# High Fantasy Modern Storyhour - The Long Road (updated December 7)



## RangerWickett

_(For returning readers, read here to see a dragon and a virgin.)_

The tedium of the Greyhound bus is pierced by a blues tune coming loud out of one of the passenger's headphones.

_"I ain't superstitious.
"Black cat crossed my trail. 
"I ain't superstitious,
"but a black cat crossed my trail."_ 
- Jeff Beck Group​
Passengers turn away from the windows. Endless Texas forest passes by on both sides of the two-lane road as thirty people glare at the annoying guy in the third row. They're in no mood for even the slightest disturbance. After their plane being grounded last night for a terrorist threat, and having to submit to riding a Greyhound bus to get to their destination, loud headphones immediately get the passengers to grumbling.

Robert Black is about to get up and confront the guy when suddenly the bus lurches. Brakes squeal on the dozen tires and the bus driver cries out in denial, and then with a crash of metal and shattering glass, the bus stops.

People panic and struggle to open the emergency exits, afraid the bus is about to explode. Robert Black moves calmly to the front exit, stopping to help the bus driver get clear. Near the back of the bus, Scarpedin Jones pops out the side window exit and jumps through, taking stock of the massive car pile-up but ignoring the others who need help getting out of the window. Belladonna Lee lets a handsome young man carry her bag as she tries to maintain her dignity while fleeing. Stuck in the middle of everyone else's panic, John Rourke jumps up, pushes open the roof exit, and swings himself onto the top of the bus.

John is fairly confident the bus won't explode - the collision wasn't that bad - so he takes the moment of calm to light up a cigarette. From the roof of the bus he can see that the Greyhound is only the second vehicle in a line of wrecks. Wondering what caused the car in front of them to stop so suddenly, John scans the road and the treeline.

Just inside the trees on the right side of the road, he spots movement. A man dressed in a fine black suit, with a white flower on his lapel, bends over and picks a black cat up from the ground, then carries the cat away into the forest.

Down at ground level, Scarpedin adjusts his leather duster to make sure his uzi is comfortably hidden in his armpit. The road is a mess, full of confused people. The guy with the headphones has taken them off and is wandering through the crowd. If Scarpedin had to say which famous person the headphones guy looks most like, he'd say Mos Def, that guy who played Ford Prefect in the Hitchhiker's Guide movie. It's a trick Scarpedin learned from the cops - it's much easier to compare a person to a famous actor than to just describe their appearance. Elsewhere in the crowd he sees a Don Cheadle look-alike, a Carrie Elwes, a Noah Wylie, and a young Tom Cruise standing next to a young Catherine Zeta-Jones. Scarpedin smirks and heads toward the hot chick.

Belladonna Lee has just gotten the name of the kind man who has been helping her out -- Terry Abrams -- when a scruffy man in a leather duster comes up. Aside from the expensive coat, he's dressed atrociously, wearing a white wife beater and blue jeans, with a black plastic tube slung behind his back like a map case. The man looks like he's about to flirt with her, but Terry seems to know that Belladonna doesn't want to be bothered. He steps in between her and the ruffian.

"Hey, are you alright?" Terry asks.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Scarpedin says. He tries to talk around Terry. "Hey, miss-"

"Nice jacket," Terry adds, giving Belladonna enough time to slip off.

Scarpedin glares at the kid in front of him; he couldn't be older than twenty-five. "Thanks. Hey, are you with that chick?"

"Heh," Terry chuckles, "I wish."

Scarpedin laughs, and he decides he likes the kid.

Meanwhile, Belladonna has wandered away to the front of the bus, where the bus driver is inspecting the damage to the Greyhound and to the poor VW Bug it smashed into. A few people are lingering around the bus driver. Belladonna picks the best-dressed and nicest-seeming one -- a twenty-something black man, and asks him sweetly, "Pardon me, sir. Do you know what happened here?"

Robert Black turns as a beautiful young lady addresses him with a soft New Orleans accent. He inclines his head to the bus driver. "Missy here, our driver, says the car in front of us just slammed on its brakes, and she tried to keep from hitting it. Just our luck, huh?"

"What about the driver of the other car?" Belladonna asks.

That driver approaches with the help of one of the Greyhound passengers. She looks very shaken, and she has a cut on her cheek that Robert recognizes as a sign that an airbag saved her life, but otherwise she's unharmed.

"Hey," Robert says, "excuse me, miss, but what happened?"

"What?" the woman says. She stammers, "I- I don't . . . what do you mean?"

"Well, cars don't just suddenly stop in the middle of the road, usually." Robert tries not to be too harsh, but he can't helping being a little sarcastic. "Did you see something? Hit somebody?"

The woman nods slowly. "There was a cat. I didn't want to hit it. It just ran in front of me."

"You stopped for a cat?" Robert frowns, incredulous. He looks at the line of wrecked cars behind them and mutters, "Damn, I hope she killed that f*cking cat."

"A cat?" Belladonna says. "Is it alright?"

A man appears next to her and Robert, like he fell from heaven. In truth, he just jumped off the top of the bus. John Rourke gestures with the cigarette in his mouth at the trees.

"It ran off. We goin' anywhere soon?"

"Doesn't look much like it," Belladonna says, her voice managing to sound sexy even with such a bland statement.

The bus driver, Missy, is fuming over the damage. The front of the bus is crushed inward, the windshield is shattered, and one of the front wheels looks misaligned. Passengers are grumbling again, and it doesn't look like they'll be able to move at more than a limp. Belladonna excuses herself and heads back to talk to Terry.

Back in the thick of the crowd, Scarpedin's bitching about the wreck to Terry. Terry, for his part, looks more nervous than he ought, but Scarpedin's not really paying attention. Belladonna comes up and quietly asks if everything is alright, and Terry smiles and nods away her concern.

Terry asks Scarpedin, "So were you flying to New Orleans too?"

"No. I don't fly." Scarpedin doesn't mention that the airlines wouldn't let him bring an uzi -- especially an illegal uzi -- on a plane.

They stand around for a moment, and Scarpedin notices a man who looks kinda like a bald John Goodman, dressed in a friar's brown robes. That's out of place. He's not supposed to see people dressed like that in the 21st century. Scarpedin wants to know what's up, so he swaggers over to the monk.

"Ho there, sir friar. What brings one of your holy brethren out to these here Texas woods?"

The Goodman-Friar is taken aback, and then he laughs deeply. "Oh, sorry. I wasn't in character yet!  Aye, aye, it be a long . . . no wait, that's pirate.  Okay, ready.

"My son," he says, trying again, "are ye as well headed to yon Renaissance Festival? Oh, what bountiful joy may be had at King Henry's fair festival. Alas, but this pileup of horseless carriages has verily stopped my pilgrimage."

"Huh?"

The monk hesitates. Dropping out of character he asks, "You're not going to the RenFest?"

Attracted by the monk's outburst, Robert and John each come up, joining Scarpedin, Belladonna, and Terry. Scarpedin has a hard time placing an actor for John; he looks Italian, but nothing like anyone in Godfather.

"What's a 'Renaissance Festival'?" Robert asks.

Missy the bus driver comes up and points. "It's right down the road, and it's where we're headed. I've got to wait for someone to show up to do repairs."

Robert holds up a hand, looking down at the ground as if collecting his thoughts. When he speaks, the rest of the crowd listens, because he's summing up how they all feel.

"Hold on a second," he says. "Last night, our flights get grounded because of some stupid terrorist threat, so we're stuck in the Dallas terminal until 6am. Then the airline generously offers to pay for _Greyhound bus_ tickets down to New Orleans, so we'll be getting there a day late. Then, and stop me if I'm getting this wrong, but _then_, our bus crashes into a car because a-" he looks around to make sure no children are nearby, "-a stupid f*cking cat jumps in the way, and now you want us to hike our way to some festival where people dress like _this_ guy here," he points at the monk, "and wait for you to fix the bus."

"Is that a problem?" Missy asks.

"No." Robert is stiff, grinning in polite anger. "I just, you know, wanted to make sure I had all this clear. Well hey, come on. Let's go to the RenFest."


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## RangerWickett

I just started up this modern game a few weeks ago. If any of you are familiar with the Savannah Knights storyhour, this is the same setting, though a different group of gamers. Instead of running it in Savannah, where the old DM Jessie was comfortable, I started out in Texas, my homeland.

I've got a modern fantasy adventure lined up -- mix up Buffy, Hellboy, Predator, and The X-Files, and you've probably got a good bead on my inspirations.

The PCs are:


*Robert Black* - Played by my friend Hamid Raoof, who works at Cartoon Network on Adult Swim. Robert looks like Don Cheadle.
*John Rourke* - My roommate Neil's character, John is a reflection of Neil's bitterness against organized religion, and his fondness of Vertigo comics.
*Belladonna Lee* - Laura Kertz plays Donna-belle, a sweet girl from New Orleans who looks like Catherine Zeta-Jones at 20. Laura likes Gambit from X-Men, so blame her for any similarities to famous mutants.
*Scarpedin Jones* - Only a man as crazy as Orinthol Jixiao could play a knight displaced temporally from King Arthur's army to the modern day. O-Ji was quoted as saying at a recent game, "I _am_ Keanu Reeves!"


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## Boss

LOL!  I keep visualizing all of this happening in front of my neighborhood, as I live only 15 minutes from the Rennaisance Festival.  I have to say that I like it so far.  Keep up the good work, you've got me hooked already just from the familiarity!


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## Spider_Jerusalem

Nice one Wickett, 

I keep getting flashes to the Dungeons and Dragons cartoon. If you have one of those mystery rides at the fayre, I'm a lifetime reader. 

The guy who lit a cigarette on top of the bus made me laugh. I like that sort of stuff  

Spider.


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## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
10:07 am_

The Texas RenFest is like any other Renaissance Festival, so it was inevitable that Scarpedin would hate it. He left behind this life, adapted to a world with televisions and cel phones and credit cards and denim. Seeing so many normal modern people mingling with knights in armor, wenches in bodices, and peasants in too-clean clothes confuses him.

He might have been able to handle it, though, if he hadn't seen the Elf.

"No f*cking way," he says.

The rest of the group looks at him in curiosity. The bus driver had grouped together Terry, John, Robert, Belladonna, and Scarpedin, and taken down Scarpedin and Bella's cel numbers so they could know when the bus was fixed. They've just gotten into the festival and are absorbing the sights when Scarpedin curses. The other four in the group follow his gaze to a costumed woman, dressed in crimson velvet and black leather. Her hair is white, probably a wig, her skin is midnight black, _probably_ just face paint, and her ears are pointed, almost certainly fake. She's walking past them, oblivious to their staring.

Boldly, Scarpedin strides over to the Elf, approaching her from behind. With a shout he reaches out with both hands and grabs the woman by her ears, yanking the tips. They pull free, and the woman cries out in shock, spinning to see who attacked her. Scarpedin is moving too fast, though, and she doesn't have a chance to look up; she just falls onto his chest, wrapping her arms around him to keep her balance.

Scarpedin frowns for a second, looking at the latex eartip he has in each hand. Then he realizes he's being held and he looks down. The short costumed woman is looking up at him, a smirk on her face. Her green eyes flash in the sunlight, and as she pulls away Scarpedin checks her out. She's actually cute, almost hot, despite the black skin.

"Hello to you too," the woman says. She smiles and holds out a hand expectantly.

He hands back the ears.  "Sorry, I thought you were an Elf."

She takes her ears back and tucks them into a pouch. "Don't take things you see here too seriously. But that was quite a way to get a girl's attention. I guess I'll let you buy me a drink."

Belladonna comes over. "What's going on . . . you said your name is Scarpedin?"

"Yeah." Scarpedin nods. He tries to play off his odd behavior. "What? It's nothing. I'm just having some fun."

"Hello miss," Donna-belle says with a N'awlins drawl to the dark Elf. "I hope this man isn't causing you too much of a problem."

The dark Elf leans close to Scarpedin and wraps her arm around his. "You think I'd dress like this if I didn't want attention? Hi, I'm Serena."

A chorus of names come from the rest of the group.

"Belladonna. A pleasure."

"John."

"Terry, hi."

"I'm Robert." Robert smiles politely, his normalcy a little out of place at the RenFest. "Hey, this is a big place, and we know we'll be here in a while. Why don't we go our own ways and then meet up some place? Sound good?"

"Okay," John says. He's smoking again, the third cigarette since they first met him.

Terry says, "The bus driver told us to stay together."

Robert waves off the concern. "We're all adults here. Let's just pick some place to meet up."

They consult a festival map and ask for suggestions, and Serena tells them the Ded Bob Show is pretty good, so they decide to meet there at noon.

John and Bella have formed a bit of a rapport since she's the only one who doesn't seem to mind him smoking, so they head off toward the largest collection of shops. Serena, quite pleased with her catch, drags Scarpedin off to buy her things. Terry and Robert are the last two left, and Terry opens his mouth to start a conversation with his RenFest companion. Robert cuts him off.

"I'd like to be by myself," Robert says, "if you don't mind. No offense, you know, but I wasn't really looking for someone to hang out with."

"I don't really want to go alone," Terry says.

Terry's voice is nervous -- a fearful nervous that seems out of place -- which Robert notes with interest. He follows a quick glance of Terry's eyes, and sees two people from the bus watching them. One is the short and stocky black man who was listening to the loud music on the iPod when the wreck occured, and the other is a tall blonde man. Earlier at the wreck, Robert noticed the two men exchanging a lot of meaningful glances from across the crowd, but they had not sat together on the bus.

"Well, then hey," Robert says, pretending not to have noticed the men. "Why don't you go catch up with 'Scarpedin'?" Robert laughs at the bizarre name.

Terry doesn't seem to want to, but Robert leaves anyway, looking for a dark, private place. When he glances back he sees the two men following Terry in the other direction, as Robert expected.


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## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
10:24 am_

Terry has joined up with Scarpedin and Serena. Scarpedin doesn't like the company.

"So why are you following me?" he asks.

Serena laughs. "Don't give him a hard time. Ren Fests are more fun, the more people you have."

Terry shrugs. "You don't have to worry about competition, if that's what it is. I just am a little, well, nervous."

Scarpedin glares. "What do you mean? Is somebody following you? I mean, I know that guy from the bus who looks like Mos Def has been hanging around."

"Who?" Terry asks.

Scarpedin points.  Behind them, standing near one of the innumerable stalls selling turkey legs and mead, the black man with the iPod looks away suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck to seem inconspicuous. A crowd of women in bustiers walk between them, and when they pass the man who looks like Mos Def is gone.

It only takes them a moment to see that he has run to hide in a nearby store.

"Whoever he is," Serena says, "he's incompetent. So is this a game you guys are up to?"

Terry shakes his head.  "No game. Um . . . I don't want to say too much, but yeah, there are some guys after me."

"And why?" Scarpedin stands tall and intimidating, demanding an answer.

"Ah, dammit." Terry grimaces. "I'm not going to get into it, but . . . well, two days ago, someone close to me was killed, and I've been on the run."

Serena puts a hand to her mouth. "Seriously? Have you told the cops?"

"Yes, cops." Scarpedin grins, thinking he's caught Terry in a lie. "Why haven't you told the cops, Terry?"

"Look, forget I said anything." 

Terry starts to walk away, and Scarpedin shrugs. A moment later, though, Terry is back, and he looks worried.

"Actually," he says, ". . . Scarpedin, right? Something about you seems a little . . . well, for some reason I think you might actually understand this. I . . . I can't go to the cops because the people who are after me . . . have powers."

Scarpedin hesitates, wanting to ask but afraid he knows the answer. "What kind of powers, Terry?"

". . . Magic powers?" Terry says.

"Dammit!"

***​
It takes a few minutes for Scarpedin to settle down, but once he does, Terry can't get him to stop asking questions. He demands to know if Terry can do magic too. Serena just watches in amusement, not believing any of it. Finally, fed up with being asked so many questions, Terry gives Scarpedin what he wants.

Scarpedin feels a tap on his shoulder, and he turns to see who it is. Terry is standing behind him, when a moment before he was standing in front of him.

"Whoa," Scarpedin asks, "how did you do that?"

Terry glares. "Hey, you told me to do magic."

"Sh*t, I _knew_ you were a wizard. Terry frikkin' Potter."

Terry rolls his eyes.  "To hell with you."

"What else can you do?" Scarpedin asks.  "I knew something was weird about you. First the Elf, then the black cat, and now Hogwarts."

"I don't need this," Terry says. "Look, I just wanted someone to escort me and make sure that guy from the bus doesn't get too close."

There is a change in Scarpedin, a tensing of anger. Something old and long-denied struggles within him, and he almost growls.

"_'Escort'_?  Dammit, you would use that term. F*cking code of chivalry!"

Serena raises a hand.  "Wait a sec. Did I just see you disappear?"

Scarpedin ignores her as his tantrum continues. "Fine!  I'll protect you! I'll do my duty to the wizard! God, I told myself I wouldn't get involved in this again!"

Terry frowns. "You alright man? Hey, honestly, maybe I'll go ask someone else for protection."

Serena snaps her finger. "Oh, I've got it! Scarpedin's a knight. Well, if you're going to act like a knight, we might as well get you dressed like a knight."

"No." Scarpedin's deep voice is full of confliction. "I'm not a knight. I don't wear armor. I don't joust. I don't buy things with silver coins.  I wear denim. I . . . dammit, I drive a motorcycle. And I have a credit card. No."

Serena and Terry have backed away a little, but Scarpedin shrugs.

"Nevermind," he says. "Sure, Terry. Fine.  I'll protect you."

"Like a knight?" Terry asks.

In the distance, trumpets sound. Serena smiles.

"Hey," she says, "the joust. Let's go check it out."

"No way," Scarpedin says. "I need to see Terry here do more magic. Can you, like, shoot fireballs from your eyes?"

Terry smiles. "I'll show you magic if you joust, 'Sir Knight.'"

"Fine," Scarpedin growls. "Let's go."

Scarpedin leads the way toward the joust, and Terry looks to Serena with surprise. "I wasn't serious," he says.

Serena just grins.

***​
Elsewhere in the Ren Fest, things are not quite as interesting for Robert, John, and Belladonna. John and Belladonna shop for curios, Belladonna showing a great interest in herbalism shops. John chain-smokes, declining food when Bella brings up the topic. More to Belladonna's consternation, though, John also declines bourbon when Belladonna finds a vendor who's selling it. Feeling charitable, Belladonna buys a round for everyone nearby, and then she and John wander over to the joust, which seems to be drawing a crowd.

Robert's quarry did not follow him into the ambush, so he gave up and just wandered the festival, amused at how these people spend their lives. Eventually the sound of trumpets lures him to the joust. In the distance he hears cheers from people drinking free bourbon, but his attention is focused on a familiar face on one of the horses.

"How'd you manage this?" Robert asks.

Scarpedin, mounted on the red knight's strong horse, shrugs. The jousting field is separated from the audience by a low wooden fence, with the seats divided into sections for each of the 8 knights. On the far side of the jousting field, a second floor stage seats the Ren Fest's king and queen, plus attendants. The red knight, looking remarkably Texan with his helmet off, laughs at Scarpedin.  Terry and Serena stand in the front row of the seats for the red knight's audience.

Serena says, "He looks great. He's going to joust."

The red knight shakes his head. "No way. He might be good on a horse, but he can't joust without armor, and . . . heh . . . 'less you got a few thousand bucks, you ain't gonna find armor for him."

"Loan me yours," Scarpedin says.

Robert asks, "You _want_ to do this?"

Scarpedin harrumphs. "_Yeah_. You got a problem with that?"

"Oh, no, no." Robert chuckles. "You're jousting. That's cute."

The red knights says, "Y'can't have my armor."

Scarpedin looks down at Terry. "Can't you fix this, Terry? Come on, Terry. Make him give me his armor. Use your magic, Terry."

Robert turns a casual, curious eye to Terry.

"Hey, Scarpedin," Terry says. "We kinda need to keep a low profile about that, y'know? It attracts attention."

"What are you talking about?" Scarpedin shakes the reigns. "I need armor if I'm going to joust. Just, like, charm him or something."

Robert interrupts. "Excuse me. You can do _magic_?"

Terry forces on a smile, starts to answer, then shakes his head. He leans close to Scarpedin and says, "You're going to get me killed."

"I'm protecting you from those other knights," Scarpedin says, waving grandly to the green, brown, and black knights. "Just make him give me some damned armor so I can joust."

The red knight is confused. "What the hell you talkin' bout, man?"

Rolling his eyes, Terry concentrates and

_suddenly_, everyone finds something else to do.

Cel phones go off and people answer them. Children cry out and distract parents' attentions. Ice cream drips and gets on pants. People hear their name called and look to see who it was. Like a wave sweeping across the crowd, everyone looks away for just one moment. Everyone except Serena, Scarpedin, and Robert. And when that moment ends and everyone goes back to whatever they were paying attention to before, Scarpedin is wearing red plate armor.

"Um. . . ," Robert says. He nods and says, "Hm."

Scarpedin cackles. "I told you. C'mon, Terry, do some more tricks, man."

Robert turns to Terry. "I could have sworn he wasn't wearing armor a second ago. In fact, I will swear that he wasn't."

Belladonna arrives just then with John. She sees Robert's confusion and asks, "What's the problem, boys?"

Grinning atop his horse, Scarpedin says, "Terry can do magic, and Robert's not handling it well."

Robert puts on a face of complete acceptance. "Oh, no. I'm fine. He can do magic. I'm fine with that.

"What I'm not so sure about is . . . you're going to _joust_? Yeah, that's what I'm worrying about right now."

To Scarpedin, Terry says, "You'll be fine. The armor's just an illusion, but I also put on a defensive spell to deflect attacks."

Terry looks around nervously. Serena's enthralled. Belladonna is asking Robert to explain, and Robert has the look people get when they just accept the impossible with a bit of crazy disbelief. John smokes a cigarette, impassive.

Scarpedin pats the horse and gestures toward the other knights. "Well, I'm gonna joust now. Wish me luck."

Serena stands up on the wooden fence, takes a silver pin out of her hair, and tucks it behind Scarpedin's ear. She smiles.

"A lady's favor. Good luck."

A chorus of 'good lucks' come up. No one quite pays attention to the real red knight, who has some objections. The joust is about to start, and they don't have time to change riders.

Trumpets blare, and Scarpedin Jones, knight of King Arthur's court turned modern biker from New Mexico, jousts for the glory of England. The Texans don't stand a chance.


*End of first session.*


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## Spider_Jerusalem

I'm really enjoying your writing here Wickett. some great turns of dialogue have actually made me laugh out loud once or twice (and I'm _not_ one of those LOL people). some clever, bared down descriptions make this one hell of a smooth read.

Keep it up. 

Oh, and love the modern application of magic. The mass distraction was a nice moment. Ice-cream on trousers, calling names etc.

Write more! I am hungry for another update.

Spider


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## RangerWickett

I'm not doing an update tonight yet, but I just wanted to post an idea I had.  Some day I need to have a psychic paleontologist who discovers fossils of an ancient sentient dinosaur hero, whose death was so violent and tragic that the psychic pain has survived aeons, providing a clue to a cataclysm 65 million years in the making.

I'm glad you like it. I'm trying to balance the necessary 'getting to know you' conversations with more interesting, action-oriented events.  Thankfully, O-Ji and Hamid (the players of Scarpedin and Robert) are just naturally entertaining.


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## RangerWickett

(Due to a power outage, I lost my previous attempt to write this segment. I'm going to be a bit briefer than usual, out of irritation.)

_October 29, 2005
11:45 am_

Cheers follow the group as they leave the jousting field. Scarpedin carries a brass chalice given to him by King Henry as a reward -- with it, he can get unlimited refills of any soda or beer at the festival. It was the least they could do for Scarpedin exciting the crowd as much as he did; seriously, no one had _ever_ managed to jump their horse over the divider fence and hit his opponent from the opposite side before.

"That was just cool," Serena says for the fourth time.

"It was easy," Scarpedin says. "But it would've been easier if Terry here had held up his weight. That magic was weak, man."

John, smoking perhaps his eighth cigarette today, asks Terry, "What's he talking about?"

Terry laughs, lying poorly. "Nothing. Nothing. I just, ah, gave him some advice."

John shrugs, already losing interest.

"Despite the fact that we're all already, y'know, together," Robert says, "I think we should keep with our schedule. Our schedule, where we said we'd meet at this Ded Bob show at noon."

Belladonna asks, "Why does it matter, Robert? We're all together, you said yourself."

"Because I like to keep to schedules," Robert says. "When I say, 'I'm gonna be at the Ded Bob show at noon,' I want anyone I tell," and then he mutters, "and anyone who overhears it, to know that I'll be there at that time."

"It is a good show," Serena says.

Robert gestures as if to present Serena as evidence that they should listen to him, which they do.

As they head toward Ded Bob's stage, they pass a recreation of a historical coin mint. Belladonna is talking about how crude some of the knights at the joust were being, when a loud voice gets their attention.

"Ohhhh, you ara werry good ata jackusu," squeals a Japanese man. "I trury appureciatedo praying wishu!"

The Japanese man is dressed in a fine gray business suit, and looks in his early thirties. He's sitting spread-legged on the ground in front of the mint, and across from him is a ten-year-old kid. They've just finished a game of jacks, and the kid walks away looking frustrated that he lost.

"Holy sh*t Terry!" Scarpedin says. "Something's wrong with that guy. Is he magic or something?"

"Calm down," Terry whispers. "I'm supposed to keep this discreet, you know?"

John considers the two of them. "There you go with 'magic' again. Seriously, what's up?"

Robert shakes his head. "It's nothing. They're just talking about magic. You should ignore them."

Suddenly, the Japanese man looks at the group and grins widely.  "Hey!  American touristsu! You a wanta pray a game?"

"Sure," Robert says. "This is probably the third weirdest thing I've seen today. Why shouldn't I play a game with an insane Japanese man at a Renaissance festival? What game?"

"Jackusu!" He starts setting up the jacks on the dirt. "You pray good, win prize!"

Meanwhile, the rest of the group is intrigued by Scarpedin's pestering of Terry about magic. Scarpedin wants Terry to explain his powers to the rest of the group, and Terry is reticent. Finally Terry does a demonstration of his 'appear behind you and tap you on your shoulder' trick.

Belladonna is intrigued but not frightened. "My nanny told me a bit about voodoo when I was growing up."

"Well," Terry says, "this isn't voodoo. It's more, um, British, I guess."

"You're from Chicago?" John asks. Terry nods, and John grunts with amusement.

Serena, the dark elf, is having trouble adapting to the existence of magic. She keeps shaking her head and squinting, like she's trying to disbelieve what she's seeing. Scarpedin just grins and tells Terry to do more tricks.

On the ground, Robert is making casual small talk with the strange Japanese man, distracting him while playing jacks. Robert wins just barely, and the Japanese man claps in congratulations.

"Anazha gamu! You are a werry goodo prayer!"

Robert says, "Wait a sec, you said I'd win a prize."

"I buy you tahki rego!"

"A turkey leg?" Robert asks. "Well, okay, not _quite_ what I was expecting."

Scarpedin is hiding behind Terry, pointing at the Japanese man. "C'mon, Terry. What's up with him?"

Terry rolls his eyes, then concentrates on a spell. The Japanese man suddenly sits up straight and laughs, and Terry shakes his head. 

"I can't get anything on him. He resisted the spell. I dunno . . . he's kinda creepy."

"F*cking elf!" Scarpedin says. He starts to reach for the map case slung over his shoulder, but Serena pokes him. He looks at her, notices she has on elf ears again, and he shrugs an apology.

Robert glances from the Japanese man to the group, then back to the Japanese man. "Hey, what's your name?"

Ignoring the Japanese man, Belladonna asks Terry, "Wait, you can use magic to see things? Can you talk to spirits? See the future?"

The Japanese man grins widely and laughs deeply, avoiding Robert's question. "Ho ho. I'ma justa Jyapanese touristo. I rike American gamesu! Boardo gamu _to . . . ano, gomenasai. Nihongo ga? Iie? Sumimasen. Hai!_ Yes, ah, American boardo gamu, cardo gamu, and jackusu gamu!"

Terry, distracted by the strange man's shouting, tries to answer Belladonna. "Future, no. But yeah, I can talk to spirits."

"Like with a ouija board?" she asks.

At that, the Japanese man sits up straight, throws a hand into the air, and shouts, "_Hai!_ Wiji-wiji!  My a namu isa Wiji-wiji! Preasure to meetchu! Anazha gamu?"

"What game?" Robert asks. "And I still want that turkey leg. I won it fair and square."

Wiji-wiji ponders, then claps his hands and nods. "We pray Scrabburu!"

Robert looks around. "Scrabble? I don't see a Scrabble board."

"In pocketo. Reacha in pocketo, puru outa tokensu."

Scarpedin is freaking out again, and Terry steps clear of him to watch the exchange with Wiji-wiji more closely. Robert, resigned to not understanding what's going on, reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a handle of Scrabble tiles.

"Huh." He looks at them for a long moment. "You know, I'm pretty sure," he laughs, "yeah, I'm really sure I didn't wake up this morning and think to myself, 'Y'know, I really hope I can find some _Scrabble tiles_ to put in my pants today.'"

"Pray," Wiji-wiji says. He gestures for Robert to toss the tiles into the air.

"Just . . . throw them in the air?" Robert asks.

Terry nods in understanding. "It's a divination. Don't worry, you should be safe."

Robert smirks. "Yeah, thanks for your opinion. Anyway."

With a shrug, Robert tosses the Scrabble tiles into the air, then steps back. They manage to all fall very close to each other, forming a rough line that spells out "M.A.R.I.E. L.A.V.E.A.U."

"I've heard that name before," says Belladonna. "Something to do with voodoo."

Wiji-wiji looks at the ground and the tiles, then back up at Robert, an amazed smile on his face. Then he grins knowingly and wags a finger at Robert. "You a prayed beforu!  Nice husturu! You werry good prayer! Here. You won a prize!"

From the breast pocket of his well-tailored, modern business suit, Wiji-wiji pulls out a thin golden oval coin, a Japanese _ryo_, at least two hundred years old. Robert takes it, and then Wiji-wiji stands up, bows to them all, and turns away. A few of the group call after him in curiosity, but the strange little Japanese man steps into the crowd gathered at the coin mint and quickly vanishes from sight.


----------



## howandwhy99

Very nice.  I like the idea of throwing in real fantasy creatures at a Ren Faire.  It's likely also easy for members on this board to identify with.

But I've never heard of any which serve Bourbon.


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## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
11:58 am_

The bizarre encounter with Wiji-wiji took up a good bit of time, and the subsequent grilling of Terry on all matters magical took even longer, so Terry is glad for the distraction of the Ded Bob show to get the others off his back. Scarpedin gets involved in audience participation, but the creepiness of a skeleton puppet apparently proves too much for the man who bested the black knight, and Scarpedin runs screaming off the stage.  Meanwhile, Robert wandered the nearby shops, noticing the two men from before always a little too close to be coincidence.

Scarpedin hides from Ded Bob in a tiny gypsy wagon, where he pays for a fortune-telling and is told of great impending doom that will come to him on a boat.

After the show, everyone in the group has had time to get a handle of the oddities they've seen lately, and they decide to ignore it all by going to the most innocuous place possible: a New Age bookstore.

"So, Terry," Scarpedin says, standing tall and grinning eagerly, "tell us of this . . . magic."

"Nothing in this store is magical," Terry says.

John, in one of his rare non-smoking moments, mutters, "I can't believe you're still talking about that."

"I agree," Robert says, laughing. "I mean, I know we're at a 'Renaissance Festival' and all, but seriously, the joke's gone on long enough."

Scarpedin considers. "Your name is Robot, right? You were talking with a Japanese guy, so he should have called you Mister Roboto."

After a pensive moment, Robert nods. "Okay, let's talk about magic some more."

"Excellent," Scarpedin growls.

Terry, between perusing new age books on magic and running his fingers along tacky colored glass wind chimes, explains magic. Magical creatures, like fey and dragons, have natural magical powers. For a human to use magic, however, he has to have a connection to something magical -- typically a spirit or ghost that bonds with the human. Awkwardly, Terry cannot answer when Scarpedin asks him what his source of magic is. Terry just knows that he's got a knack for magic, which he has been learning for the past six years at a boarding school in England.

"Hogwarts," Scarpedin jokes.

Serena smirks. "I wouldn't have pegged you as the sort to read Harry Potter."

John says, "I wouldn't think he's the sort to _read_. I'm going outside to smoke."

Terry's explanation goes on. There are two worlds -- the human world, Terra, which is what most people think of as the normal world; and the 'fey realm,' Gaia, where magical creatures live.

"But," Terry points out, "calling it 'the fey realm' is like some jackass calling anime 'japanimation.' Terra and Gaia. That's what you need to remember."

According to folklore, Terry says, Terra and Gaia used to be a lot closer, but after some war that King Arthur was involved in (at this, Scarpedin perks up with _intense_ interest), the fey were forced off of Terra, and the two worlds drifted apart. To get between the two now, you need special magic.

John, standing outside the shop, is the first to hear the approaching men. The black man's iPod is blaring again, playing a Prodigy song ("Smack my B*tch Up," though John does not listen to Prodigy, and so he does not realize this). The white guy glares at John, and John steps aside to let them by, exhaling smoke as they pass him.

The black guy taps Belladonna on the shoulder, and everyone but Scarpedin turns to see what's going on. The store is empty except for them and the shopkeeper, who is busy trying to keep Scarpedin's hands off a musty old spellbook that looks like it might just be genuine.

"Hey, excuse me," the man with the iPod says to Belladonna. "We need you to come with us."

She smiles disarmingly, looking up and down at the two imposing men. "I'm sure you'd like me to, boys, but I'm quite happy where I am."

The white guy who looks like Carrie Elwes says, "It wasn't a request lady."

He stares openly at Belladonna's chest, then leers to his partner. "Lucky us, hey Hex?"

"Whatever man," Hex says. "Look, lady, me and my buddy Rex here have to take you to talk to our boss. You can come peacefully, or you can say no, and some sh*t might go down."

"What the hell?" Terry steps between Belladonna and the two of them. "Guys, the lady said no."

Belladonna says, "Terry, I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."

"Yeah," Terry says, "but I get irrational when guys are assh*les to women."

"Whoa," Robert says, holding out his hands. "What's the problem here? Why do you need . . . what's your name again?"

"Belladonna."

"Right," Robert says. "Why doesn't your . . . your 'boss' come over here?"

Rex rolls his eyes. To his partner Hex he says, "Can we just take her?"

Hex nods, and pulls out sunglasses, while simultaneously changing his iPod's song. It begins to belt out the first few notes of Janis Joplin's "One Good Man." Rex reaches for sunglasses tucked in his belt loop, and Robert suddenly notices a bulge under the man's sweater.

"Gun!" he shouts, backing away.

Scarpedin turns, ready for a fight. Belladonna discreetly slips a stiletto from her hair. Terry stands in the way to defend the lady. John drops his cigarette, and is about to turn when he sees the most beautiful woman in the world heading toward the bookstore, and all hell breaks loose.


----------



## spidertrag

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> _October 29, 2005
> 11:58 am_
> ....
> Scarpedin turns, ready for a fight. Belladonna discreetly slips a stiletto from her hair. Terry stands in the way to defend the lady. John drops his cigarette, and is about to turn when he sees the most beautiful woman in the world heading toward the bookstore, and all hell breaks loose.





Well dam, more! Nice SH so far RW!


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## Wystan

More


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## RangerWickett

This evening or tomorrow, I'll post an update. I'm busy writing my Ceramic DM story right now.


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## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
12:45 pm_

Rex, the tall white lech, flips on his sunglasses, draws his gun, and fires. Terry shoves the man's hand high, and the shot shatters crystal on the wall.

Hex, the short black thug with the iPod, tries to grab Belladonna. He catches her by the wrist, but she stabs a stiletto from her hair into Hex's forearm, digging deep. Hex curses and lets go, yanking his arm away from the blade. 

The music coming out of Hex's iPod swells, and Robert, Terry, and Scarpedin find their attention drawn to a woman entering the store. They know she's the most beautiful woman in the world, even though Robert doesn't like blondes, and Terry is still fixated on his dead girlfriend. But the magical compulsion of her beauty keeps their eyes on her. She swaggers hips first into the shop, low pants and loose top revealing a gorgeous body, but honestly not one worth getting stunned over. The nymph flashes a luscious smile to Rex and Hex, then shakes out her hair as she walks toward Belladonna. 

"Get 'er, Janis," Hex says, his sunglasses protecting him from the dazzling beauty.

From outside the store, John, apparently unaffected by the nymph, tries to grab her, and Rex steps in the way. They begin to brawl, John pulling out martial arts moves while Rex relies on brute strength to pummel the chain-smoker. 

Realizing something dangerous is up, Belladonna abandons subtlety, drops her stiletto, and quickdraws a derringer from her dress. She fires into the nymph's chest, and though the impact knocks Janis back a bit, the bullet bounces off her and strikes the floor. Belladonna gapes in momentary puzzlement, and Janis grabs her by the arms. 

The gunshot shakes Terry and Robert out of the nymph's spell, though Scarpedin is quite content to keep watching the two women wrestling. Serena shakes her head in confusion and tries to run into the fray, but Rex backhands her, knocking her into a shelf display on the wall. Serena crumples to the ground, and Scarpedin finally starts to understand he's been charmed. He growls with intense hate, long repressed, from a time when magic users were the bane of all good men, but he still cannot pull his eyes away from the nymph.

Terry shoves at the nymph, knocking her away from Belladonna, and Hex begins to cast a spell through his iPod. Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" begins to play, and the thug swings his hand toward John. A burst of flame strikes John and drives him away from Rex. John bats at the fire, trying to put himself out, giving Rex the time he needs to aim his gun for Terry.

Robert dives for cover, and Terry curses, weaving and trying to keep the nymph between him and the man with the gun. Rex's shot ends up bouncing off the nymph's back, and Terry backs away.

He begins to mutter in a language Scarpedin vaguely recognizes from the old days. John feels something magical in the words, and it seems so does the nymph. She leaps for Terry and grabs him just as he's finishing his spell.

The world ripples for a moment, and suddenly everything seems more vivid. Robert, John, Scarpedin, and Belladonna can still see Terry, Rex, and Hex, but they're fading, as are the contents of the shop. The store itself looks to have been transformed into living wood, and the field outside the shop is darkened by clouds and lush with flowers and thick grasses.

"What the hell?" John says. He pats out the last of the flames on his arm almost aimlessly, the sudden shift in their surroundings dazing him.

The nymph, though, still looks solid, and she is grappling with the rapidly fading image of Terry.

Faintly, Hex shouts, "We got the wrong one! That guy's the mage, not the b*tch."

"Where'd they go?" Rex asks.

And right before their images fade out, the group hears Terry say, "Guys? Ah, dammit, I knew that wouldn't work."

Then they are alone in this strange version of the shop where there are no wares, and squirrels chitter in the ceiling. John is grimacing, Robert is wary, Belladonna is curious, and Scarpedin shakes with anger.

"Stupid f*cking magic!" he shouts.

