Tunnels & Wolves

Arch glanced down the alleyway. He saw several beggars camped out in makeshift lean-tos but no sign of the black wolf-like object. There was no screaming or munching sounds so he presumed the creature was in hiding. Arch closed his eyes and scoped out the scenery in his mind, trying to locate something misplaced. Thunder of metal upon metal echoing through the area, like shunting freight cars on a track. 

"Anything, Arch?" Kitty asked beside him. She was trying to catch her breath. 

"It's in there somewhere," Arch replied. His eyes going over the manhole cover pictured in his mind. "It's gone tunneling." 

"Crap!" Kitty mumbled. 

Arch went into the alleyway and towards the sewer grating. "Indeed."

Duty Bound

With so many loyal vessels undertaking the Council's search mission the station felt vulnerable. The Watch had to patrol the streets of the fortress and the space surrounding it. The force was stretched thin.

He was happy to offer his aid. The brief joy of answering a call for help. Hopefully there would be no serious trouble. Part of him, though, would welcome it. A flash of danger, the ring of the alarum. Something to pull from him that sense of purpose, the feeling of adventure. 

Chem Finder sat on the edge of the balcony of the Watchtower in the Greenery district, eyes scanning the curving laneways below for any disturbance.

In Rough Waters

Torvel whipped the wheel around, doing a complete 180 within the ribbon itself. He aimed for the wall and ripped a hole making another tear and scaring the hell out of another ship in the process. The Nexus Wave sailed straight through another ribbon, causing another tear. Torvel maintained control and was adjusting for the differences in the rift. 

"What's going on, Captain?" Gates shouted as he entered the pilot's den. "Is there a storm?" 

Torvel held the wheel and gave it another sharp tug. "Just taking a short cut!" 

"Are you mental?" Gates yelled at him. "You could destroy the ship! You have to know what you're doing and when to do it!" 

"It's a good thing then that I do know what I'm doing," Torvel said behind  his laughter. It was the only time he cackled like a maniacal fool, and that gave Gates all the comfort he needed. Torvel had been sailing the stars for several years...

Where to Begin

Kitty dropped down from the rafters and onto the floor; like a cat she landed daintily on her feet. Her eyes scanning around her, mind making mental notes on what was where. She had heard tales of what happened to those who dared break into Severin's shoppe, but she wanted to see for herself. Experience it firsthand. 

The sound of windchimes continued to play though there was no breeze in this stale shoppe. The smells of grease, metal, and oils were pungent as ever. Before she proceeded she crouched down to the floor and her hand lightly touched the area before her. She smiled then; it was going to be much trickier than she had thought.

Voyages

He clasped the wand around his wrist, checked that the straps were secure but not too tight. He could feel the soft buzz of the arcane energy humming inside the freshly charged device. The numbers of the Battery Mages were low this year; charges were being rationed until new recruits could be located. Stryker's weapons had priority status, though; the safety of the citizens of the fortress and the many travelers whose ships docked there depended on the Lieutenant and his team. 

The Council had decreed a series of exploratory journeys to worlds with arcane lore, in the hopes of bolstering the ranks of the Batteries. It was a well-rewarded but often exhausting role in the fortress. It took a great deal to run the massive station, much skill and craft, magic and wisdom. And strength. For when the enemies came. 

A good friend of Stryker was set to sail to today on one of the ships enlisted for the Council's mission. Sometimes he envied those who found their paths taking them across the vast sea of space to planets named and unnamed, known and forgotten. His role was here though, on Citadel.

For Want of a Better Term

"Mother?" 

"Yes?" 

"Were you a commander in the Big War?" the young child asked. "I heard that you had legions of people under your command and that you had sent many bad bad men to the other life!" 

"I did what I had to do," she replied. "Why don't you go out and play?" 

"I will after you tell me what you did," she said. "Some people call you an angel... Are you an angel?" 

"I am what I am," she replied. She smiled at her daughter and scrunched up her face a bit. Much like a mother cat to a kitten.

"You go and play now and I will tell you all about it later." 

"You promise?" 

"Promises are meant to be broken."  

On that note the young girl stuck out her tongue at her mother and scampered out the door.

