Grids, the Gutters, what the world had been like before the Demons came. The Dragons learned what they could about the rules of this reality and helped build Frontline. They helped create Haven ("How old are all of you?" "Don't get me started about time and plureality.") They helped keep the Demons back long enough for the Arcana to start forging a new world amidst the ruins of the old.

He told Marshal about Aqua's Sacrifice, about Callan's Transformation, about Wraith's Curse, and about Dexter's Sickness. He told him about Maggie's Fall ("Dark Maggie, like Dark Willow, or Dark Phoenix I guess, if you want to go that far back - it must be a Magical Redhead trope." "I don't understand what any of that means..."). There were wins and a lot of losses. There were different theories about why they were here. Had something gone wrong with the Portals? Had Max made a mistake? Had Control tricked them? Was this what the world looked like without Morganfokker?

And then Darius told Marshal about the Disappearance of Max Cube.

Fallen Five

Whatever Frontline had been before falling to the Demon Army, it was now only ruins. There were echoes of great structures, baroque generators, fearsome towers, but now they were only more ash and corpses. Marshal wondered if that was somehow the answer to the questions that had driven him forth from the safety of Haven; that no matter what the stories said, it would all end in ruins. 

And yet Darius was still here, still alive. Wraith embraced him, the warm gesture sitting oddly on her lethal frame, somehow more honest and touching for it. She made the introductions and Darius led them below-ground, a bunker where he had hidden as the enemy had burned through the last line of hope. He spoke about conducting raids, stealthy strikes against the marching Demons, each kill one less creature that would reach Haven. Marshal couldn't see any weapons in the bunker, the tales were vague on how Darius fought. He made them tea, water boiled over a fire. Any gear sent by the Cups and Coins was gone, all of it poured into the last stand and washed away in defeat. Marshal gathered that Darius' grievous injuries were not recent; he moved deftly, prepping their drinks smoothly with one eye and one hand. He was smiling. There was a serenity in him, soft like a candle-flame. 

“I don't know,” he said, answering a question Marshal hadn't yet asked. “I guess once we all realized that we weren't going to shift anymore, that this version was our last one, I sorta made peace with things ending. I'm not saying that I gave up.” 

Wraith sipped her tea from a straw – the mask was never removed. “No you did not, my friend. You fought on.” 

“Maybe you could say,” he continued, “that I made peace with war. Some part of me always held out hope for the idea that we would all retire someday. Dex and Wraith would get married. Callan would buy the Diner. Twofeathers and I would get a cool studio apartment together, maybe make music. But the longer we were here, after everything that happened, I figured out that none of that would ever come true... But I also figured out that I didn't need it to. That the story of it was enough for me. How the idea of that version made me feel was enough to keep me fighting.” 

They were quiet for a time. Marshal said, “I don't follow what you mean by 'shift' and 'version'.”

Darius chuckled. “Speaking of stories, eh? This will be a long one, but I guess that's why you're here. And what better way to wait out the end of the world? Okay, let's start with-”

Fallen Four

Callan tensed atop the rubble. Dex took Marshal's arm. “We need to go, we have to keep moving.”

Marshal bent to retrieve his staff. “Wait, what about Darius?” In the stories of the Dragons there were always four of them. Marshal had wondered if there was some unconscious symbolism at work: four Dragons, four Agencies of Haven. The Staves, The Swords, the Cups, The Coins. Dexter, Wraith, Callan, and Darius. 

“He stayed behind,” Dex said. “He wasn't ready to leave.” 

“Could he have survived?” Marshal asked. Callan descended quietly from his perch, pointing to the left. Dex nodded at the gesture. 

“Like Wraith said, we're way past impossible. Now come on, there are more closing.” 

“No. I'm going to find Darius. I have to know.” 

“I'll tell you every damn answer to every damn question you have, once we've made it back to Haven. They have to be warned.” 

Marshal shook his head. “It's... It's not the same. I have to complete my mission. I have to see Frontline for myself. Especially if we are at the end of things.” 

Dex sighed. “Son, you will not make it there -” 

“I will take him,” Wraith said, returning from the shadows. “Callan can see you safely to Haven so they can at least be told what is coming. And you need to find out why the Arcana let this guy come out here alone. One final mystery.” 

Dex stared at Wraith. Marshal had the sense that her mask meant nothing to Dex, that he could see exactly what she was thinking and feeling. She made that same casual shrug. They both looked to Callan, who nodded. 

Marshal gave Dex his staff, an upgrade from the cane.