The nymph turns to look at them, as if only then realizing she can still see them.

"Get her!" John says, and he tries to grapple her.

Belladonna fires another derringer at the nymph, this time in her face. She winces beautifully, but seems unharmed. She says something in a language none of them understand, then starts to back away, trying to slip out of the shop. In her blind spot, though, Robert has managed to sneak around to her back, and he grabs her arm and puts a straight razor to her throat.

"Don't try anything stupid, lady."

She turns slightly to smile at him, and then she blows down at the razor. As her breath touches the blade, the metal begins to rust, and Robert pulls the razor away in surprise. Then, before he knows what he's seeing, the nymph's thick blonde mane falls through his arms to the grassy ground. He looks down, and instead of the woman he sees a golden fox. It leaps away and sprints for the forest.

John runs after it and jumps to try to grab it, but it evades him, then vanishes in the trees.

With no more enemies apparent, the four of them take a moment to look around.

"Huh," Belladonna says. "Nana never mentioned anything 'bout this."

"Where are we?" Robert asks. "Wait, don't answer that. I'm going to pretend I don't already know the answer. Yes, I understand. This is just a hallucination. A mass, really trippy hallucination, and damn does that big guy punch hard."

John lights a new cigarette on his bloodied lip. "I got set on fire. Stop complaining."

"Terry?" Scarpedin says. "Hey man, come on. Terry?"

Belladonna smiles with gallows humor. "I don't think he can hear you, dear."

"TERRY!" he shouts, as if her statement was a challenge. "Get the f*ck out here and get us back to the real world Terry."

A few feet apart from the rest of the group, John remarks, "Pretty weird, huh?"

"What?" Robert says. "Oh, no. This is perfectly normal." He laughs. "Don't you vanish into a fairy world on most of your vacations?"

"Hey look," Scarpedin says, pointing. "A pixie. Anybody got a jar? I wanna catch it."

"You are very easily amused," Belladonna says. "Really, we should be looking for someone who can help us out of here."

A voice calls from the nearby trees. "Rooking? Founda somea-one I'd a say. _Hai!_"

"Good," Robert says, tense with feigned happiness. "Wiji-wiji's here too. That makes perfect sense."

"You in werry big trouburu," Wiji-wji says. He's holding a Ren fest t-shirt, and despite his dark tone he still has a smile on his face. "But Wiji-wiji," he says with great enthusiasm, "will herupu you. You want tahki reg?"

Robert frowns. "Uh, sure, Wiji-wiji. And pick us up some hamburgers too. You guys want anything?"

John says, "I want to get out of here."

Scarpedin whispers to Belladonna, "Can we trust this guy? He's Japanese."

Belladonna just gives Scarpedin a blank look.

Robert looks down with seeming embarrassment. "Well, yeah, I guess, and I know how silly this sounds, but can you help us out? Since, you know, you're the only person in this entire place now, it looks like."

Indeed, around them, the land resembles the Ren fest grounds, but with no people, more plant-life, and floating sprites talking to woodland creatures. The sky is overcast. Not dark, but not sunny.

"No, no, no," Wiji-wiji says. "I not onry one hiru. You go see Ded Bob. He herupu you! Werry funny show, _hai! Takusan tanoshii yo!_"

And then Wiji-wiji turns, tucks the t-shirt under his arm, and walks away.

"Um," Robert says, "so yeah. We'll just. . . ." he shouts after Wiji-wiji, "just go see Ded Bob. Again."

Just like that, Wiji-wiji is gone, and the four of them alone. None of them needs to say what they know. Terry wasn't crazy, and they're in the fey realm.


----------



## genshou

Amazing talents at both writing RPG products AND running/retelling games?  I'm so jealous!  

Keep up the good work, RW.  You bring color to the EN World.


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## RangerWickett

Thanks Genshou!  It really is a great help to see people interested in the story.  I'm just a little embarrassed that I'm still writing about things that happened back in early May. I prefer writing dialogue, but I might need to trim things a bit or else I'll keep falling further behind.

This game inspired me to write my latest book for E.N. Publishing, actually, which will be coming out later this month.  Especially in the first adventure there were some spells that were overpowered because I was still playtesting things.

I've got another game tonight, so I'll write up a quick update, then get to planning.


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## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
1:06 pm_

"What the hell do you jack-asses want?" Ded Bob asks.

Scarpedin hides behind the rest of the group, nervous around the animated skeleton puppet. Ded Bob, walking freely without the aid of a puppeteer, looks down at them from the stage he normally performs on. He's translucent, like a ghost, and he obviously isn't happy to have been called out.

"What are you?" Belladonna asks. "I hope that's not too rude of a question."

"I get it all the time, toots." Ded Bob shakes his head. "I'm a ghost. I just look like this because I've been inhabiting the puppet for so long. But believe me, inside I'm _all man_."

"That must suck," Scarpedin says. "Why didn't you just let yourself stay dead, you creepy f-"

Robert holds up a calming hand. "Hey Bob, I'm not really the sort to believe in what's going on here so could you cut us a bit of a break? We're stuck here. How do we get out?"

Bob frowns, which is amazing because his face is just a plastic skull. "You know, I've got another show starting in a few minutes."

Belladonna smiles. "You can spare a few minutes for a lady in need, can't you?"

Ded Bob growls like a tiger, then nods. "Alright. I'll get you to do some jumping jacks for me later. How'd you poor schmucks get stuck on Gaia?"

"Terry left us," Scarpedin spits.

Robert waves off Scarpedin. "Don't pay attention to him. It's not important why we're _here_. We care about how we get _back_."

Bob laughs. "What the hell makes you think I can help you?"

"Wiji-wiji told us," John says.

"I'm not a phone book, son," Bob says. "Who's that?"

"Again," Robert says, "not important. If you can't help us, who can?"

Bob moves like he would roll his eyes if he had any. "Okay, there's this chick, Barbara. Owns the candle shop down past the jousting field. I've talked to her a few times. She's got a ghost too, and she actually does, y'know, magic stuff."

"Excellent," Robert says. "Then why were we wasting our time with you?" He turns to leave.

Bob laughs. "Fine then. I _won't_ help you guys out. You can find your own way to deal with the fey."

"I can take 'em," Scarpedin says.

Robert hides his grin as he turns back to Ded Bob. As he suspected, attacking the ghost's pride put them in a superior position.

"So," Robert says, sounding bored, "what brilliant advice do you have to give us?"

"Cold iron," Bob says. "It hurts fey. If you run into anyone here who looks like an elf, you'll need something to defend yourself."

"God d*mned elves," Scarpedin mutters.

John looks to Robert. "We could use some weapons."

"Oh yes of course," Robert says. "We'll just arm up with _swords_ and go hunt down a woman who can," he laughs nervously, "turn into _a fox_. I assume, Bob, that you just happen to have weapons to sell us."

"No, you smart-ass," Bob says. "But I do have two cold iron skillets. Hey, beggars can't be choosers."

Belladonna smiles. "How much?"

"Well," Bob says, "I'd normally sell these for $50, but because of your dire circumstances, I'll cut you a deal. I'll give 'em to you free if you do a little dance, hop up and down for a bit, and then maybe-"

Belladonna has already pulled out and handed over a $50 bill. She smirks at him, and the puppet sighs.

"Ooh," Scarpedin says. "Shot down."


----------



## genshou

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> cut you a deal. I'll give 'em to you free if you do a little dance, hop up and down for a bit, and then maybe-"
> 
> Belladonna has already pulled out and handed over a $50 bill. She smirks at him, and the puppet sighs.
> 
> "Ooh," Scarpedin says. "Shot down."



Ouch... even worse than our encounter with the satyr Gromph in a recent online campaign.

I like a Story Hour that keeps me hooked _and_ makes me laugh.  I don't mind the large amount of dialogue, since it helps to flesh out the characters.  If you start to fall too far behind, though, feel free to do what you need to do


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## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
1:30 pm_

(I'm trimming this section down for the sake of speed, and because the interaction wasn't terribly entertaining.)

The group heads across the fey side of the Renaissance Festival, and finds a candle store run by a woman named Debbie. They're able to contact her because her ghost, Chandler, spots them and relays the conversation. Chandler, a dry British ghost, mentions that he really shouldn't be able to see them, because normally ghosts cannot just see both Terra and Gaia. Some strange magic must be going on.

Debbie is a decent woman, and when she learns that the group is in trouble, she offers to help, though the group never actually sees her in person. On Terra, Debbie sends some of her employees off to look for Terry and his abductors, while Debbie and Chandler work on a spell that will give the group at least a somewhat solid body on Terra. Since strange magic is passing between the two worlds here, they think they'll be able to pull something off that normally would be beyond their power.

While they're discussing this with Chandler, the group spots a black cat hiding up in the rafters, its intense green eyes watching them hungrily. Belladonna draws a derringer and shoots at it, but the cat leaps away and vanishes through the ceiling, leaving a shadowy splotch staining the wood. This prompts some extra superstitious talk about bad luck from black cats, and John finally mentions seeing the man in the black suit who was standing by the side of the road when the bus crashed. The black cat that caused the crash leapt into the man's arm, John tells them, and the man simply walked off into the woods.

Debbie asks nervously if they'll be able to pay her back for her services, since she's having to provide them with expensive magic. Robert offers the gold Japanese coin he got from Wiji-wiji, but Debbie laughs that off, saying it's far too much. She only was thinking around fifty bucks.

While the rest of the group is waiting for Debbie to get them some information and prepare the spell, Robert walks out of the store to explore Gaia. On a nearby hill, where on Terra people fought a human chess match, there is a flock of turkeys, gobbling merrily. In the middle of them is Wiji-wiji, sitting beside what looks like a golf bag full of clubs. The Japanese man holds up a roasted turkey leg and waves for Robert to come over, an eager smile on his face.


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## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
2:45 pm_

"Robert-san," Wiji-wiji says, "I gotta you zhi tahki reggo."

Robert accepts the turkey leg, takes a bite, then notices that one of the turkeys sitting next to Wiji-wiji has no legs. It's not bleeding; rather, it's body is fully smooth.

"Good stuff," Robert says, looking off and thinking. "A little dry. Hey, how are you here?"

"I ama touristo."

"No, I mean, how are you _here_? On 'Gaia'? With a flock of turkeys. No wait, don't answer that last one. I don't really care. But yeah, how'd you get here?"

The Japanese man chews on his own turkey leg, smiling at Robert with narrow eyes.

"We pray gorufu, _ne_?"

A moment passes when Robert thinks it would be a good idea to kill this man. As fun as he is, he's a little irritating, and this is a bad time for irritation.

"Alright," Robert says. "Where does the course start? Oh, and can the others play too? It's kinda bored, you know, with sitting around here trapped on Gaia that you can apparently just show up in and leave whenever you want and I think some golf would be fun."

"Ah, werry good, Robert-san." Wiji-wiji stands up and pulls a pair of putters from his golf bag. "Of cosu yoru friendso can pray choo. More prayers is werry fun, _hai. Totemo tanoshii yo!_"

"Hold on a sec," Robert says. "You said golf. Those are putters. We've gotta tee off first."

Wiji-wiji shakes his head. "Oh, no no. We pray putt-putt gorufu. Werry fun."

Robert laughs, hoping to manipulate the strange man. "Wait, you're Japanese. You should know putt-putt isn't golf! I mean, I'll play golf, if you want. And you've got the clubs. But I wouldn't be interested in a kid's game like _miniature_ golf."

Wiji-wiji looks confused, but then he accedes. "_Hai, hai. Wakarimasu._ Givu me . . . _ano_ . . . ten minutsu. Make a new gorufu coursu."

"Sure thing," Robert says. "Hey, can I get another one of those legs. The other guys are probably hungry too."

With an eager grin, Wiji-wiji bows, then pulls a leg off one of the turkeys. It instantly transforms into a nicely cooked piece of meat, cleared of feathers, and he hands it to Robert. Then, with a short nod, Wiji-wiji heads off slightly uphill toward the area of the RenFest called Sherwood Forest. The turkey flock follows him, gobbling eagerly in what almost sounds like words. The stragglers are a one-legged turkey that hops after the flock, and a no-legged turkey that rolls itself across the ground like a ball.

Robert heads back inside to let the others know they've been invited to a game of golf.

John and Belladonna decide to join in, while Scarpedin stays behind and tries to shape things with his mind, believing he might actually be in The Matrix. 

Wiji-wiji has set up perhaps the worst location for a golf game ever. Starting at the far end of the area known as Sherwood forest, and ending with the green right where he had been sitting earlier, it's a Par 5 course with no fairway, and trees throughout. Wiji-wiji proudly displays his putter, assured that it will help him win. Robert actually knows how to play golf, so he chooses the appropriate clubs, and John follows his cue. Belladonna is uncertain what to take so Wiji-wiji suggests one club in particular. It looks very old, and the metal isn't shiny like the rest of the clubs, but Wiji-wiji promises:

"It werry goodo crubbu! Hit werry hardo."

They take turns with their swings, Robert driving it cleanly around the trees, while John and Belladonna keep getting their shots deflected by branches. Wiji-wiji somehow manages to get his ball in a bird's nest, and refuses to take a penalty and remove the ball from the hazard. When Robert gets his shot in, he's at par. John comes in 3 over, Belladonna 5. Wiji-wiji stops after twelve putts, impressed with his opponent's skill.

He collects his clubs, except for the one Belladonna took, and then hands Robert a PDA.

"Congrashurations, Robert-san. I wirru shi you in Sabannah. Good rucku, and shank you for werry good games."

Robert is about to ask Wiji-wiji about what he meant involving Savannah, but just then Scarpedin shouts from the candle store that Debbie found Terry. Robert, Belladonna, and John turn in suprise, and when they look back, the well-dressed Japanese man is gone.


----------



## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
3:47 pm_

"Now," Debbie says, "we don't know for sure that this is your boy Terry, but there's some pretty weird stuff going on, so we think we got the right place."

Robert and Scarpedin exchange glances at the 'weird stuff' comment, and both of them give one quiet and mirthless huff of laughter. Belladonna waves for them to be quiet, and John hides a wry smile behind his cigarette.

They can't see Debbie. Her s ghost, Chandler, is relaying the message in Debbie's voice.

"There's this place not too far from here, Lover's Lane. It goes behind the jousting field, has a nice little treeline so you can't really see inside it. Basically it's a long road with bends and lots of benches for people to sit and be romantic. But everybody who's gone in there the past hour or so left in a hurry. David, one of the guys who works for me, he said it was cold in there, and he thought something was watching him. But he's a good man, so he went in anyway. Said there were two guys - a big guy and a short black one - standing around like they were on lookout. They told him to git, so he done git."

They recognize the descriptions - Rex and Hex, the two men who attacked them right before Terry somehow got the four of them stuck on Gaia.

"Stupid Terry," Scarpedin says. "His ass is lucky he's our only way back."

The group thanks Debbie, and then Chandler hands them a specially-prepared candle that, when they light it, will let the group see into Terra, and give them enough solidity to interact with people and things there. Meanwhile, Robert has been looking at the PDA Wiji-wiji gave him. There's only one interesting file - a scan of an old book, in French, with a few of the pages translated into English. Everything else is in Japanese.

When Scarpedin gets a look at the PDA, he realizes the scanned book is the same one that he was trying to get back in the New Age magic store right before they were attacked by Rex and Hex. Scarpedin thinks it was a spell book, and indeed, once they take a look at the translations of the French text, it appears that the book has instructions to cast a few spells -- invisibility from fey, some sort of animation/divination spell, a spell to locate magic, and then many more still in French.

While Chandler gives Belladonna and Robert directions on how to get to Lover's Lane, Scarpedin and John decide to give one of the spells a try. After a minute of struggling over awkward French pronunciations, they manage to make Robert's folding straight razor hop out of his pocket, open itself, and then walk around and dance like it had two legs. The spellbook has instructions for interpreting the dance in order to read the future, but none of the group bothers. They're just stunned that they did magic.

Robert glowers and takes his straight razor back -- it still is slightly rusted from when the nymph blew on it. But he's not angry. Instead he takes a look at the spellbook and tells them, "Alright, do this one now."

He's pointing at the "invisibility from fey" spell.

"That one looks kinda hard," Scarpedin says. "I haven't really, y'know, _done_ this before."

"I don't care," Robert commands. "Do it. Look, if I'm going to believe I'm really in a fairy world, I'm not going to be stupid about it. Do you see that title?"

Belladonna looks now, then smiles and says with a charming Southern drawl, "It definitely does look useful."

Scarpedin wavers, and John sighs impatiently, takes the PDA from him, and reads what the spell will require. Almost too soft to hear, he mutters something about ". . . are all pussies."


----------



## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
4:05 pm_

The French comes surprisingly easily to John. It reminds him of Latin, which is strange, because he's never studied Latin. At least not that he knows. 

A minute later he has completed the ritual. Though the spell's text did not explicitly state how he was supposed to aim the spell, that too comes fairly easily. A momentary smear passes before his eyes, and he sees something similar cover Robert, Scarpedin, and Belladonna.

"So?" Robert asks.

John picks up the PDA, tucks it into his coat pocket, and pulls out a cigarette in the same motion. "I think it worked. Not sure how long it lasts. Let's go."

Debbie wishes them luck, and they hurry out of the candle store. Less than a minute later they find the entrance to Lover's Lane. Belladonna lights the candle and passes it around the group. Now, in addition to the strange visual smudge across them, they all feel like they're covered in a thin layer of wax, and all around them people begin to appear as they straddle the border between Terra and Gaia.

There's a crowd around the entrance to the forested walkway, and they look on in nervousness as four people appear before them. Scarpedin waves to the startled group, and then the four of them hurry into the lane.

It's dark here, darker than just the shade of the trees overhead should provide. There is a chill in the air that feels eager to crawl out of the air and into their hearts, but it does not frighten them away. After going about two hundred feet down the path, John holds up his hand for them to stop.

"I'll go ahead," he says, "try to sneak up on the guard."

Belladonna frowns. "You're going alone? He'll kill you."

John shrugs, seeming genuinely uninterested. "Better me than the rest of you. I'll be fine."

Scarpedin unslings the map case he has been wearing over his shoulder. He pops off the cap and draws out an ancient-looking, well-oiled sword. He shakes out his arms, pats something under his right armpit, then grips the sword in both hands.

Belladonna adjusts the stilettos holding her hair in place, then draws a pair of two-shot derringers from her dress. She smirks.

"We've got your back, John."

John looks from Scarpedin and his sword, to Belladonna with her pistols, to Robert.

Robert looks back at him, his expression blank. "What? Oh, sorry! I didn't bring a lethal weapon with me on a _frkkin' greyhound bus!_ I'm sorry. I'm not that sort of person."

"Good," John says. "Then let me borrow your razor."

Robert puts a hand to his pocket, defensive. "_My_ razor."

Groaning, John pulls out the iron skillet Ded Bob sold them. At this, Robert acquiesces and hands over the straight razor.

"Okay," he says. "I can't have you risking your life with a frying pan."

John takes the razor, flicks it open, and hands the skillet to Robert. Turning away, he takes one last draw on his cigarette, drops it, grinds it out with his foot, then crouches low and slinks ahead of the rest of the group.

When John isn't looking, Robert puts the pan on the ground, shaking his head. He pulls a stun gun out of his pocket. To Scarpedin and Bellaonna's accusatory looks, he says, "What? I'm not going to risk _my_ life either."

* * *​

"I'm going to get a steak tonight," Rex says into his cel phone. There's a pause as he listens to Hex on the other end, then he laughs. "Hell yeah. No other reason to come to Texas, right? Except maybe Tex-Mex. Hey, let me guess, you're going to have fried chicken?"

John sneaks up, bent low, hidden in the tree line. Rex is facing the wrong direction, oblivious on his phone, but he has his pistol in his other hand. It's a Walther PPK, equipped with a silencer.

Rex laughs again, "Well if the shoe fits, man. . . . Nah, nothing out here. Like Morgan said: in, out, easy. Like sex with your mother."

The flow of conversation is easy to anticipate, and John's steps all land while Rex is talking. He gets in behind the tall man and slowly, over a minute, he makes his way to within arm's reach. The bastard certainly has it coming; John can also faintly hear Hex's voice further down the trail. The two men are having a conversation on cel phones when they stand only thirty feet apart. They attacked him earlier, so he is justified in killing them. It's all so familiar, catching a foe off guard, and it feels good to do it again after such a long . . .

John stops, right as his arm is coming around to slice Rex's throat with the razor. He doesn't know where the memory came from, but now, for just a moment, he hesitates, unable to kill.

Then he sees the cat. It's the size of a panther, set to pounce, ten feet away on the other side of the Lover's Lane trail, crouching in shadows that seem to flow off its body. It's eyes are vivid green, just like the tiny cat that was spying on them in the candle store, and for a moment it's gaze falls directly on John. Though a moment later it starts to look away (for it cannot see John under the effects of the _invisibility to fey_ spell) in the instant he is held in its eye, John draws in an anxious breath.

Rex, listening to his cel phone, hears the noise, right behind him. He spins, and reflexively John slashes across the man's jugular vein.

Rex shouts in pain, dropping his cel phone so he can put his hand to the gushing wound. John is too shocked by his failed ambush to press the attack, giving Rex the moment he needs to step back, raise his gun, and fire.


----------



## RangerWickett

_Continued. . ._

The silenced gunshot is too soft for them to hear, but John's cry of pain is quite audible. Scarpedin sprints down the trail, not even trying to keep to cover. His sword is drawn back for a swing, and he shouts, "Die mutherf*ckers!" as he charges in.

At the last second he spots the giant black cat, rocking nervously on its paws. Its ears flick, and it's clear it knows that Scarpedin's coming, but it's eyes sweep right across him. The _invisibility to fey_ spell hides him from the beast, and so for perhaps the first time in the history of the world, a man gets the drop on a cat. His sword chops into the panther-like fey's shoulder, and the cat snarls in pain.

It rears up on its hind paws and bats at where it thinks Scarpedin is. The first swipe misses, but the second catches the man on his left breast. Almost instantly the cat fades into the ground, leaving an inky pool of shadow behind, and then immediately the cat rises from shadows behind Scarpedin and lunges to bite him. But Scarpedin has already experienced Terry's "disappear and tap you on the shoulder" trick twice today. Instinctively he dodges the attack, and takes another heroic swipe at the fey cat's face for good measure.

During all of this, of course, he's ignoring John, standing barely ten feet away with a gun shot wound in his belly.

In the confusion Scarpedin caused, it's easy for Belladonna and John to get close to Rex. The thug, still clutching his bleeding throat, spins to try to take a shot at Robert, but John lashes out with a fist and cracks Rex's jaw. The man's shot is knocked slightly, and Robert takes a bullet in his right collarbone instead of in his chest. The bullet slows Robert down, but he forces himself to move while there's an opening. One jolt of a stungun later, Rex is on the ground. John picks up Rex's silenced pistol, then notices Hex shouting in worry over the cel phone.

John plucks up the phone and whispers into it, "Say 'bye' to your friend."

Belladonna flinches as John blows Rex's brains out of the back of his skull, and a fraction of a second later, Robert also flinches convincingly. But they don't have time to argue, because Scarpedin is spinning back and forth, slashing at the strange magical panther that is guarding the path to where no doubt they are keeping Terry.

The cat-beast is confused. In its dim, just barely above primal mind, it knows it has blood of the fey, and that worked steel like swords should not be able to harm it. Even earlier, being hit by the car was merely an irritation. It does not understand that Scarpedin's sword was cold-forged fifteen hundred years ago, crafted specifically to defeat fey and other magical races in the Great War of Camelot. It only knows that it has not been hurt like this before, and though it can hear and smell its foe, it cannot see him.

With a final spiteful flurry of bites, claws, and slinking darkness, the fey cat snarls and leaps away, bounding between pools of shadow like a dolphin breaking the surface of the sea.

"Sh*t," John says. "You okay, man?"

Scarpedin grins through his bloodied lip and the cascade of blood from a gash on his forehead. With utmost sincerity he says, "Never felt better. C'mon man, let's get Terry."

Robert points at Belladonna, then to Scarpedin. "Quick, put a bandage on him or something, before-.  Wait, put a bandage on me first. Ho-lee sh*t, that bastard shot me."

From the cel phone in John's hand, the familiar notes of Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" begin to play. John can almost feel magical heat emanating from the phone.

"Dah," he says, and he flips the phone closed. The music ends, though they can still hear it faintly from further down the trail.

The group gathers together, huddling near the trees for cover. As Belladonna tears part of Scarpedin's shirt to make bandages (because she would never ruin her _own_ clothes), Robert looks John in the eyes. His gaze dips to the wound in John's belly, the blood barely visible against all the dark leather the man's wearing. Again Robert looks at John. John just shrugs, bends over slightly, and pulls out a cigarette.

"I know who you look like now." Scarpedin points at John, his tone a mix of pleased and accusatory. "Billy Baldwin."

John grimaces, then gestures down the path. "I'll go through the woods. In a minute, you head down the path, and we'll come at them from two directions."

Robert nods. "Good plan," he says, his expression one of being moments away from going into shock.

"Oh, and here's your razor. I got a gun now."

John slinks into the woods, a little less gracefully now with his belly wound. The three of them watch him go, and then Scarpedin begins to count by 'Mississippis.' Robert spends thirty Mississippis looking at the corpse of Rex, and then he puts out a rubber glove, picks up two bullet casings, and tucks them into his pocket.

They're getting ready to move when the ground around them begins to shake. Grasses and weeds burst from packed dirt, and trees branches leap out at them, snaring ankles, arms, and weapons. Scarpedin tries to hack his way clear, but he's bound securely.

Demurely, gorgeously, with all the proper bouncing and swaying, the nymph from before walks pertly out of the woods toward them. She catches Belladonna's eye and seems to sigh lustily at her, and then she moves beside Robert. The entangling foliage parts for her, but only seems to tighten around Robert, pulling his arms back.

She poutily says a few words in German, but then there is a mighty metal clang, and the nymph reels. Groaning somehow seductively, she clutches her head, staggers away, and turns to see Belladonna awkwardly pressing her way through the entangling brush, holding the cold iron skillet Ded Bob sold them. Belladonna smirks at the nymph, then takes another swing, catching the nymph in her chest.

Scarpedin manages to pull free of the plants, and he lends his sword to the beating. The nymph cries out, turns into a fox, and tries to flee, but Belladonna lunges and thumps the flat of her frying pan onto the back of the tiny woodland creature. The fox cracks to the ground and whimpers, unconscious.

* * *​

Lover's Lane bends near its end, where it opens into a small clearing with a gazebo and several stone benches. From the cover of the trees, John spots Terry tied face down to one of the benches. Ten feet from the gazebo, hiding behind a flowered trellis, is Hex, listening intently to his iPod as he cycles through songs, apparently looking for the right spell. The man's not looking at all in John's direction.

Given the choice between rescuing Terry discreetly and killing an unaware enemy, John only briefly hesitates. There is a moment, as he approaches Hex from behind, when he wonders if he should take the man alive to find out who they were working for, but he decides it's not necessary. 

Hex is intently watching the path, waiting for his enemies to come down the straight path, not in from behind or the side. Careful to keep in Hex's blind spot, John comes within 5 ft., points the gun at the back of Hex's head, and fires.

There is the pifft of a silenced gunshot, and then the metallic twang of a ricochet as the bullet is deflected. A flash of light appears behind Hex's head as his magical shield saves him from the execution. Suddenly the head phones shake with piercing volume as Hex spins, his eyes filled with tears of rage. Johnny Cash plays furiously, and a ring of fire begins to form around Hex's hand.

* * *​
"We gotta go," Scarpedin says, cutting Robert free. "Our Baldwin brother is going to rescue Terry without us."

Robert and Belladonna nod, and they start down the trail at a run. But just before they reach the bend that will lead to Terry, a figure steps out of the shadows directly in front of them. In the instant they have to look at him as he attacks, they see a tall, dark-haired man, dressed in a solid black suit, with a white rose on his lapel.

Scarpedin could swear he looks like Christian Bale.

Long legs snap out and catch Robert in the belly, and strong arms gracefully deflect Robert's lunge with the stun gun. Belladonna raises her gun at the black-clad attacker, but he reaches out, twists her hands until she loses grip of her gun, and then fires Belladonna's own derringer at her chest from point-blank range. Only luck and reflexes save her as the bullet hits the frame of her corset and is deflected slightly away from her vitals.

"Holy sh*t," Belladonna curses, backing away and drawing a second derringer. She can't get a clean shot, though, because the man leaps to the side and puts Robert in the path of the bullet. "Dammit! Out of the way."

Robert is suddenly completely business. His face is blank as he slashes a feint with his straight razor, then follows up with the stun gun. He strikes a glancing blow on the man's suit, but somehow the fabric blocks the debilitating electrical charge. Scarpedin moves in around to the man's back side, but when he slashes the man bends over to dodge, then lashes out with a backward kick to Scarpedin's kidney. As he stands back up, the man pivots and uses a sweep kick to trip Belladonna.

A flinch of rage crosses Robert's face at the gall this bastard has to not be hit. Robert attacks again, but the man is back on his feet and he deflects the attacks his martial arts. Scarpedin chops downward and cuts off the left shoulder of the man's coat, revealing the white lining beneath but not drawing blood. Belladonna, back on her feet, pulls stilettos out of her hair and begins fiddling with vials in a pouch on her hip.

A third attempt by Robert to stun their attacker is again fruitless, and before Scarpedin can take another swing at the black-clad martial artist, the man catches Scarpedin's eye, and a chill runs through the air. The man's evil eye casts a spell over Scarpedin, and despite the warrior's furious efforts to resist, he finds he cannot resist his master's will.

Robert glances between the two of them, instantly realizing that something has changed for the worse in Scarpedin's demeanor. As Scarpedin draws back to cut down Robert, Robert realizes he's now going to have to kill _two_ people to get out of this alive.

_To be continued. . . ._


----------



## Steverooo

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> With a shrug, Robert tosses the Scrabble tiles into the air, then steps back. They manage to all fall very close to each other, forming a rough line that spells out "M.A.R.I.E. L.A.V.E.A.U."




_Marie Deuveau, you know you love me, Witch!
Give me a little charm that'll make me rich!
Give me a million dollars, and I tell you what I'll do,
This very night, I'm a-gonna marry you!
And it'll be Mmmmmmmmmm, another man done gone!_



Now look out, if the Wicked-Ranger starts throwing in one-armed alligator-hunters named Amos Moses!


----------



## RangerWickett

_. . . continued_

Robert backs away in a hurry, but Scarpedin catches up to him and slashes across his forearm. Robert gasps and grabs the wound, stopping for a moment to glare at Scarpedin with disbelief before trying to drop him with the stun gun. Scarpedin parries the tiny plastic gun with his ancient Arthurian longsword, then slashes into Robert’s thigh. Robert staggers backward, cursing at his own foolishness, and Scarpedin raises his sword for a killing blow.

Belladonna lunges at Scarpedin with a stiletto, managing to stab him in the kidney, but she pays for it as the black-suit-wearing warlock grabs her arm. He twists her arm behind her back, then steps around beside her and knees her in the stomach before tossing her away. As she catches her breath, though, she sees Scarpedin coughing blood. The poison will be taking effect soon.

Maybe it will be soon enough for Robert to get free and come to her aid. Right now she has little defense against the warlock’s lashing kicks.

* * *​
“You killed Rex!” shouts Hex.

John tries to scramble away, covering his face with his arms to block the impending burst of flame.

“You killed Rex!” Hex repeats.

He fumbles with the volume of his iPod, trying to intensify his spell. For a moment the man is distracted, and John tries to shoot him. Hex panics, raising his hand to shoot the ring of fire, but as he does he presses the wrong button on his iPod, and the volume surges. With a scream, Hex pulls off his headphones, losing control of his spell from the intense sound. The flames explode across Hex’s face, and when John looks down Hex is a charred corpse. The iPod is melted.

Just to be certain, he fires a bullet into Hex’s skull before he runs to untie Terry.

* * *​
“Boss,” Scarpedin shouts, coughing blood. “I’m hurt boss. Dammit, Christian Bale, help me out!”

“You’re really embarrassing yourself,” Belladonna calls back. “A real gentleman wouldn’t leave a lady in peril.”

Scarpedin growls at the insult, and Robert, weaving and running to avoid sword swipes, yells back, “Oh, that’s great. Keep antagonizing him. Hey, how about we switch?”

Belladonna ducks for the cover of the treeline, dodging kicks from the man who looks like Christian Bale. He has very long legs, and though he misses Belladonna, he ends up cracking the trunks several small trees. She pulls her second-to-last derringer and takes a shot, but he manages to dodge. With a pleased smile, he leaps up to her, yanks the gun from her hand, and then thrusts a powerful kick to her stomach, knocking her out of the treeline to the ground.

Less than ten feet away, Scarpedin has cornered Robert against a thick tree. His first, backhanded chop narrowly misses, but as he draws back to behead Robert, Terry and John arrive.

“Scarpedin!” Terry shouts. 

Terry yells in a foreign language, and Scarpedin feels the weight of the evil eye fall from him. Finally he’s free to do what he’s wanted to for several rounds of combat. Continuing with the circular motion of his swing, Scarpedin reaches into his coat with his left hand and pulls out his uzi. He spins and sprays Christian Bale the warlock with half a clip of bullets.

Unfortunately, as much as he loves his gun, Scarpedin doesn’t really know how to use it. One bullet of the entire volley strikes the warlock, and even then only in the man’s thigh. It’s a minor wound, but nevertheless he turns to flee, seeming to realize he’s outnumbered now.

Scarpedin sprays again but misses entirely. John and Belladonna are both too injured to give chase, and only Robert is close enough to catch the man.

“This assh*le is not getting away,” Robert says, his tone cold, as he charges after the warlock.

Terry, forty feet from the fleeing warlock, raises a hand high, then swings it down, making  fist. An invisible force strikes the warlock, knocking him off his feet and to the dirt. Scowling, the well-dressed warlock concentrates, and his body contracts into the tiny form of a raven. He starts to give flight when Robert finally catches up and stabs the bird with his stun gun. The raven squawks and falls to the ground.

“Don’t kill him!” Terry shouts, running up. “We need to find out who he works for.”

There is a moment’s silence, and then Scarpedin yells, his voice ragged and fierce. “Terry! Get us the _hell_ off of Gaia!”


----------



## RangerWickett

_Author’s Note: When I started this campaign back in May, there was still a New Orleans. I planned to set the adventure a few months in the future so I could diverge the timeline a bit. Now that New Orleans has been all but destroyed, we simply have to assume this is an alternate reality. Not too hard with a fantasy game, but still, I wanted to bring it up in advance so that readers would not be surprised by what might be a somewhat sensitive topic.

It would make me very happy if New Orleans were healthy enough by late October for the events of this game to really occur, but I’ll have to be content with my memories of the great, old city.
_

_October 29, 2005
4:15 pm_

“Wow,” Terry says.

He runs a hand through his hair as he takes in the sight of the arrayed unconscious or dead bodies. The warlock in the business suit is now an unconscious raven, and the mind-numbingly beautiful nymph is now an unconscious fox. John picks up both the critters and looks around for a bag to put them in.

Behind him, the music mage Hex is dead from self-inflicted spell burn, and in front of Terry, Hex’s partner Rex is dead from a clear gunshot wound to his temple. The fey cat has fled, but jagged-leafed flowers are sprouting where its blood was spilled on the ground. 

And then there are the four people who rescued him. Belladonna, John, Robert, and Scarpedin, who has a sword and an uzi. But from Terry’s expression, it appears that he cannot quite process that bit of information yet.

“Thank you,” he stammers. “You guys-”

“Is that how you cast a spell, Terry?” Scarpedin seethes. “It doesn’t sound like a spell to me. I’d like to hear you casting a spell to get us off Gaia.”

Perhaps that is the moment Terry realizes his rescuers are all fairly well-armed, but Terry nods quickly and nervously. He eyes them as he waves for them to gather together.

“That’s weird,” he says. “You shouldn’t be able to show up on both sides at once like that. But it helps me target you, so just stick close. This should work.”

Robert says, “What do you mean ‘shou-’?”

And then Terry gestures with a subtle twist of his fingers, and the four of them have to struggle to keep their eyes on him as powerful magic encourages them to look away and ignore the sight of magic. But the compulsion passes, and then weight returns to them. The heaviness and hollowness of Terra returns, and it is like taking your first step onto land after a long, relaxing swim.

The feeling passes after a moment, and suddenly the real world rushes back to them. The distant sounds of the Renaissance fair’s festivities, and much closer the dismayed shouts of people trying to get into the Lover’s Lane past the fair guards.

“We’re back?” Robert says. 

He looks to the others. They nod, not wanting to jinx it.

“We’re back,” Robert repeats. “Good. Okay, now how do we get out?”

“Good job Terry,” Scarpedin says, slapping the young man on his back.

“Who were these guys?” John asks, using the two animals he’s holding to gesture at the dead bodies of Rex and Hex.

“Later guys,” Robert says. “Work with me here. We just killed two people, and turned two more into animals. The cops will be on the way sooner or later. How can we explain this?”

Scarpedin smiles, but Terry cuts him off. “No. Don’t even think about talking about ‘magic’ to cops. We’ve got to leave. That last spell took a bit out of me, but I should be able to conceal us. Dammit.”

Belladonna has tucked away her derringers and is adjusting her hair. “Do you have a problem, Terry?”

“Thanks for saving me,” Terry says, “but . . . ahh, this is just a bad situation.”

John has lit another cigarette, and he looks more calm already. “Can’t you just put their bodies on Gaia?”

Terry blinks in confusion, but Scarpedin laughs and Robert nods at the novel plan. After a few moments of discussion, Terry meditates on the rather unusual spell.

Five minutes later, when the police finally overcome their fear to enter Lover’s Lane, they find a mysterious patch of thorny flowers and a few snapped, sliced, or scorched trees, but no bodies. Rex and Hex’s body lie hidden in the untamed woods of Gaia, just another part of the Unseen.

* * *​
“Agh,” Robert says, rubbing his collar where he was shot. The flesh is fixed, but his shirt is stained with blood and something still hurts under the skin. “This still hurts.”

Terry grimaces. “Oh crap. I forgot to pull the bullet out before I healed you.”

Robert blinks, shakes his head, and mutters to himself, “I knew there was a reason I wans’t believing this had happened.”

“Let me fix that,” Terry says.

Robert waves him off, trying not to get angry. “No, it’s alright. I’ve got in a bullet in me. That’s fine. Can you just . . . get the blood out of my shirt?”

“Sure,” Terry says. “Sure.”

A moment later, the bloodstain is gone.

“So what now?” Terry asks.

The five of them are near the exit to the Ren Fest, walking casually – ever so casually – back to their Greyhound bus. John has a backpack slung over his shoulder, heavy with the weight of a fox – Janis the nymph – and a raven.

“Well, who was that guy?” John asks.

Terry shrugs. “I heard them talking a bit. They called him Morgan, but he didn’t say much to me, except that it had all been a misunderstanding and that they actually just wanted to talk to me peacefully.”