Prologue

The tavernkeeper still got ears to bend and eyes to widen from the telling of the tale, though the night that spawned it was years past. Travelers from nearby Burrengard and even the Port of Sakkersly beyond still came to his ramshackle roadside inn to hear the story of the Flying Ship. The strange tale of the the Elfin Princess and her magic bracer, the steel Golem that had attacked her, and the band of adventurers - strangers in the tavern until the fighting started - who had saved her. And the strangest part of all, the massive ship that sailed not on waters but on the air, that gathered the Princess and her new allies up and flew them off to the stars.  

Sometimes a merchant or a sellsword would challenge the truth of tale, to which the innkeep could only shrug. Most, though, listened to his story with bent ear and wide eyes, as if it had really happened. For indeed it had.

To Be Continued

The Professor addressed the latest team. The newest Dragons. It wasn't the first time the roster had been replaced, or recombined. He had worked with so many of them throughout the strange non-years of the Metaplex, the liquid time of plureality. All of the lost and the found, the warriors, the outcasts, knights and assassins, witches and spies. The different teams gathered and sent on their missions, and always The Professor there to guide them, to never really be a part of them. Except the times that he had been, or the times he was never there at all - though most of those he couldn't remember... 

Dexter, Wraith, Darius, Callan. Frank, Goner, Angst, Suki, Aqua. Akimoto, Tatterdemallion. Cromwell, Bern, Caden. Siltailus, Falador, Rickson, Cloak, Nurendemyr. The Kat, Misfit, Silver. Odin, Merlin, Kele-De. Mick. Marshal, Michelle, Nick and Jonas. Nick, Pat and Charlotte. Soma and Heresy. All the Travelers, the Blueberry Hill Gang, the Shelter Team. Bishop, Twofeathers, Trump. Pretty George. Maggie Magenta.

And now, Stone and Riveta, Donnelly and Mayganne, Scorpio. He had explained to them as much as he could, what he was allowed to, what he was able to. And what the plan was. Desperate and uncertain, but the only way the Professor could think to turn this situation around. It wasn't safe to contact Simon Light in any local versions - the Professor had had to quarantine him. But maybe if they went far enough around... Find him, some version of him, somewhere else...

There was no telling if any of them would make it, or who they would be. If they would remember or understand anything. If they would find him and reach him. If that would be enough of a convergence to change things. If this would save things or end them.

The Professor had briefed them. He had taught them all the mantras and visualizations that he knew for transferals. Had exposed them to specifically modulated energy fields. Had read them modernist poetry, shown them certain movies. Tried anything he could think of to help them.

And now he was going to send them into another world and hope that they would somehow return...

Threshold Days

He felt exhausted. 

Last night he had injured a classmate during self-defense training.

This morning the sun was red. Crows lined the road on his drive into the office.

He had yelled at people he was trying to help. He was stuck on a level of the videogame he had been playing. He could only lie to his co-workers and his friends and tell them everything was fine.

Last night he dreamed of killing a man named Morganfokker and of a great feeling of change and relief coming over him, but in the morning the dream made him feel uneasy and scared.

Alison was dead and no one seemed to care. His cellphone would ring and he would answer it and hear only static.

Breakfast of Champions

"Good morning," he said. 

Alice looked at him. He was blond-haired, thirtyish and looked a little rough around the edges. She had just finished pouring him a cup of coffee.

"Hello," she replied with a smile. "What can I get for you this morning?"

"First of all a name would be nice," he stated with a smile of his own. It was a warm smile, a smile that was shared between good friends guarding a personal secret.

Alice looked at him and chuckled. After all she was wearing her name tag on her shirt.

"No," he said. "I was wondering if you knew my name."

Alice looked at his face and into his eyes. They were like pools of liquid, of warm emotion. His face seemed familiar but she attributed that to being a customer. She knew he was here a few times before. "Can't say that I do."

"Damn," he muttered. He took a sip of coffee. "They only reason I asked is that I've been going about seeing things and little flashes of recognition would just spark then die out. For some odd reason seeing your face and seeing something familiar about it sparked something in me."

Alice smiled and knew how he felt. Sometimes she just had an urge or feeling that things happen for a reason. Lately she'd been getting a lot of them. Like yesterday when she took the subway and she thought that she had entered the last car on the platform but when she got on and looked at the back window she saw another car, and in this other car she saw people. People's faces and clothing that seemed out of place and style, and there was this one cheerleader who looked familiar and...

"I suppose I will have the special this morning," he said.

Flames

Susanna shook her bodyguard-slash-houseguest awake. Maggie gasped and sat up. “Where’s my sword?” she asked with a raw voice. 