And so it came to be that Wraith and Marshal parted from Callan and Dex, and traveled for days through the borderlands, foraging for edible weeds and rainwater, hiding often, evading – as only a legendary Ninja could – the clusters of Demons marching towards Haven. Wraith said little. Marshal warned her that his dose of Cloak would expire soon; she began teaching him meditations that would shroud him from the Eyes. On the fourth day Marshal saw a frenzied burst of putrid colours on the horizon; Wraith told him that it was discharge from an active but corrupted Grid. By the journey's end Marshal felt toxic, he felt purged, felt broken and forged. 

And so Marshal came at last to Frontline, where he met the last Dragon, Darius. 

Fallen Three

“That's impossible,” Marshal said. 

“That's cute,” Wraith said. “Look around. Do you think that word has any meaning anymore?”

“Wraith,” another voice said, a new figure entering the scene. Elderly, stooped, using a cane. “Remember this version is all he has ever known.” 

Wraith made a movement like a shrug and faded into the shadows. Callan sniffed the air and perched atop a mound of rubble, keeping watch. The old man walked over to Marshal. Extended his hand. “My name is Dex. Good to meet you.” 

The stories about Dexter Washington told of a brave peacekeeper, a warrior and leader devoted to justice and willing to break the rules to achieve it. Despite the man's age and frailty, Marshal could immediately sense the accuracy of the tales. The handshake was strong in a way that transcended muscle and bone. “I'm Marshal, of the Staves. Is it true? About Frontline?” 

Dex frowned. “It is. The last of the Swords stationed with us fell two days ago. We fought for another day, until... Well, I know 'tactical withdrawal' is just a fancy way of saying 'retreat'. But it's better than 'surrender' I guess.” 

Marshal's eyes were wide. The people of Haven lived in fear of destruction by the Demon Army. They always had. The Swords were dedicated to preventing that fate. And much of the work of the Cups and Coins went towards supporting the Swords. The losses of the soldiers that never returned from battle were keenly felt and only served to reinforce how precious and fragile the sanctuary of Haven was. And yet the threat, so permanent and omnipresent, had become almost abstracted, another story to be told but not fully believed. 

Another story that was coming true. 

Dexter sighed. “I'm sorry, son. We failed you. After everything...” And Marshal sensed that he was talking about more than losing Frontline, more than the War, maybe even more than the Fall? 

“You just saved my life,” Marshal said. Trying to give them something. 

“Why are you out here?” Dex asked. 

“I was looking for you. I was... curious. I wanted to know... I needed to know...” 

“And the Arcana let you go? Alone?” Dex looked troubled. Exchanged a glance with Callan. 

Too much was happening. The stench of Demon's blood in the air. “How, sir? How did it happen?” As if understanding the cause and effect would make it more digestible. The same reason he was out here in the borderlands in the first place? 

Dex looked both sad and angry. “Well. It turns out that Max was wrong. Wrong about Control. Wrong about Morganfokker. Wrong about everything.” 

“I don't understand. Who is Max?” 

Fallen Two

The Staves kept detailed records of all the activities in Haven. They organized and directed, they administered. They assisted and coordinated with the Arcana Council to ensure that Haven continued. And when they could they researched what they could of the world outside Haven, like investigating a crime scene or performing an autopsy. They had learned about the Eyes, they knew something of the Gutters and the Grids, and they knew about the Demons. What was still a mystery was the Fall itself; how the world had come to be this way and why. Who built the Gutters and Grids, what gave birth to the Eyes, and what started the War with the Demons. There were as many theories as Staves, and the Cups and Coins had their own, as well. The Swords had little time or inclination to speculate, but the rumours they brought back from Frontline suggested that the Dragons had answers to these questions. 

And the Dragons were real, Marshal could now see. As real as the stories about them. Callan, chest heaving, claws dripping with gore from the slaughtered Demon. The first Demon; three more had appeared from the ruins. Callan adjusted his stance, a strange mix of grace and ferocity in his movement. The Demons, sharp edges and menace, slowly spread out as they crept closer, preparing to flank their prey. Marshal quickly looked around for cover. The pistol and his staff were shaking in his hands; he knew that he should drop the staff for a better grip on the gun but couldn't bring himself to do it. There were no mantras anymore, only the hissing and scratching of the approaching monstrosities. There was no visualization anymore, only the combat unfolding before him. 