Belladonna scowls, remembering Rex and Hex’s attack. “They had quite a way of doing that.”

John shakes the backpack. “Hey, these guys aren’t going to turn back to normal and burst out of this thing, are they?”

Terry considers for a moment, then gestures them over to a relatively secluded corner. He opens the bag and discreetly casts a spell inside. The discretion is unnecessary, of course, because at that moment everyone but the five of them finds something else to look at.

“That should keep Morgan stuck in raven form for at least a day,” Terry says. “I don’t know if I could do anything to the nymph. She’s at least feyblooded, and I’m not in the best condition to try going up against that right now.”

“Uh huh,” Robert says. “Well, it was fun meeting you guys.”

“Whoa, Robot!” Scarpedin steps in Robert’s way. “Why you headin’ off, man? After all we been through, man.”

“Been through?” Robert says, perfectly feigning ignorance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Today was very uneventful, so I’m going to put my uneventful ass back on that bus and sleep the rest of the way to New Orleans.”

The five of them walk together for a bit, until they’re outside the front gate of the Ren Fest. The bus is far away across the grassy parking lot.

Terry asks Robert, “Aren’t you a little curious?”

“About what? Seriously, this is the sort of thing you keep to yourself until you need some inspiration for an insanity plea.”

“The Bureau will look for you,” Terry says gravely.

“The who?” Then Robert catches himself. “Wait, no, I don’t care. Just . . . don’t tell anyone I was with you, okay? It was . . . it was really nice meeting you all.” He eyes Scarpedin, John, and Belladonna. “Seriously, really nice. But I hope you don’t mind if I say I hope I never see you again.”

“Buh bye,” Belladonna says.

John nods a quick farewell with his cigarette.

Scarpedin points past Robert. “Sh*t. Man in black!”

Everyone looks, even Robert despite himself. In the gravel aisle leading down the grassy parking lot, twenty feet from the group, is a white man with short blonde hair, dressed in a black business suit, with black leather gloves and shoes, and an incongruously curious expression on his face. And, Robert notes, he has a concealed handgun in his armpit.

Not feeling really intimidated or worried, the group waits until the man comes up to them. He smiles and extends a hand to Belladonna.

“Hello,” he says. “My name is Nathaniel Beckford. I understand you need a ride.”

His accent is British, light and pleasant. Belladonna takes his hand for the shortest possible time that is polite. Then she looks to the others to deal with the guy.

John frowns. “How do you know who we are?”

“I don’t, actually,” Nathaniel says, his accent making him sound anything but the intimidating figure Scarpedin first expected. “You see, I know you need a ride, because I had a vision.”

There’s a pause.

“That’s _definitely_ my cue,” Robert says with a laugh. “Bye bye.”

And he keeps laughing to himself as he walks away.


_*End of Second Session*_


----------



## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
4:37 pm_

Scarpedin once saw this freaky movie called Warlock. This new guy, Nathan, looks like the Warlock, if the Warlock were dressed like the dude from The Transporter. He's pretty sure that guy was the same actor who played the villain in The Medallion. That movie was terrible. But he _liked_ Warlock and The Transporter.

Scarpedin is conflicted.

While this internal struggle wages in Scarpedin's mind, the others are trying to get a sense for who this guy is. Though they're not quite ready to hop in the man's car, they are following him as he guides them to where he's parked. A handful of Renaissance Festival fairgoers are wandering past them, heading home early. Robert has already left the group, eagerly slipping away to the Greyhound bus.

"You see," Nathan explains with a charming hint of British embarrassment, "I have visions that guide me, and I follow them so I can help people. I had a vision that you would be needing a ride."

John ponders while smoking. "Why?"

Nathan shrugs. "I don't know. The visions usually don't make sense until afterward, but they put me in the right place at the right time. Now come on, my car has room for four passengers if three of you squeeze in back."

At this, Scarpedin's eyes light up. "Shotgun!"

Terry laughs but shakes his head. "I don't think I feel quite right going along with a stranger."

"C'mon Terry," Scarpedin says. "He looks like a man in black. We need to talk to the men in black to find out who's trying to kill you."

"Aha," Nathan says. "I see you _are_ in trouble. And by the way, I insist the lady takes shotgun. Sorry mate."

Belladonna nods, glad she's getting some respect. "We should consider his offer. I don't think that Robert fella was really hoping to see us again, and really, what would my friends think if they heard I rode into town on a bus? Don't you worry, Terry. My daddy taught me a thing or two about defending myself."

"Wait," John says. "We're going to talk to the men in black? You're joking."

Terry starts to answer, but Nathan interrupts.

"Here we are," Nathan says.

They stop next to a custom shroud-covered car. Delicately Nathan pulls off the cover, snapping it in the air and folding it without letting any of the fabric touch the ground. He takes his time, giving the others a chance to dazzle at his ride. It's a BMW 760Li Sedan, four doors, jet black with silver trim and black leather interior, tinted windows, and a pristine polish. It is the epitome of elegance.

As Nathan reaches for the passenger door handle, the doors unlock almost silently, without requiring any of those garish beeps most car alarms have. He opens the door and waits politely for Belladonna.

"Not b*tch," Scarpedin calls.

* * *​
Robert squints and memorizes the British man's license plates. He's apparently from Georgia, Chatham county. Robert makes a note to look that up. The others were headed to New Orleans, and so is he, and though he claims not to be interested, there's not a chance in hell he'd just let something like this slide. Terry is either possibly the biggest *sshole he's ever met, or he's being followed by some *ssholes, and either way Robert wants to know what's going on.

He's sixty feet away, casually watching from a copse of trees. No one at the Ren Fest would think anything is odd about a guy leaning against some trees to relax, staring off down the aisle of parked cars.

The British driver opens the door for the woman from New Orleans -- Belladonna Lee. Robert ticks down his mental checklist. About 5'7", 130 lbs., straight brown hair, C-cup, Louisianan aristocratic accent, vials of some sort of poison paste in a concealed hip pouch, stilettos in her hair, at least four concealed two-shot derringers in her dress, spoke of voodoo with comfortable familiarity. Highly suspicious.

He goes down the same sort of facts about the others. John Rourke the chainsmoker who killed two men without qualms. Scarpedin Jones the thug with two concealed weapons, one of them an uzi, the other a . . . and Robert laughs despite himself . . . a sword. And Terry Abrams the . . . Robert can't even bring himself to _think_ the word 'wizard.' 

Terry's existence, and the things Robert has seen in the past few hours, seems wrong. Robert can't trust them, but he can't let go. He's always been that way. 

As he makes his way back onto the Greyhound bus, his gaze is as ever looking for clues and threats. The bus driver, Missy, spots him and smiles.

"Hi again. I called your group, and they said you'd be the only one coming back. Is everything alright?"

Robert ponders for a moment, putting on a convincingly casual face while he eyes a mechanic crawling out from under the bus. Weird. Scarpedin must be rubbing off on him, because the man looks like George Clooney.

"Everything's fine," Robert says. "They just found someone to give them a ride."

Robert laughs, pretending to be amused by the whole situation. Missy smiles too, put at ease by Robert's casual charm.

"So," Robert asks, "is the bus fixed? We, ah, ready to go?"

Missy looks at the mechanic for an answer. He nods, pats the dirt off his jumpsuit, and cocks his head at the bus. "You've got a bit of body damage, and probably won't run completely straight, but I fixed the oil, and you're not leaking anything. I had to reset the. . . ."

Robert is bored and heads onto the bus, so busy worrying about magic, nymphs, and other things that shouldn't exist that he does not notice that the mechanic's accent, meant to sound Texan, is faked. Caught up in preparation, Robert takes his seat and looks out the window to see the mechanic get into his tow truck and drive off.

Briefly, Robert wonders what sort of danger the British man's vision might have been warning of, but he shakes off the worry. He has a hunch that if there _is_ trouble, it's going to be following Terry.


----------



## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
5:35 pm_

The Greyhound bus follows far behind Terry and the others in Nathan’s pristine BMW. Supremely confident as a driver, Nathan presses just high enough above the speed limit to enjoy himself without attracting police attention. As John looks longingly out the window to the sky, and Scarpedin talks about his biker gang back in New Mexico, Nathan sets the satellite radio to an appropriately bluesy-station.


_“When I look over my shoulder,
“What do you think I see?
“Some other cat looking over
“His shoulder right at me.”

“And it’s strange, surely strange.”_
- Dr. John, _Season of the Witch_​

From the passenger side of the back seat, Scarpedin says, “Change the station, man. Put on something cool.”

“Hey,” Terry says, “leave it on. Don’t you like the blues, Scarpedin?”

The stare Terry receives looks like Scarpedin thinks he’s speaking in a different language. After a moment, Scarpedin shakes his head and says, “No man. I listen to rock. Metal. Drums. Hip-hop.”

Terry smiles wistfully. “I grew up in Chicago. Tons of blues there. I never appreciated it until I lived in England. Maybe I’ll get a chance to hear some live bands in New Orleans.”

Nathan asks, “That why you’re going to New Orleans?”

Terry tenses suddenly, then shakes his head. He whispers, “No.”

Nathan glances to Belladonna in the passenger seat. When she shifts and says nothing, Nathan looks to the rearview mirror at John for an explanation.

John frowns. “Somebody’s after him.”

“Why?” Nathan asks.

Terry hesitates. “Lin . . . my girlfriend Lin. . . . Someone shot her, and now they’re after me. I don’t know why.”

“My God man.” Nathan’s composure slips for a moment, but he focuses on the road. Everyone waits for Terry to say something, and when he doesn’t, Nathan clears his throat. 

“I, um . . . need to get gas.”

* * *​
In 1901, the Bureau for the Management of Magicks was founded simultaneously in England and the United States. It quickly gained significant power and grudging respect among the races living on Gaia, and its influence even extended to parts of Terra. The Bureau’s mandate is to maintain the secrecy of magic from the eyes of the common human of Terra, and to police any crimes commited with magic or by magical creatures. As far as the average magic-user knows, they are strict but not malevolent. No government officially recognizes them, but it seems impossible that their existence is unknown. They wield power through obscurity. No one knows quite what the Bureau is capable of, and so few are willing to cross them.

In the United States, the three main offices of the Bureau are in the locations with the greatest concentration of supernatural disturbances – Salem, Savannah, and New Orleans. 

* * *​
It’s a hot Texas evening, and the sun is setting while Nathan fuels his car at an Exxon. Terry leans against the hood, and the others listen to his story. John paces with a cigarette, suckin the dry air through his teeth along with the smoke. Belladonna stands next to the passenger door, listening with a strange expression on her face. And Scarpedin scrapes the bugs off the BMW’s windshield.

“Lin and I, we met in France.”

Terry pulls out his wallet and meekly shows them all a photo of the two of them. She looks half-Chinese, and Scarpedin can’t decide what actress she looks like.

“She was a family friend of my teacher, Russell. Russell Vanderschmidt. He’s, um, he’s just a teacher of magic in England. Introduced me to Lin, and when I passed this exam I had, a big thing, sorta like graduation, Russell paid for me and Lin to take a vacation back to the states. We were supposed to go through all fifty states. We only got to Alaska.

“We were out hiking outside of Fairbanks, climbing a little forested hill. I was holding her in my left arm, when . . . it just happened. No warning. I didn’t even recognize the gunshot until after she was dead. It was like . . . like there was a sniper. He shot her,” he points to his right temple, “right here. The shot pulled her out of my arm, and she fell, and there was blood, and-”

“It’s alright man,” Scarpedin says. “Um, c’mon Terry, you don’t have to say all that.”

Terry straightens and looks at Scarpedin for a moment. “No. I guess I want to tell someone. I need to get it out.”

Nathan nods, and his voice is soft. “I hear that’s the best thing to do.”

John rolls his eyes and looks away.

“I bent down,” Terry says, “and she wasn’t moving. Then there was another gunshot, and I got hit in my leg, here.” He points at his right thigh. “I panicked. I didn’t want to leave Lin, but I knew I had to get out. So I went to Gaia. It was just instinct.”

Nathan leans forward in curiosity, but Scarpedin waves his question off. “Terra, Gaia. We’ll explain it later man.”

“After that,” Terry says, “I was able to heal myself and struggle through the wilderness on Gaia until I was pretty sure I was back in Fairbanks. I caught the first flight I could. I’d never had to deal with the Bureau before, but I. . . . The way I figured it, they were there either for me or Lin, so either way they probably know my connection to Russell. The closest main Bureau office is in New Orleans, so that’s where I headed.

“I was smart, y’know? I charmed the teller at the airport to sell me a ticket without ID, so I was able to use a fake name. I don’t know how they could have known where I was going, but then there was the bomb threat in Dallas, and all the planes were grounded.”

John shrugs. “You’ve got magic. They’ve got magic. Couldn’t they have just used magic to find you?”

“I guess so. I still have been lucky, though. I ran into you guys.”

Nathan pulls out the pump and puts on his gas cap. “I know this probably is the wrong time to start asking questions,” he glances at Scarpedin warily, “but what are ‘Terra,’ ‘Gaia,’ and ‘the Bureau’? And what’s this talk about magic?”

Terry chuckles. “You claim to have visions, but you don’t believe in magic?”

“Of course not,” Nathan says. “I’m psychic.”

* * *​
The next two hours of the car trip are a little awkward as Terry answers more of the group’s questions about Gaia, the Bureau, and the nature of magic, helping them know what to expect. The Bureau helped encourage the men in black myths over the past few decades, though from what Terry’s heard they’re more like the ones in the Will Smith movie than the one in _The X-Files_.

John seems increasingly disturbed as he hears more about the Bureau. He won’t explain why, but he clearly doesn’t like the idea of a secret organization having power and not being beholden to others. Terry shrugs and says that people on Gaia deal with the Bureau because they have to; he never really was interested in their procedures, though his mentor Russell was. Russell was very politically-minded.

Belladonna wants to know why her nana, a voodoo priest who obviously should know about Gaia, had never told her all this before.

Terry answers, “Just because you can do magic doesn’t mean you know why. Most humans need to bond with a ghost to use magic, but even if you can talk to spirits, it’s been a thousand years since there were many magi on Terra. Plus, once you find out, the Bureau inevitably gets involved in your life. I was lucky. Russell was on good terms with the Bureau, so he was able to keep most of his students away from their prying. Your nana, though, she might just have wanted you not to have to worry.”

Belladonna smirks. “I’ll have to talk to my daddy about that.”

Scarpedin wants to know about monsters, and about King Arthur. Terry has to disappoint him on both accounts, since he’s never seen a ‘monster’ before, and the closest thing to King Arthur he knows about are the ‘Knights of the Round.’ They’re sort of a terrorist group who hate non-humans and want to keep humans on Terra and magical races on Gaia.

“Maybe they’re the ones who want you dead,” Nathan says. “Hey, are any of you ladies and blokes feeling hungry? This is our last chance to get authentic Texan cuisine.”

The group decides to give it a go, stopping at a steakhouse in Beaumont, TX. Nathan becomes the topic of conversation, but he is modest almost to the point of mystery. Again Scarpedin posits that Nathan might be a man in black, but no one else thinks that’s likely.

After a fine dinner (though John ate little, only enough to be polite), the group is heading back to the car, and in the parking lot Scarpedin challenges Terry.

“Okay man, so enough about the Bureau. What about you? What can you do? Can you hurl lightning bolts?”

“No,” Terry says. “I explained this before. Combat magic is illegal to teach in England.”

“Terry,” Scarpedin laughs, “I knew you were a thug at heart. So c’mon, can you hurl cars like Magneto?”

“Um . . . yeah,” Terry says, sounding surprised. “I actually probably could if I tried. But it would exhaust me.”

“Good, good. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Belladonna and Nathan are already at the car, but they have to wait for John to finish his cigarette before they can go.

“Can you fly?”

“No.”

“Turn invisible?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Summon a demon?”

“No,” Terry says, “but I could make an illusion of Godzilla eating the moon if I wanted.”

“Cool. Show me!”

“Maybe after I’ve had a chance to rest. I wore myself out today.”

“Can you make women sleep with you?” Scarpedin asks.

“Um, my girlfriend was just assassinated two days ago? What the hell are you thinking, man?”

Scarpedin shrugs. “Sorry man, sorry. But we should go have some fun, man. We’re going to New Orleans, Terry. Think of the times we could have there with magic.”

Terry sighs and looks at the car. The burly, sword-wielding biker seems to mean well, but Terry’s starting to get irritated his with overbearing attitude.

“Not b*tch,” Terry says.

Belladonna frowns, “I wish you’d stop with the vulgarity. I am a lady, after all.”

John chuckles. “Yeah. Right.”

He stamps out his cigarette and starts to get into the car. “Nathan, we ready to go?”

Nathan starts to nod, but then the world fades away. The parking lot pavement cracks and water floods up through rifts in the ground. A vicious wind sweeps across him, and he looks back out beyond the shore at the tiny rowboat. The bottom of the boat is filled with blood-stained water, and the seas are choppy. Beyond the rowboat, faded in the sea mist, is a beacon of light from a lantern, swiftly catching up with the rowboat.

Nathan flicks on the headlights of his car, illuminating the rowboat. John, Robert, and Scarpedin are there, but Belladonna and Ian are missing. The rowboat is nearly to shore, and Nathan tosses out a rope to help them pull themselves in.

“What happened?” he shouts.

“We’re being followed,” John says. He tucks one of Belladonna’s revolvers into his pant pocket, then grabs the rope and wraps it around the gunwale.

“By whom?” Nathan says, tugging on the rope. The rowboat lurches ashore, waves of the North Sea dash Nathan’s shoes with salt water.

“The hell if I know,” Robert says. “It killed Belladonna.”

“They’re right behind us man,” Scarpedin says, pointing.

All Nathan can make out is another ship, a hooded figure at its prow holding a staff with a golden lantern on the end. It’s coming in fast, and will reach shore in less than a minute.

“Quickly, quickly,” Nathan says.

The four of them pile into the car, and Nathan guns it in reverse up the hill, then spins and shifts into drive to reach the dirt road that led them here. All they have to do is reach the bridge, and they’ll be safe.

“Did you get what you were looking for?” Nathan asks. He’s not sure why, but he has a bitter edge in his voice.

“Yeah,” Robert says, “we got it. And now the motherf*cker’s dead.”

“Just drive,” John says.

Scarpedin is looking out the rear window. “Screw ‘drive.’ Let’s run like hell, man.”

Nathan nods gravely and glances in the review mirror. The sun is rising. They don’t have much time left.

Ahead, he sees the bridge, and on the bridge is . . . a Greyhound bus? It’s a pile of burning wreckage, with charred bodies strewn around it. And this bridge, it’s not the one they want. This bridge is in Texas.

The vision ends and Nathan finds himself slumped on the parking lot pavement next to his BMW. John is shaking him. He sits up suddenly, his clear.

“You passed out,” John says.

“No, no,” Nathan smiles. “I had a vision.”

He stands up and dusts himself off like it’s perfectly normal for people to collapse outside steak houses.

“What’d you see?” Terry asks.

“John, and Scarpedin, and Robert were coming ashore in a boat off the North Sea, and John had one of Belladonna’s derringers, and Robert said Belladonna was dead. And there was someone named Ian that I thought should have been there, but he wasn't. And you were being chased by something. But that’s not important, because it’s not going to happen for a few months.”

Nathan ignores the stunned expressions from the rest of the group. The restaurant they’re at is right next to the interstate, and Nathan watches as a Greyhound bus drives right past them, heading toward Louisiana.

“There’s a bomb on the bus,” Nathan says. “And it’s going to blow up when the bus reaches the bridge to Louisiana.”

Nathan opens the door to his BMW and gets in. When the others hesitate, he sighs and gestures for them to follow.

“Come on. I can’t do this by myself.”

The others hesitantly get into the car, and Nathan pulls out of the parking lot, muttering. “Honestly, it’s like you don’t realize you’re heroes at all.”

He checks the GPS. It’s seventeen miles to Louisiana. He switches the CD changer to his driving music and speeds after the Greyhound, confident he’ll get there in time. His visions never steer him wrong.


----------



## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
7:30pm_

It’s harder than Nathan expected. The bus driver must be trying to make up for lost time from the earlier wreck, so she’s going 75 miles an hour. A cop’s not going to pull over a Greyhound bus, but he’ll gladly pull over a slick BMW going 90. By rights, Nathan’s constant speeding and decelerating whenever he anticipates a cop might be watching should be nauseating, but the ride is almost pleasant. Plus, every time they jump over 85, Scarpedin starts hooting in delight.

“In your vision I was dead?” Belladonna says. She laughs.

“Yes,” Nathan replies, jerking the steering wheel left then right quickly to sideslip between a pair of pick-up trucks. “But I told you, it’s several months from now. We have more than enough time to avoid that.”

The engine hums, and billboards advertising the state fair, Louisianan casinos, and fresh crawfish slip by to the beat of the car stereo. Scarpedin nods his head approvingly, and Terry leans forward in anticipation, but John has a perpetual grimace as they whip through traffic.

“There it is.” Terry points. “You said the bus is going to blow up when it hits the bridge?”

“Yes, in. . . ,” Nathan glances down at the GPS map, “five miles.”

“What are you planning to do?” Terry says.

Scarpedin fumbles for the uzi he has tucked in his armpit. “Hey man, how do you roll down this window? _I’ll_ convince them to pull over.”

“Holy sh*t,” John says, realizing what Scarpedin is planning. “They’re in a bus; we’re in a Beemer. If we gave them trouble, they’d just knock us off the road.”

“Hold on,” Nathan says, stamping his foot on the gas and swerving onto the right shoulder for a moment. A short bridge over a creek is just ahead of them, but he jerks around an 18-wheeler and back onto the highway with ten feet to spare before they would have plunged into the creek.

“I could try to charm the driver,” Terry says. “I’m not sure if it’d work through the windshield, though.”

Belladonna tries to hold herself steady as the car shakes them. “Blessed mother,” she whispers, “we’re all going to die.”

“No we’re not,” Nathan says. “I would’ve seen that if it were going to happen.”

They pass the bus, too quickly even for Scarpedin to try to get the driver’s attention. Nathan starts to look at all his mirrors one by one, tensing his jaw. When they’re a mile ahead of the Greyhound, Nathan snaps the car up to over a hundred and ten to reach a gap in the traffic, and then he breaks hard.

“Hold on,” he says again.

Nathan twists the wheel and the car twists into a bootleg turn, skidding and finally coming to a stop horizontally across the road. Its front wheels rest in the left lane, its rear wheels in the right. Traffic is approaching from the left side of the car at 70 miles an hour, and less than a mile away on the right is the Sabine Memorial Bridge, crossing from Texas to Louisiana.

Belladonna cries out and kicks open the door, trying to get out before the oncoming traffic crashes into them. After a second’s hesitation, the others scramble out too, heading for the side of the road.

“Ah,” Nathan says, “perfect.”

He pops the trunk and swings out of the car. The approaching cars start to honk, but Nathan casually pulls a handful of road flares from his trunk. He lights them, tosses them across the road in front of his car, and smiles as the cars screech to a stop. Slowly traffic backs up as Interstate 10 comes to an end, thanks to Nathan’s stunt.

Nathan waves the others over. As they approach, a few cars honk and drive past on the shoulder, their drivers flipping Nathan off as they hurry on to Louisiana.

“Now the bus won’t reach the bridge,” Nathan says.

“The bomb is probably on a timer,” John says. “Now instead of blowing up the bridge, it’s going to explode and destroy dozens of parked cars. Great.”

“Oh my,” Nathan says. “You think so?”

“Don’t worry guys,” Scarpedin says. “I got this one.”

He sprints off along the shoulder, heading toward the Greyhound bus, which is backed up at least a quarter mile away. John rolls his eyes and starts to follow, but Terry stops him and puts a defensive spell on him, just in case they’re too late and John has to pull people out of the fire.

* * *​
The bus lurches slightly and the squeal of a dozen or more tires struggling for traction fills the air.

“Dammit,” Robert says, “not again.”

The bus comes to a stop without a crash this time, and the weary passengers – many adorned with items purchased at the Renaissance Festival – start to groan. Robert stands up and holds out his hands to calm folks down as he heads for the driver’s seat. People relax as he smiles at them. Robert just projects the air of one of those people who’ll get things done.

“What’s the problem Missy?” Robert asks when he gets up next to the bus driver.

She’s breathing heavily, irritated. “They all just stopped. There must have been a wreck in front of us.”

Robert looks out the window so she doesn’t see his grimace. He’s about to turn back to Missy and recommend they drive on the shoulder when he spots someone sprinting up to the bus.

“Oh look,” he says to himself, laughing in weak disbelief, “it’s Scarpedin.”

Scarpedin staggers to a stop next to the door of the bus, and he pounds a fist on it. His breath is ragged, and he bangs again.

“Open the door!” he shouts. His voice is muffled by the door.

“No,” Robert says. “Don’t.”

“He looks like he’s in trouble,” Missy says. She pulls the lever to open the door, and Scarpedin heaves himself onto the bus.

“Everyone,” he shouts, “you’ve got to get off the bus! There’s a bomb!”

People shift in their seats, but Robert sighs and snaps his fingers in front of Scarpedin’s face to get his attention. 

“What the _hell_ are you talking about, boy? I already got off this bus once today. I’m not getting off again until we get to New Orleans. Except maybe to use the bathroom.”

“What the-? Dammit,” Scarpedin growls. “This bus is about to explode! Get off the f*cking bus!”

He pulls the uzi out of his jacket and cocks it, then fires a few shots into the ceiling. People scream in panic and start to lunge for emergency exits, kicking out windows and fleeing the madman.

“That’s better,” Scarpedin says.

Robert is too stunned at the stupidity of what he just saw to act, but Missy reacts heroically, leaping for Scarpedin and yanking the uzi out of his hands.

“B-back away!” Missy shouts, shaking the gun in Scarpedin’s face.

“Whoa,” Scarpedin says. “Whoa, calm down. Dude, there’s no need to panic. Let’s just step off the bus and, y’know, . . . whoa, don’t shoot. We can, y’know, discuss this peacefully.”

“Give me the gun,” Robert says calmly. 

Missy practically throws it at him, appearing glad to be rid of it. In the moment the gun’s not pointed at him, Scarpedin runs. And then, as soon as he’s out of the bus’s doorway, Missy and everyone else who had not yet gotten off the bus pile out the door, afraid of the bomb.

Robert sighs and turns the gun’s safety on. Since he’s the only person left on the bus, he strolls down the steps. The crowd of the bus passengers is twenty feet away, huddled amid trees beside the road.

“Seriously people,” he says as he walks up to them, “you’ve got to keep your cool in situations like-”

The explosion catches him in the back, picks him up, and hurls him into a tree. Robert lands with a thump, and the blast seems to leave nothing of the bus but a crater, surrounded by other flaming and demolished vehicles. Then from the sky the burning wreckage of the Greyhound bus crashes to the road.

After a moment of grogginess, Robert staggers to his feet and bats at the fire clinging to his coat. He’s still holding Scarpedin’s uzi, and the passengers around him scream at the sight of the gun and flee.

Robert watches them go, then glances at the massive fireball hovering over the road and back down at the tiny gun before he yells, “Oh, come on!”


----------



## RangerWickett

Sample illustrations from the upcoming _Elements of Magic - Mythic Earth_, which has the magic system I'm using for this game, as well as some setting information.


----------



## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
8:30 pm_

"Thanks," Robert says with a wince. He sips his coffee.

The medtech dabs a bit more burn gel on Robert's neck, where the worst injury was. Amazingly, he was one of the few passengers of the Greyhound who was hurt. The same could not be said of the people whose cars were stuck next to the bus when it exploded. All told there were seven fatalities, and the road will be impassible for at least another few hours, until all the debris is cleared away.

The medtech shakes his head. "Man, we were real lucky there was that traffic jam. If your bus hadn't stopped, it mighta blown up on the bridge, and that woulda taken for_eva_ to fix."

The pair of police officers in the room are getting impatient. "You done yet?" one asks.

The medtech, a black man, grimaces at the two white cops and nods. "Don't move your head around too much," he tells Robert before heading off.

Robert is alone with two cops in a meeting room inside the State of Texas Welcome Center, less than half a mile down the road from where the bus exploded. Lights of various emergency vehicles flash in through the windows. Outside, the scene is pandemonium. Injured people, burning wreckage, angry drivers forced to share a two-lane road with oncoming traffic. However, if not for the media blitz with its tons of cameras, Robert would almost wish he was outside.

One of the cops chews on something like he has an oral fixation. He's the tough one - hands on hips near his gun, a partial scowl, forearms like a baseball pitcher. The other one is more squat, more gentle and patient. He must be the catcher. Just two homoerotic white cops interrogating a black man, Robert thinks. This should be easy to talk his way out of.

"So," Robert chuckles, "how can I help you boys?"

* * *​
They take his statement, his fingerprints, and a photograph, then brush his hands for gunpowder to verify his claim that, no, he didn't shoot the uzi at the bus's gas tank. They're *ssholes, but unfortunately they're cops, so as much as Robert wants to, he knows he can't touch them. Robert hates it when *ssholes go and become cops.

Robert was smart. He handed over the uzi first thing, as discreetly as he could, and then he waited around to cooperate with the cops and get as much suspicion off his back as possible. He's in a bad mood, irritable, and he knows that people in bad moods get sloppy. So even though he desperately wants to track down Scarpedin, Terry, and the others, he's
taking his time.

Free after the interrogation, Robert heads out, hoping no intrepid TV crew will catch him on film. On the way to the parking lot, he spots Missy, the bus driver, and he says a few encouraging words to her. She says she doesn’t know what the Greyhound company will do, but Robert assures her that he’s reconsidering the whole New Orleans trip, and that he plans to visit some friends while he’s in Texas. Robert figures this should be a good enough alibi in case he needs one.

The roadway is humid, and as he tries to look for a nice car to hitch a ride with he thinks he feels a mosquito getting stuck in the burn cream on the back of his neck. No doubt its suffocating, its lungs clogged with icy hot gel. Robert can’t help but laugh. Yet another casualty of this strange, strange day.

“Robert,” a voice says.

He jerks and turns in surprise, managing not to use his stun gun on John, who had snuck up on him. Belladonna and Terry are with John too, but the British man – Nathan, if Robert recalls correctly – and Scarpedin the gun-toting lunatic are nowhere to be seen.

“Jesus,” Robert says. “What are you doing here?”

Robert glances around. They’re in a dark end of the parking lot outside the visitor center, not quite close enough to anyone to be seen. It’s a struggle for Robert to retain his cool, but he manages.

Terry looks embarrassed. “We heard what Scarpedin did. Nathan got a vision that the bus was going to explode, and I guess Scarpedin didn't quite know how to deal with it. Things turned out better than they could have been, though. We didn’t know if you were in trouble, and we wanted to give you a ride if you need one.”

Robert lets a smile slowly creep onto his face as he looks at each of the three in turn. “Um, no thanks. In fact, you guys should get going. Discreetly, if you can manage it. I turned in the gun Scarpedin was shooting, by the way.”

“Why’d you do that?” Terry says, looking betrayed.

“Oh,” Robert says, “I’m sorry that I’m a law abiding citizen and I thought it might be a good idea to hand over the semi-automatic weapon to the police instead of carrying it around.”

John lights up and nods to Robert. “Uzis are full-auto, not semi.”

Robert holds out a hand as if presenting John as evidence. “Yet another reason I think I’ll go my own way. I mean . . . heh, _thanks_ for saving my life, but trouble seems to follow you around.”

Belladonna smirks. “So you’re thinking not to be following us, then?”

“That’s my plan,” Robert says. “Now . . . you guys get out of here before some cop spots you. I got no hard feelings for you, but I don’t want to be seen with you, y’know?”

John rolls his eyes and heads away, muttering, “I told you this was a stupid idea.”

Robert waits for them to leave, then folds the straight razor he was hiding behind his back and puts it in his pocket. If they keep that kind of thing up, Robert thinks, he’s going to end up killing one of them.

* 	* 	*​
As Robert walks along Interstate 10 toward New Orleans, he lets many easy prospects for rides pass by. He’s going to get a ride later, but he’s angry at himself, and he needs time to think.

This day Robert made many protestations that he’s a normal, decent, law-abiding individual, and in his mind that’s mostly true. He’s conscious enough that what he does is viewed as illegal, but he’s confident few people would think what he does is actually wrong. How exactly he got on this path he finds hard to remember, but with the money his family gave him to invest, he’s been able to keep it up for over a year now, skipping out on college, studying abroad, and wandering between cities, looking for people who the law won’t handle.

Robert has no formal training in crime scene investigation, but he knows people who do, and he has a cunning, analytical mind. And he watches a lot of CSI in his spare time. Usually he tries to stay out of the law’s way. He knows there’s no such thing as the perfect murder, but his current plan has been working well so far. He’ll breeze into a city to party, take his time enjoying the sights, and spend his evenings wandering the seedier places of society’s underbelly. He’ll find an *sshole – a rapist, a drug dealer, a thug terrorizing innocents – and he’ll take his time figuring out how best to kill the bastard and ditch his body so that he’ll be long gone before the police find it.

A dozen murders around the country, two in the Czech Republic, all of people whose death will bring relief to many – no police department will ever figure it out.

Only very seldom, though, does Robert think hard on the nature of his life. He’s rich enough to keep this up for a few years, and normally he just lives from murder to murder. Not much else in his life is meaningful, and while he could try to actually join some law enforcement branch, or even run for political office, he knows that would be the end of him. As cool and controlled as he pretends to be, there are times when he cannot deny that he’s obsessed.

How many people in the world have the power to kill whoever pisses them off? Only a few, and most of them are monsters. In the dark, cloying night that hovers over the marshland of Louisiana, Robert wonders if he’s a monster too. He can no longer even really convince himself that he’s doing this for others.

_Boondock Saints_, he thinks. People applaud the protagonists as heroes there. Robert’s not much different, is he? They killed for religion, as holy executioners. Robert’s anything but religious, but he views this as his duty too.

It irritates him that he has to work so hard to keep himself appear clean, off the radar of law enforcement, just because the government doesn’t like vigilantes. He was headed to New Orleans because he knew there were certainly people deserving of punishment there, but now he has met Terry, and so this whole new insane world of magic is stuck on his mind.

What concerns him most is that he feels an urge to kill Terry. It takes him a while to think through why, and eventually he realizes it is because Terry knows who he is. Except for the first, every times before when he’s helped people in trouble, he’s done so discreetly, slowly, unseen. But now because of Terry, many people might suspect him. Robert realizes that he doesn’t want to kill Terry because the man is an *sshole – though magic _is_ somewhat irritating – but because Robert is worried of getting caught.

He’s becoming too much like a criminal. Whatever happens these next few days, Robert suspects he will have to make a choice that he doesn’t want to make. That, perhaps, is why Robert wishes he could just kill Terry.

It starts to dapple rain, so Robert throws out a thumb. Within a minute, headlights catch him, and he sees a van slowing down to pick him up.

A window rolls down, and a sweet-looking forty-something woman smiles out at him.

“Headed to New Orleans?” Robert asks, smiling back to her.

“Jesse,” the woman says, “open the door.”

From inside the van, a man grumbles, “D*mmit Linda, I can’t believe you want to pick up a hitchhiker. What kind of example are you setting for our son? Jesse, God d*mmit, close that door.”

The door was opened a crack, but Robert is only able to catch a glimpse of the young boy Jesse before he slams the door shut.

“Walter,” chides the mother, Linda. “You’d want someone to pick you up if you were stuck in the rain, wouldn’t you? Jesse, open the door. We’ll take him at least to a hotel.”

Robert hides a frown, but Jesse opens the door and moves aside for the bedraggled black hitchhiker. This, Robert thinks, is not helping his mood.

“Close the damn door,” Walter says.

He’s a big, ugly man in an air conditioner repairman’s uniform, and as soon as Robert closes the car door, Walter guns the engine and they speed off.

Then Robert hears Walter mutter, “Stupid b*tch. Can’t believe I let myself get told what to do by a fat b*tch like you.”

“Mom?” Jesse says. “Dad sounds angry.”

The kid’s only ten, the wife is trying to hide her tears, and Walter keeps grumbling, not even caring if his wife and son hear. Robert knows that, after getting caught in a bus explosion and nearly being fingered by the cops, he’s in an irritated mood, and irritated people make stupid mistakes, but Walter is certainly starting to sound like an *sshole. Despite himself, Robert finds himself slipping away from rational thinking, and drifting toward the cold, smug part of himself that takes over when he’s going to kill someone.


_To be continued. . ._


----------



## RangerWickett

Yes, Robert is probably the hardest character for me, both in terms of dealing with him in game and writing him. He's seductively friendly, and honestly kinda scares me. But yeah, every time I watch _Boondock Saints_, I can't help but feel a similarity between them.


By the way, you might be seeing this around:



> *Elements of Magic - Mythic Earth brings myths to life in your game*
> 
> [imager]http://www.enworld.org/shop/images/engs/product101/mec.JPG[/imager]The unknown and the secret are essential to human nature. Without mystery, people wither and die.
> 
> _Elements of Magic – Mythic Earth_ presents a magic system that creates the stirring, compelling magic seen in the myths that are alive in every setting, ancient or modern. Adventure in a postmodern retelling of the Arthurian legends, take on the role of historical Chinese mages struggling against the encroaching magical traditions of diabolical westerners, or create all new mythic adventures set in your own fantasy world. In _Mythic Earth_ you will find the rules to capture the tone and essence of countless mythic traditions, real and imagined.
> 
> Compatible with both Fantasy d20 and Modern d20, and drawing on the best aspects of the flexible spell creation system of _Elements of Magic_, _Mythic Earth_ is a stand-alone rules supplement that can be integrated into any d20 game, adding new layers to the meaning of what magic is.
> 
> Whether you want to explore the myths of the real world, or to play in a fantasy world of your own creation, this book will help you understand the role myths play in history and society, and will aid you in composing adventures with mythic resonance.  _Mythic Earth_ will help you bring the grandeur of myths and the intricacies of superstition and folklore to life in your games. From street magicians and voodoo priests to Chinese sorcerers and the various stripes of witches, all the magical beliefs of humanity and the infinite worlds of fantasy are yours to wield as you explore the mysteries of Mythic Earth.
> 
> 
> Download the teaser and get your first look at a character from the sample [smallcaps]High Fantasy[/smallcaps] setting.
> Read The Long Road - A [smallcaps]High Fantasy[/smallcaps] Storyhour, a grand tale with a cast to rival any Hollywood epic, which recounts the modern campaign in which these rules were playtested.
> Buy _Elements of Magic - Mythic Earth_ at EN World GameStore[ for *$8.95*. You can also buy it atRPGNow and Drive-Thru RPG, but I don't get as big of a commission.
> And tell your own tales of mythic adventure.
> 
> Cover illustration by J.L. Jones.




I started writing _Mythic Earth_ right as I was coming up with this campaign, because I really didn't like the style of magic in D20 Modern. Now that everything's been finalized and the book is on sale, I'm curious if people are interested in how the story and the rules developed together. I've enjoyed running this game on so many different levels, and I'm considering interspersing actual story posts with freebies for the system and comments about why the rules work the way they do.