“It’s right here,” Sue said. She almost picked it up from the floor beside the couch but felt uncomfortable about touching the weapon.

Mags steadied her ragged breath. “What’s happening?”

“You were talking in your sleep, almost shouting. It woke me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Susanna brushed Mags’ hair back in a motherly gesture. “It’s fine, really. Are you ok?”

Maggie had dreamed of the cheerleader again, the one who reminded her of her old friend, Angst. Another lost friend. Except her cheers weren’t rousing, inspirational chants; they were dark, whispering rants. Cruel poetry, words that cut deeper than a demon’s claws. Maggie reached down to touch the katana; it couldn’t cut through ghosts but it made her feel stronger knowing it was there.

“If I say I’m fine will you tease me again about deflecting?”

Susanna smiled. “Let me brew some tea.”

As the woman she was supposed to be guarding for the Professor, and whatever bizarre scheme he was running now, moved into the kitchenette, Maggie shivered and pushed the last echoes of the nightmare from her mind.

“I hope you get attacked soon,” she said, “so this arrangement doesn’t feel so one-sided.”

Slow Train A Coming

The car had moved several inches in the last few hours. The wheels squealing on the tracks, as if pulling away from glue. Something was definitely happening and he was glad for it. He didn't know how many more days he could stay couped up on just a platform. A prisoner lost in time and space. He could hear Bishop in the conductor car yelling at the train, shouting for it to move forward.

"What's going on?" Aqua inquired. She was bouncing around in her seat, itching to get into combat.

"Looks like whatever is holding us here is trying to keep us here," Frank said. "It doesn't want to let us go."

"Could it be some demonic force? Like a life leech?" Tatter asked. She sat by a window looking out and saw people begin to mill about on the platform, their images ghostlike in appearance. Whatever was happening it was affecting the platform too. 

Bishop continued to shout at the train, hurling verbal abuse at the Gods, the earth, the world, his shoes. It was the first time any one of them had heard him become so vocal.

The train lurched forward again, a sudden two feet, sending everyone in the car tumbling over. It was a violent battle that was going on and it looked like Bishop was finally winning. Frank stood up and glanced around at the car to make sure everyone was okay, then as he scanned the platform his eyes widened in shock...

Crisis Call

Simon snapped a few pictures of the dining room.  Baboor had the woman in the living room, Stockard was upstairs with the son.
Simon had been teamed with Karen Stockard and Asha Baboor on a number of assignments. They always got along well and their styles in the field complimented each other. On the drive over today, though, Simon had felt irritated by them both. Their voices, their conversation. Any time they asked him a question, always friendly, always polite, he bristled. They were talking about social stuff - they usually sorted and prepped all the work stuff in the office before leaving - but he felt so disconnected, so out of touch with the world and lives they were chatting about, it was almost painful. He wasn't surprised when they offered to conduct the interviews.

He snapped a few more shots then moved into the kitchen. He could hear Baboor speaking with the woman, her voice gentle, calmly drawing answers from her. The woman started to sound more tense, Baboor shifted her tone slightly to try and keep her grounded. It didn't work; the woman slipped into anger instead. Got defensive.

Suddenly, Simon found himself striding into the living room.

Baboor was sitting on the couch facing the woman who was seated in a chair beside it. Baboor read his posture right away and stood up.

"Who do you think you are?" Simon growled at the woman. Her eyes widened in shock at his tone.

"Agent Light -" Baboor said, trying to cut in.

He didn't stop. "We're here trying to help you and you shut us out? You're lucky Agent Baboor is doing the interview - I'd be smacking the info out of you if you tried that tone with me."

The woman looked terrified and confused, pressed back into the chair, hands clutching the sides.

 Baboor realized that she had to meet his level, even though it meant showing dissonance in front of the woman. "Agent Light! Back into the kitchen right now!"

Stockard appeared at the top of the stairs. The son called down, "Mom, are you ok?"

In his mind Simon was yelling SHUTUP SHUTUP SHEISNOTOK YOUARENOTOK LEAVEMEALONE SHUTUP but he managed to stop the words from coming out. Managed to turn around head back to the other room. Heard Baboor and Stockard speaking to the mother and son.

Simon imagined drawing his pistol, firing randomly into the room, imagined surrendering to violence, the terrible freedom of it. Anything to get him outside, get him out of whatever he was trapped in. His hand rose up before him. He was holding his cellphone, not the pistol. It hadn't rang in days.

"Where are you?" he whispered to it.