And the sight of another figure entering the scene. A woman, masked, brandishing a pair of tonfas. Marching calmly and quickly from the shadows towards the Demon on the left. By the mask she wore, carved in resemblance of the creatures she now faced, Marshal recognized her as Wraith. The Ninja. The Assassin. The left Demon halted and snapped its dripping jaws as Wraith closed, and suddenly Callan sprang forth, another growling leap, diving upon the distracted left Demon, another vicious attack. And Wraith moved in the exact same moment, launching into a series of precision cartwheels, passing directly under Callan in mid-leap and intercepting the middle Demon, catching it off-guard in the feint, landing upright with her tonfas spinning and striking. 

Here it was, happening before him, the tales of Demons and Dragons come to life. Brutal and terrifying. In a way they were easier to believe in when they were only stories. Seeing the combat before him shook Marshal to the core, his hands still shaking, the world suddenly more... Just more than he was ready for. But there was the third Demon on the right, starting to charge forward in the ruins, coming to tip the balance of the battle. Marshal dropped his staff and raised the pistol in both hands. 

The first shot was wide, the second high, and then it was too late. The distance bridged, the Demon pouncing at Wraith. Except right at that moment, Callan sank his claws into the arm of his opponent and dropped into a controlled roll that took the Demon off-balance, the roll continuing until Callan could plant his feet against the creature and kick out. Catapulting the Demon through the air to collide with the third one, knocking it off-course just as Wraith drove her tonfas into the eyes of her opponent. Tearing them free, Callan leaping, the Dragons descending on the left and right Demons, tangled and stunned. Killing blows. 

And Marshal saw that they were so much more than even the tales told of them. 

The War Mask made her voice low and metallic. “Hurry,” Wraith said, gesturing at Marshal. “We have to move. Frontline has fallen.” 

Fallen One

The zone between Haven and Frontline was quiet. Ash and the corpses of buildings. As a member of the Staves, he had never ventured this far into the ruins. If he had waited three days a Sword would have been able to escort him but for some reason he had elected to undertake the journey alone. The Arcana, after a brief and private deliberation, for some reason, had approved. He carried the staff, more symbol than weapon, his satchel, one pistol with two spare clips (a gift from the Coins). In the boiling murk of sky the jagged bulks of corrupted Eyes hovered and drifted; the injection of Cloak coursed through his bloodstream (a gift from the Cups), masking him from their cavernous gaze. He whispered the mantras taught to him by Arcana Five, wrangling his nervous neural patterns into docile shapes in case the Eyes peered into the psychic spectrum. The Swords said that they rarely did, not over the border zone, since there was little life left to see. 

It was quiet but not silent. Moaning winds, rubble settling, steel creaking. Too easy to imagine as the sounds of ghosts. He walked on, staff in hand, mantras in his mind. Until one of the ambient haunting noises became too regular to be random. Something was following him. If it wasn't a Sword patrol (still three days away) or a Coin shipment (none scheduled), then that meant it was... 

He drew the pistol, visualized the pattern that Arcana Eleven had taught him, and turned to face the direction of the noise. He had never ventured this far into the ruins. He had never seen a live Demon. The Swords were trained to fight Demons. If he had waited three days he wouldn't be alone. He wondered why he had felt the need to leave immediately. He watched the pocked and razored carapace of the creature lurch forth from the skeleton of a skyscraper. It was somehow shiny in the permanent twilight and giving off smoke like charred wood. He wondered why the Arcana had agreed to let him travel alone. He was sure that he was getting the visualization wrong, forgetting the mantras. He had read every account there was of the Swords' encounters with Demons, he had read every research paper written about them. When it moved it made a sound like poisoned lungs wheezing for their last breath. He pointed the pistol. It began to growl. 

Except the growl was not coming from the Demon. From behind him instead. Becoming a snarl, then above him, becoming a roar, and another creature leaping through the air over him towards the Demon. Claws and fangs flashing. There was a collision, the wheezing pitched up into a scream, blood suddenly erupting, a thick stench of infection. The new creature tearing and rending, smaller than the Demon but more savage, the shape of a man, almost. 

He had read all of the accounts from the Swords who had travelled to Frontline and back to Haven, their stories of the guardians there who led the forces against the Demon Army. Most of them were likely embellished, understandably exaggerated, fables for morale. The Dragons, they called them. Exactly who he was searching for. So he recognized who stood before him, over the corpse of the Demon, by description, which turned out to be true and not a tall tale after all. The Mystic Warrior, the Tiger Man. 

“You're Callan,” he said. “My name is Marshal.”