----------



## Einan

Adding in the commentary on the system and freebies would be excellent additions to the Storyhour thus far.  

I just purchased the PDF and so far it looks excellent!  I'm looking forward to putting together a game based on it and Simon Green's Nightside novels.

Einan


----------



## RangerWickett

Errant post


----------



## RangerWickett

_October 29, 2005
8:30 pm_

“Okay,” John says, “time for answers.”

They’ve pulled off the interstate in Lake Charles, Louisiana. Nathan finds an empty parking lot behind a fast food restaurant that looks to have gone out of business during the hurricanes. They park, make sure no one is likely to interrupt them, and then open the trunk.

John pulls out the backpack and slowly unzips it. Scarpedin has his sword ready, Belladonna has a derringer in hand, and Terry is prepared to counter a spell if he has to. Nathan watches with curiosity, and a nagging sense that the air conditioning of his car might not be working right.

Inside the bag is just the raven, not the fox. Morgan, the man responsible for kidnapping Terry and nearly getting the rest of them killed, is stuck in raven form, thanks to a spell cast by Terry earlier that afternoon. The fox, who had been a nymph called Janis in her normal form, is missing.

“Figures,” Terry says. “She’s fey. She could just hop back to Gaia as soon as she woke up.”

Scarpedin says, “Let’s hope we were driving at the time.”

“You awake?” John asks the raven.

It blinks and looks up at them.

“Can you talk?” John says.

“Yes,” the raven says, and its voice sounds as Terry remembers Morgan’s voice. “My employer will be very unhappy if he finds out any harm came to me, so I caution you against-”

“Bullsh*t,” John says. “You failed on your mission, so your boss would probably be happier if you died and couldn’t finger him. Keep talking.”

“About what?” the raven asks.

Nathan can’t help but laugh. The group of them are gathered around a backpack with a talking raven in it, acting as if they were interrogating a terrorist. Of course, thinking back to the bomb that nearly destroyed a major bridge, Nathan supposes that’s not so incorrect.

“Tell us who you are,” Scarpedin says, “and who you’re working for. Talk, or else.”

“Or else what?”

John reaches into the bag. The rest of them can’t see what he does, but there’s the sound like a chicken bone snapping, and Morgan screams in pain. John pulls his hands out of the bag and waits for Morgan to stop whimpering.

Belladonna, Nathan, and Terry exchange sickened expressions, but they don’t say anything against what John did. Scarpedin seems to approve.

“That’s so much easier on someone as small as you,” John says. “So, who are you?”

“My name’s Morgan McCool. I . . . I work for a man called Mr. O. From New York.”

John smiles, amused. “ ‘McCool,’ ‘Mr. O’? Yeah right.”

He reaches into the bag and there’s another snap.

Terry grabs John’s arm and says, “Whoa, stop it. He’s a human being, okay? You can’t just go breaking his arms.”

The rest of the group looks around nervously as Morgan cries out in pain. The parking lot is still empty, but they’re nervous.

“I’m telling the truth!” Morgan screams. “I swear. Mr. O is a mage in New York, and he sent me to try to get in touch with Mr. Abrams here. Terry Abrams. I hired two local Knights of the Round to help me, and they got the wrong idea, which is why they attacked you.”

Belladonna frowns. “When they came after us, they said they wanted _me_ to go with them. I don’t suppose you want to explain that?”

Morgan whimpers. “They’re morons. Apparently they thought I said ‘Terra,’ not ‘Terry.’ They knew I was looking for a magic user with unique powers, and I guess they just assumed a magical girl made more sense than a magical boy.”

“You son of a b*itch,” Terry says. “Let me get this straight. First you try to kill me, and kill Lin instead. And you somehow follow me to Texas, but you ground the planes by calling in a terrorist threat. Then you had your cat wreck our bus to get us to go where you wanted, then you kidnapped me, then tried to kill these guys when they came to rescue me. We captured you, and . . . and you blew up the bus? That doesn’t make any sense. How would you know we wouldn’t be on the bus, with you in tow?”

“What are you talking about?” Morgan seethes. “I didn’t blow up your bus, and I sure as hell didn’t kill anyone. Now I’m cooperating. If you take this spell off me and let me heal . . . hehe, I can’t believe you broke my arms.”

John snaps his fingers. “Hey, you talk to us, not yourself. We’ve still got questions. If you didn’t blow up the bus, who did? Does your ‘Mr. O’ have someone else on this case?”

“No,” Morgan says, “he doesn’t have that many operatives in this area. You’ve been very hard to track down, Terry. Let me explain, alright?”

John leans back, lights up a cigarette, and smiles. “Go ahead.”

“Alright,” Morgan says, “Mr. O is a magic-user. Some people say he might not be human, but he looks human enough. He’s the man in charge of . . . various illegal operations, mostly in the northeastern U.S. His people sell magic item sales, smuggle non-humans into human society, provide spellcasting for people willing to pay but who don’t want the Bureau to find out.”

“You’re the mob,” Nathan says.

“One of many,” Morgan says. “But we don’t kill people. We just realize that since we have magic, and most people don’t, we should take advantage of that.”

“F*cking Elves,” Scarpedin mutters.

“So why do you want Terry?” John says.

“Mr. O has connections to the fey court.” To their confused expressions, he explains. “They’re the most powerful magical creatures in the world, pretty much. You don’t need to worry about them, though. They normally don’t meddle in human affairs. You seriously _are_ new to this, aren’t you?

“Anyway,” Morgan continues, “with the recent planar troubles, everyone’s been looking for ways to get to Gaia. One of Mr. O’s contacts told him that you could do that, Mr. Abrams, so he immediately set out his agents to try to track you down.”

“Wait a second,” Terry says. “What ‘planar problems’?”

Morgan groans again at the pain of broken bones, but he composes himself. “I guess you wouldn’t know. You can just do it yourself. But about two weeks ago, all the keys stopped working. People who normally could planeshift with their own spells can’t anymore. Even feywalkers – like Janis, the nymph we had with us – can’t do it anymore. Only you can, apparently.”

“Terry?” Scarpedin says. “Do you have something you want to tell us, Terry?”

“No,” Terry says. “And if no one can plane shift, where’d the nymph go? She was in the bag with you.”

“She said that she could do it while you were around,” Morgan says. “Like you being around fixed the problem. Mr. O didn’t explain how you could do it; I’m not sure if even _he_ knew. I was supposed to contact you, invite you to meet with Mr. O, and we’d see about employing your very unique talents.”

“Yeah, well,” Terry says, “you kinda screwed that up.”

He zips the backpack shut and puts it back in the trunk.

“We have to talk to the Bureau,” Terry says. “Turn this guy over to them, and find out what the hell’s going on.”

“You know what?” Nathan says. “I just realized something, Terry old chap. If this guy isn’t on the side of the people who killed your girlfriend and blew up the bus, then that means somebody else is after you.”

The group looks around the parking lot nervously, then quickly gets into the car. It’s another four hours to New Orleans. Hopefully they won’t run into any snags before then.

* * *​
Robert suppresses enough cursing to fill a Tarantino film. Standing at the edge of the swamp, soaked in blood, Robert watches Walter’s van burn. Irritated people do stupid things. Robert knew it would happen, and now he’s made his first mistake. He needs some place to hide.

Robert’s not the sort of person to put his trust in others, especially not those he has considered killing, but he doesn’t see any other choice. Terry’s the only person who can help him now.


----------



## RangerWickett

RangerWickett presents two sample antagonists for _Mythic Earth_, using the Modern d20 Rules. This is the dynamic duo, Hex and Rex. Their boss, Morgan, will be presented later.

*Rex
CR 3* 
Human Strong 2/Charismatic 2

Medium humanoid
*Init* +1; *Senses* Spot -1, Listen -1
*Languages* English

*AC* 14, touch 14, flat-footed 10
*hp* 18 (4 HD)
*Fort* +4, *Ref* +3, *Will* -1

*Speed* 30 feet (6 squares)
*Melee* unarmed strike +9 (1d8+4)
*Ranged* silenced Beretta 92F +4 (2d6, 40 feet, 15 shots)
*Base Atk* +3; *Grp* +6
*Combat Gear* silenced Beretta 92F

*Starting Occupation* Criminal; skills – Knowledge (streetwise), Sleight of Hand
*Abilities* Str 16, Dex 13, Con 10, Int 12, Wis 8, Cha 14
*Feats* Brawl, Improved Brawl, Personal Firearms Proficiency, Point-Blank Shot, Precise Shot, Weapon Focus (unarmed)
*Talents* Melee Smash +1, Fast Talk +2
*Skills* Bluff +9, Climb +8, Gather Information +4, Intimidate +9, Knowledge (streetwise) +7, Repair +6, Sleight of Hand +6
*Possessions* Combat gear plus cel phone, two clips of ammo, concealed holster (Spot DC 18)

*Tactics*
Rex is a thug, plain and simple. He likes to pretend to be suave and charming, but he’s a violent misogynist who likes to brag about how tough he is. Before combat he tries to intimidate his foes into giving up, but if a fight breaks out he’ll try to punch for lethal damage. He loves his gun, but he’s not so cocky as to use it in public unless he feels truly threatened.



*Hex
CR 3*
Human Tough 4

Medium humanoid
*Init* +1; *Senses* Spot +1, Listen +1
*Languages* English

*AC* 14, touch 14, flat-footed 10
*hp* 41 (4 HD)
*Resist* DR 1/-
*Fort* +7, *Ref* +1, *Will* +2

*Speed* 30 feet (6 squares)
*Melee* stun gun +3 (1d3 electricity plus Fort DC 15 or stun for 1d6 rounds)
*Ranged* ranged touch +4 (varies)
*Base Atk* +3; *Grp* +3
*Atk Options* magic (gains a +2 bonus to technomancy Attack spells, and a +1 bonus to any Attack or Create spells if they relate to a song he’s playing on his iPod)
*Combat Gear* stun gun

*Signature Spells*

_Ring of Fire_ – Attack 6/Gen 1 short-range fire spell (6d6). This is a Witchcraft spell, not Technomancy. By Johnny Cash.
_Smack my B*tch Up_ – Charm 5/Gen 3 to make Hex and up to 8 allies within 10 ft. heroic for 10 minutes. By Prodigy.
_One Good Man_ – Charm 4/Gen 1 for a short-range simple telepathic command, which he typically uses on a woman. By Janis Joplin.
_Another Brick in the Wall_ – Create 5/Gen 1 for a short-range brick wall that can block four 5-ft. squares. By Pink Floyd.
_California Lovin’_ – Create 7/Gen 0 to create a loaded Beretta 92F for when he wants to cap someone. By Tupac.
_Don’t F*ck With Me_ – Attack 10/Gen 1 for an overpowered sonic attack (10d6, 10-ft. burst centered on you), deals 2d4 Strength damage to Hex. Ghetto Boyz.

*Starting Occupation* Technician; skills – Craft (electronic), Knowledge (technology), Repair
*Abilities* Str 10, Dex 12, Con 16, Int 14, Wis 13, Cha 8
*Feats* Elemental Focus (spells must relate to music he plays), Great Fortitude, Technomancy, Toughness, Witchcraft
*Talents* DR 1/-, Robust
*Skills* Craft (electronics) +9, Knowledge (technology) +6, Repair +5
*Magical Skills* Attack +7, Charm +7, Create +7
*Possessions* Combat gear plus cel phone, technomantic iPod (+2 equipment bonus to Attack checks)

*Tactics*
Hex’s signature spells are all tied to songs he keeps stored on his iPod, and he treats the device as his familiar. The iPod plays exactly what song Hex needs at the moment, and while he has it on his person he gains all the benefits to having a familiar with him. 

Hex’s ghost is that of a rap musician who sold his soul to a demon so he could sell his first record. He got his record deal, but soon thereafter the musician was killed, and the record was never sold. Unwilling to pass over to eternal torment, the ghost lingered at the music studio, until one day Hex wandered in and listened to the tracks, bonding with the spirit.

In combat, Hex favors straightforward fire spells, punctuated with the occasional created object to provide cover or give him an edge. He likes creating walls to keep non-spellcasters out of a fight. When going into a situation where he expects a fight, he’ll use charm magic to bolster himself and his ally Rex.


*New Charm Enhancement* 
The following charm enhancement was accidentally left out of _Mythic Earth_. It is the Strong emotion version of Courage.

*Heroic (5 MP):* Heroic creatures gain a +2 morale bonus to attack rolls, weapon damage rolls, ability checks, saves, and skill checks. The spell also acts as a strong Calm against fear effects only.


----------



## RangerWickett

_October 30, 2005
7:00 am_

Terry peers out the peephole in the door of his hotel room, wondering if he should cast a defensive spell. The two cops out in the hallway have a third person with them, and it looks like Scarpedin. Hoping he's ready for the worst, Terry opens the door.

"Terry," Scarpedin says, putting on a show of toughness, "tell the five-oh to get off me man. You and me, we was playing poker all night. Tell 'em that."

"What's this all about?" Terry asks.

One of the officers smiles at Scarpedin, then back to Terry. "We talked with the manager here. Said you and your friends came in last night, around midnight."

Terry yawns and nods.

"Well," the cop continues, "your friend here, a mister . . . Clarence Thomas . . . he didn't waste any time starting the party. We got reports from Tricou House – one of the clubs on Bourbon Street – that mister ‘Thomas’ here punched a dancer, then fled the scene. One of the other dancers chased him back to this hotel."

Terry laughs, then shrugs. "Well, y'know, I'm sorry you got up so early this morning officers, but I'm even more sorry you had to wake up me and my friend. I don't know if you can tell, but we had a bit of a late night, playing poker. And, well, y’know, drinking a bit. So unless Clarence went running off after I passed out at, oh, what was it, 4 am?"

"More like 4:30," Scarpedin says. "This man's a hell of a drinker."

"Yeah," Terry says, feigning a hangover. "So I don't know what to say, but you got the wrong guy. Hell, check room service. We were pestering them all night long."

“Nice try son,” the cop says, “but we spoke to one of the doormen who was on duty last night, and he corroborated the dancer’s story. Boy said your friend Clarence here came in at 2 a.m. ‘plainin’ ‘bout some. . . ,” he pulls out a notepad and reads the quote, “ ‘Son of a b*tch got what she f*ckin’ had comin’. Take my advice: don’t ever go to a club called Tricou House. They’re f*ckin’ f*cked up there.’”

“He,” Scarpedin says.

“What’d you say son?” The cop shakes Scarpedin’s arm.

Terry can’t believe it for a moment, but Scarpedin looks embarrassed.

“It was a he, man,” Scarpedin says. “Not a she. The dancer was a guy, okay homes? I could deal with that, but the son of a b*tch put his hand on my junk. I wasn’t gonna abide by that sh*t.”

The second cop laughs, lightly hitting his partner until he too starts laughing. Terry bites his lip, but he lets a few laughs out. Scarpedin glares at them all, waiting for them to finish.

“Alright son,” the cop says, still chuckling. “I can’t take you in for that. Hell, boy, you just made the day of every uniform who has to work Bourbon Street. Sh*t, keep up the good work.”

The cops laugh and walk away. 

“So,” Terry clears his throat, “did that actually happen?”

“Terry, I don’t ask _you_ about your life. I don’t tell you how to live, man. But if a dude puts his hand on your junk, you don’t stand by that sh*t, okay? You take that bastard _down_.”

“Sure thing,” Terry says. “Holy crap, that was not what I was expecting to wake up to. Agh.”

Scarpedin glances into Terry’s hotel room, then back into the hallway. “Any men in black around?”

“Not yet,” Terry says. He starts to go back inside and close his door. “The men in black don’t come until I’m showered and dressed. Meet me downstairs in half an hour.”

* * *​
When Terry gets down to the hotel’s continental breakfast, Nathan is pestering John, Belladonna is smiling at their argument, and Scarpedin is watching TV.

They discuss their plans over breakfast. Belladonna offers them a place to stay at her own home, just east of the French Quarter, and invites them to a costume ball her uncle is hosting. Belladonna’s father, Adrien Lee, is a very wealthy New Orleans businessman, and Belladonna’s uncle Maurice is the man in charge of Mr. Lee’s shipping company. Tomorrow night a lavish Halloween ball for New Orlean’s upper crust will take place on the banks of Lake Ponchatrain, and Belladonna wants them to come.

The first order of business, though, is the Bureau. Terry finds a local phone book and flips through the yellow pages, looking for a particular entry – Brief Marketing Management. The Bureau for the Management of Magicks is easy to get in touch with if you know what you’re looking for. Terry calls, and after a bit of careful questions to verify that Terry is actually calling about magic, he arranges to meet a local Bureau agent in the French Quarter, at 9:30 a.m. He warns them that they have a prisoner they need to turn over - Morgan McCool, currently stuck in the form of a raven.

Terry tells the others that he couldn’t help but notice that the woman on the phone sounded nervous. Hardly a good sign.

With some time to spare, they start talking about their plans for the next few days. Scarpedin doesn’t want to get asked any questions, so he walks off and calls a biker buddy from New Mexico named “Whitey.” Belladonna just wants to repay them for saving her life, and to make sure that whoever was trying to kill Terry won’t keep on going after her. Nathan is just going to hang around until he gets his next vision. Terry has no idea what he’s going to do after talking to the Bureau.

When Nathan tries to get an answer out of John, though, the chain-smoker (currently stuck in a no-smoking section) is evasive and irritated at the question.

“I’m here on my own business.”

Nathan smiles. “Are you a priest? Fasting? Because you sure aren’t eating much.”

Terry sees that John’s plate only has two pieces of celery on it. John rolls his eyes at Nathan’s question, and then Terry senses magic at work. It’s subtle, a psychic energy, and Terry frowns as he realizes Nathan is doing a reading on John.

“That’s rude,” Terry says.

“What?” John asks.

“He’s reading you,” Terry says. “Doing a psychic thing, you know?”

John’s face takes on a look of repressed rage. “Get out of my mind.”

Nathan blinks and shakes his head. “Sorry chap. I wasn’t in your mind. I just read your aura. I was just curious, to see if you were trouble. And I have to ask John, why are your wings missing?”

“What?” John, Terry, and Belladonna all ask at the same time.

“I don’t know,” Nathan says. “I just had a vision, and I saw you were getting your wings clipped off. Are you an angel?”

Suddenly Scarpedin comes up behind Nathan and clamps a hand over the British man’s face. “Don’t look into his eyes. He might be a vampire!”

Everyone starts talking at once in a commotion, trying to figure out what’s going on, but then Nathan struggles free of Scarpedin and slumps face down onto the table.

A moment of quiet passes.

"Um," Scarpedin says, "_I_ didn't do that."

Terry is just about to poke Nathan when he hears a shout.

“Oh hey, Terry!” calls Robert, staggering into the hotel’s restaurant.

Everyone turns and takes in Robert’s appearance. For some reason he’s wearing jeans a few sizes too large, held on by a belt that has a buckle in the shape of an oil derrick, and a workman’s shirt with oil stains. His eyes are bloodshot like he hasn’t slept all night, and his shoes are caked in mud. In one hand he holds several Walmart bags filled with clothes. Despite his cool exterior, Terry sees something almost frightened in the man.

“Robert,” Terry says, “I thought you never wanted to see us again.”

“Yeah,” Robert says, “I had a bit of bad luck, as you can see. Tell you all about it later. You guys still have rooms here? I could really use a shower and a nap.”

John pulls out his room key and tosses it to Robert.

“Thanks.” Robert smiles, and he’s gone before anyone thinks to ask what happened.

Nathan sits up stiffly, and everyone around him leans back.

“I had a vision,” Nathan says.

“Yay,” John sighs.

“Monkeys,” Nathan says. “And jaguars, and smoke. There were people smoking, and French people trying to buy a key, and then they started to shoot at each other. A man in a black trenchcoat came in, and so did all of us, and the French man shot Terry.”

“Better than his last vision,” Scarpedin says, slapping Belladonna on her back. “At least you’re not dead this time.”

John grumbles. “That vision is worthless.”

“It was very overwhelming,” Nathan says. “There are lots of ghosts here. It makes things a little hard to understand. At least we know we should avoid French people.”

“In New Orleans?” Belladonna laughs. 

John grimaces. “Let’s just hope that this Bureau actually knows what they’re doing.”

* * *​
Robert wakes up with a start, checking the balcony and front doors immediately. No one is in the room. He checks the clock. It’s just after nine in the morning. He’s in John’s hotel room, in New Orleans, having gotten barely an hour of sleep. At least the blood from under his fingernails is gone. He really needed that shower.

He hears it again. Thumping, rumbling, coming from the next room over. He’s pretty sure that room is one that was checked out to the group of people he’s stalking, possibly Terry’s. Before thinking, Robert is on his feet, opening the drawer next to the bed and pulling out his taser and straight razor. He gets dressed in the dark and considers his next move.

It sounds like someone is next door, rummaging through the room. He can’t ignore it, so his two options are to either go out into the hallway and just knock on the door, or to go out on the balcony and try to come at the person from behind and get the jump on him. Robert opens the balcony door slowly and tries to gauge that plan.

Below the balcony, Canal Street, the New Orleans artery that borders the French Quarter, rumbles with engines and shouts and the dull, distant sweep of waves on the Mississippi. Ten stories up, the noise and the sudden sunlight gives Robert a moment of vertigo. He shakes it off, and turns to check the distance to the next room over.

He’s not sure if he could make the five-foot jump, or if the balcony door into Terry’s room would even be open. And, on the off chance it’s actually Terry rummaging through his own room, jumping in and scaring the man would raise too many questions.

He mutters to himself, “Let’s not make another mistake today, okay Robert? Just play this cool.”

And then he’s back inside his room, out the front door and in the hallway. He tries to peer through the peephole into Terry’s room, but it’s too dark to make anything out. He tries the door, quietly, and the knob is unlocked but the door is deadbolted. He peers at the keyhole and sees the telltale scraping of an automatic key opener having been used.

Grimacing, he heads back into his room, intending to gather his stuff and make a run for it. He gets inside and closes the door before he notices that the curtain to the balcony doorway has been pulled shut. Robert flicks the lightswitch, and sees a black-clad man crouched in a dark corner of the room, holding a pistol.

Oddly, Robert can’t help but think the man looks a lot like George Clooney.

*End of Third Session*


----------



## RangerWickett

I imagine this banner's a little too silly and dinky to use. I seriously need to figure out how to make gif files. Still, it amuses me, so I shall show it to you.


----------



## RangerWickett

*Morgan McCool
CR 9*
Human Charismatic 6/Fast 4

Medium humanoid
*Init* +3; *Senses* Spot -1, Listen -1
*Languages* English

*AC* 20, touch 20, flat-footed 20
*hp* 51 (10 HD)
*Resist* evasion, uncanny dodge
*Fort* +5, *Ref* +8, *Will* +4

*Speed* 30 feet (6 squares)
*Melee* unarmed combat martial arts +9 (1d4)
*Ranged* various firearms +5 (varies)
*Base Atk* +6; *Grp* +6
*Atk Options* magic, disarming (d20+9 against foe), captivate (DC 18)
*Combat Gear* none

*Signature Spells*

_Castigate_ – Charm 4/Gen 4 for a short-range subtle two-word verbal command that can affect up to 8 targets within a 20-ft. radius.
_Catclaws_ – Attack 4/Gen 0 for a +2 enhancement bonus to unarmed attack and damage.
_Evil Eye_ – Charm 10/Gen 1 for a short-range subtle standard telepathic command.
_Hypnotic Gaze_ – Charm 8/Gen 1 for a short-range subtle charm to render a creature helpless.
_Lingering Look of Lust_ – Charm 8/Gen 0 to give Morgan +16 to Bluff checks for one minute, typically used to seduce someone he fancies.
_Mad Eye_ – Illusion 4/Gen 1 for a phantasm that affects a single creature within 30 ft., making it see and hear a standard illusion.
_Ravenflight_ – Transform 4/Gen 0 to transform into a raven.
_Ravenflight Eclipse_ – Summon 3/Transform 4/Gen 0 to transform into a raven and summon a swarm of ravens for you to hide in.
_Shadowcat Guardian_ – Summon 10/Gen 3 to get an obedient cat beast with displacement powers for one hour.
_Unseen Escape_ – Illusion 7/Gen 0 to turn invisible for one minute.
_Withering Glare_ – Attack 5/Gen 1 for a short-range blast of ill will, dealing 5d6 points of mental damage.

*Starting Occupation* Adept; skill – Diplomacy; bonus feats – Arcane Skills and Witchcraft
*Abilities* Str 10, Dex 16, Con 12, Int 13, Wis 8, Cha 15
*Feats* Agile Riposte, Animism, Arcane Skills, Combat Expertise, Combat Martial Arts, Defensive Martial Arts, Dodge, Elusive Target, Improved Disarm, Iron Will, Weapon Finesse, Witchcraft
*Talents* Captivate, Charm (women), Evasion, Favor, Uncanny Dodge
*Skills* Bluff +11, Concentration +10, Diplomacy +17, Knowledge (arcane lore) +6, Spellcraft +7, Tumble +10
*Magical Skills* Attack +7, Charm +13, Illusion +7, Summon +13, Transform +7
*Possessions* Combat gear plus cel phone, finely-tailored suit with white rose in lapel

*Tactics*
Morgan has trained to fight against large groups of opponents. He does best when he can move into the midst of his opponents and use them as cover against each other. One of his favorite tricks is to move into melee combat with a gunman, then reach in, disarm his opponent of the gun, and then shoot the man with his own gun.

Morgan will turn his enemies against each other by dominating the mind of one with his evil eye, and if things look bad he will turn invisible or turn into a raven and flee. If he has time to prepare before combat, he’ll summon a fey cat with displacement abilities, and then enhance his melee attacks. Only rarely will he use his attack magic, and when he does he likes to cast the spell still and silent by expending his magical focus, so that he truly can seem to slay with a gaze. 

Of course, Morgan recognizes the value in taking captives, so his Witchcraft attack spells deal mental damage. His animism spells, however, deal cold damage.


----------



## Look_a_Unicorn

2nd page already? My *bump* says no!


----------



## RangerWickett

_October 30, 2005
9:11 am_

Robert rushes the man who looks like George Clooney, getting close enough to strike the man with his stun gun before the assassin can shoot him. As he struggles for his life, he remembers that the mechanic who had been repairing the bus at the Renaissance Festival had looked the same, and that something had been off with the man's accent. He curses himself for not having paid more attention at the time, because he could have stopped the bomb, saved people's lives, and not be grappling on the floor of his hotel room.

Several shots pop off from the assassin's silenced pistol as the two struggle on the floor. Robert is unable to get his stun gun close enough to strike the man, and he in turn can't get an angle to shoot Robert. Finally, as they roll and slam into the desk next to the bed, the assassin drops his pistol and grabs with both hands for Robert's stun gun. Sharp jerking pain courses through Robert's body, and he loses control of himself. When he next is coherent enough to take in his surroundings, he has a gun pressed to his chest.

"Right-o, chap," the assassin says in a chipper, near-Cockney accent. "You're not the kid, so tell me where that bloke is, and you might get out of this alive, alright?"


_"Put a straight razor to his throat.
"He wouldn’t let him scream or holler
"Left him in a pile of blood,
"That killer Stakalee."_

- Dr. John, _Stakalee_​

The man who looks like George Clooney has one knee planted on Robert's stomach, has a silenced Walther PPK pressed to Robert's chest over his heart, and is casually twiddling Robert's stun gun in his spare hand.

Robert fully intends to kill this man, so he sees no reason to keep up his act.

"I'll help you if you answer a few questions," Robert says. There's no fear in his voice. The assassin looks almost frightened by that.

"Roit, then," the assassin says. "You aren't going anywhere, now are you? Ask away, chap."

"Why are you trying to kill me and the others?"

"You're just collateral damage." The assassin grins. "We're just after your friend."

"Really? That's helpful. Which friend might that be?"

"The kid," the assassin says. "American nipper, twenty-something, went to a private school in Southampton. And before you ask, I don't know why he's a big deal. We're just doing a job, and you and yours got in the way. Which one is he?"

"You don't know?" Robert laughs. "You are the most incompetent assassin I've ever met. Of course, you're the only one I've ever met."

"Who's pointin' the gun at whose f*ckin' chest now, is he?" The assassin thumps Robert in the solar plexus with the barrel of his pistol. "Now, my dear negro friend, which one is he, and where is he?"

"I tell you that," Robert says, "you've got no reason to keep me alive. Let's cut a deal."

The assassin ponders this, rubbing his stubble with the same hand he's holding the stun gun in. He nods.

"Next question then," Robert says. "We had your boy as a hostage with us. Were you planning on blowing him up on the bus too?"

The assassin looks confused. "What boy?"

"You know, the witch guy, dressed in a suit."

"What the f*ck do you mean, a witch? I'm not playing along with your Halloween sh*t."

"No," Robert says, pretending to be flustered, "not a witch like a costume witch like the Wicked Witch of the West. No, I mean, y'know, the guy, who cast spells, had the black cat that turned into a panther."

When the assassin doesn't say anything, Robert looks closely at the man. The assassin's expression is quite confused. Robert groans.

"Great," he says. "Just great. It's not just one group of people trying to kill me. There's two of you, and you don't even know about magic yet. D*mmit. That's just frikkin' great."

"Hey," George Clooney says. "You gonna answer me f*ckin' questions any time soon?"

"Alright, alright," Robert says. He has the man distracted enough now. "You can have the guy, seriously. It's not worth dying over. You let me up, I call my friend, tell him to meet me some place of your choosing, and then you let me go, alright? Now let me get my cel phone."

The assassin is wary. "Where is it? You can make a phone call just fine on the f*ckin' floor."

Robert sighs and nods his head toward the bed. "My jacket on the bed."

The assassin turns his gaze away for just a second to glance at the bed, and Robert surges into motion. With one hand he tries to bat the gun away from his heart, while with the other he pulls his straight razor out of his pocket and flicks it open, going for the man's throat. The assassin fires off a shot in surprise, but the bullet strikes Robert in the right collar instead of his heart. Robert's slash with the straight razor lands true, and blood sprays across him from the assassin's jugular.

He shoves the assassin off him, grabbing for the stun gun while the British man struggles to staunch the gushing blood from his throat. A moment later, Robert wrests the stun gun free and slams its business end onto the assassin's temple. The man goes limp, but to be safe Robert gives him a few more jolts.

Sagging from the gunshot wound he's only now feeling, Robert picks up the assassin's pistol, considers if it's worth the trouble to try to interrogate him, and then fires two shots into the man's head.

Then, with practiced ease, he puts down the gun, goes to the bathroom, and looks for his forensic gloves.

* * *​
The directions Terry got take them to Decatur Street in the French Quarter, inside a small bar, and then through a door into, amazingly, yet another bar.

"Is there an office upstairs?" Terry asks the bartender.

The man nods, not bothering to look up from his work. Alongside the rows of bottles behind the bar is a plaque, upon which is mounted a shotgun.

"This place rocks, Terry," Scarpedin says.

Terry follows a point from the bartender to an inconspicuous doorway. Behind the door is a short staircase up, stopping right in front of a door that looks like it's out of a 30s detective film. The frosted glass window reads, "Brief Marketing Management. 9:30 am to 1 pm."

Belladonna checks her cel phone, then shrugs. "We're early."

"I'm gonna get some whiskey," Scarpedin says.

John frowns. "Let's just go knock and get this over with."

"Why you gotta be a killjoy, man?" Scarpedin sighs. "You need to lighten up."

"Don't be so hard on him," Nathan says. "The man's obviously in denial about his angelic parentage."

Terry smiles and leads the way. The five of them crowd up the narrow stairs, and Terry knocks. A moment later a shadow falls across the window from inside, and a woman says, "Brief Marketing Management. I'm sorry, but we're closed today."

"I'm Terry Abrams," Terry says. "I called just a while ago."

A pause, then, "Just a second."

She walks away from the door, leaving them waiting on the landing. From downstairs in the bar they hear a phone ring, and then a moment later they can vaguely hear the woman asking over the phone about them.

John mutters, "She sounds flustered. Are you sure these people can help?"

Scarpedin laughs. "Of course they can help. They're the Men in Black. Dammit, I should've brought my black sunglasses."

"It's probably just a front," Terry says. "Keeps curious people away. I hope."

The door opens, and a red-haired woman in a black suit greets them. She's small and looks nervous, and is the only person in a rather large reception room. A pair of couches line the walls, along with a bookshelf of thick, droll-looking texts. Across from the couches is a fine desk, and behind it is a hallway. There are no windows, just an overhead fan with low-wattage bulbs.

Once they're all inside, she closes the door behind them, then sits behind the desk.

"Welcome to the Bureau for the Management of Magicks," she says. "How can I help you?"


----------



## RangerWickett

_October 30, 2005
9:17 am_

Terry starts explaining what has happened to them. The red-headed Bureau agent, named Raine, listens intently for a minute, looking like this is business as usual to her. That is until Terry says that he plane shifted the group to Gaia to get them away from Rex and Hex.

“What did you say?” Raine asks. “You were able to plane shift? You’re not fey, are you?”

Terry shakes his head. “No. Um, we heard that there was a problem with plane shifting.”

Raine smiles and picks up the phone. “So hopefully you understand how important this is. You’re serious, you were able to go to Gaia, and then get back, and this was just a few days ago?”

“Yesterday,” Terry says.

Raine looks relieved, and she starts to dial a number.

Belladonna leans forward, and the rest of the group leans close too, whispering among themselves while Raine talks on the phone. Belladonna hopes they’re not in trouble, because she just wants things to get back to normal so they can all go to the Halloween party her uncle’s putting on tomorrow. Nathan is a little frustrated that Terry had not even managed to get to the point of the story where he shows up and helps save the day. Terry wonders why there’s only one person here. Scarpedin asks if anyone else thinks that Raine looks like Geena Davis.

John listens to Raine’s phone call.

When she hangs up, he asks, “Who’s Balthazaar?”

“A former agent,” Raine says. “If you’ll allow me, I’m sure you have some questions, and I have some information that will make things make more sense, I hope. Then I’ll listen to the rest of your story, and Balthazaar should hopefully get here by then.”

“Alright,” Terry says.

Raine takes a breath, bites her lip, and explains the situation. Just under two weeks ago, on October 17, the normal channels that the Bureau and everyone else uses to travel between Terra and Gaia stopped working. At that time, the majority of Bureau agents in every major North American office were on Gaia, responding to a rash of supernatural disturbances and attacks on the Gaian offices. Right now she is the only active agent in New Orleans, and the only other Bureau personnel in the city are analysts and techs. Thankfully there have been relatively few magical crimes these past two weeks, but with Halloween tomorrow, she’s expecting all hell to break loose.

There are three main methods of planar travel, she explains. The first are the keys, magical devices that are very expensive and difficult to create, which allow you to go between one pre-determined location on Terra and one on Gaia. The second are fey, powerful magical creatures who can innately travel between the two worlds. Third are humans, elves, and other sentients who have learned plane shifting magic. Few people bother, because the magic is difficult, and it is usually easier to just buy a key or pay for the use of one.

None of those three methods are working, Raine says, which is why Terry’s story is so interesting. At that, she adds hurriedly that of course she also cares that they were attacked, but that they should understand the important ramifications of what Terry is saying.

“We have over a dozen Bureau agents trapped on Gaia here in New Orleans,” she says. “They have supplies, food, and weapons, but the majority of our agents were in Gaian Savannah at the moment plane shifting stopped working, because there was some sort attack there.”

John asks, “Savannah is the main Bureau office?”

“In the States, yes,” Raine says. “The problem is, I’m almost certain that the office on Gaia here in New Orleans is understaffed, and there are people and creatures who are hostile to the Bureau. If they found out that there weren’t as many people guarding the office, they might have attacked. Either way, as bad as things are on Gaia, they’ll be worse here if I’m the only one around to keep order.”

“What about Savannah?” John asks. “Are you guys really this incompetent?”

Raine stammers a bit. “I’ve kept in touch with Jenny Windgrave, the ranking agent there on the Terra side. Details are sketchy, but around sunset on the seventeenth a large group attacked the office on Gaia in Savannah. We responded by sending all the personnel we could round up, leaving some to guard the office on Gaia here. I was on patrol that night, and didn’t get back in time. If this whole thing wasn’t a coincidence, and we don’t think it is, then someone went to a lot of trouble to get our people on Gaia.”

There’s a moment of quiet as the group thinks about what that could mean. Then John asks, “Patrolling for what?”

Raine shrugs like it’s not important. “The usual. Hotspots around New Orleans, graveyards and the docks and like that.”

Nathan smiles, “You mean like _vampires_.”

“Well, yes,” Raine says. “There are a few of those. More of them on Gaia.”

“Damned vampires,” Scarpedin says. “I thought we got rid of them. Glad there are still some around, actually.”

They look at him in confusion, and Terry asks what he’s talking about.

“I just wish I could get a chance to kill some vampires again,” Scarpedin says, wistful but still managing to sound tough. “Back in the good old days, me and Arthur and the rest of the knights would go out on vampire hunts. And, I mean, sh*t, back then we didn’t have movies. We didn’t know you could just kill them with a piece of wood and some garlic. All we knew was that they were damned fun because you could chop them up a lot and keep chopping them up. We’d spend all night, hacking at them to keep them from healing, waiting for the sun to come up.”

Raine cringes slightly, put off by the story. “What is he talking about?”

“Oh,” Nathan says, “he was one of King Arthur’s knights, from Camelot.”

Raine draws in a breath. “Please tell me this isn’t all just some sort of prank.”

Terry smiles in understanding. “Sadly no. Want me to continue my story?”

“Sure,” Raine says.

* * *​
Ten minutes later there’s a knock at the door, and Raine lets in a man who looks like Kevin Kline, dressed in a brown trench coat, with a goattee. When he speaks, his deep, regal British accent surprises them all.

“Tell me the situation quickly.”

Raine ticks off points on her fingers. “Terry, the young man there, doesn’t have a ghost, but he’s able to use magic. A few days ago he was in Alaska, and a sniper shot and killed his girlfriend, and he escaped. Terry is able to plane shift to Gaia and back, which he did just yesterday when a group tried to abduct him and attack his companions. They have the group’s leader prisoner, polymorphed as a raven in that backpack. They think there’s a second group that wanted to kill them, not just abduct Terry. The bus that blew up last night was the bus they were supposed to be on. If not for this man, Nathaniel Beckford, offering them a ride, they would have been killed in the explosion.”

“Telepath?” Balthazaar asks.

“Precog,” Raine says.

“Let me guess,” Balthazaar chuckles. “You’ve never run across the Bureau before?”

“Not knowingly,” Nathan says. “I wasn’t aware that being psychic was a crime.”

Raine smiles. “The Bureau likes to keep tabs on people with your sort of power. Spellcasters too, but precognitives are hard to track down because they often instinctively avoid going places where we could find them. None of you are in trouble, though.”

“Good,” John says. “We’re the ones who were attacked.”

Balthazaar smiles despite John’s bad mood. To Terry he says, “How long have you had magical power?”

Terry shrugs. “A while. I didn’t get training until four years ago.”

“Do you know who your parents are?”

“Yeah. What the hell are you getting at?”

Balthazaar leans against Raine’s desk. “Just trying to make sure I understand the situation. The only people who can use magic without ghosts are those with magical blood, from an elvish parent perhaps, or those who train very hard in antiquated rituals. Right now you’re the only person who can plane shift, and I want to find out why.”

“Actually,” Belladonna says, “that’s not entirely true. That Japanese fella showed up on both Terra and Gaia, and the ghost of Ded Bob could see us, and so could the fey woman.”

Balthazaar tenses. “A fey?”

Terry holds up a hand and shakes his head. “Not a real fey. Just a nymph. Ah, Belladonna, you call them ‘fey’ only if they’re the really powerful ones.”

Belladonna smirks. “Alright then, hon. Fairy, then.”

John asks, “Why are you afraid of fey?”

Balthazaar says, “It’s just a good idea to be careful when fey are involved. The high fey only show themselves for two things. Incredibly important events, and completely pointless ones that interest them on whim.”

John scoffs.

Scarpedin says, “You’re a vampire hunter. You’re a f*ckin’ British Buffy.”

Balthazaar glares at Scarpedin for a moment, then turns back to Belladonna. “You said there was also a Japanese man, a ghost, and a nymph who were on both sides.”

“And Chandler,” Belladonna says. “Another ghost. My nana never told me about ‘Gaia,’ but I know a thing or two about ghosts.”

Balthazaar and Raine exchange a look, and Raine shrugs.

She says, “I’ll contact the Savannah office and get some research started. It might be possible that the Renaissance festival itself somehow allowed you to plane shift. It might have nothing to do with you, Terry.”

“I was able to get to Gaia in Alaska,” Terry says, “after Lin. . . .”

Balthazaar crosses his arms. “Terry, I understand you’ve gone through some very stressful situations these past few days, but I’m going to have to ask for your help. I and the Bureau will do everything in our power to make sure you are safe and that those who have tried to harm you are found and dealt with, but you’ve come in a time when the Bureau is not doing it’s best. 

“Would you be willing to help?” Balthazaar asks. “We need to retrieve our agents here in New Orleans and others in Savannah from Gaia, at which point we’ll have more manpower to help you. You’re in the middle of something very strange and dangerous, and unfortunately you cannot simply look to us for protection. We must work together.”

Terry nods gravely. “Yeah.”

John says, “I’m going to help too.”

“Me too,” Scarpedin says. “Damn, it’s like the good old days.”

Nathan says, “This could be a good way for me to help out the folks in my visions, if I could have Bureau help.”

“Sh*t yeah,” Scarpedin says. “Balthazaar, can I be an agent?”

“I hope not,” Balthazaar answers.

Slowly, everyone turns to look at Belladonna.

“Terry,” Belladonna says. 

She lets it hang in the air, and Terry nods. 

“Yeah, I know. We’re in this together, I suppose. If you’re going to come along, I won’t object. Just be careful, alright?”

Raine stands. “How soon can you go?”

“Um. . . ,” Terry winces. “Last time I tried I was a little rushed, and things went poorly. I normally only try to plane shift after I’ve had a while to acclimate to an area’s energy. New Orleans is a pretty erratic place, so . . . I don’t know. Tomorrow morning, probably?”

“Oh,” Raine says. “Well, I suppose that will give us time to plan. Anything else?”

Balthazaar looks at John. “You have a prisoner.”

John nods, then opens the backpack. Balthazaar reaches in and pulls out the raven, pausing for a moment to examine the obviously broken wings.

“He resisted,” Terry says defensively.

“Understandable,” Balthazaar says, “but still illegal. You’re lucky I don’t work for the Bureau anymore.”

“Yeah,” Nathan starts, “about that-?”

Balthazaar interrupts him, looking the raven in its eyes and saying, “Morgan.”

The raven nods. “Balthazaar. Let’s talk about this in private, so these people cannot color your interrogation.”

Balthazaar shakes the bird slightly, and Morgan groans in pain.

“Do not try to use your magic on me,” Balthazaar growls. To the others he adds, “He is a witch, so be wary when he tries to look you in the eye. But do not avoid his gaze. Face it knowingly, and he will have less of a chance of controlling you.”

Raine asks, “Should I prepare a cell?”

Balthazaar nods. “And contact a healer if there’s one on this side. If he cooperates, he doesn’t need to stay in pain.”

John says, “You know this guy?”

“Morgan McCool,” Balthazaar says, “is one of the most prominent Knights of the Round in Texas. He works for a Mr. O from New York. Morgan, do you have anything to add that I haven’t already heard?”

“Yes,” Morgan says. “There was a misunderstanding. My men were more zealous than I’d expected, and they died for it, but I only acted in self defense.”

“There’s a spell on him?” Balthazaar asks.

Terry nods, and concentrates for a moment. There is a faint green glow on the raven, and then Balthazaar puts the injured bird down. As he steps away, where the bird was now appears Morgan, lying on his side, his suit crumpled and stinking, his forearms twisted from broken bones.

One by one, Morgan glares at them. They meet his eyes fearlessly, and the defiance in the witch fades slowly, until he finally looks like the broken man he is. Balthazaar picks up Morgan and helps the man stagger down the hallway, to a holding cell.

Just then, Scarpedin’s phone rings. He answers it.

“Hello? . . . What? . . . Sh*t man, call 911! . . . Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m not stupid, Robert.”

Terry asks, “What is it?”

“We’ll be right there,” Scarpedin says. He hangs up and says, “Um. . . . Robert just killed a guy in our hotel. We probably ought to, y’know, go now.”


----------



## RangerWickett

Now, some of you may be wondering about my sig, where I said I caught on fire last night. Well, at the Halloween party I was at last night, I was dressed as a Hawaiian fey. Hawaiian shirt, Hawaiian print swim trunks, sandals, green hair spray all over my face and hair, a coconut bra hanging from my belt, and a small fake Christmas tree draped over my shoulders.

One of my friends, Rob (who has not joined this campaign by the point I'm at now, but who will be joining later) was trying to explain that his hair is actually reddish-brown, not red, as some people were claiming. He gets irked about this easily, and so people joked about his 'flaming red hair' to rile him a bit. Then another friend, Lauryn (who was dressed as a sexy pirate, and upon whom I have quite the crush) commented that she had always wanted to be able to save someone's life by shouting "Stop, drop, and roll!" In response, the group began to talk about who they should set on fire, and inevitably my name came up.

Now mind you, I wasn't even involved in this conversation. I was in a different part of the house, where a group of my friends were watching a vampire adult movie. I personally wasn't interested in the movie, but I was there to chat with some of my friends. It was completely unbeknownst to me that my friends were discussing how best to set me alight.

There were candles all around the room to provide spooky lighting, and so I was standing a safe distance from the counter on which said candles were placed. Unfortunately, though, I was standing in the way of my friend Laura (who plays Bellaonna in this storyhour). Laura was dressed as the Jack Daniels Fairy -- along the lines of the tequila fairy or the vodka fairy -- so when she told me, "You're standing in the way of the porn," I of course did not want to offend the source of my alcohol. So I backed up.

A moment later, I began to feel hot, and I thought, "Oh, maybe I'm sitting on a computer. I think I'll move."

I excused myself, and then as I started to walk out people started shouting that I was on fire. Faster than I realized what I was doing, I had nearly half-stripped, dumping my Hawaiian shirt onto the floor and stamping it out. There was an uproar of shouts around the house as people in the party wondered what had happened. People around me were asking if I was alright.

And then Lauryn, the girl I have a crush on, arrives, and the first thing out of her mouth is, "Darn! You're not still on fire!"


----------



## genshou

*chokes, then gasps for air*
Well now... THAT is funny!

For Halloween this year, I just sat at home and played video games.  I wish I could have caught fire at a party; that sounds like fun! 

The best part is that you can claim your premeditating friends accidentally enacted some sort of ritual (check to see if they have any tradition feats  ).


----------



## RangerWickett

_October 30, 2005
10:00 am_

John walks alongside Balthazaar, smoking a cigarette as the two men hustle to the hotel. It's Sunday morning, and the stench of last night's beer and vomit mingles with the sweet smell of Creole cooking and fresh bignets, with just a hint of old rot that sometimes sweeps across the city after the hurricane.

"How do you keep spellcasters under control?" John asks.

Balthazaar frowns. "I don't. The Bureau does."

"You just tossed a witch into a holding cell. The bars are big enough for a raven to crawl out. What keeps him in."

"Morgan's ghost was bonded to a creature, his familiar. When not in the presence of his familiar, he cannot use his magic."

John looks off in dismay, then turns back to the knight. "That's it? What are you going to do with him?"

"You need to learn that, as a _secret_ organization, the Bureau is not going to offer you all the answers you want. Normally this would have been handled much more smoothly, but as I said, the Bureau is not at its best now."

John laughs once. "Yeah, I couldn't tell."

* * *​
Nathan took Scarpedin, Terry, and Belladonna in his car, but traffic is such that they arrive at the hotel at about the same time as Balthazaar and John. Together they all head up to the hotel room Robert is in, and they enter cautiously, Balthazaar taking the lead.

"Are you alright?" Balthazaar asks.

"Sh*t!" Robert says. "Another assassin."

It takes a moment to calm him down to the point that he can explain that the man who attacked him was British, and that Balthazaar's accent spooked him. Robert is a bloody mess, with a gunshot wound near his collar bone, and splatters of blood all across his face, chest, and hand. He's half-shaven, with some shaving cream still on his face.

On the floor, slumped against the wall, is the dead assassin, two gunshot wounds in his face.

Robert explains that man came upon him while he was shaving in the bathroom, and had started asking questions about 'the kid,' like he was looking for Terry but didn't know who Terry was. Robert says that he answered the guy's questions as best he could without giving too much away, but the British assassin had gotten impatient and tried to shoot him.

At this point in his story, Robert shudders at the memory, and he has a hard time remembering how things happened. He just remembers being shot, grappling with the man, and cutting the man's throat with his razor. He seems particularly revolted by that. Belladonna wonders why he shot the man in his face, but no one there really holds it against him.

Robert's wounds are thankfully non-fatal, and Terry slowly casts a healing spell on Robert, to help him recover. Balthazaar checks the body, finding a fake ID. John takes the assassin's pistol. Scarpedin and Belladonna go to the other rooms and find two others had been ransacked. As to the matter of the dead body in the hotel room and the copious blood on the carpet and bullet holes in the walls, Robert says that it shouldn't be a problem, since that's what the Bureau is supposed to handle, covering things up.

"Yeah," John says. "That's not gonna happen. They've only got two people in the city."

Robert stares. "What?"

"Apparently," John says, looking pained from even having to say it, "all their agents are on Gaia, and since Terry's the only person who can planeshift, we have to help them."

"Slow down," Robert says. "I-"

Balthazaar interrupts. "Two weeks ago there was an attack on the main Bureau headquarters in the United States, and most agents used magic to go to the headquarters' defense. Almost immediately thereafter the connection between the two worlds was severed, and until your group walked into our office, we had no way to get between the worlds. The best course of action is for you to assist us in retrieving our agents, both here and in Savannah, so that we'll have the necessary manpower to protect you and fix this problem."

Robert blinks, then turns to Terry. "You said that these guys were going to _help_. Dammit, I would have been better off hitch-hiking."

John shrugs. "I can't believe they need _our_ help, but it's just Balthazaar the vampire hunter here, and a redheaded chick."

"_Vampire hunter?_" Robert says.

"By the way," Nathan says, "the woman, Raine, said that you were a former agent. What do you do for a living now?"

Balthazaar ignores the question. "We have to dispose of this body. Tomorrow evening, after we get back from Gaia, we should be able to send agents over to discreetly remove it, but we need to make sure a maid won't stumble across it and raise too many questions."

Belladonna says, "Why not stick it in the closet?"

"Okay," Robert says, holding up a hand, "morbid a little. Why can't we just go to the police, tell them these guys were the ones who blew up the bus, and do this legally?"

"Do we want to attract police attention?" Terry says. "Sure, we can explain this away, but what happens when a cop puts together that we were at the Ren Fest where there were mysterious shootings, and on the bus that blew up, and now here? They're going to start asking a lot of questions."

The group unhappily agrees. Belladonna provides yet another morbid suggestion: that they use healing magic to make the body look unharmed, so a coroner could not determine the cause of death. Their other option, dumping the body onto Gaia, will have to wait until tomorrow at least, and even then Terry is squeamish at dumping a body into what is an inhabited area on the other plane.

They clean the room as best they can, heal the body, and stick it in a closet. Belladonna pays to cover the cost of the rooms for another two days, then recommends they come to her own personal villa, on the east side of the French Quarter, since, if there are more assassins, they already know to look for them at this hotel.

Robert and John are disapproving of the Bureau, not trusting a group that appears so incompetent at its job, but they and the others agree to cooperate for now, since if nothing else they need the Bureau to clear them of suspicions of being terrorists. They relocate to Belladonna's villa, where they meet her Nana, a sweet black lady in her eighties who makes them delicious shrimp salad sandwiches before performing a voodoo ritual to protect the house from those who mean them ill.

John finds a pay phone and calls his father in New York, and Belladonna calls her father to make sure it'll be alright for her to bring additional guests to the Halloween party. She wants to go out costume shopping, but the rest of the group vetoes that, not wanting to go out until they know more about who they're after.

Nathan has actual business, however. He has had a vision, and he talks with Balthazaar about what it might mean. Nathan tries to concentrate to gain more information, and from the various images and flashes he gets, Balthazaar determines that something is going to happen in the Audobon Zoo that evening, something involving a gun fight and a key to a crypt. From the description of the tomb, both Balthazaar and Belladonna easily recognize it as the famous crypt of Marie LaVeau, the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.

Back at the Renaissance festival, when Robert had played 'Scrabble' with the strange Japanese man, Wiji-wiji, the pieces he had received had spelled Marie LaVeau. The coincidence is too unusual, but though the group wants to look into it, they're hesitant about going into danger. Plus, because part of Nathan's vision was of Terry being shot by a French man, they want to keep away from French people.

So while Balthazaar takes the exuberant Scarpedin to the zoo for what will likely devolve into a gun fight, the rest of the group decides they're going to discreetly stake out the tomb of Marie LaVeau, hoping they can get some more information about the people who are after them.

Marie LaVeau's tomb is quite the tourist attraction, especially around Halloween, and there will be cops and tons of civilians around, so the group feels safe. Balthazaar takes Scarpedin away to give him a crash course on how to comport himself if he's going to work with the Bureau, a lesson the rest of the group is certain is doomed to failure. They're all still a little nervous around Scarpedin, though, so they're happy Balthazaar is taking him.

After Balthazaar leaves, Nathan gets the attention of the rest of the group.

"I don't think he was aware I was doing this," Nathan says, "but I read him, to see his past and see if we could trust him."

"And?" John says.

"And, until two weeks ago, Balthazaar was in prison. Raine, who is an _ex-girlfriend_ of his, took it upon herself to get him out of the prison."

"I hate the Bureau," Robert says. "I've only met two of them, and I already hate them. We're working with a _criminal_?"

Belladonna says, "Hold on. Let's not be too judgmental boys. What did he do?"

"Officially, I have no idea," Nathan says. "But the reason the Bureau arrested him and put him away was because he murdered someone."

"Oh," Robert says, laughing mockingly, "is that all?"

"Well, to be fair," Terry says, "it's not like no one here has done that."

Robert frowns. "I did mention I was having a bad day, right? I'm sorry, but I'm a little uncomfortable with this whole 'killing people' thing. Now Belladonna, do you have some guns? We should probably be armed when we go to this graveyard tonight."


----------



## RangerWickett

What sorts of other rules information would you be interested in, if anything? I could post NPCs, PCs, monster stats (though most of those are just copied and fudged from D&D and d20 modern), world information, sample spells, or even playtest information about how things went wrong and got revised as the rules went along. Let me know, and I'll post it.


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## Steverooo

Tell us more about Arthur, Merlin: Vampire-Slayahs (and their trusty light-sabers)!    (Don' be hatin', Ranger Wicked!  Don' be hatin'!)


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## RangerWickett

I sadly don't have much mechanical information about Arthur . . . yet. I will say that, in a recent session, one PC recovered the scabbard Excalibur was kept in. He almost thought it was a waste of time, until he got it identified. As it was an artifact, I felt no need to actually stat out how it was created, but here's what it did:

_Scabbard of Excalibur_
You cannot die through hit point loss. Whenever you are reduced to less than 0 hit points, at the beginning of your next turn you heal up to 0 hit points. You can still be killed by a coup de grace, extreme fatal trauma (such as being crushed under a boulder), or death magic.

You cannot be disarmed against your will. Any sword you sheath in this scabbard for at least one minute is enhanced with life magic. For one minute after you draw it, the sword bypasses any damage reduction on undead, and can harm incorporeal undead as if it were a ghost touch weapon.



This came in handy in Saturday's game because . . . well, I'll just have to get there. I'm a bit behind in the timeline of the game, though, so let me post a bit to try to catch up. I'll have to condense a few things to get to the good parts.


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## RangerWickett

Trying out some new attention-getters.






_"A land that has no more legends," says the poet, "is condemned to die of cold." This may well be true. But a people without myths is already dead._- George Dumézil, _The Destiny of the Warrior_​





*Elements of Magic - Mythic Earth*
_Making magic flavorful and fun again._

Update later tonight.


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## RangerWickett

_October 30, 2005
4:00pm_

(This entry will be a little briefer than usual, to help speed things along).

Raine contacts the group and tells them that she has gotten a little information. The man Robert killed is a British mercenary, known to be employed with a group of militant Canadian survivalists. U.S. Customs reports that they crossed into the states a few days ago. On a hunch, she checked Alaska’s border too, and found that a member of the same group was in Alaska in the right window to have shot Terry’s girlfriend. She doesn’t have any way to track them beyond that, though, but she suspects several more assassins may be in New Orleans.

Annoyed at hiding, John says he’s heading out. Robert tells him to be careful, but Nathan sees no immediate danger.

John goes to a business in the French Quarter, a small restaurant with a book store in back. A little over a month ago he received a letter, unsigned, saying he should come to this store in New Orleans for answers. The letter contained enough knowledge of the faint memories and fractured dreams John has been having for as long as he can remember that John is worried. Either the guy will tell him some secret about himself, or John will beat out of him an answer for how he knows so much. He finds it no coincidence that he has stumbled upon magic just as he was on his way here.

Unfortunately, for some reason John cannot enter the book store. A sign next to the door says, “Only those who are full will be allowed to shop. Please give your patronage to Parish’s Grill before coming in.”

Fullness is not something John is familiar with. He has never enjoyed the taste of food – it tastes like ashes to him, and while he knows that’s not how food is supposed to taste, he doesn’t understand how he knows. Try as he might, he cannot force himself to walk through the doorway into the bookstore. Irritated, he sits down in the restaurant, orders a large meal, and eats. The waitress senses something odd about him, and keeps offering him new dishes. He keeps eating until he starts to feel physically ill, then he pays and tries to go into the bookstore again.

He still can’t.

Finally he calls the others and tells them to come with him. They too have trouble getting in at first, except Terry, who had eaten his fill of Nana’s shrimp po-boys. Terry confirms that there is some defensive magic on the threshold. The rest of the group eats at the restaurant, and with John standing in the middle of them they’re able to press into the bookstore.

The young lady manning the desk tells them that the barrier’s meant to keep out vampires, since vampires are eternally hungry. This causes Nathan to jokingly say that John must be a vampire, not an angel.

At that, the woman manning the store realizes who John is, and she gets nervous and apologetic. She’s vaguely familiar with the whole Terra/Gaia thing, and she says that the store owner went to Gaia a little over a week ago to get a book for when John came, but he never came back. John is irritable, because he just wanted to find out what was up, not have to go track down a guy trapped on Gaia just to get some answers.

The rest of the group, however, is enthralled, since the store actually sells spellbooks, in addition to all manner of obscure and rare works of fiction.

“Is it legal to sell these?” Robert asks.

The shopkeeper looks at the stack of spellbooks Robert has picked up, which cover pretty much every major tradition of magic. “No one’s stopped us so far. You realize this one’s written in Arabic, right?”

Robert shrugs. “It looked important. How much will it be?”

The shopkeeper rings up the books. “$1,344.76.”

“Jesus,” Terry says. “Are you planning on learning magic now or something?”

Robert shakes his head. “What? No. Magic isn’t real. What are you talking about?”

John smokes while the rest of them shop, and feels hungry.

* * *​
After the sun sets, Nathan drives the group to the St. Louis cemetery, home of the crypt of Marie LaVeau, voodoo queen of New Orleans. Balthazaar and Scarpedin have gone off to the Audubon Zoo, and the group gets intermittent phone calls from Scarpedin. Time passes slowly, with the group hanging out near Marie LaVeau’s tomb as tour group after tour group goes by. From the look of things, they’ll be here all night.

Then, at 1 in the morning at the zoo, Balthazaar gives them a call. A group of Frenchmen and a group of local Rastafarians met at the jaguar enclosure, and their deal went sour. Guns blazed, one Rasta man fell into the jaguar enclosure, and the jaguars pounced on him. Balthazaar and Scarpedin took one of the French men prisoner and found out that they were trying to buy a key to LaVeau’s tomb from the Rastafarians, but the key was on the guy who is now being eaten by jaguars.

Thankfully for them, Scarpedin has a sword. Balthazaar says they have the key in their possession.

The rest of the group continue to wait at the cemetery, with Robert reading the books he bought while Terry gives John a basic lesson on how healing magic works. To Terry’s surprise, John seems to have a knack for it, which should not be possible since he doesn’t have a ghost. Nathan, of course, insists that he has seen John’s aura, and that John is either an angel or a vampire, so it’s natural he’d be good at healing.

It’s nearly 4 in the morning, and they send John off to get coffee for the group. When he returns, he says that there was a group of cops looking at Nathan’s BMW, talking on walkie-talkies. Nathan is about to go see what the problem is, when the group as a whole suddenly decides they should move away from the tomb. Terry and John are the first to break out of it, recognizing that someone was charming them. They alert the others and Terry dispels the charm, and then they hurry back to the tomb, just in time to see two guys with a cutting torch, trying to cut their way inside.


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## RangerWickett

_October 31, 2005
Halloween
4:13 am_

Shotguns blast, magical fire sears the air, tomb-robbers are hurled telekinetically into the sides of tombs, and in the end, a pair of Frenchmen are carted off by some very suspicious cops.

"I have permits for all of these," Nathan says, opening his duffle bag.

He pulls out his own pistol, his back-up pistol, the shotgun, and, most important, his bounty hunter's license.

"I'd like to turn these men over for attempting to deface a New Orleans monument," Nathan adds.

There's something incongruous about a British bounty hunter in a New Orleans cemetery that makes the cops laugh. Their good spirits, combined with Robert's excellent fast talking, keeps them from realizing John has been carrying a pair of illegal silenced pistols, taken from two separate dead people.

There is, of course, the matter of Nathan's car. The cops apologize since he's being so polite, but the car was reported in a hit-and-run earlier that day. Nathan shows them that, clearly, his car is completely undamaged. He invites them to inspect it as closely as they want, and he even volunteers to go with them down to the station to figure out what caused the mix-up.

As for the rest of the group, they only had a little while to talk to the prisoners before the cops showed up, but they found out a lot through a little magical reading, a bit of compulsion, and a bit of strong-arming. The men were Knights of the Round, a kin that Terry equates to the Klu Klux Klan, only they hate non-humans, rather than non-white non-Christian people. Some are more or less violent in their hatred, and these two seemed generally unwilling to kill anyone.

They said they were contacted by a group of Canadians who wanted something from the tomb of Marie LaVeau, though the Knights of the Round didn't know what. The Rastafarians, members of a local neo-Voodoo cult, had offered to sell the key to the old witch's tomb, but the deal went south, so the Knights had decided to just force their way into the tomb.

Every one in the group decides to leave well enough alone and not try to see what the Canadians wanted. Even when Scarpedin and Balthazaar show up with the key, they only briefly look inside. Terry senses no magic items, no secret panels, and anything that might have been there has long since already been looted, even Marie's body. After all, the tomb has been the focus of reverence for over a century.

The group goes back to Belladonna's house and tries to get some sleep, so they can be ready for when they head over to Gaia the next morning. When they wake, Nathan is back, and he's nervous. He's fairly confident he was followed on the way back from the police station the night before, though he has not yet had a premonition to warn him of danger. Belladonna reminds him that she had Nana put a spell on the house to protect them from harm, though Terry seems dismissive of the old woman's possible magical abilities.

Just then, they see an armored van parked across the street. The driver is watching the house through binoculars, and as soon he sees them looking back, he drives off.

Balthazaar calls, and tells them they should try to be ready by noon. The last thing they want is to get stuck on Gaia in New Orleans, on Halloween, after night fall.

Everyone says they're ready, except for a disbelieving Scarpedin.

"Are you kidding?" he says. "There are going to be vampires over there. You can't be too prepared. We need holy water, and crosses . . . the older the better. I saw a church in the French Quarter. Had a big cross on top."

"The one in Jackson Square?" Belladonna asks. "The St. Louis Cathedral?"

"Yeah. We need to get that cross off. Do you think we can rent a cutting torch from Home Depot? Dammit, you should have taken the French guys' one last night."

The group is at a loss for words.

Ten minutes later, they're in Nathan's car, on the way to Home Depot.


*End of Fourth Session*


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## John Q. Mayhem

Great    This is a fun read.


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## RangerWickett

_October 31, 2005
Halloween
Noon_

“First,” Balthazaar says, “accept nothing offered by anyone over there.”

“Why?” Robert asks.

Terry answers, “Gifts on Gaia carry a special weight, a power. If you accept a gift, the giver has power over you, no matter how slight. A simple mage might just be able to charm you more easily. An actual fey could lure you off into the woods and keep you there for a few decades.”

“Alright,” Robert says, matter-of-factly. “No gifts.”


_“I am the clown with the tear-away face,
“Here in a flash and gone without a trace.

“I am the ‘who’ when you call, ‘Who’s there?’
“I am the wind blowing through your hair.

“I am the shadow on the moon at night,
Filling your dreams to the brim with fright.”_
- The Nightmare Before Christmas, _“This is Halloween”_​

They are gearing up, in Belladonna’s house, just outside the French Quarter. A super soaker filled with holy water, UV lamps, lunch boxes filled with emergency food and water, and a bevy of crosses are stacked on top of the table. Scarpedin is sulking that they ultimately decided against scaling the steeple of the St. Louis cathedral, and he is currently skimming a book on vampire lore, making occasional noises of revelation.

John is smoking, brooding. Belladonna is dressed in easy-going blouse and jeans, surprisingly beautiful even while dressing down. Robert can’t help but notice that Terry keeps stealing glances at her.

After a moment of thought, Robert asks, “Gifts: does that include food?”

“Especially food,” Balthazaar says.

Robert grumbles, remembering the turkey legs Wiji-wiji offered them back at the Renaissance Festival, and the gold Japanese coin he still has.

“What?” Terry says.

“Nothing,” Robert says. And when he says it, he’s convincing.

“If you must take something,” Balthazaar explains, “first offer something in return. The problem is, if they accept your offer, you may feel a compulsion to follow through, so you might want to have some pocket change at ready hand.

“Second,” Balthazaar continues, “do not stray out of the French Quarter. There at least you will find mostly humans. The swamps beyond are wild. _Never_ be led astray by lights in the distance.

“Third, there are no clear, sunny days in New Orleans on Gaia. Even at noon, there is the chance we could encounter a vampire, though they and other creatures of the night seldom go out without good reason.”

“Bring ‘em on,” Scarpedin says.

Balthazaar scowls at the interruption. 

“Also,” he says, “electronic devices won’t work unless they’ve been specially designed to keep magical energies from disrupting them. You may as well leave your cel phones here.”

Everyone declines, except John, who has no phone. This is the 21st century, after all.

“Anything else?” Robert asks.

“Yes.” Balthazaar grows very grave. “The lives of as many as twenty Bureau agents here in New Orleans are on the line. Please, if you are not willing to take this responsibility seriously, or if you aren’t willing to take a risk for others, I would prefer if you’d stay behind rather than become another liability. If you’re only coming along for curiosity, you can wait until the situation is less dangerous. We have no way of knowing what we’ll find over there.”

“We should be fine,” Nathan offers confidently. “I haven’t had a vision.”

Nathan then immediately reels and slumps face down. Belladonna catches him before his head smacks into the table. He pops back up almost instantaneously. Robert eyes him with doubt. While he has fully accepted that all he’s seeing is real, he wants the others to keep thinking he’s having a hard time adapting.

“You have ‘a vision?’” Robert asks.

Nathan nods. “Nothing major. We should just go outside before we hop to Gaia. This house is raised, and Scarpedin would have broken his leg from the fall if we’d just gone from the living room.”

“Would not,” Scarpedin says. “Hey, Robot, why are _you_ coming along?”

“People are trying to kill me,” Robert says. He laughs. “I’m not leaving myself alone until I know I’m safe.”

Belladonna smiles and speaks up for the first time since she had earlier yelled at Scarpedin for wanting to vandalize her city. “I hate to say it, but Scarpedin is right, deary. You’ll be safe in my house, and we all know you’re not comfortable with this whole magic thing.”

Terry shakes his head. “Robert, you can come along. I think it’s better if we all stay together and, I dunno . . . I trust you. Balthazaar, if you’re trying to say you think Robert is a liability. . . .”

“No,” Balthazaar says. “He handled himself surprisingly well yesterday, both with the assassin and the tomb robbers, and he’s not afraid to kill if he has to.”

“Actually,” Robert says, “I am. But, y’know, thanks for the creepy vote of confidence Terry. Alright, can we get going.”

“Outside,” Nathan reminds them.

This time, the trip to Gaia is controlled, safe. The backyard of Belladonna’s house is shrouded in mist for a moment, and when the mist fades, a lusher, _thicker_ world surrounds them. The air presses in with thousands of enticing scents, and even the distant stench of dead fish somehow manages to make everything else seem more lavish. The sky is a thick gray overcast, an even this early in the day it sounds like a thousand parties are going on just a few hundred feet away in the French Quarter.

The ground at their feet is wild and marshy. Looking behind them, they see just a few hundred feet away from the French Quarter there is nothing but an endless swamp of cypress trees, hanging moss, and invisible creatures stirring the surface of thick waters.

Balthazaar leads the way, out of the soggy marsh and onto Fontaine Street. The architecture here is nearly identical to that on Terra, but the stones and stucco seem more tactile, and every direction is teeming with magic. A two-foot high cockroach appears from an alley and barks at them like a dog before scuttling away as Scarpedin looms after it. People roam the streets dressed in a strange mixture of the fashion of 1800s South and Harry Potter – robes layered over gentlemen’s suits and ladies’ corsets, staffs and wands alongside hip sabers and dueling pistols. A few normal-looking people are scattered here and there, including a boisterous trio of men smoking thick cigars and shouting insults at any fairy they see.

And there are many magical creatures. Tiny sprites with alligator heads scurry across roofs, and wretched beings that look like Gollum offer bits of worthless trash to street vendors, begging for meals. As the group turns toward Decatur Street, they are offered beads by a woman whose skin is gold, green, and purple, and whose breasts sway as expressively as her hands as she tries to convince them to accept her gift. Several of the roaming humans are accompanied by ghosts, the spectral companions who provide their magic, though the ghosts seem taken from every era of the city’s history, from Confederate soldiers to French trappers to modern street performers. At one store window, a shopkeeper tries to drive off a group of faintly-visible ghosts trying to see their reflection. Balthazaar tells them that, here in New Orleans on Gaia, mirrors are never sold.

Blues fills the air, seeming to intuitively fade out or swell at the dramatically appropriate moments. In the distance they can hear horns of great steamships plying the Mississippi, the cheers of blind men cheering nymph strippers on Bourbon street, the faint hints of pleased moans drifting down from second story windows.

At every storefront, on every corner, even in the streets, eerie hints of a Halloween on the way lurk in shadows, as if the city itself is transforming for the holiday, with no need for anyone to put up decorations or carve a pumpkin. Everyone they see seems anxious, both afraid and exhilarated about the party sure to happen that evening.

Three times people recognize Balthazaar and cross the street, looking for convenient doorways to slip into to avoid his gaze.

As they near Jackson Square – called Fleur Square on Gaia – a thick cloud passes overhead just as a horse-drawn cart carrying golden lanterns breaks a wheel behind them. The whole group turns at the sound, and then they hear a voice from an alley, whispering to them. 

They look forward again, and Terry calls out, "Who's there?"

A hooded figure glides out from the shadows of the alley, blocking their path.

The entity is the size of a man, its long robes hovering a few inches off the ground, swaying in the limp wind, as if something was roiling beneath them. Its face is hidden in impossibly deep shadows under its hood. It holds a lantern in one hand, and extends its other hand, palm up and empty, offering.

_“I have a message.”_

Its voice is at once cracked and wet, like a man dying of thirst in a flood. And, hearing its offer, each of them knows that it possesses a great secret, and that all it wants in return is a part of their mind, a secret of their own.


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## RangerWickett

*Terry Abrams*
Tough 1/Dedicated 3/Mage 2. Male human; CR 5; HD 5d6+1d10+12; hp 38; AC 13 (+3 Defense); Base Atk +3; Grapple +3; Atk +4 (d6 brawl); SA magic; SV Fort +4, Ref +1, Will +8; Str 10, Dex 10, Con 14, Int 13, Wis 14, Cha 12. Action Points 9. Dmg Threshold 17. Wealth +6.

*Starting Occupation:* Adept (class skill – Knowledge (popular culture)).

*Skills, Feats, and Talents: * Knowledge (popular culture) +7, Knowledge (arcane lore) +9, Read/Speak Languages (French, Gaelic, Old English), Spellcraft +4. Arcane Skills, Brawl, Movement Specialization (teleport), Improved Damage Threshold, Iron Will, Sixth Wind. Traditions – Christian Healer, Classical Fey. Skill Emphasis (Knowledge (arcane lore), Second Wind, Faith.

*Magical Skills: * Charm +4, Cure +8, Defend +5, Illusion +6, Move +9.  Tradition specialization (Classical Fey).

*Signature Spells:*
_Feywalk_ – Move 10/Gen 2. Up to 12 creatures within 10-ft. of you travel to Gaia. This is an overpowered spell, so Terry usually spends an action point when casting it. Classical Fey tradition.
_Never Again_ – Cure 12/Gen 0. A creature you touch heals 2d6 points of damage. This is an overpowered spell, so Terry usually spends an action point when casting it. Christian Healer tradition.
_Merely a Flesh Wound_ – Cure 4/Gen 1. A creature within 30 ft. heals 1d4 points of damage, as if treated with the Treat Injury skill. Classical Fey tradition.
_Knight's Armor_ – Defend 5/Gen 0. A creature you touch gains a +4 enhancement bonus to AC for 1 minute.
_Be Cool_ – Charm 1/Gen 3. Creatures in a 10-ft. radius, up to 30 ft. away, must make a Will save or have their attitude shifted two steps more friendly for 10 minutes. Classical Fey tradition.
_Tap Tap_ – Move 4/Gen 0. For the next minute, the affected creature can teleport up to 10 ft. one time. Classical Fey tradition.

*Tactics:* Terry is not a combatant. In a fight, he'll either try to charm people to calm down, or will protect allies with magic. Ever since Lin died, he's been practicing his curative magic, never wanting again for someone he cares about to die next to him. In his youth, though, Terry was a bit of a rebel, so if he has to, he can brawl.


----------



## RangerWickett

Trying again, this time smaller so as not to peeve people off.


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween_


"Is it dangerous?" John asks.

Scarpedin follows up with, "Should I kill it?"

Balthazaar steps to the front of the group and gestures for the rest to keep back. He raises a defiant eye to the faceless creature.

"We want none of your tricks, fey. Step aside if you know what's good for you."

_"I know many things."_ 

Its right hand eerily rotates, independent of the rest of its arm, from palm up to palm down. It points to John. 

_"The message is for you,"_ it says, _"but you have refused it."_

"What is it?" Nathan asks. "We can't very well pay for something if we don't know what it is."

Balthazaar huffs. "That's what it wants. It's a Secret-Keeper."

The fey cringes as Balthazaar names it. Despite being faceless, it looks almost chagrined. It shakes its head to Nathan and Scarpedin. The hood sways, and perhaps light hits something within its shadows, but none of them can see what it was.

Belladonna takes a cautious step behind Terry. "Should I start reciting Latin prayers? I hear the fey don't like that."

"Only in England," Balthazaar says, "where we hate the Catholics. Fey in New Orleans would probably give you a sermon. But this creature is not from here. Where are you from, fey?"

It bends at the waist in a strange bow, its lower robes actually floating higher off the ground. Hesitant, it withdraws its hand and tucks the lantern into its robes, then twists to gaze eyelessly at Terry and Robert.

"Balthazaar?" Terry says, his voice cracking.

"Ask it a question. Every fey has something that is anathema to it. This one peddles secrets and abhors questions."

"Alright," Terry says. "Um . . . how did you know to find us?"

Everyone turns to Robert, who looks like he's freaking out. "Why should I ask it a question? I don't understand what the-"

Then suddenly, while their gazes were turned away, the Secret-Keeper vanishes. After a shiver of concern passes through the group, Robert relaxes visibly. The cloud overhead passes, and they look around for signs of the fey.

John shakes his head. "Why can't I help think that we just screwed up?"

There is relatively little discussion as Balthazaar leads them on to the Bureau office. Fleur Square is eerily empty, a black blight, a muddy square patch of dirt surrounded by an iron fence here on Gaia, where the St. Louis cathedral dominates Jackson Square on Terra. Humans linger around it, but the magical races seem warded off by the iron.

"Balthazaar, Terry," Scarpedin asks, "tell me what it is with fey and iron. They seem to have some sort of aversion to heavy metals. Do you think we should get some titanium? Tungsten?"

"Ah, probably not," Terry says.

"Quiet," Balthazaar says. "We're being followed."

"Oh, right," Robert says. "Because the best thing to do when people are following you is to suddenly get quiet and nervous. That'll never tip them off. Seriously, you do this for a living?"

John laughs. "He's right, though. They backed off when the fey showed up, but there are two guys skirting the edge of the square, watching us. Don't look, Terry."

"Sorry," Terry says. "I'll act casual."

He is not good at acting casual.

"Wait a minute," Nathan says. "Who are these guys? How come people already want to kill us over 'ere?"

Balthazaar says nothing.

John says, "They want to kill Balthazaar, not us."

Robert sucks his teeth and winces. "Best news I've heard all day."

The building that houses the Bureau office is the same on Gaia as on Terra -- a bar on the outside, with offices within -- but here it's abandoned. Balthazaar checks the door with some sort of amulet to see if it's warded, and then he opens it. The group presses past him, slipping inside the darkened bar from the relative brightness of Decatur Street. A few passers-by watch them for a moment, then hurry away, not wanting to get involved in Bureau business.