Reunion Part Five

The storage room of one of the businesses that Frank did record-keeping for. A laptop playing music. A cocktail of psychotropic drugs. A mashup of pagan ritual, Neo Linguistic Programming, and LEGACY brainwashing techniques. 

Marshal had seemed more confused than scared by the abduction. Once the trances had taken over he had become incoherent, then silent. 

Goner was on lookout. Frank was checking Marshal's pulse, pupils, whispering mantras in his ear at designated intervals. Angst was reading the notebook from the satchel – it was filled with poetry. 

The sun would be coming up soon. 

Suki finally walked towards him. Leaned in to look him in the eyes. 

“I don't know where you went. I don't know why you left. We never really knew all that much, I guess. When we found each other here we did what we always did: got safe, laid low, started researching, looking for ways we could help. We had done weeks before, not usually as quiet, but... Then it was months. And there were no calls, there was no sign of you. 

“And then Angst said, 'We need to start living in what's happening, not what might happen'. And she did, then Frank did, and Goner did. But I couldn't. Couldn't do it. I went crazy instead. Like my mind couldn't stop shifting, even though we had. I wondered if that was how you felt, all the time. 

“I took too many pills, too many times, I cut up my arms and legs, I ran away, got arrested. I think I was trying to make a shift happen, somehow. Or maybe I thought that if I got in enough trouble you would come and rescue me. 

“Finally they put me in a hospital. Put me on meds. Put me in therapy. And things eventually got to be okay.” 

Suki straightened up. A tear rolled down her cheek. 

“So why are you here now?” She screamed, “Why now?” She slapped him. 

Marshal heard a voice. Okay, we are a go. 

“I don't want to come back,” he whispered. 

“What did he say?” Frank asked. 

Alright Max, it's time to make things happen. 

“I want to come back,” he said. 

Goner shouted from the doorway. “Three vehicles approaching.”

Reunion Part Two

Marshal Montgomery had booked a room for three nights at the Chambers' Bed and Breakfast in the town of Jones Heights. Angst's shift the next day started at noon; Marshal had already headed out by then. Theresa Chambers told her that he had been quiet and polite during breakfast and had taken one of the Walking Tour maps from the front desk when he left. When Angst was replacing the towels and soaps in his room she resisted the urge to go through his travel bag. She noticed that he had used the room's kettle to make a tea but hadn't used any of the packets of instant coffee.  

Frank followed Marshal for hours as he walked the streets of the small town, stopping in shops but buying nothing. Along the canal, sitting at a park bench for a while. Marshal wore a satchel over his shoulder and listened to earphones as he strolled through the Heights. Occasionally he would take a notebook from the satchel and jot something down. 

Eventually Frank came to feel that there was some sleight resemblance, but without Angst's prompting he never would have made the connection. But he was also less certain than Angst that there wasn't some need lurking there... He was, if not happy, at least content. Teaching guitar lessons, the occasional gig at the local pub, part-time work doing some record-keeping for a few small businesses. Dinners and movie-nights with Angst a couple times a week. There was a lack, though. There was the memory of his finger on a trigger. Even shadowing Marshal for the day brought back the rush, reminded him that once he had been a hunter. 

When Marshal stopped at the pub around dinner, Frank decided he would make contact. Frank was well-known there, it would be easy to create opportunities to start a friendly conversation with a tourist. 

Three hours later Frank called Angst. 

“It's him. He doesn't know that he's him, but you were right.”

Reunion Part One

“It's him. He's back,” Angst said.  

“But... I mean...” 

“He doesn't look like he usually did, but I know it's him.” 

“He didn't recognize you?” 

“No. Please. Please believe me,” she said. 

“Okay... Okay, tell me. You said he looked different.” 

“Older, like we are I guess. Heavier, bearded.” 

“And what name did he check-in under?” 

“Marshal Montgomery. License and credit card.” 

“And he didn't... He didn't recognize you?” 

“I know,” Angst said. “I know we always used to recognize each other, no matter what version we were in. Or we thought we did. How can we be sure? I'm sure about this. It was him.” She switched her phone to her other ear. “Do you remember how I used to sometimes have those dreams, and they felt true, and then they would become true... That's how it felt when I saw him. I know it's him. ” 

“Angst...” 

“Listen, I know how it sounds. I know it's been a long time. And I'm happy now. I like it here. I miss it sometimes but I don't need it. And I'm not stupid, most of it used to be pretty terrible. It was scary and violent and... So it's not that. It's not me needing it to be him.” 

“Alright,” Frank said. “I'll check him out.”