Robert looks for a light switch, but finds nothing. He pulls a window curtain open, but the window itself is painted black.

Balthazaar lights an electric lamp and holds it up. There are candle mounts on the walls, unlit hanging oil lanterns scattered around the room, and heavy curtains over the blackened windows. The others turn on flashlights, but some of the lights don't work on the first attempt. Terry comments that he feels like he's in a horror movie.

Balthazaar shushes him, then points past the bar to the dark passage to the next room. Shadows cling physically to the walls of the room despite their flashlights, and there is definite magic about.

"The stairs are in the next room," Balthazaar says. "Keep close. John, keep an eye on the front door."

They take five steps inward, and are just passing a table with the chairs on top of it, when Balthazaar casually reaches up and catches the vampire that was leaping at him. No one else had even spotted it, but before it can even swipe at him, Balthazaar swings the creature to the floor and plants a foot on its chest, then draws a wooden stake and drives it into the vampire's heart. The undead screams and flails, lashing up with its hand, clawing Balthazaar on his cheek before falling still.

"Is that a real vampire?" Robert says. "Sh*t, you just killed a man."

"No." Balthazaar shakes his head. "This is just spawn. Undead, but a thrall to a true vampire."

"Are there any more?" John asks.

"Uh," Terry says, nervous, "I sense _something_."

Belladonna holds a cross and vials of holy water, looking around nervously. Nathan has a shotgun and flashlight and is sweeping the room methodically. John grabs the supersoaker full of holy water from Terry and quickly strafes one wall with a thin stream. Halfway through his shot, there is a sizzle and a hiss. The shadows on the walls peel away and another vampire spawn scrambles out of the path of the holy water. John sprays again, but the spawn leaps into the air and lands on the ceiling. It hisses at them and vanishes.

They all look around, but lose sight of it in the magical shadows.

"Screw this," Robert says. "Terry, can't you do something?"

"Light," Terry says.

He concentrates and whispers in Gaelic, and flames flicker to life in the candles and lanterns around the room, and the windows shatter, letting in light from outside. The magical shadows are burned away like webs, and the entire bar lights up like an old fashioned feast hall. A pair of vampire spawn cling the ceiling, one lurks behind the bar with a meathook, and in the next room are a trio of spawn, standing guard in front of a pale man dressed in frilly black.

"I was wondering when the Bureau would get its sh*t together and send someone," the vampire says. He glances to his spawn, then nods in the group's direction. "Tear them apart, but leave Balthazaar alive."

The vampire spawn begin to close in, reaching out hungrily with claws, blades, or clubs. The group is evenly matched in numbers, and they are surrounded.

Then the door from the street opens, and two more vampires come in, carrying pistols.

Scarpedin smiles. "Damn. It feels like home."

* * *​
Outside the bar that is the front for the Bureau office, a few passers-by watch through shattered glass as gunshots ring out, a shotgun blasts through the rotting flesh of vampire spawn, holy water is hurled and sprayed, and a crazed man with a longsword hacks limbs from the undead, even though he knows it won't kill them.

Sounds of the fight draw a crowd, waiting anxiously as screams ring out. Heavy objects thump wetly to the ground. Wood snaps and pierces with deep crunches through bone. Glasses shatter. Creatures groan. A woman calls for help, and several gunshots and ancient arcane words shout out an answer.

The door to the bar is flung open and a one-armed vampire scrambles out in panic. He turns for one glance back, and a hurled wooden stake drives through his throat. Before the vampire even hits the ground, a shotgun shears away his face, holy water vials crack against his chest, and an oil lamp is tossed and shatters onto the walking corpse. The vampire tries to scream, but with the stake in its throat it can only gurgles as its black blood is consumed by the fire.

The bar is quiet, and only intermittent sounds come out, of people making sure their enemies stay down. The crowd watches as the vampire turns to ash, then wait for a moment longer, still uncertain.

Balthazaar strides out of the bar, his face bleeding, ash coating his hands. He almost smiles as he sweeps a look across the crowd.

"There's nothing to see here," he says with finality.

The crowd backs away, and quickly finds something else to do.

This is what the Bureau is to the people of Gaia. Frightfully efficient, brutally mysterious. For the past two weeks, the Bureau has been all but absent, and the gangs of thuggish undead had begun to gain power. But now the word will spread. The Bureau is back in control.

Balthazaar watches the crowd disperse, a trace of a smug smile on his bleeding face.

"Excuse me, Shawshank Redemption," Robert says. "Could you get back in here? Or did you forget we're here to save you guys' butts?"

Glowering, Balthazaar turns back into the bar and closes the door behind him. It's probably for the best that the common folk of Gaia do not know exactly how the Bureau deals with its enemies. The truth can be embarrassing.


----------



## Steverooo

*Heh!*

I love it when the Vamps get their Go-Downance!


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween_



John and Scarpedin methodically stake, behead, and burn the bodies of the vampires and their spawn. Thankfully the corpses turn to ash quickly, and their stench, while intense, is not nauseating. Now that they have light to see by, the bloodstains of past fights are visible.

Robert says to Balthazaar, "Looks like your friends lost the last fight."

Balthazaar shakes his head. "The vampires wouldn't have stayed here if they had already killed everyone. They were waiting."

Balthazaar tells Terry to finish healing Belladonna, who was actually bitten. A minute later, Belladonna is able to stand, and they regroup at the base of the stairs that lead up to the Bureau office. At the top of the stairs, through the window, they can see light.

And they can hear zydeco music*.

With caution, the group goes to the door, talks to the people inside, and eventually walk in. They find a half dozen injured and exhausted Bureau agents in varying states of nudity, trying to dance despite their sleepless fatigue. An empty box of donuts, an empty pizza box, and the remnants of a months-old stale king cake lie on the floor, and an old-fashioned record player pumps out the spirited music. A few ghosts, bonded with agents, hang in the corners of the room, looking dazed. 

Only one of the Bureau agents, an Asian woman named Yuko, is in a state coherent enough to talk. Balthazaar quickly tells her what he knows about the Terra-Gaia severance, and how Terry will be able to get them back. Then he brusquely tells her to tell her side of the story.

She tells them that, two weeks ago, they realized they were trapped on Gaia. A few days passed with them working to see if they could fix things, and they sent a messenger over land to the Bureau office in Savannah, but he might not even have reached Georgia yet, since the best transportation available was a horse. Meanwhile, the rest of the Bureau agents tried to keep the peace in New Orleans, but rumors spread that their numbers were depleted, and eventually they were attacked.

For nearly a decade now, a vampire crime syndicate has jockeyed for power in Gaian New Orleans, only really having gained any power in the last five years, since Balthazaar was sent to prison. It becomes clear to the group that, while Yuko resents Balthazaar, she respects his skill at dealing with the undead. When pressed, she tells them why Balthazaar went to prison: 

In 2000, he killed an elfwoman ("F*cking elves," Scarpedin says), a former agent who had gone rogue. The Bureau had wanted to interrogate the woman for important information, but Balthazaar defied orders and had killed the woman, even though she had surrendered. In the investigation, it came out that Balthazaar had been working in concert with Knights of the Round, helping them hunt down and kill unsavory members of the magical races, while simultaneously keeping the Bureau off the trail.

The Bureau, Yuko says, has been opposed to the Knights of the Round for a century, ever since the Bureau's founding. (This particular tidbit, that the Bureau is only 100 years old, surprises John, who assumed the Bureau had been around since the dawn of time or something). Where the Bureau tries to keep the peace and deal with criminals through the rule of law, Knights of the Round are vigilantes at best, racist terrorists at worst. They hunt down non-humans and viciously murder them. Balthazaar only managed to stay with the Bureau so long because his interests and the Bureau's need to kill clearly hazardous monsters overlapped.

The woman Balthazaar killed was an evil b*tch, Yuko admits, an elvish telepath named Autumn Yeiotana, who managed to dominate the Chief, head of the Bureau, and nearly destroy the Bureau from within. While Balthazaar's murdering of the woman might have been forgiven as aggravated or self defense, when the Bureau investigators unearthed Balthazaar's connections to the Knights of the Round, the various councils of the magical races had demanded the Bureau execute Balthazaar.

Yuko starts to go into the politics of the debate, but Balthazaar interrupts and asks to know about the more urgent problems, like what happened to all the agents here.

The first attack, Yuko says, came in the streets, when an agent was ambushed by members of the gang and slain. Those who tried to help the Bureau had been tormented and frightened magically, so Yuko, as ranking agent left in New Orleans, had ordered the remaining nineteen agents to stay in the Bureau office, only heading out in large groups, and only when necessary. After a week stuck on Gaia, though, their supplies were running low, and so she had sent out six agents to bring back food from trustworthy vendors. When the group was returning, however, they were attacked by a large force of vampires and vampire spawn. Yuko and the others went out to help, but ultimately they had to retreat into the second floor offices. 

They lost ten agents in the fight, and the vampires still had enough forces left to blockade them. However, since the offices are not considered a public place, the vampires could not enter without an invitation. So they had turned from violence to deception, trying to trick the Bureau agents. Finally, three days ago, after their food had run out and they were starving, an agent had cracked and let in a nymph bearing food and music. The agent's will was broken down by the magic in the food, and he had let two vampires inside before the rest of the agents could react. 

They lost another two agents that day, but they killed the vampires and drove off the nymph. Still, the record player had kept playing, possessing some magic that kept them from smashing it. It had worn down their will, and in a classically fey joke, eventually those who succumbed to its magic started partying, losing themselves to eating, drinking, and having sex.

Yuko says, "I remained happily immune."

Robert knows better, but is kind enough to spare the woman's pride.

Still, Yuko says, none of them had broken down enough to let the vampires back in. They've endured a two week ordeal of hunger, combat, and waiting, and now, finally, it looks like they'll be able to go back.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Scarpedin can't help but crack jokes at the agents. The rest of them try to ignore him, but he's saying pretty much what the rest of them are thinking: the Bureau is looking more and more incompetent by the minute.

Terry meditates, preparing for a more powerful plane shift than usual, so he can get all of them back to Terra at once. Nathan and Belladonna treat some of the injuries as best they can, and John offers Yuko a cigarette, since she's too nervous to actually eat any of their food. It takes longer than any of them are comfortable with for Terry to prepare his spell, so when they do finally go, tensions are high.

They all arrive in a similar office on Terra, where Raine is waiting anxiously. Raine, Balthazaar, and Yuko give them perfunctory thanks for their help, and start searching for supplies to help the survivors snap out of their charmed state. Raine recommends they go back to Belladonna's house and wait. She says they'll be contacted when their agents are in a state to offer actual assistance.

The group departs, unhappily, everyone grumbling about the Bureau's ingratitude of them risking their lives. It's barely one o'clock now, so Scarpedin says they should get some lunch and then go to a club. Bizarrely, the group agrees with Scarpedin. At least, Robert points out, if they're in a club they can pretend they're just living normal, everyday lives, and they can forget the stupid, irritating situation they've gotten themselves into.


*Zydeco is a jumpy variety of cajun/creole music, popular in and around Louisiana. If you're interested, there's some information here.


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## Funeris

Bravo, Ranger Wickett.  A great read.

I'll be more than happy to keep up with this one.

~Fune


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## RangerWickett

_Halloween_



Robert has a soda. John has a cigarette. Everyone else is drinking. Around them, the club is already hopping this early on a Monday afternoon. The French Quarter is never patient when it comes to celebrating.

Robert leans onto the table and nods to Terry. "What's on your mind?"

Terry looks down into his drink. "I'm worried about the guy in the van who was watching us this morning. I don't know that many spells, but I've been trying to think of which ones I could use to best protect everybody if we got into a fight."

Robert shakes his head in disappointment. He gestures with his soda glass for Terry to take a drink. Terry does, grimacing at the fruity concoction -- some sort of orange and black margarita.

"Now," Robert says, "I was asking, since we're in a club, and there are girls all around, and you're looking to get drunk like a _normal_ person on Halloween, what's on your mind?"

Terry smiles. He glances past Robert, then looks down again and sighs.

Robert casually follows Terry's glance. A few seats down, Belladonna's mouth is curled into a near-smirk as she talks on her phone. From snippets of conversation Robert has heard, he knows that she's talking to a man named Remy, her fiance, who is away in France. At first Robert just feels sorry for Terry, since he's obviously got a thing for a girl who's taken. Then Robert remembers that Terry has actually lost his own girlfriend. It irritates Robert that he can't ignore that piece of information and just act normal.

Still, he tries his best. Within an hour, he has Terry acting as his wingman as he chats up three girls dressed as Catwoman, Harley Quinn, and Poison Ivy.

Meanwhile, John sits in a corner, smoking, reading passages of Scripture carved into the walls of the bar. It leaves him feeling empty, and he ends up wandering the streets near the club, wondering what secret the creature on Gaia had been offering.

Answering his cel phone, Scarpedin downs a shot of tequila, then heads outside so he can actually hear the person on the other line. The sun stings his eyes after being inside for so long.

"Hello? How the hell did you get this number? Whitey?"

"Who?" asks a woman.

"Is this Whitey?" Scarpedin says. "Wait, sh*t, Whitey's not a woman. Who are you?"

"Scarpedin," she says, "this is Serena. Remember me, from the RenFest?"

"Oh," he says. "The _elf_."

"Yeah," she says. "Who's Whitey?"

Scarpedin laughs. "Whitey's bringing my motorcycle down from New Mexico, is who Whitey is. He's nearly late, too, so he'd better get here soon. What are you up to, girl?"

"I was worried, honestly. You vanished from the store I was in, and then there were those reports of gunshots."

"Nothing can kill me," Scarpedin says. Then he gets suspicious. "Why are you calling me? Are you a man in black?"

Serena laughs. "I was actually wondering if you, y'know, might be around Houston tonight. I wanted to invite you to a Halloween party."

"Naw, man," he says. "Naw, I got my own party, in New Orleans. You can come _here_ if you want, baby."

"Yeah," Serena says. "Okay."

Scarpedin is oblivious to how uncomfortable he's making her.

"So anyway," she says, "it was really cool to hang out with you and all, and I'm glad you're alright. Call me some time if you're in Houston, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Scarpedin says. "Hey . . . are you really an elf?"

Her voice chuckles in response. "Not _tonight_."

She laughs and hangs up. A minute later, Scarpedin gets a text message, telling him she's going to send him some pictures of herself undressing. Scarpedin just looks at the phone, dumbstruck.

Heading back inside the bar, Scarpedin runs into John, and they go to talk to Belladonna. She looks a little anxious and unhappy, and she tells them they're going to need to get ready for tonight's Halloween party soon. But before they leave, she heads over to Terry and John and interrupts their conversation with the rogues' gallery. Terry excuses himself quickly, but Robert holds up a hand for Belladonna to wait while he gets all three ladies' phone numbers.

Finally, Robert turns to Belladonna.

"Terry," she says, "I need to ask you a favor, and I know you ain't gonna be happy about it."

"Sure," he says. "If I can do it, sure."

"I need you not to go to the party tonight," she says.

"Oh, cold!" Scarpedin says. "Your girl turned you down before you even asked her out. Cold."

"Shut up Scarpedin," Robert says. "Belladonna, do you have a reason you're throwing Terry out? I've been trying very hard to let him enjoy a relatively _normal_ night."

"Well that's about the reason," she says. "I'm sorry, but I have a lot of friends at this party, and my uncle's the one throwing it, and it's too dangerous to have Terry around. That's why I've got to ask you to not come. It's nothing personal, but you don't want to put anyone at risk, do you?"

Terry takes a breath, then nods. "Yeah, I guess not. It's cool."

"Like hell it is," Robert says. "You're just going to leave him alone? You think that's safer, do you?"

John chimes in, "Safer for us."

Belladonna shrugs. "You can stay with him, if you'd like t'. No offense, but I don't know how well some of my father's generation would take to me bringing a black man to their party."

Terry straightens. "Yeah, Belladonna, you should stop talking while I still like you. I won't go to your f*cking party. Damn, I feel like I'm in high school again."

Terry turns and walks to catch up with the three women as they head out the door. Robert watches for a minute, then says, "Good man," then follows him.

"You don't split the party," Scarpedin says. "Terry just split the party."

Belladonna says, "I hope you two boys still come along. You'll have a good time, and I owe you for saving my life."

John heads off without a word. Scarpedin and Belladonna exchange a look, and then she sighs before heading off.

John catches up with Robert right outside the bar.

"Hey," John says. "I'm going to go back to the house."

Robert shakes his head. "No, go to the party. I want someone to keep an eye on crazy 'King Arthur' guy and our psychic."

Robert rolls his eyes at himself. "I can't believe I'm taking this seriously."

"It's not so hard to accept," John says.

"Good," Robert says. "That's why you should be with them. You fit in better. Me, I'm going to be hanging out with my drinking buddy, having a night on the town. You don't drink, right?"

John shakes his head.

"Alright, see? I'll handle this end of things," he drops his voice to a whisper, "and if things go bad, we'll be close to the Bureau. Odds are, Belladonna's right. The people after Terry know by now that he was supposed to go to this party with us. Understand?"

John nods. He and Robert look each other in the eyes for a minute, and then John heads back into the bar. Robert runs to catch up with Catwoman, who actually meowed at him earlier.

Inside the bar, Nathan is oblivious to what the others are up to. He has been working his British accent to its best effect, finding a girl all Gothed up with nowhere to go. 

Her name is Amber, and she's genuinely smart and fun to talk to. She's a 24-year-old student at Tulane who dropped out after the hurricane and has been looking for something to do with herself. She doesn't believe him when he says he's psychic, so he offers to tell her future by reading her palm.

He takes off his gloves and holds her hand, staring into her eyes for a moment. To his surprise, she smiles, stands up, and walks away, leaving the bar. He follows her, confused, and sees that the sun has set, and only the moon lights a dark, sleeping New Orleans. Somehow they have found their way to the riverfront, and what few sounds there are of partying come from far away.

Nathan calls to Amber for her to come back, but she seems to hear someone else. She follows a voice Nathan cannot hear, and walks toward a dark alley, looking like she's running to a friend. Then she screams. 

Nathan runs after her, and sees her body lying at the edge of the alley, her neck torn out at the jugular. There is no sign of her attacker. Horrified, Nathan kneels beside her and takes her hand to check her pulse, hoping she might still be alive.

"What do you see?" Amber asks.

Nathan snaps out of his vision and lets go of her hand in shock. He starts to stammer a warning, but he knows scaring her will never work. She reaches out to him, asking what's wrong, and he quickly lies, saying that his cel phone was on vibrate, and that it startled him.  He apologizes profusely, pulls out his phone as if to answer it, and backs off, heading to the rest room to compose himself.

It's in the restroom that he has another vision, of guns and roads and smoke burning from his tires. As he stares at himself in the mirror, Nathan knows this is going to be a long night.


*End of Fifth Session*


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## Dawn

Just finished reading this all the way through.   Awesome story.  'Course I enjoyed your previous one, Savannah Nights.

Keep it up.  Sounds like it is a blast to play and run.


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## RangerWickett

Thanks. It's always great to get comments on storyhours (why do you think I've been updating 5 times a week? it's cause people are posting *grin*).

I realized I forgot a few small jokes, because these sessions happened a few months ago. I don't really think I'm going to catch up, but I'm going to try not to fall so far behind. But yeah, I wish it'd been a bit more fresh in my mind, so I could've worked in some of the actual dialogue, including Nathan trying to get a pair of priests to accompany them to fend off the fey. One of the priests ended up critting a vampire, so we decided he had been some sort of bad-ass Agent of the Vatican Guard.


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## Sidekick

Hey there RangerWickett.

speaking of praise - dude this SH kicks ass!!!

Keep up the good work, I'm truly enjoying the story.


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## RangerWickett

For the story behind this session, open the spoiler box.
[sblock]The day of this session, I found out that two of the players couldn’t make it, and they were two characters who were fairly integral to what I had planned, so I took advantage of Nathan’s psychic powers to run this session as a vision, taking place in the future. Also, Nathan’s player had been wanting to put his car to good use, and he was going to be out of town for the next week, so I took the lemons life had given me, added a bit of my own creative sugar, and came up with this whacky concoction.[/sblock]

_Halloween
4:17 pm, and later that evening_

The radio crackles and wails over the sounds of the freeway as bullets pierce the BMW’s hood and side panel. A cel phone cries insistently, but it’s the last thing they’re worrying about as Nathan swerves through freeway traffic to keep pace with the armored truck. Though part of his mind knows this is just a vision of things yet to come, events he can avoid, someone just shot his car, and he’s not going to let the bastards get away.

_A time warp scene
A cy-fi story
A dirt coloured love
Hey hope for glory
I like to fight,
I kill global oppression
If I quit, no hope of redemption_
- Billy Idol, _Tomorrow People_​

At the party of Maurice Boudreaux, Belladonna’s uncle, chaos breaks out as gunfire splits the air, followed by several small explosions. People panic, and screams come from outside as the party-goers loitering on the driveway come rushing inside, seeking safety. Nathan cannot see where Belladonna has gone, so he has to trust she’s some place safe with her father’s guards.

Scarpedin - dressed in full knight regalia - and John - wearing a tattered angel costume - spot the attacker through the high gallery windows that face out onto the circular manor driveway. A tall, fat man with a buzz cut - who looks vaguely reminiscent of James Hetfield, lead singer of Metallica _(though honestly, in my mind, he looks like Hellhound, my boss at E.N. Publishing)_ - ducks behind a car and lobs another grenade at the manor guards, who are engaged in a gunfight with the man. It takes Nathan a moment to realize that the Hetfield-lookalike must have been spotted by the guards, who opened fire on him, and that Hetfield responded by tossing grenades at them.

The man’s grenades have the desired effect, scattering the guards and taking a few out. Hetfield retreats, hustling across the wide manor lawn toward the gate, which is several hundred feet away. He has a heavy black duffelbag over his shoulder, and occasionally he pops off a few shots from his pistol to deter pursuit.

“Get your car started,” Scarpedin shouts, and then he leaps through the window, obviously not wanting to waste time with things like doorways. Thankfully his plate armor prevents him from killing himself, and he trails bits of glass as he tries to run after the gunman.

Nathan takes the door, and John follows him, both of them sprinting for Nathan’s BMW, which is parked on the circular driveway in front of the manor. As they run, John points out that outside the front gate, waiting, is the same armored truck they saw earlier that morning. Hetfield is making a break for the truck. Nathan knows his car can outpace the heavy truck, but he can’t let them get too much of a lead. He unlocks his car and turns it on with his remote, and when he and John reach the car, it’s waiting and ready. Nathan shifts it smoothly into gear, and the BMW speeds around the driveway.

Nathan brakes beside Scarpedin who, in his heavy armor, was nowhere close to catching up with Hetfield. Scarpedin opens the passenger door, sees John sitting there, and shouts, “Get in the back seat. I’m taking shotgun.”

John doesn’t argue, and he scrambles into the back seat. Scarpedin unbuckles his swordbelt and tosses it in the back with John, then gets in. He glares at Nathan impatiently.

“What are you waiting for, man? Go!”

Hetfield is nearly at the gate, and someone at the manor has finally responded to the threat by trying to close the gate. The gate is wheeling itself closed automatically, but Nathan can see that Hetfield will make it out with time to spare. He, John, and Scarpedin, though, don’t have that luxury. The BMW’s engine goes from hum, to purr, to growl as Nathan floors it.

Scarpedin begins cursing and bracing for impact, and it looks almost certain that they’ll crash into the gate as it closes, but Nathan steers straight, and they don’t even lose either of the side mirrors. Unfortunately he’s going sixty miles an hour, and there’s no road in front of him. As soon as he clears the gate, he slams on the brakes and tries to angle the car to avoid the magnolia tree on the far curb. When the car comes to a stop, they’ve shot past the armored truck.

Nathan tries to get his car back on the road. Meanwhile, the Hetfield lookalike has jumped into the back door of the truck. He pauses for just a moment, glancing from Nathan’s car back to the Boudreaux manor house. As the truck starts to drive off, he pulls a clunky object out of his duffel bag and presses a button on it.

Nathan gasps in horror as the Boudreaux manor explodes. 

Though part of his mind knows this is just a vision of things yet to come, events he can avoid, these men just killed hundreds of people, and he’s not going to let the bastards get away.


_To be continued . . ._


----------



## Vorlon

This is some good stuff!


----------



## RangerWickett

Because the storyhour is currently in the middle of the New Orleans adventure arc, I'd like to encourage folks to take a look at Cajun Arcana, a charity relief book about Louisiana, profits from which will be donated to Habitat for Humanity. 

Now first, my college -- Emory University -- hosts a visit from President Jimmy Carter every year, and President Carter is heavily involved in Habitat for Humanity, so I'm in favor of these donations. And second, my old friend Acquana, who has an art thread on these boards, and who was GM of the Savannah Knights storyhour, which set the foundation of the setting in this game, contributed illustrations to Cajun Arcana.

Now, time for me to work on the next update.


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween_


As his future self speeds after the armored truck, Nathan thinks, _Radio jammers._

"Open the sunroof," Scarpedin says. "You still have that shotgun?"

"It's in the trunk," Nathan says.

In the back seat, John says, "Here," and hands Scarpedin one of his pistols.

Scarpedin says, "Excellent. Alright, get us closer. I'm gonna shoot out the tires."

"It's an armored truck," John yells. "You can't shoot out the tires with a pistol."

"Says you." 

Scarpedin stands up through the sun roof and fires a shot, missing completely.

The armored truck is headed toward the interstate, and Nathan isn't sure whether it will head south into the city, or north onto the Lake Ponchatrain bridge -- a bridge that was heavily damaged in the hurricanes. He knows it's risky, but if he's able to drive the truck north, they have a better chance of forcing the vehicle to a stop. He checks the GPS to see where the on ramp is, then prepares himself for getting his car severely damaged.

The truck is swerving, trying to keep Nathan's BMW from getting alongside. As they near the intersection next to the interstate, Nathan pushes his car in front of the truck and nudges the truck's front end, forcing it slightly to the right at just the right moment to keep the driver from safely turning left and southward. Instead the truck squeals its brakes and turns toward the north on ramp. Nathan's manuever crumples part of his front bumper and nearly sends him crashing into traffic waiting at the intersection, but he recovers and swerves through the stationary cars.

Overhead, Scarpedin defiantly fires another shot. This one actually hits the truck, but has no real effect.

The armored truck merges at 70 miles an hour onto the interstate, and Nathan is close behind. He sees some movement on top of the truck -- a hatch being popped open. Nathan swings his BMW to the side of the truck for a better view, and now he sees someone lifting a heavy object out of the interior of the truck. A metallic clang rings out as the person inside heaves a portable mini-gun onto the roof of the truck.

"That's not what I think it is," Nathan says, "is it?"

Hetfield then stands up, his torso sticking out of the hatch on the roof of the armored car. He grins and waves to them, then lifts the mini-gun and fires. Nathan swerves, but bullets tear into the engine of his car. Soon the hood is smoking, and flames are trailing out from the bullet holes. His vision is obscured, and he is distracted by John and Scarpedin's shouting, so he doesn't notice when the mini-gun mercenary tosses a grenade under the front wheels of his car.

The explosion that kills him snaps him out of his vision.

_Radio jammers,_ Nathan thinks. _Radio jammers, and some way to stop a mini-gun._


----------



## Steverooo

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> _Radio jammers,_ Nathan thinks. _Radio jammers, and some way to stop a mini-gun._




Best line of the story, so far, Nathan!

<The Steverooo wanders away, chuckling!>


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween
4:30 pm_

"Shopping time," Nathan announces. "Where are Robert and our wizard friend?"

Scarpedin, sitting with his feet up on the table, doesn't look up. He's busy staring at his cel phone, a confused look on his face, but he nods briefly toward the bar's entrance.

"Belladonna scared them off. And then she went to go get into costume. She said you'd drive us back. You're going to drive us back, right?"

Nathan nods. "Yes, but I was hoping to speak with Terry before-"

"Look, we don't need them to have fun." Scarpedin closes his phone and looks up at Nathan. "They got kicked out of the party, right?"

"Undoubtedly," Nathan says.

"Alright then." Scarpedin stands, slaps John on the arm, and waves for him to follow. "Come on man. Shopping time."

John stretches out his "What?" so that it sounds almost vengeful. He draws on his cigarette.

"I need to pick up a radio jammer," Nathan says. "And something to deal with a mini-gun. You wouldn't happen to have any ideas, would you John?"

John sighs. "Not another vision."

"Your visions suck," Scarpedin says. "I nearly got eaten by a jaguar thanks to you."

"Oh, no," Nathan says, "this one's important. There's going to be a bomb at the mansion tonight at the party. I need a radio jammer to keep them from sending the signal to detonate."

People at nearby tables look over in curiosity. Sure it's Halloween, but with the recent terrorist attack in Texas, people are on edge.

"Can we have this conversation outside?" John asks.

Once they're out of the bar and on the way to where he parked his car, Nathan explains his vision. John and Nathan discuss how to handle the possibility of a bombing at the mansion, since they want to capture the people responsible, so they can't just get the party cancelled. They're going to need to tread a narrow line, but Nathan is confident they can make it work. He'll pick up a radio jammer, and they'll be waiting in his car to chase after the armored truck. Nathan wants to let the police know what's up, but again, if he changes things too much, the events of his vision might never happen. He feels safer just solving specific problems, like exploding mansions. And mini-guns.

"So," Nathan says, "how do we deal with a man in body armor with a mini-gun."

"Take it away from him," Scarpedin says.

John chuckles.

"Sh*t, I'm serious. British man, you're psychic, and you're supposed to be an angel or something. Just, y'know, use magic."

"Sorry, chap," Nathan says. "I can't control people's minds. Not that I would if I could, y'know, because it's kinda creepy, but I just can't do it."

"Oh yes," Scarpedin says, mocking, "it's 'impossible.' Let me tell you what's impossible. Impossible is me getting propositions for phone sex from an elf, that's what's impossible. Impossible is fighting vampires. That sh*t ain't _real_! Impossible is my life, man."

"Duly noted," Nathan says. "I wonder if I could get armored plating installed before the party. . . . And did you say phone sex?"

Scarpedin looks embarrassed. "She said she was going to send me pictures of her getting undressed. F*cking elves."

"Let's get going," John says.

Nathan takes a minute to check his car for tampering -- including any possible bombs -- and when he's confident they're safe, they leave, going shopping. They have a few hours before the party, so Nathan methodically calls Balthazaar at the Bureau to warn them about what he foresees happening at the mansion, and to ask where he could buy a radio jammer. As Nathan suspected, the former Bureau agent has no trouble getting him in touch with a dealer in illegal electronics.

Unfortunately, however, no one can think of a way to protect against a mini-gun. A little desperately, they spend an hour checking into local magic shops, antiquities dealers, and voodoo haunts, looking for protective magic. Nathan picks up an antique pistol, c. 1790, along with bullets made of iron, which he hopes would be useful against fey. He also buys a fine French cavalry hat with a feather in it. 

John doesn't talk much during this, and when he asks to borrow someone's cel phone to call Robert, they realize that none of them have his number.

For his part, Scarpedin is only slightly annoying during the shopping excursion. Growing increasingly disgruntled with the man's impatience and abrasive demeanor, Nathan tries to get the man off his case by telling him that one of the antiques in the store is magical. Immediately, Scarpedin writes a cheque (no doubt which will bounce), and purchases the item -- a prayer bead necklace which, Nathan determines with a reading, once belonged to a former Dalai Lama.

"What does it do?" Scarpedin asks.

"I don't know," Nathan says, half-smiling in fake apology. "But I'm sure it was worth the eight thousand dollars. Come along now, we've got a party to get to."


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween
9:20 pm_

At the Boudreaux mansion party, Scarpedin has been making a nuisance of himself for the past two hours, trying to one-up the DJ and insult the host while managing to scare all of Belladonna friends by being phenomenally sketchy and far too honest about what he's been having to deal with these past few days. John has occasionally slipped out onto the back patio to speak with Yuko, the Asian American Bureau agent who is magically disguised as a black cocktail waitress. Belladonna flits about the party, the most beautiful woman at the ball in her Jack Daniels Fairy costume, and Nathan makes sure she introduces him to as many people as possible so he can get a reading on them.

He's amazed how many people are close-minded here. Even the debutantes trying to dance on the ballroom floor attempt to resist his readings, and he ends up getting mostly just snippets of recent embarrassments or private crushes, with the occasional hints of darker dealings. Nathan wonders if Belladonna knows exactly what her father and uncle do for a living, but then he remembers that this woman carries stilettos in her hair, with derringers and pouches of poison hidden in her dress.

Also, worryingly, Nathan gets the sense that someone is actively hiding something from him, but he cannot tell who.

Suspecting that Belladonna would not appreciate him bringing up a vision, he merely asked her to let her uncle know that they were worried that people might be after them. Maurice Boudreaux, who looks Barry Corbin, the man who played the General in "War Games," calmly assured Nathan that he has more than enough bodyguards keeping watch on the mansion. 

Nathan sincerely doubts that. However, he has to be content with even this much. After all, he imagines it was hard to take him seriously, dressed as he is in a classical Dracula vampire costume. As nice as the cloak is, it probably hinders his credibility.

Belladonna and Mr. Boudreaux fade away into the crowd, and Nathan looks through the high front windows, out onto the lawn and beyond to the gate. The armored car is not parked there yet, which means that Canadians have hopefully not yet arrived.

"You know who that is?" John asks, coming back from a 'smoke break' on the patio.

Nathan follows John's glance. At the far end of the ballroom, a pair of staircases sweep a gentle arc up from the floor to a central landing on the second floor. A doorway on this landing looks like it leads to a private meeting room. Maurice Boudreaux is up there, along with several bodyguards dressed in no-nonsense white suits. Heading up the left staircase is Belladonna, along with an elderly man in a pirate costume -- he looks like Geoffery Rush -- and an even older black man who looks somewhat like Nelson Mandela. The black gentleman almost looks like he has no costume, but his brown suit is adorned in places with voodoo accoutrements.

"The pirate," John says, "is Adrien Lee."

"Belladonna's father?" Nathan asks. "He has pretty good taste in costumes."

John shrugs. "The black guy with him, Yuko says his name is Tom 'Gris-Gris' Jones. Get this. He's apparently Mr. Lee's personal voodoo shaman."

"And Belladonna claimed she didn't know magic?" Nathan frowns.

"No," John says. "She actually said she believed in voodoo. I can't be surprised. If I were rich, I'd want to have magic."

Nathan says, "Our girl's dad is a little suspicious anyway, though. Why would a businessman -- she said he works in _shipping?_ -- why would he need a voodoo bodyguard?"

John shrugs. "I'm gonna go back and talk to Yuko some more. She said that she was getting some sort of magical reading here, and wasn't sure if it was-"

"Wait," Nathan says. "They're here."

Outside the window, hundreds of feet away across the front lawn and driveway, Nathan spots the armored car pulling up on the street.

"Get Scarpedin, quickly. And tell him not to jump out the window this time."

_To be continued . . ._


----------



## scipio

*Sweet*

Hey, I want, like, use of likeness pay or something dude.


----------



## RangerWickett

scipio said:
			
		

> Hey, I want, like, use of likeness pay or something dude.




Yes, because a Tom Jones who looks like Nelson Mandela was obviously modeled on you. 

. . . Honestly, though, you're right. Dr. Jones was inspired by you. I owe you something.


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween
7:15 pm_

Robert had a pang of conscience when he parted ways with Terry. He knows the guy is being pursued by people who want him dead, but Robert felt he had done his part. He kept the guy company for a full afternoon, letting him live like a normal person for once. But after the sun had set and Robert had a chance to sleep with Catwoman (the classic version, not that terrible Halle Berry one), it was time to let the man handle himself. Robert has no doubts that Terry will not touch either of the other two vixens he left him with, since he's still holding a torch for his dead girlfriend Lin, but he told Terry not to leave the French Quarter for the rest of the evening, so he trusts that he should be able to handle himself.

What irritates Robert most is that he's thinking of this while he's alone in a hotel room with Catwoman. Or at least she _was_ Catwoman. He can't really think of her that way now that her costume is lying on the floor next to the bed.

Still, guilty conscience or not, Robert has made a living from lying, so no doubt the young lady thinks he's having a wonderful time. After they're done, she clings to him in the bed while he lies with his eyes open, looking at the ceiling. A radio they left on in the shower crackles with music.


_I look straight at her and I say,
"BABY!
Please forgive me honey."
And then I wait a few minutes to see how she take it,
And then I say,
"BABY!
Please forgive me honey."
And then I stand back far enough so that when she swings,
I can duck._
- B.B. King, "Worry, Worry"​

Robert's phone rings.

He blinks. His body is still relaxed, but his face in tense. No one should have the phone's number. 

Still laying in bed, he reaches out and picks his phone off the dresser. He answers the call but says nothing.

A voice, tinged with Louisianan drawl, asks, "Robert Black?"

Robert doesn't respond. Next to him, Catwoman stirs but seems content to cling to him quietly.

"Mr. Black," the voice continues, "this Adrien Lee. You know my daughter, Belladonna, and she spoke highly of you."

Robert softly asks, "How did you get this number?"

A pause. Robert wonders what Mr. Lee is thinking, and wishes he could see the man's face to get a read on him. From his tone of voice, Robert already knows Mr. Lee is accustomed to getting his way.

"I actually don't know," Mr. Lee chuckles. "I asked my aide to get me in touch with you. Are you not used to getting calls from thankful fathers?"

Robert frowns, but keeps his voice a cordial murmur. "I keep this number unlisted. I guess this just means you're well-connected."

"Ah, yes." Mr. Lee waits a moment, then continues. "Mr. Black, I would like to meet with you, to learn in person about the man who helped save my daughter. Also, Donna-Belle seems to have actively _not_ invited you to tonight's party. My daughter has a poor sense of how to thank those who help her, so I'd like to tell you that you are indeed invited to the festivities."

"You're daughter had good reasons for not inviting me."

"Or your friend Terry," Mr. Lee says. "Is he with you? I want to extend the invitation to him too."

"No," Robert says. He can tell Mr. Lee is curious about Terry. "Mr. Lee, I'm sorry, but I don't feel like going to a party tonight. I'm honestly a little exhausted from a day of earlier partying already."

"Mr. Black, there are some issues that you and I need to discuss that are not appropriate for a phone conversation."

"Really?" Robert considers. "Well, then why don't you come out and meet me? Take a break from your 'party'? I know this nice restaurant at the edge of the French Quarter with a book store inside of it."

"Very well," Mr. Lee says, but Robert can tell that the man is hardly pleased.

"So you'll call me when you're on your way?" Robert asks.

"I'll have a man meet you first. You said yourself, Mr. Black, my daughter had good reasons not to invite you, and when strangers threaten my daughter, I get cautious too."

Robert laughs. "Alright, if you're afraid _I'm_ dangerous, sure. Have your guy meet me in the lobby of," he pauses like he's thinking of a place, but ultimately he just picks the hotel he's staying at right now. "the Marriot. Half an hour."

"Very well. I look forward to meeting you, Mr. Black, and getting your point of view on a few things."

Robert hangs up the phone, puts it back on the dresser, and lays looking at the ceiling. Mr. Lee worries him. He can't put his finger on why, but the situation bothers him.

Twenty-five minutes later he pulls himself out of bed. With a smile on his face, he gets Catwoman's phone number, kisses her goodbye, then gets dressed and goes downstairs. As he suspected, Mr. Lee has sent a thug to meet him, a huge white man in a white suit. Horribly displeased with the direction things are going, Robert follows the man to the parking garage, but convinces the thug not to bother frisking him. He then gets into the car's back seat, and they head off.

On the drive to the restaurant, Robert pulls out his phone. He deletes Catwoman's number.


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween
8:03 pm_

The restaurant is fabulously decorated for Halloween, resembling a sunken pirate ship, and someone even went so far as to paint a fake 'mold line' along the wall, obviously inspired by real flood damage all around the city. Waitresses shake their way through the crowd in pirate costumes, and the bartender looks positively like Orlando Bloom.

Mr. Lee's bodyguard escorts Robert to a table where sits Captain Barbossa. The old man stands and inclines his head politely to Robert. Robert extends his hand, and they shake.

"Mr. Lee?" Robert chuckles. "Already in costume, I see."

"I'm afraid I'll have to hurry back to my brother-in-law's party after our meeting. I'm glad you reconsidered coming to speak with me."

Robert nods, hiding his displeasure. "You said you had questions."

For a moment, the two men consider each other, Robert young and sly, Mr. Lee old and cunning, neither certain whether the other is honest, or just a talented liar.

Robert orders a drink from a pirate wench swinging by, as well as one for Belladonna's father. They exchange small talk for a bit, politely acknowledging the oddness and danger of the situation Robert, Belladonna, and company found themselves in. The drinks arrive, and neither actually drinks anything. As the conversation develops, Mr. Lee frames their discussion as him wanting to protect his daughter and determine just how much he owes to the people who helped keep her safe, while Robert subtly and discreetly tries to find out how much Mr. Lee knows about magic, and just what the hell is up with this man, the father of a woman who carried copious amounts of poison in her purse.

To an outside observer, their expressions and casual attitude would look the height of polite business, but Robert knows he doesn't trust Mr. Lee, and suspects Mr. Lee doesn't trust him, and guesses that Mr. Lee knows that he knows he doesn't trust him.

At one point, Mr. Lee scratches his ear, a completely innocuous movement, but a minute later his bodyguard arrives with a phone, saying it's urgent business. Robert says he's fine to wait, and Mr. Lee apologizes as he heads outside to talk on the phone. For a minute, Robert sits, replaying the conversation in his head, looking for clues. It seemed like the man was most interested whenever Robert commented about Terry, which amuses Robert, because he hasn't been at all honest about his opinion of the young mage. Robert has been acting as if he does not know about magic at all, that he did not see anything suspicious in the past few days that could not be explained by perfectly normal, everyday terrorism and kidnapping.

As Robert is trying to figure out why Mr. Lee would be so interested in Terry, something in his mind fits into place. The people around him, he realizes, have been watching him, all through the conversation. There are at least four tables, each with two men engaged in laughter-punctuated drinking, spaced around his own table so that, no matter how crowded the restaurant got, one of them would have a clear view.

And, he now realizes, all eight of the men have concealed handguns. This doesn't scare him, though. If anything, it crystalizes his motivation. He's going to up his game.

Mr. Lee comes back a minute later, and as he sits down, Robert speaks up.

"Pretty burly bodyguard you got there, Adrian. He looks almost like Rocky, y'know."

"It's pronounced Adrien," Mr. Lee says, smiling at the joke. "Sorry about having to step away. My partner Maurice was just informing me of some trouble in one of our French investments. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me, but-"

"Belladonna," Robert interrupts, "she has a fiance, right?"

"Remy, yes," Mr. Lee says. "Maurice's son. He's actually in France right now."

Robert smirks. "_Uncle_ Maurice. Belladonna's marrying her own cousin? That might explain a thing or two."

His tone is harsh, dramatic enough of a change from the previous joviality that Mr. Lee looks flustered.

"Pardon me, Mr. Black, but what are you implying?"

"Oh, nothing. Just, what kind of person carries vials of _poison_," he laughs, "and, like, six concealed handguns? Your daughter's a little strange in the head."

Mr. Lee's expression falls dark. "I like to keep my girl safe."

"Oh, safe, sure." Robert smiles. "Most fathers, they'd get their daughter some martial arts training, or buy her a stun gun, like this."

He pulls out the stun gun from his sweater, reveling in the brief start of movement from the four tables around him as the bodyguards almost attack him.

"Yeah," he continues, "by the way, your _boy_ over there, Rocky, you might want to get a replacement. He didn't frisk me."

Robert tucks away his weapon, and keeps talking before Mr. Lee can regain his composure.

"Your people sure own a lot of nice cars. Black cars, white suits, sort of thuggish attitudes, concealed hand guns. I'm asking myself, what kind of business would a man run, where his daughter carries, like, curare and stilettos, and he doesn't feel safe at a bar unless he has a half-dozen hired guns sitting around him."

Mr. Lee leans back in his chair. "What are you trying to insinuate?"

"Me?" Robert smiles. "No insinuation. I've just got questions. Y'know, because I've been attacked a few times these past few days, and I don't know what people want with me, or Belladonna, or," he pauses briefly, "Terry. I'm just a normal guy, and I'm trying to understand what's going on around me. What kind of business do you have? What do you really do, Mr. Lee, because I can't seem to figure out why I'm getting this . . . _vibe_ from you."

"I own a shipping company," Mr. Lee says. To Robert's delight, the man looks confused, not sure how to respond to Robert.

"Yes, but what do you ship? What . . . now, I'm not trying to look at your books, or get in your business, but I'm a little more on edge than usual here, and I can't figure you out. 

"Like that guy out there you have," Robert continues, "what does he do for your 'shipping' company? Y'know, if you had to give him a job title, what would it be?"

Something seems to snap in his Mr. Lee's gaze, and his composure breaks. Robert has succeeded in making the man so fed up with him that now he's too angry to lie.

"'Assassin,'" Mr. Lee growls.

"As-what?"

For a moment, Robert blanches, and Mr. Lee's expression is one of satisfaction, of pride that he has finally frightened Robert into shutting up. Then Robert clears his throat, and Mr. Lee seems to realize just what he said.

"Yeaaaah," Robert sighs. He stretches his neck, pretending to relax. "I'm guessing, ah, I'm not invited to the party, then?"

"I'm guessing you're not," Mr. Lee replies.

Adrien Lee looks like he's about to stand, but Robert lashes out with a hand. The quick movement causes Mr. Lee to sit back defensively, but Robert is not attacking. He simply has grabbed his glass. 

In one quick motion, Robert downs his drink, stands up, and plants the glass upside down on the table. He strides out of the restaurant, leaving Mr. Lee behind as the loser. But though Robert leaves with his head confidently and defiantly high, he's worried as hell. In his eagerness to one-up Mr. Lee and find out his secret, Robert had not, until this moment, realized what the consequences might be of him finding out that secret. He's quite confident Mr. Lee is going to try to kill him.

Well, Robert thinks, not if he gets there first.

He leaves the bar, tilting his head up with a smile to Rocky, and then he hails a cab. When he gets inside, he hands the driver a $50 bill and asks, "Do you know where the Boudreaux mansion is?"


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween
9:25 pm_

The black BMW skids sideways out of the gate, coming to a stop scant feet away from the armored truck. Nathan, bedecked in all the finery of a Transylvanian count, nods politely to the Canadian terrorist.

"Holy sh*t," Scarpedin says from the passenger seat. "Nice driving."

The terrorist, who looks like the lead singer of Metallica, James Hetfield, swings open the back door of the armored car and jumps inside, shouting for the driver to go. The armored car starts to chug away sluggishly, its back door hanging open. They can see Hetfield pulling out a black detonator.

"You still got that shotgun?" Scarpedin asks.

"Here," Nathan says, proferring the gun, which he had made a point to take out of his trunk before the terrorists arrived. As Scarpedin rolls down his window, Nathan drives after the armored car, getting close enough to give Scarpedin a shot. Hopefully they'll be able to handle the Hetfield look-alike before he pulls out his mini-gun.

Scarpedin leans out the side window and fires from twenty feet away, hitting Hetfield in his chest. But Hetfield, safely protected by heavy body armor, simply flips them the middle finger, then uses the same finger to mash down on the detonator.

Nothing happens. Nathan breathes a sigh of relief that the jammer is working. 

The armored car swerves slightly and Nathan has to back away to keep from getting rammed. Hetfield nearly falls out the back of the truck, but once he regains his balance he hammers at the detonator a few more times, until Scarpedin fires another shotgun blast at him. This shot goes wide, but Hetfield must not want to take any chances. He grabs the back door of the truck and pulls it shut.

Scarpedin spitefully fires a shot at the truck's tires, but misses.

"This gun sucks," Scarpedin says. "Open the sun roof. I need a better shot."

In the back seat, John asks, "Was he trying to blow up the mansion?"

"Yes," Nathan sighs. "I don't just make these things up, you know."

The armored truck keeps swerving from side to side, keeping Nathan from getting next to it for a shot at the driver. From the sun roof, Scarpedin tries again with the shotgun, and John leans out the rear window with a pistol, both of them popping shots at the tires, to no appreciable effect.

The truck is nearing the interstate. Remembering his vision, Nathan guesses it's foolish to try to direct the terrorists in any one direction and risk getting his car crushed. However, same as in the vision, the truck veers northward, cutting toward the freeway at seventy miles an hour. Nathan's BMW cruises after it, following in the wake the huge vehicle cuts in traffic. There are too many cars on the interstate for Nathan to feel comfortable, and he still has no idea how to stop the armored truck, but the radio jammer has a short range, so he cannot dare fall behind.

Another few shotgun blasts sound out from overhead as Scarpedin fires round after round, most of the shots missing the truck entirely and instead clipping other cars. Nathan hears Scarpedin cursing, and glances up briefly to see him trying to pass the shotgun back down through the sun roof. In his plate armor, though, he takes up all the space, so he has to struggle to shimmy back down into the car.

"This gun sucks!" he says once he's finally inside. "Gimme another one."

"You used all my ammo," Nathan yells, "and you accomplished nothing? I thought Americans were supposed to be good with guns!"

John grumbles audibly in the back seat, then leans out the side window and puts three bullets into one of the left rear tires. The tire sags a little, but the truck still has several to spare.

Scarpedin, seeming suddenly bored with the gun fight, starts to fiddle with the radio, muttering that they need driving music. All he gets is static, the station's being blocked by the jammer. He punches the radio in frustration.

"Your car's broken," Scarpedin says.

Distracted by Scarpedin's fit, Nathan doesn't even notice until the last moment that Hetfield has slowly managed to get himself and his mini-gun onto the top of the truck, standing out of a hatch on the roof. In addition to his body armor, the man now wears a clear-fronted bullet-proof helmet, and he waves and smiles, then takes aim with his mini-gun.

Nathan swerves as dozens of bullets tear into the road where his car just was. He has to struggle to avoid crashing into an SUV, and after a moment of frantic driving, he ends up two lanes to the left of the armored car, with a family sedan in the lane between them.

"Where the f*ck-?" Scarpedin says, the rest of his cursing cut off as he scrambles to stand up through the sun roof.

"Scarpedin!" John shouts. "Get inside, dammit!"

Hetfield flashes a smile at them from twenty feet away, then fires, aiming for the body of the BMW. In an instant, Nathan knows that if he brakes, the shots will miss him and instead tear into the family car next to him, so instead Nathan slams his foot on the pedal and swerves toward the concrete median, the automobile equivalent of a distance parry. Hetfield's mini-gun volley misses the engine block and instead cuts into the passenger side doors and right rear tire. The car drops sharply, back and to the right, and Nathan grimaces as he begins driving on what sounds like a horribly mangled rim. He has run-flats, but the rhymic clipping and shower of sparks trailing from behind his car tells him the tire is not just flat, but torn and jagged.

"Scarpedin!" This time Nathan shouts it. "Get down!"

Scarpedin drops back down inside the car and glares at Nathan. "Stop screwing me up! Drive the car straight for a second."

Just then, over the crackle of the radio, the whir of mini-gun bullets, and the bleating of car horns, Scarpedin's cel phone begins to ring from inside his plate armor. He twists awkwardly to try to reach the phone, but he finally resigns himself to not being able to answer it.

"He's bloody insane," Nathan mutters, continuing to swerve as a whirring line of bullets chews up the interstate beside and behind them. "And his ring tone is annoying."

He has no idea how many rounds Hetfield has, but he can see an ammo chain feeding  up from inside the truck's back compartment. Hating himself for doing it, Nathan swings his car on the far side of a large van, getting a bit of cover from the hail of bullets. To his horror, he hears the heavy, chunky clanging of the mini-gun chewing through the van to get to the BMW.

Then suddenly Nathan realizes what it means if Scarpedin is getting a cel phone signal. He glances at the radio jammer in the back seat, and sees it smoking from a bullet hole. Worse, it is spattered with blood, as is the entire back of the car. John is clutching his right arm, which is a mess of torn and bloody flesh.

"I'm okay," John gasps. "But we've gotta fall back." 

For a moment he despairs, until again he hears the sound of the mini-gun, and instinctively he swerves the car, managing to avoid getting hit.

"Get closer," Scarpedin says.

John groans, "We can't handle the damn mini-gun!"

"Says you," Scarpedin says. "I'm gonna get it. Hold the car f*cking _straight_ this time."

Scarpedin once again stands up through the sun roof, and Nathan sees him concentrating, holding the Dalai Lama prayer beads in one hand. They are speeding along at well over 70 miles an hour, barely twenty feet from the armored car, both their vehicles weaving in and out of traffic. The van that briefly provided cover has braked suddenly, and in his rear-view mirror Nathan sees it skid, overturn, and catch fire. The yellow lights of the interstate strobe across them, cars honk in desperate confusion all around, and for a moment, the terrorist loses sight of the BMW.

Nathan knows perfectly well that Scarpedin cannot use magic. Anyone would agree that it would be impossible for him to suddenly manifest spellcasting powers, without being psychic or having a ghost. But then again, impossible is Scarpedin's _life_.

Through the sunroof (and the various bullet holes cut in his roof), Nathan sees Scarpedin reach out a hand toward Hetfield. And then, impossibly, the mini-gun is torn from the terrorist's grasp, flies across the gap between the two cars, and lands in Scarpedin's hands.

"No way," Nathan says, smiling.

He can't help but laugh as he pulls in closer to give Scarpedin a clear shot.


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween
9:28 pm_

As Nathan brings the BMW in closer to give Scarpedin a better shot, he sees Hetfield curse briefly before ducking inside the hatch on the armored truck's roof.

"Shoot for the front," Nathan calls up.

Scarpedin dutifully aims for the rear tires. The mini-gun is huge in his hands, and Nathan suspects the knight really has no idea how to use an uzi, let alone a heavy machine gun. But, Nathan figures, it's a mini-gun. How can Scarpedin miss?

The mini-gun whirs for about two seconds, and bullets fly across the interstate, nowhere near the armored truck. Then the gunfire silences, and only the dim hum of the gun's rotating mechanism remains. Nathan realizes that when Scarpedin magically pulled the mini-gun from the terrorist's hands, the Canadian must have snapped the ammo chain. Already Scarpedin has used all the rounds he's going to get.

"God dammit!" he curses.

Nathan sighs and pulls away from the truck again, afraid of getting sideswiped. Meanwhile, John leans out the side window with a pistol in his uninjured hand, waiting for a shot at one of the terrorists.

Scarpedin tries to put the mini-gun through the sun roof, still not realizing that there is a finite amount of room of which he's taking up a large proportion. Grumbling and cursing, Scarpedin sits back down, pulling the mini-gun in after him.

Nathan stares at the man for a moment, unblinking. "That's the second gun you have managed to use completely ineffectually. Despite my unflappable British demeanor, I am astounded."

"This gun sucks too," Scarpedin grunts, unconcerned, "but we're keeping it. Put it in the back."

John groans, "A little busy now."

Finally Scarpedin looks back and sees John bleeding on the back seat.

"Sh*t," he says as he carefully stows the mini-gun in the back seat beside John. "You're pretty bad off man. Why don't you heal yourself?"

John is still looking for a shot as he replies. "I can't _do_ that."

John pops off a shot as Hetfield reemerges from the top hatch, but the bullet hits only body armor. At the speeds they're going, hitting the man's face, his only exposed area, is nearly impossible.

Hetfield, for his part, has an easier job of it. He holds a large shotgun in his left hand, and is fiddling with something out of sight with his right.

"Now," Scarpedin says, "what did I tell you two boys about 'impossible?' Work that angel groove. And gimme another gun."

"We need to hurry," Nathan says. "If they realize the radio jammer isn't working-"

John fires another shot. This one hits Hetfield in his arm and seems to actually annoy him.

Nathan suddenly feels nervous, like something terrible is about to happen. It's not quite vision-level, but something about how Hetfield is eyeing his car worries him. And then the Canadian terrorist pulls out a grenade, bites off the pin, and tosses it. To Nathan's horror, the grenade sails perfectly in through the back passenger window, landing in John's lap.

They all scream and Nathan cringes, but John manages to grab the grenade and toss it out the window. It explodes a few feet behind the car, and though shrapnel digs into the body of the BMW, miraculously none of them are hurt.

(In-game, this is what happens when three PCs have evasion, and they all make their saves while in a car.)

"Alright!" Nathan says, "I am getting quite fed up with people blowing up my car. Here." 

He pulls out his magnum, the world's most powerful handgun, and offers it to Scarpedin.

"Don't. Waste. The bullets."

"Alright man." Scarpedin rolls his eyes.

He stands up again through the sun roof, just in time to take a shotgun blast to his arm. Scarpedin curses, while John fires off another shot, doing little if any damage.

"If you can use magic," John shouts, "grab _that_ gun too."

"I'm f*ckin' shot, man!" Scarpedin growls and fires the magnum, missing.

Nathan sighs and tries to remain calm. Another shotgun blast clips off the hood of his car, and he sees the armored truck looming near, trying to crush him. The BMW, even with one mangled, sparking tire, is far more maneuverable than the truck, so Nathan hopes to take advantage of the terrorists' exuberance. He lays on the gas and pulls ahead into thicker traffic, and as expected, the armored car accelerates to follow. 

Scarpedin and John are both firing madly at the front tires of the armored car, and Nathan tries to give them as clear a shot as possible for ten seconds, as long as he's comfortable sitting still. Then he swerves and, unsurprisingly, a second hurled grenade flies roughly where his car would have been. The detonation simply cracks the interstate surface. 

A few seconds later, Scarpedin sits back down through the sun roof. "You got more ammo for this?"

John, who at some point switched to his second pistol, fires one last shot, just as the armored truck is swerving in to crush Nathan's BMW against the concrete median. The truck's front tire, worn away by several shots, finally buckles, and the truck goes out of control. Nathan cuts across in front of the truck and watches in his mirrors as it strikes the median instead. Then, as the front of the truck cracks into concrete, the backside skids and twists into the air. The truck lands on its left side and gouges a short swath of interstate as it comes to a stop.

"Turn around!" Scarpedin shouts.

Nathan obliges. Two hundred feet downrange from the wrecked truck, he shifts, turns, and brakes in a bootlegger 180. The BMW stops, not quite on a dime, but maybe on a pound coin.

"Holy sh*t," Scarpedin says again. "Nice driving."

In the bloody back seat, John says, "Bring us closer. We need to finish them off."

In the distance, the back door of the truck falls open, and Hetfield staggers out. A car slows down as it comes to the wreck, and Hetfield waves for help. Just as the driver stops to find out what's happened, Hetfield moves up next to the window and fires a shotgun blast into the driver's face.

"He's gonna get away!" Scarpedin says. "Closer!"

Nathan obliges.


----------



## Steverooo

*;-p*

Looks like Nathan should have left the radio jammer at the mansion...  Of course, there are dangers with that, too, but in this case, it looks like it might have worked better...  Also, I'm surprised that no one thought of the "Junkyard Special" that American soldiers use in Iraq, where some sheets of steel and a rip saw & drill are pressed into service to turn a Hummer into an improvised APC.  You cut some pieces to cover, bolt them on, and Voila!, you are armored (might cut down on the maneuverability and speed, a little, and you get worse gas mileage, but the reduction in insurance premiums and repair funds makes it worthwhile)!    

Oh well, they might not have had time, anyway...  Now if Nathan can just RUN OVER "Hettfield" before HE (Nathan) gets shot, too!  Where are the 40 Gigawatt Plasma Rifles whenya really need one, anyway?!?


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween
9:30 pm_

Hetfield pulls open the door to the car he’s jacking and starts unbuckling the driver. In his heavy green kevlar and body armor, shooting him is nearly pointless, but he has a bag slung over his shoulder that could well hold the detonators.

Nathan supposes he could try to ram him, but the terrorist has already survived several gunshots and an overturned truck; Nathan’s not sure it’d be worth the damage he’d inflict on his BMW. So instead Nathan closes within 30 ft. and makes a hard turn left, exposing his car’s passenger side and skidding to a stop. 

Immediately Scarpedin is out of his seat and out the door, charging Hetfield with sword in hand. John, wounded but not debilitated, exits the back door and scurries toward the overturned truck. Cars are backing up on the interstate, their drivers fearful of getting anywhere near the gunfight about to erupt.

“Hi there!” shouts the terrorist as Scarpedin closes. “I'm an *sshole. I know I'm an *sshole. I've been an *sshole for a very long time. I LIKE being an *sshole, the hours are good and there's no heavy lifting.”

He punctuates this by shooting Scarpedin in the chest with a shotgun. Scarpedin sags for a moment, then surges forward and hacks at the Canadian with his longsword, chopping down once on the man’s shoulder before turning the blade and slashing a low strike at the man’s kidney. The blade slices through kevlar far better than a bullet, and though it glances off plating on the shoulder, the strike to the abdomen goes through and draws blood.

The Canadian steps back, looks down at his bleeding side in annoyed disbelief, and then kneecaps Scarpedin. The knight goes down. Hetfield is about to get into his car and drive off when he notices John standing atop the driver-side door of the armored truck, kicking in the shattered safety glass. Hetfield tries to shoot John, but his shotgun is empty and he has to reload. Meanwhile, John aims his silencer inside the wrecked truck’s cabin and finishes off the driver (a Canadian terrorist who looked a lot like Noah Wylie).

Nathan, still sitting in his car, has been busy getting out ammo for his magnum and reloading it, and so as Hetfield is lining up his shotgun at John, Nathan leans across the front seat, aims out the passenger window, puts a round into the man’s waist, where the body armor offers limited protection. Hetfield grimaces and moves to take cover behind the back of the car, then pulls a grenade off his belt and tosses it in a high arc toward Nathan’s BMW. Nathan sees it coming and kicks the car forward a dozen feet, so when the grenade lands and explodes he’s a safe distance away.

Meanwhile, John has leapt off the armored car and is making a line for the fallen Scarpedin, who, although conscious, is too wounded to fight. Hetfield fires at John but John jukes sideways and the shot misses. Nathan returns fire from the front seat of his car and shatters the windshield of the car Hetfield’s hiding behind. For a few moments Nathan and the terrorist exchange gunfire, each of them ducking for cover after shooting. Nathan hopes this is distraction enough for John to get Scarpedin to safety, because knows it won’t take long for Hetfield to realize he can just go and carjack another vehicle.

In the brief moments Nathan’s head is above the level of his door, he sees that John has kneeled beside Scarpedin and is struggling to convince the knight to retreat. Scarpedin looks adamant about not fleeing, though, and finally John throws up his hands in frustration and just grabs Scarpedin. When it happens, Nathan is aiming a shot at Hetfield, not looking at his two allies, but out of the corner of his eye, perhaps even beyond the bounds of normal vision, he sees something beautiful and shining flare with light.

He is too shocked to fire, because suddenly Scarpedin is on his feet, magically healed.

Hetfield turns in surprise as Scarpedin comes at him, but the knight’s sword moves faster than the terrorist’s aim. One downward slash cuts along Hetfield’s triceps and forearm, slashing armor and flesh. Then, before Hetfield can react, Scarpedin steps in even closer, grabs Hetfield’s arm to hold him in place, and brings an upswing across the man’s chest and into his face, knocking off the bulletproof face mask and sending a spray of blood into the air. But in his eagerness, Scarpedin lowered his guard, and he takes one final shotgun round to his shoulder as Hetfield slumps to the ground.

“Sh*t!” Scarpedin curses. He turns away and staggers toward John. “The *sshole shot me. Gimme some more of that magic, John. C’mon John.”

Scarpedin assumes Hetfield is down, and so he doesn’t see it, but Nathan senses it as Hetfield, covered in his own blood, pushes himself to his knees and reaches for a grenade. He’s about to pull the pin when the laser sight of Nathan’s magnum finds the man’s throat. Nathan fires, and Hetfield goes down with a final gurgle.

“Grab the bag!” Nathan shouts. “We’ve got to go.”

Already in the distance he can hear police sirens. He imagines he _could_ explain this situation, but he’d quite prefer not to. Some cars have started driving along the shoulder to get around them. As Nathan waits for John and Scarpedin to get back to the car, it strikes him that this is the second time he has backed up traffic like this, the second time it has been a bomb, and the second time he has seen American drivers rush around a roadblock by driving on the grass. It would amuse him if he weren’t so worried for his car.

John helps Scarpedin into the car, both of them bloodied and injured, but less than they ought to be. Nathan catches John’s eye and smiles.

“What?” John glares.

“I’m saying nothing,” Nathan says.

His car is riddled with bullet holes and pieces of shrapnel, the seats are going to stain with blood, there’s a broken radio jammer in the back seat, along with a bag holding a detonator, Hetfield’s shotgun, and a mini-gun. Leaving a trail of sparks from his right rear wheel, Nathan cuts off the freeway and onto a feeder road, and hopes he can avoid being found by the police.

Scarpedin, with the luxury of time to loosen his armor and pull out his cel phone, checks his messages.

“Who called you?” Nathan asks casually.

Scarpedin shrugs. “An unknown number, and that crazy elf girl. She sent. . . .”

Scarpedin trails off. Nathan glances over and sees Scarpedin staring with ever-widening eyes at his cel phone.

“Pictures?” Nathan asks. 

He grabs the cel phone from Scarpedin’s hand before the man can object, and starts scrolling through a series of pictures taking from a picture phone. His smile widens as he sees each one. First is of what appears to be a young, dark-skinned woman with pointed ears and white hair, dressed in Renaissance Festival attire, smirking as she snaps a picture of herself. Then, photo by photo, she first removes her fake ears, takes out her contacts, washes the paint from her face, and takes off her costume to reveal a t-shirt beneath. In the last photo she winks.

“So,” Nathan says, “pictures of her ‘undressing,’ then?”

He hands the phone back to a grumbling Scarpedin.

“Call Belladonna,” Nathan says. “We won’t be headed back to the party any time soon, but I want to make sure things are alright in our absence.”

“No more visions?” John asks.

“No, no. I’m quite certain we’re safe for the rest of the night.”

In the back streets of lower-class New Orleans, they scrape and squeal their way through the night, looking for a 24-hour body shop that won’t ask too many questions. Only several minutes later does Nathan realize that they forgot to make sure Hetfield was really dead. 


_To be continued . . ._


----------



## RangerWickett

Steverooo said:
			
		

> Looks like Nathan should have left the radio jammer at the mansion...  Of course, there are dangers with that, too, but in this case, it looks like it might have worked better...  Also, I'm surprised that no one thought of the "Junkyard Special" that American soldiers use in Iraq, where some sheets of steel and a rip saw & drill are pressed into service to turn a Hummer into an improvised APC.  You cut some pieces to cover, bolt them on, and Voila!, you are armored (might cut down on the maneuverability and speed, a little, and you get worse gas mileage, but the reduction in insurance premiums and repair funds makes it worthwhile)!
> 
> Oh well, they might not have had time, anyway...  Now if Nathan can just RUN OVER "Hettfield" before HE (Nathan) gets shot, too!  Where are the 40 Gigawatt Plasma Rifles whenya really need one, anyway?!?




I have yet to introduce plasma rifles to this game, but I think that might be about the only thing we _don't_ have yet. The past few months of gameplay have witnessed such nifty things as black helicopters, Nazi biomancers, the Egyptian airforce, stinger missiles, and Excalibur. Seeing as the group suspects they're going to have to fight Godzilla sooner or later, it might not be a bad idea for them to look into the plasma cannon thing.

As for armored plating, Nathan's player did not want to muck up his pretty BMW. He asked about the possibility of interior armor reinforcement, but would not have had the time to get that installed.

By the way, the aforementioned player is one of the readers of this story-hour, and he's been pointing out 'mistakes' on my part. Since this session took place _months_ ago, I prefer to think of them as dramatic license, rather than my failing memory, but in the actual game a few things happened differently.

The biggest dispute was that, at the end of the car chase session, Nathan insisted on ditching the mini-gun, to avoid any incriminating evidence if the police found them. However, for the session after the car chase, Nathan's player wasn't there, and as you'll see, the mini-gun played a joyously critical role because we had forgotten they were supposed to have left it. Nathan's player was a little pissed that we ignored what his character had done, but I promised to be more vigilant in the future to keep temporal consistency.

The next one or two updates will be detailed like these recent ones have been, because there are some key moments I want to write, but after that I'm going to focus on synopses for a while. Also, I'm gonna be gone for Christmas and New Years with minimal internet access, but I'm going to make sure to end in a good place before heading off.

As always, thanks for reading.


----------



## Corbert

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> As always, thanks for reading.




No, thank you for posting  .  Great story, very entertaining.


----------



## nalesean

I''m Nathan's player, I just wanted to point out to Wickett that I mentioned to him 
that I understood it to be "creative license."

I've been really enjoying the storyhour so far, and he has definitiely hit all of the
high points.  I've no real complaints.

As for the minigun incident, I was rather put out, but it was months ago.
I let it go awhile back.  

Keep up the good work RangerWickett

-nalesean


----------



## Funeris

Bravo on the updates RangerWickett.  

I dunno what it is about modern games...they just seem to "move" faster than the fantasy write-ups here on the boards.  Despite the reasoning, its enjoyable to pop between the two genres.

I wish I had played in that chase...it sounded awesome.  High tension, high action and Scarpedin constantly missing.  Absolutely magnificent.

Also, I just wanted to let you know I finally broke down today...and purchased all three of the Elements of Magic books you wrote up.  Its a great alternate magic system I'll use to replace the standard d20.  Thanks, Ryan.

Fune


----------



## Steverooo

*Welcome!*



			
				nalesean said:
			
		

> I''m Nathan's player, I just wanted to point out to Wickett that I mentioned to him
> that I understood it to be "creative license."
> 
> I've been really enjoying the storyhour so far, and he has definitiely hit all of the
> high points.  I've no real complaints.
> 
> As for the minigun incident, I was rather put out, but it was months ago.
> I let it go awhile back.
> 
> Keep up the good work RangerWickett
> 
> -nalesean




Hey!  Welcome to ENWorld!  I've been enjoying your PC's part in the story!  Looks like Nathan is the smartest one in the bunch, so far... or at least the planner!  I still think the armor would have messed up the BMW far less than the Minigun, though, but hey... what do I know!  

Keep up the good work!


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween
9:20 pm_

The taxi stops outside the gate of the Boudreaux mansion, and the driver says something in French to Robert as he heads off. It's a fairly long walk up the driveway to the mansion door. When he gets there he spots a strange, white-haired black man in a leather jacket (who looks something like Reginald VelJohnson, the cop who helped out Bruce Willis in Die Hard). The man is involved in some sort of argument with the guards of the party, something involving a motorcycle. Robert puts on a face of appropriate amused disdain for such a plebian dilemma, and with a simple laugh and smile to one of the guards, he manages to walk into the party without even being questioned.

Robert spends some time at the coat check flirting with the woman in charge and trying to gather some information about the party, then catches a glimpse of costumed John, Scarpedin, and Nathan running out the front door toward Nathan’s car. Wondering what’s up, Robert heads onto the main dance floor and spots Mr. Lee and Belladonna standing on a double staircase at the far end of the room. Beyond them is a set of double doors, surrounded by four alert guards in white suits, as well as a few other men who look like they feel they’re important.

Robert heads in the direction, trying to keep his face hidden. Eventually Mr. Lee heads inside the room at the top of the stairs, and Belladonna comes down, apparently to dance more, though her expression is troubled. Robert is about to go up to her and call out when 
gun shots snap from outside the tall windows

Then a moment later there is a small explosion, and people begin to shout and scream. Almost immediately, Robert spots through the window Nathan and company piling into the BMW.

“Belladonna!” Robert calls out. “What the hell’s going on?”

She spins at her name, then does a double-take. Before she can say anything, guards around the room start shouting orders, telling people to evacuate the dance hall with its dangerous windows, and to head deeper into the mansion where it’s safer. As Robert expected, though, men wave for Belladonna to come up the stairs to the heavily-guarded room. Robert follows.

“I didn’t invite you,” Belladonna whispers as they ascend the stairs.

“Your father was nicer than you,” Robert says, still keeping on his mask of fear. “I should’ve listened to you.”

He sees that Mr. Lee and most of his guards have already adjourned into the room at the top of the stairs, and the guards nod for the two of them to head in. Just before they go through the doors, Belladonna sighs.

“Well, we should be alright as long as Terry’s not here.”

They step inside the room, some sort of board room crossed with a den. A long table sits in front of a fireplace, and massive leather-cushioned chairs surround it. The room is full of white guards in white suits, so Mr. Lee’s dark pirate costume stands out sharply. A few other elderly gentlemen in lavish Halloween costumes cower in the chairs, but the focus of Mr. Lee’s attention is on a pair of men standing near him, their backs facing Robert as they hold some sort of quiet discussion.

Then they turn. The first man is an old, distinguished black man who is holding a chicken skull in one hand. The other, Robert realizes, is Terry.

“Oh, hey guys,” Terry says hesitantly. “Sorry I split, Robert.”

Mr. Lee finally notices Robert. He looks from his daughter to Terry and back to Belladonna. “What’s going on here? This man should not have been let into the room.”

“Dada,” Belladonna says, “what’s going on? Where’s Uncle?”

“We have it under control,” Mr. Lee says, his tone impatient. “Maurice and I just spoke a moment ago. His men had spotted a suspicious character, and he went to check it out. Maurice, at least, is safe. But why is _Mr. Black_ here?”

“‘Assassin,’” Robert says, “was probably a little boastful, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Lee? Looks like somebody got the drop on _you_. I mean,” he laughs, “_I_ was able to get in here. Your inbred Uncle has as good taste in security guards as you do in body guards.”

“Watch your tongue,” Mr. Lee snaps. “You’re in my brother-in-law’s house. Now Donna-Belle, step away from him.”

“Dada,” Belladonna says, moving to her father, “Do you think we should leave?”

“I do,” Terry says. He smiles with charming embarrassment. “Or, well, I want to at least. But your father brought me here, and I trust him. After he heard your story, Belladonna, he tracked me down and promised he’d look out for me tonight.”

Terry’s tone is not completely convincing, and the way he keeps shifting his eyes in Robert’s direction tells him something bad is up, more than he had expected.

“You are welcome to stay,” Mr. Lee says. “But Mr. Black. . . .”

A pair of guards start to reach for his arms.

“Whoa,” Robert says, raising his hands to calm them down.

Four guards point guns at him. Robert freezes.

Belladonna gasps. Terry backs away slightly, but the strange elderly black man grabs onto his wrist to hold him in place.

“Okay,” Robert says. 

He gulps. “‘Whoa’ again. Can we calm down here? Is does us no good to point guns at each other, does it?”

Mr. Lee scowls. “You have been hostile to me, offensive to my daughter, and capriciously uncaring for Mr. Abrams’ safety.”

It takes Robert a moment to realize he’s talking about Terry. He smiles casually to Terry, but Terry looks nervous.

“Look,” Robert says, “Terry, are you sure you feel comfortable here? We should go link up with that Balthazaar guy.”

Terry gulps. Robert can tell Mr. Lee has had a chance to talk to Terry, to deceive him. Terry looks worried and confused, which is how Robert usually tries to make his enemies feel. He realizes, though, that he doesn’t know how to actually _fix_ the confusion. He’s never had to before, but he can’t help but feeling leaving the only man able to go to Gaia in the hands of Adrien Lee would be a mistake.

Part of him, though, doesn’t care. That part of him realizes this whole situation is risking his ability to keep his record clean, and that the smart thing to do is leave.

Belladonna steps into the middle of the group, shaking her head at the tense expressions on the men’s faces. “Now boys.”

Guns lower, but the tension is still high.

Belladonna continues. “Terry, you know you’re safer here. Robert, I’ll be polite to you, since you did help protect me a bit. My father told me about your conversation, so I’ll just say, you sound like you got a bit of the wrong idea.”

Robert has to bite his tongue. He can’t help but feel that Belladonna really doesn’t know what her father is up to, but he can’t risk saying anything here. He realizes a bit too late that he’s not good at keeping quiet, and he can already feel his control of the situation fading.

Terry says, “Sorry Robert. I mean, thanks for watching out for me earlier, but, well, you don’t have bodyguards. I think I’ll stay here. You can stay too, though, right? That’s half the reason we came to New Orleans, right? To get others to protect us from the crazy sh*t going on?” He grins.

Belladonna quietly ‘hmphs.’ “Actually, Terry, I think it’d be best if Robert were to leave.”

“No.” The interruption comes from the elderly black man standing next to Adrien Lee, the man who looks like Nelson Mandela. His voice is thick with an almost African Louisianan accent. “He has a role to play here. He is touch by voodoo.”

Mr. Lee glances at his personal voodoo bodyguard and nods cooly. “Yes, Mr. Black _should_ stay. We wouldn’t want to deny the man . . . _protection_, at a time like this.”

A confusing mess of looks are exchanged around the room, from Mr. Lee to and among his bodyguards. In the back of his mind, Robert hear’s the deep, disembodied voice of a woman with a cajun accent whisper, “Run, child. You in _grave_ danger.”

Suddenly the room feels like a mass of white pressing in around him. Robert can sense the tension, the energy of the guards, all poised to take him down if he makes a move. Across the room, separated by too many foes, Robert sees understanding dawn on Terry’s face. They are not meant to get out of this room alive. A hum seems to fill Robert’s ears, and he realizes he is holding his breath.

“Well,” he nearly shouts. He is smiling and completely relaxed, in a dramatic shift of moods. “It’s very generous of you, Mr. Lee, but I’m afraid I have to follow the, ah, ‘lady’s’ wishes. Belladonna, Terry, I think it’s time we part ways here. I probably won’t ever see you two again. And Mr. Lee, . . . well, _y’know_.”

Robert sees in Terry’s eyes betrayal. Robert doesn’t even flinch. He beams and turns confidently for the exit. He’s doing everything he can to project the complete certainty that he’s supposed to leave now, and though the guards look like they don’t completely buy it, he can tell they are confused, and even Mr. Lee looks uncertain how to handle it. 

It only takes him a few seconds to pull open the double doors and step outside.

Robert hates turning his back on an enemy, especially twice in one night, but he knows when to run. Just before the door slams shut behind him, he hears Adrien Lee speak.

“Well, now that _he’s_ gone,” Mr. Lee says, “Belladonna, I have a question to ask you.”

Robert descends the stairs to the dance floor. When he’s on the last step, a gunshot rings out behind him, muffled by the double doors of the meeting room. Robert hesitates for a moment, looking back up. The guards blocking the door are impassive. The building is eerily quiet, even though he can see chaos outside as guards scramble to lock down the mansion before the police arrive.

Robert looks away from the doors and shrugs. He justifies it to himself as he heads out of the mansion, convincing himself he doesn’t care what the gunshot meant, or who it was for.

Once he has managed to sneak off the mansion grounds, Robert pulls out his cel phone and calls Scarpedin. He gets the man’s voicemail, and waits for the beep.

“Scarpedin,” Robert says. “You guys meet me at the margarita place across from the cemetery. We have things to talk about. Terry’s dead.”


_*End of Sixth and Seventh Session*_

I wish you a Merry Christmas, and a Happy Halloween.


----------



## RangerWickett

I thankfully backed up my storyhour on my computer before the crash. Also, I have some new material written, but I don't quite have the stomach to go through and repost a dozen posts right now, since the reformatting will be a pain. I'll do a bit at a time. 

Also, if you look at my sig, you'll see that I'm running two games at Gen Con this August. If you're interested, sign up in the Gen Con scheduling thread.


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween
10:15 pm_

The wreck and waste that is New Orleans is all the more apparent behind the rampant street party of Halloween night. Robert looks out the taxi window at countless celebrations, at gaudy costumes and rowdy kids in dark clothes, at mold and rot and sundered trees lying at the sides of the road.

He thinks of Adrien Lee, the murdering bastard who killed an innocent man. Robert can guess, but he tells himself he can’t understand why Mr. Lee would have murdered Terry.

As he looks out the window, darkened streets sliding past slowly in the night, street lights catch his face and cast his reflection on the inside of the window. But Robert is too busy looking outward at the waste and wreckage. He cannot see himself.


_I am just a lonesome traveler, 
Through this big wide world of sin; 
Want to join that grand procession, 
When the saints go marchin’ in. 
Oh when the saints go marchin’ in, 
Oh when the saints go marchin’ in, 
Lord I want to be in that number 
When the saints go marchin’ in._
– “When the Saints Go Marching In,” traditional spiritual​

Robert pays the taxi driver and watches him drive off, then turns to the tiny drive-through daiquiri stand outside the St. Louis Cemetery. John and Scarpedin sit at a table, both wearing heavy trenchcoats. Under the coat, Scarpedin is in a suit of plate armor, and John is an angel. Robert laughs for the first time in nearly an hour.

“Where’s Nathan?” he asks.

John exhales cigarette smoke as he answers. “His car was damaged. He didn’t want to draw attention, so he’s taking the night off to do some body work on it.”

Robert frowns and sits down. “He’s going to find a garage open at this time of night, that’ll just let him repair his car?”

John shrugs. “He’s psychic.”

Scarpedin’s tone is dark. “What happened to Terry?”

Robert says, “Mr. Lee – Belladonna’s father – shot him. He’s dead.”

“Sh*t, you serious?” Scarpedin shakes his head. “How the hell’d that happen?”

“Wait,” John says. “Somebody shot Terry in front of you, then let you leave?”

“No,” Robert says, amused fright in his voice. “I knew they were going to do something bad, so I got out of there in a hurry. I just heard the gunshot as I was leaving. Look, if you’d been there, you’d know. Mr. Lee had a whole bunch of his cronies gathered around, plus his daughter, some African guy who – and I swear you’re getting to me, Scarpedin – but he looked like Nelson Mandlea. They were all hiding in some sort of fortified room right after you guys ran off and started having a gun fight.”

“And car chase,” Scarpedin says. “Oh, and me and John? We can do magic now.”

“Well ain’t that good for you.” Robert rolls his eyes. “Look, for the past three days, this whole thing with magic, and vampires, and people trying to kill Terry – and me by proxy – I’ve had it. I’m not really a,” he chuckles, “a _religious_ person, but after all this, I’m not just going to step away. I need your help.”

John stops mid-drag, blinking. “You’re going to kill Mr. Lee?”

Robert flashes an indecipherable smile. He might be mocking John for being silly, or boasting. It’s impossible to tell.

“I’m in,” Scarpedin says. “F*cker can’t get away with just cappin’ Terry like that. C’mon John.”

“No,” John says. “I’m out. You don’t even know Terry’s dead. Don’t do anything crazy.”

Scarpedin growls. “What did I say about crazy, John? Oh yeah, Robot: here.”

Scarpedin pulls up a coat that is covering a large lumpy object propped up next to him. Beneath the coat is a mini-gun. Robert is about to freak out, but he realizes he doesn’t have the energy to fake it. Instead he ignores Scarpedin.

“John,” Robert says, “just call Belladonna. She was with Terry. If she can let you talk to Terry, then fine. I’m crazy, Terry’s alive, and we _only_ have to worry about terrorists trying to kill us, and weird man-witches who turn into ravens trying to kidnap us. But if she can’t. . . .”

He stares into John’s eyes for a long moment. Robert can tell John believes him, but he appreciates that John still wants proof. John asks for Scarpedin’s phone and starts to dial.

“Don’t tell her where we are,” Robert says casually.

After a few rings, Belladonna answers. Robert can make out her voice over the speaker.

“Scarpedin?”

“No, it’s John. Look, is Terry there?”

Belladonna hesitates, then says, “My father took him away. I didn’t know he was at the party, but my father went to get him and keep him safe.”

“Can I talk to him?” John asks. “Look, it’s very important that I talk to Terry now.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Belladonna says, “but John, if you don’t remember, my uncle’s house was just attacked. We’re in a bit of a state here. I don’t even know if Terry’s anywhere around right now. He left with my dad.”

“Then give me your father’s number.”

“I’m sorry John, but I gonna have to go now.”

“Belladonna, wait.” John draws in a breath. There’s silence on the other end of the line, like Belladonna is waiting. “Belladonna, Robert says your father killed Terry. Tell me that’s not-”

Before he finishes the sentence, Belladonna hangs up.

Robert simply stares at John, confidently waiting for him to make a decision.

John angrily tosses the phone back to Scarpedin. “I’m still out. That proves nothing. You two go get yourselves arrested or killed. I’m going to go back to the Bureau, and tomorrow I’m going to Savannah to help them with their problem there.”

Robert smiles. “You go do that. I’m sure you’ll accomplish a lot once you get over to Gaia. Oh. Wait. Terry’s _dead_. How’d I forget? That’s right, I didn’t forget, because I was thirty feet away when I heard him get shot.”

“You don’t do that,” Scarpedin says. “Didn’t even let him roll initiative. That’s not right.”

John and Robert both glance at Scarpedin in confusion, then look back at each other.

John says, “You still don’t know he’s dead. I’m going back to the Bureau. When you two finally calm down, meet me there, and we can let them look into this.”

John puts out his cigarette on the table, then tosses the butt away as he leaves.

“Just you and me?” Robert asks Scarpedin.

Scarpedin grins viciously, patting the bundle next to him. “And Mister One-Thousand-Rounds-a-Minute vulcan cannon here.”

Robert nods, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Give me a minute to make a plan. Alright. First, we need transportation. We can’t be taking taxis all around the city with a mini-gun.”

“It’s Halloween,” Scarpedin says.

Robert grimaces, half nodding. “Still, I don’t want to attract too much attention. And it doesn’t fit your costume.”

Scarpedin shrugs. “Nathan’s out. I think he was pretty pissed that we got his car all shot up.”

“You’re going to have to tell me about that some time,” Robert says. “Anyway, he’s too straight-laced to go along with this.”

Robert sits pondering for a moment.

“Dammit,” Scarpedin says. “Whitey should be here by now. He was bringing my motorcycle.”

“I think I saw him getting arrested at the mansion,” Robert says. “He must’ve driven up just after you guys left. They probably impounded your bike.”

“God dammit. Okay, so first thing, we get my bike.”

Robert shakes his head. “No. John had a good point. I mean, I’m pretty damned sure they shot Terry, but just because I don’t expect to live through the night doesn’t mean we should get sloppy. We need to find out for sure, both if they killed him, and who killed him, so we know who we need to kill. Which means we have to go back to that mansion.”

“Screw that,” Scarpedin says. “C’mon Robot, it’s Halloween.”

Robert frowns, not understanding.

“Let’s get a cab,” Scarpedin says. “We’re going to the French Quarter.”

“You gonna tell me why?” Robert asks.

Scarpedin grins. “We’re gonna to find us a voodoo shaman. We’re gonna talk to Terry.”


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween
10:31 pm_

(This entry will be a little briefer than usual, to help speed things along. This session only involved two players, because after Terry was assassinated, those two players had insisted on having a chance to get their revenge. Nathan and John’s players thought their initial plan -- get ammo for the mini-gun and storm the mansion -- would get them killed, and Belladonna’s player was actually on the hit list, so they bowed out. I think you’ll be surprised where this session ends up going.)

Nearly getting killed brings men together. It was true when Scarpedin fought beside Arthur, Galahad, and that bastard Lancelot fifteen hundred years ago, it was true when he and Whitey took on the Moondog gang in Tuscon back in May, and it’s true tonight. Scarpedin had always taken Robert to be a bit of a p*ssy and a whiner, but any man willing to stick his neck on the line for a fallen friend is a man worth fighting beside.

Also, he can’t quite tell how, but Scarpedin has a sense that Robert has been hiding his inner bad-ass all along.

On the way to the French Quarter, Scarpedin gets a phone call from Whitey. His old biker buddy explains that he was able to run into the woods and shake the cops, but that the bluesuits were paranoid after all the gunfire at the mansion, so he had to ditch the bike. Scarpedin promises to link up with Whitey soon, and he has an idea about getting his bike back.

They brave the giant party in the French Quarter, Scarpedin reluctantly having ditched his armor so he wouldn’t stand out as much. Not that the costume would be unique, but few knights would have shotgun pellet dents, and Scarpedin’s conspicuous enough carrying a heavy metal object bundled under a coat. Robert is careful not to get his pocket picked, because he knows they’re going to need a lot of cash. After the first few voodoo priests they visit, they realize the majority of these people are hacks. A quick call to Raine at the Bureau gets them a lead, and they find the man they’re looking for at the edge of St. Louis Square.

Papa Zuma is dressed in a tattered black trenchcoat that looks like he stole it off a years-rotted corpse. His small section of the square is as close to empty as anywhere in the French Quarter could be on this night, in large part because he actually has dripped chicken entrails in a wide circle around his folding wooden chair, and on a small table next to him he has a lantern, a pack of cards, and a plate with the chicken’s heart, a trio of black feathers sticking out of it like it’s an inkwell.

He charges twenty bucks, and lets them speak with the dead.

They pay Papa Zuma, and he calls forth the spirit of Terry (Scarpedin keeps chanting, “Arise chicken! Arise!”). The priest is surprised, because Terry’s spirit is far more lucid than most of the ghosts he talks to.

“Well,” Scarpedin says, “this one’s fresh.”

Terry speaks through the shaman, verifying that it really is him early on by starting off with cursing, calling Belladonna a betraying little b*tch and then calling Robert and Scarpedin by name. He tells them everything that happened after Robert left the room.



> “Well, now that he’s gone,” Mr. Lee says, “Belladonna, I have a question to ask you.”
> 
> Terry glances at Belladonna, trying to entreat her to help him.
> 
> “What is it dada?”
> 
> Mr. Lee nods to two of his men. They grab Terry’s arms, like two vices in white suits. Terry doesn’t even try to struggle.
> 
> “Is there any reason,” Mr. Lee asks as he draws a pistol from inside his costume, “that you would want me not to kill Mr. Abrams here?”
> 
> Terry’s eyes widen.
> 
> Belladonna ponders, her expression nearly blank.
> 
> “No,” she says, “not really.”
> 
> With a nod and a smile, Mr. Lee fires a bullet into Terry’s forehead.





Even Papa Zuma is shocked at this. The bustle of New Orleans’s Halloween sways past them for a moment, before Robert breaks the silence.

“So, Terry,” he says, “I suppose this is the key question. Do you want us to kill Adrien Lee for you?”

The voodoo shaman hesitates, then slips into his own voice for a moment. “Spirit is nervous. Spirit knows answer, but is ashamed to speak.”

Robert rubs his eyes. “Terry, it’s getting late, man. We went through a lot together these past few days, so I’m willing to get myself killed tonight for your sake, but it’s . . . nearly eleven o’clock. The night is running out.”

“Hey,” Scarpedin says, “it ain’t tomorrow ‘til the sun comes up. Dude just died. Cut him some slack.”

Robert sighs. “Whatever. Anyway, I’m not going to do this if you don’t really want it. So what’s it gonna be?”

The priest straightens again as Terry’s spirit takes over. “No, Robert. I mean, yes, I want him to pay for, well, killing me, but that’s not what I _want_. I don’t want revenge against him. I want revenge on the people behind this, the people who wanted me and Lin dead. Belladonna’s dad shot me, but he was working for someone else.”

Scarpedin says, “But, it’s not _bad_ if we kill this guy, right?”

“Well no,” Terry says, “not really.”

The conversation goes on for a few more minutes. Robert remembers Adrien Lee losing his temper and calling himself an assassin, which suddenly adds much more depth to the whole situation. For Robert, it means that as much as he wants to punish one *sshole, he needs to take his time. He doesn’t want to lose his temper again, not like the other night with Walter.

For Scarpedin, it means something a bit stranger.

“Hey, Papa Zuma,” he asks, “you’re a voodoo priest. It’s Halloween. There’s magic. Can you bring Terry back as a zombie or something?”

At this point, the discussion gets a bit more heated. Robert thinks it’s a silly idea, and Terry really doesn’t want to be a zombie, but he would rather prefer not to pass on just yet, at least not until he’s resolved the issue with Lin being assassinated. He starts to go through a list of different sorts of ways he knows for people to come back from the dead, or linger as undead. Most of them are unpleasant, involving either the person’s soul being destroyed, or requiring the sacrifice of another living person. While Robert and Scarpedin have relatively little qualms about offing a bad guy to get Terry back, Terry warns them that meddling with life and death always turns out badly. _Always._

So the only option is to keep Terry around as a ghost. Ghosts only stay until whatever is keeping them around is resolved, and they tend to be of limited power unless they bond with someone. If he bonded with one of them, he’d be able to still use his plane shift ability, which apparently is highly important – it’s probably why people wanted to kill Terry, they’ll need it if they’re going to help the Bureau, and Robert plans to use it in his revenge plan.

However, neither Robert nor Scarpedin is eager to bond with Terry, to have him hanging around in their heads, possibly for all eternity.

Another option is to bind Terry’s soul to an item of emotional significance, which would probably let him keep the plane shift power if he could convince himself plane shifting was key to finding out who killed Lin. Scarpedin suggests bonding Terry to his motorcycle – it’d be like Knightrider – but Terry says he’d need something a bit more personally significant. And the only item of value to him in New Orleans is a bracelet Lin gave him. It happens to be on his body, which happens to be in the possession of Adrien Lee and company, or else carted off to a morgue some place. Regardless, getting it back won’t be easy.

Then Papa Zuma puts a damper on their plans. First he asks for more money, since things are running long – easily done – and then he tells them that, even as a priest, he is not nearly powerful enough to perform the kind of ritual they’re talking about. The only voodoo shaman ever strong enough is long dead. 

Ominously, the shaman says, “The Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau.”

“Oh, her,” Robert says. “Marie, you still hanging around? That was you earlier, wasn’t it? Warning me to get out of there.”

They hear a voice of a woman, deep and resonant.

“Yes child, that was me.”

The priest crosses himself and closes his eyes in fear.

“Thanks for that,” Robert says, smacking his lips as he ponders. “So, Marie, you did me a favor earlier. I’m kinda curious why.”

“You are important child, as is your dead friend. I see you boys have a long road ahead of you.”

“Hey, excuse me,” Scarpedin interrupts. “Third person here. Care to work me in too, Mama Zuma?”

Robert waves a hand for Scarpedin to calm down. “It’s okay. She’s a ghost, she saved my life. Let’s not sass the woman.

“So, Marie . . . can I call you Marie?”

The disembodied voice says, “Yes child.”

“Okay Marie. Can you bring Terry back from the dead?”

“I heard what you discussed, boys. I could do that, place his spirit in a bracelet. More than that would imperil you all.”

Scarpedin frowns. “So?”

“Because,” Robert says, “I’m starting to reconsider this whole ‘suicide mission’ thing. Okay Marie, Terry, let’s do this thing.”

Terry takes over the shaman’s body for just a moment. “Sure thing. I’m mellow with this. So you guys know where my body is?”

Robert looks around. “Marie?”

“No child,” she says. “But I know one who will. Your friend’s murderer has a daughter, and that daughter’s nana will listen to me. I will go with you, and help you, so that you may complete your journey.”

Scarpedin shrugs. “Cool. She’s a hell of a lot more useful than the Bureau.”

Robert seems unconvinced. “Seriously though, what the hell’s in this for you?”

“This town has secrets, child. I’d like it to stay that way. You do not know what I mean now, but you will, child.”

Not content, but willing to go along with it, Robert starts to plan with Scarpedin. Scarpedin will link up with Whitey and get his bike back, while Robert tries to track down some ammo and weapons, in case they still need to go the ‘suicide mission’ route. Then they’ll go find Belladonna’s nana and hopefully get information from her. Robert is going to be discreetly calling hospitals to ask if any bodies with head wounds have been brought in, but he suspects Mr. Lee wouldn’t want a body being found by the police in his mansion.

Terry wishes them luck, and says he’ll wait for them. They tip the priest, and are about to leave, when Marie speaks.

“Two last warnings, children. First, you may not be the only ones interested in your friend’s soul. And second, I can only help you until the sun rises. After that, the day of spirits will be over, and the day of saints will begin. Act swift, boys.”

Robert says, “Talk to you soon, Marie.”

As they head off to get out of the French Quarter and find a cab, Scarpedin says, “I like that bitch. She’s my kind of crazy.”


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween_

Robert hits the bars and clubs, seedy dives and dock pubs where he hears veterans hang out. It's a bit of a miracle, but he manages to catch wind of a rumor of a retired Army colonel who lives east of the French Quarter. The man is renowned for a collection of military hardware that for most people would be illegal. Best of all, word is that the colonel is willing to sell.

Robert goes to an ATM and withdraws most of his bank account in cash. On his way to catch a cab, he hears screams in the distance, coming from the only dark and abandoned part of the docks, but he doesn't lose focus. He gets a ride, and heads to the local military hardware supermarket.

* * *​
Scarpedin and Whitey link up and manage to find out what impound his bike is in. It's an outdoor one, close to downtown, surrounded by a high chain fence with razor wire, and watched over by a small booth with a single cop and a single camera. The entrance to the impound is one of those wheeled fences on a winch so it slides from side to side, instead of opening in or out.

Whitey had a police scanner, so they know that there's an APB out for a group of people involved in a car chase and shoot out on the freeway. The description of Scarpedin is not very precise, but the last thing they want to do is raise suspicion.

"Follow my lead," Scarpedin says.

Whitey, a bit panicky about walking up to a cop station, takes a moment to get his cool, then puts on his best poker face. He and Scarpedin stride up to the booth. It has bulletproof glass, a speaker, and a sliding box. The speaker clips on as the cop puts down his coffee and donut. The cop looks like Jack Black.

"What'cha here for?"

Scarpedin feigns mild disdain, doing his best impression of an FBI agent.

"Good evening officer . . . ," he peers at the man's name tag, "Jackson. You'll understand if I'm brief Mr. Jackson, but my associate and I are here to take into custody a vehicle that you have in your impound."

The cop frowns and looks away from the mini-TV he's watching. "ID and claim number?"

Scarpedin chuckles. "I'm sorry, I don't think you understand, Jackson. You see, my associate and I are with a particular government organization that doesn't need IDs. You'll comply if you don't want any hassle."

Sighing, the officer finally really looks at the two men in front of his booth: a tall white guy in a black trenchcoat, and a short and fat black guy with white hair in a black biker jacket decorated with the Confederate stars and bars. The cop glances back and forth, a clear expression of amusement on his face.

Scarpedin sighs. "Do I have to spell this out for you, Jackson? I'm agent Jones and this is agent Smith. _Department of Homeland Security_. Understand now, Jackson?"

Whitey's face is implacable, almost intimidating. In truth, Scarpedin knows his buddy has no idea what the hell's going on, but he's always been good at playing along.

Officer Jackson rolls his eyes. "Sorry buddy. I can't let you in without seeing some ID."

Scarpedin tenses for a moment, suppressing his irritation. Then he relaxes his hands out of fists, sighs, and says, "I'm sorry it had to come to this, Officer Jackson. Agent Smith, what do you say? Fifth Freedom?"

Whitey does the bad-ass upward nod, like Ving Rhames in Pulp Fiction. "Yeah man. Fifth f*ckin' Freedom. Waste the nigga."

The cop laughs and taps his knuckles on the inside of the booth's window. "Bulletproof, guys. C'mon! I just need you to show me some. . . ," he looks from side to side, then makes a money-grubbing gesture, "_identification_."

At first Scarpedin interprets the hand gesture as some sort of crude offer for a sexual favor, but then he gets it, and his demeanor completely changes.

"_Ohhhhh_," he says, "sh*t man, if you just wanted a bribe you should've said that."

The cop rolls his eyes, then pushes out the security tray for Scarpedin to put his money in. "Just make sure to put your ID in there too. There's a camera watching."

"Yeah, right, whatever." Scarpedin pulls out fifty bucks and one of his fake IDs, puts them in the tray, and nudges Whitey. "Easy. I told you."

Officer Jackson takes the money, looks at the ID, chuckles, then presses the button to buzz open the gate to the impound.

"Stay here," Scarpedin says to Whitey.

"Sure thing, Scarface."

Scarpedin heads inside, looking for his motorcycle. There are a lot of abandoned flood cars, one rather nice looking Corvette, and one honest-to-god Harrier jumpjet, but he doesn't have the keys for any of those, so he just finds his bike. Thankfully Whitey brought along the sidecar. That'll be a good place to put the mini-gun.

"Yo!" Whitey shouts. "Scarface. The cop's shuttin' the f*ckin' door!"

Scarpedin glances just long enough to see the impound gate starting to slide closed, and the cop in his booth pulling out a phone, no doubt to report someone trying to break into the impound. Scarpedin curses.

He jumps onto his bike, turns it on, and guns it, knocking over a few other bikes parked nearby it, but managing to squeal through the gate before it jitters shut.

"Whitey, get in!"

Scarpedin flips the bird at the cop, holding it for several seconds as Whitey scrambles into the side car of the motorcycle, and then he drives off.

"Told you it was gonna be easy," Scarpedin says. He laughs, glad to be on his bike again.

* * *​
It costs Robert most of his cash, but when Scarpedin comes to pick him up they load up the motorcycle's side car. The mini-gun, a metal case with five thousand rounds of ammo in a chain, a belt of fragmentation grenades, another of tear gas grenades, a new uzi for Scarpedin, a pair of bulletproof vests, and a high-powered night-vision sniper rifle. He also brings along a tarp, which they use to cover the passenger car. 

They say bye to Whitey, tell him to keep his nose clean, and then Robert takes a seat behind Scarpedin as they drive off to the house of Belladonna's nana.


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween_

Having determined that Terry does not want to simply pass on in death, Robert and Scarpedin have the firepower and the ride, and now all they need is a bracelet. Terry's girlfriend Lin -- who was assassinated just days earlier -- gave Terry the bracelet as a gift, and if they are going to keep Terry's ghost around, they'll need something of emotional significance. The problem is, they don't know where Terry's body -- and thus the bracelet -- is. They have a possible lead, however.

With the help of the ghost of Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau and the New Orleans phone book, Scarpedin and Robert are able to find Belladonna's nana. The woman's house is sealed tight against supernatural intrusions this evening, with strange voodoo tracings and the faint smell of burning in the air, but Robert lures the woman out with a story that Belladonna needs her help. As soon as she's outside, Marie starts speaking in thick Creole French, and the nana breaks down and falls to her knees, begging for mercy. Marie then inhabits the woman's body, and tells the group what the nana knows.

When the Lee family has some dirty laundry (in the form of dead bodies) that they want taken care of, there's a particular hospital to which they send their linen. They also get phone numbers for various important people, and most importantly they get a large bundle of voodoo supplies from nana's house. They toss the bundle into the motorcycle's side car, next to the mini-gun and the sniper rifle.

They ride to the hospital, but notice two cop cars parked in front. Scarpedin stays at the bike and Robert goes in, since he at least was not involved in the car chase earlier this night. Inside, Robert acts casually and chats with the receptionist for a few minutes to get a sense of the place, then heads to the morgue. It's midnight or later by now, so few people are around to ask him questions. When Robert gets near the morgue, he sees a secretary with a suspiciously glazed look, but she doesn't stop him, so he starts to head in. Then he hears voices.

Two people are talking inside the morgue, a British man and a woman with what sounds like a Minnesotan accent. They mention that 'the Rastafarians' should be here soon, and they should be able to finish the ritual inside the morgue.

Not wanting to risk getting caught, Robert backs away and asks the woman who she just let into the morgue.

"There's no one in the morgue," she replies. Her voice emotionless, mechanical.

Robert curses. He hates magic.

He starts to head back out to the front when he sees a short male doctor heading to the morgue. Robert stops him and finds out that the doctor was on his way to do a routine check on a newly arrived stiff. Robert winces, realizing he's talking about his dead friend, but manages to convince the doctor that it would be dangerous to go into the morgue right now, because someone else is in there.

The secretary mechanically says, "There's no one in the morgue."

The doctor frowns, and looks suspicious, but Robert is convincing as ever. The doctor offers to get them in through the loading area, and they head outside. With Scarpedin and his bike in tow, they head around the back of the hospital. 

A modest strip of pavement passes by the morgue drop-off, with a high fence separating the hospital from a nearby canal. Lamps provide scattered illumination. Scarpedin parks the motorcycle discreetly in a shadow near the fence, and Robert and Dr. Gomez head for the ramp that leads to the back entrance.

Scarpedin quietly sets up the mini-gun, then hides himself and the bike under the tarp so he can see out. He hopes something happens. He's itching to use this thing.

The back entrance has a heavy metal door with a shattered overhead lamp and a security camera with a strange bulky device attached to it. Robert guesses it must be some sort of signal-interruptor, and he suspects someone will be arriving at this loading dock soon. To be safe, he offers Gomez a pistol, but the doctor refuses. He's willing to let them in, but he's not going to fight.

Dr. Gomez pulls out his key card and is just about to slide it when Robert hears a car approaching. He gestures for Gomez to hide, and the two of them jump off the ramp and hide beside it in a shadow. Robert tucks the pistol into his pants, then pulls out his stun gun and straight razor.

From around the corner of the hospital approaches an old, beat-up 70s Cadillac. Its headlights slice across the loading dock, but the driver must not have noticed Scarpedin, parked and hiding under the tarp. The car creeps slowly, its engine coughing as it turns and stops on the opposite side of the loading ramp. Only four feet of low concrete separate Robert and Dr. Gomez from the car.

The horns honks once, and a moment later the back door opens.

"Good," Robert hears the woman say, "we can get this over with."

"Wait," says the British man. "I sense something."

Robert tenses, feeling a will casting about, looking for him psychically. But then the doors to the Cadillac open, and the British man's concentration is disrupted.

The air is suddenly thick with the musk of marijuana smoke, and a deep voice with a Jamaican accent asks, "Is the boy's body inside?"

It is this moment that Scarpedin decides to open up with the mini-gun.



*Out of Game:*
Scarpedin's player asks, "Okay, how do I use this thing?"

"It's an area attack," I say. "You just have to beat AC 10, and then everyone has to make a Reflex save."

Robert's player, having heard how effective Scarpedin's last attempt with the mini-gun was, says, "Don't miss."

Scarpedin's player rolls, and hits.

"Okay," he says. "Now how much damage does this thing do?"

I begin picking out d12s, placing them next to him, until he has six. "Roll these," I say.



*In Game:*
Scarpedin holds down the trigger for three seconds. The gun's motor spins the barrel as fifty bullets fly through the air toward the Cadillac, and the kickback nearly spins the gun out of his hands. The air is thick with debris and smoke, and he cannot see his targets. For a moment he is afraid that the line of bullets might have wandered and torn Robert to bits, but then he realizes just how cool he is. He lines up the gun to fire again, enjoying the sweet feeling of power and mayhem in his hands.



*Out of Game:*
"Sh*t," Scarpedin's player says. "Only 34 damage."

I laugh. "How many hit points do _you_ have?"

"23. Huh. So, what happens?"

I roll saving throws for four Rastafarians, the British man, and the Canadian woman. Amazingly they all save. 



*In Game:*
Sensing something amiss, the British agent ducks back inside the door to the morgue and takes cover. His Canadian assistant leaps off the loading dock ramp in the opposite direction from Robert and Dr. Gomez, out of the path of the mini-gun. The Rastafarian leader hears the first pounding sounds of bullets chewing into his car, and he jumps over the loading ramp -- in the direction of Robert and Dr. Gomez -- while his three men take a few bullets but manage to take cover in the car.

Robert sees a huge black man with dreadlocks leap to take cover in the same place he and the doctor are, and in an instant Robert stabs out with the stun gun. The Rastafarian is holding a wooden suitcase, and he blocks the strike, then immediately backhands Robert with the suitcase, smashing him in the face.



*Out of Game:*
Robert's player is incredulous. "Wait? They took _no_ damage?"

I say, "Three of them didn't. They have evasion. The other guys jumped to take cover in the car, and only took half damage."

Scarpedin's player gestures for me to continue. "Okay, but the car blows up, right?"

I ponder. I quickly check the rules for car's exploding, then laugh. "In order for a car to blow up, you've got to deal enough damage to it in one hit to reduce its hit points to 0 or below, and deal more than half its hit point total at once. You definitely did more than half it's hit points, but the car had 30 hit points and hardness 5, so it's at . . . 1 hit point."

Robert's player says, "I don't know what kind of Rastafarians _you've_ been hanging out with, but their cars aren't in _pristine_ conditions." He laughs.

I smile.



*In Game:*
And then the Cadillac explodes! Scarpedin cheers, and the explosion distracts the Rastafarian leader long enough for Robert to step in and slit the man's throat with his straight razor.

Unfortunately, Scarpedin's woot revealed his position, and the British man steps out from behind the morgue loading door. Tall, dark, and handsome, he looks like Denzel Washington, dressed in a black intrusion suit like Sam Fisher from Splinter Cell. Again the air fills with the indistinct feel of a mind reaching out, and Scarpedin growls.



*Out of Game:*
I look at Scarpedin's player and grin malevolently. "Make a Will save, okay?"

_To be continued. . ._


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween_

Scarpedin feels an odd idea in his mind. Wouldn’t it be great, he thinks, if he stopped firing the gun and tried to see if he could aim the barrel at his face? He shouldn’t pull the trigger, of course, but right now it’s much more important that he tries to see if he can aim his gun at his own face. Thankfully, he won’t have to worry if anyone comes near him. They’re his friends.

Robert glances over his shoulder, wondering what the hell Scarpedin is doing, but he realizes he doesn’t have time to worry right now. “Marie,” he says, “something’s wrong with Scarpedin. Can you fix that?”

He senses Marie’s acknowledgment, but he’s busy trying to keep track of the dangers around him. The dark-skinned British telepath has just run past him and beyond the wreckage of the Cadillac toward Scarpedin. Inside the burning car, none of the Rastafarians are moving, and their leader is lying on the ground beside Robert and Dr. Gomez, weakly trying to staunch the flow of blood from his jugular. The doctor seems to be stunned by being so close to a dying man he can’t help, and Robert wishes he had time to console the man.

Just then, however, a woman walks around the back side of the smoking wreck that was the Cadillac, stopping ten feet away from Robert. Short and blonde in a sleeveless dress, she nevertheless looks physically imposing, and she holds a silvery sword pointed at them. Robert, who thinks she looks sort of like an older Renee Zellweger (but in my mind she looks like Denise Robinson, there on the left, Dextra on these boards and business manager for the ENnies), shrugs dismissively as he drops his stun gun and pulls out his pistol. He fires a shot clean into her chest.

She barely flinches, and then charges. 

Meanwhile, Scarpedin keeps flinching every time he puts the barrel of the mini-gun to his face. The metal is really hot, and he’s starting to think this wasn’t such a good idea. He sees a guy approaching who looks like Denzel Washington, and is mildly curious why the guy is reaching for the trigger of the mini-gun, but just then he gets fed up with burning himself.

“Hey,” he says, tilting the gun’s barrel awkwardly toward the man’s face, “does this thing feel really hot to you?”

The man pulls away out of reach of the gun, then glares intently at Scarpedin. It’s then that Scarpedin realizes he should close his eyes and stand still. That’s probably the best thing for him to do. For reasons he can’t figure out, though, a primal part of him forces out a mutter – “f*cking, cheating elves” – while the rest of his body obeys the suggestion.

Then he hears, “_Foolish_ man,” as Marie chides him. 

His mind starts to clear as the voodoo priestess imposes herself between his mind and the telepath’s will. Scarpedin realizes just in time that the man is pointing a pistol at the back of his head, and he ducks to the side as the gun goes off next to his ear. For a moment he considers trying to use the mini-gun on the guy, but decides after nearly blowing his own head off it’s time to go back to the old stand-by. He drops the mini-gun with a heavy clatter, then draws his sword.

The British telepath pulls a silenced pistol, but as he tries to fire it, Scarpedin comes in swinging.

Thirty feet away near the morgue loading dock, Robert takes a sword to his arm as he again fires at the blonde woman, again to no effect. He bites down his pain and lashes out with his straight razor. The woman, not expecting the attack, gets slashed across her cheek. She and Robert back away, each clutching their wounds.

“Ow,” Robert says, slipping into his helpless façade. “Hey, don’t hurt me, okay? What’s going on-?”

He was hoping to get her off guard, but she isn’t waiting. She lunges at him, misses, then redoubles her lunge and makes a wide swing, slashing Robert on his thigh. He curses and tries to go for her throat, but she kicks away and parries his attack, managing to slash him across his left forearm as she retreats.

Robert is feeling desperate. He looks down at Dr. Gomez for help, but the man is insanely enough trying to stop the bleeding from the fallen Rastafarian’s neck. He looks away to Scarpedin, just in time to see him slash horizontally at the waist of the telepath. His sword goes straight through the man, but the man simply vanishes, leaving just wisps behind. Scarpedin is preoccupied poking at the ground with his sword.

Robert yells for him to help, then backs away, trying to keep his distance from the swordswoman. She chases after him, and he runs, trying to head to the other side of the wreckage of the Cadillac. He manages to stay ahead of her, and when he’s about thirty feet ahead of her he looks back and sees that she has stopped. Back at the loading dock, the door to the morgue opens inexplicably, then shuts. The blonde woman glances at Robert, then back to the door, and then she makes a run for it.

The brief runaround, though, has given Scarpedin the time he needs to set the mini-gun back up. He pulls down on the trigger, and sprays the woman with the better part of fifty bullets. One moment she’s completely out in the open, and then she’s torn to bits.

From the other side of the ramp of the loading dock, Dr. Gomez stands up briefly, sees what’s left of the woman, then gulps.

Robert trots over, a bit incensed. “What do you think you were doing, helping that guy while I was getting hacked to pieces?”

Dr. Gomez smiles incongruously. “I thought you might want someone to interrogate after the fight was over. Since, y’know, you killed everyone else.”

He sounds like he’s joking when he says it, but Robert chalks it up to him being a mortician. Robert shakes his head, trying to get a handle on what just happened.

“Wait,” he says, “I saw someone open the door to the morgue.” He looks at Scarpedin. “Where’d the other guy go?”

Scarpedin shrugs. “I cut him in half, and he disintegrated.”

Robert cocks his head. “Is that something that _normally_ happens?”

Scarpedin shrugs. “Eh, I’m a little rusty.”

Robert bites his lip, unsure whether it’s worth asking Scarpedin questions ever again. “Marie? Where’d the guy go? Is he invisible?”

Marie’s voice sounds woozy. “The long shadow man, he stunned me, then made your eyes not see him.”

Robert rolls his hand impatiently. “You could’ve just said ‘yes.’ Okay, Scarpedin, stay here with the doctor. I’m going in.”

Scarpedin shrugs. “Whatever man. Hope you don’t shoot yourself.”

Robert hurries inside the morgue, trying to be stealthy, but he hears someone running and sees the interior door swinging closed as if someone just headed into the main hospital. Robert is about to give chase when he reconsiders, wondering if that’s just a mental trick to make him go the wrong way. 

Then he sees Terry.

Robert Black is no stranger to corpses – he’s made a few, after all – but Terry is the first person he might have called a friend who he has seen dead. There is of course the entry wound just off-center of his forehead, but that is almost clean compared to the gore on his chest. It looks like someone took a saw and tore through his ribs to his internal organs, and left a crater in the middle. For a moment, Robert feels shock, and then he realizes Terry’s heart has been cut out of his chest.

He grabs the bracelet off Terry’s wrist, tucks it into his pocket, and runs for the loading dock. He shouts as he’s pushing open the door to the back lot, “He’s on the run. We need a car!”

In the middle of the back lot, stopped between Scarpedin’s parked motorcycle and the burning wreckage of the Rastafarians’ Cadillac, is a police car. Dr. Gomez is sitting in the back seat, and Scarpedin standing next to the open driver’s door. The cop is on the ground, handcuffed and asleep.

“You have a police car,” Robert says. He somehow manages not to make it a question as he forces down the rational part of his mind and just accepts what he sees. “_That’s great!_ How’d you get it?”

Scarpedin shrugs. “Hurry up man. I’m gonna take my bike. Let’s catch this mind-f*cking f*cker.”

* * *​
Before leaving, Robert is guided by Marie to pick up an amulet that was worn by the swordswoman. It’s a bit bloody, but Robert takes it, then hops into the police car. He convinces Scarpedin not to split up, and the man takes a few seconds to dump all the weapons and ammo on his bike into the trunk of the cruiser. He also grabs the suitcase the Rastafarian leader had and puts it in the back seat, all while Robert watches him with barely-masked impatience. Only when he’s done consolidating the loot into one vehicle does Scarpedin take a seat in shotgun, and as they drive off he is trying to set up the mini-gun so he can shoot out the window. Dr. Gomez just sits in the back seat with a strange curiosity on his face, and Robert doesn’t have time to tell the man to get out.

They speed off, Marie guiding them after the SUV that the British telepath has stolen, and it’s only a few blocks out from the hospital when the police cruiser catches up with the slower SUV. The telepath must sense them coming, because he tries to get into Robert’s mind, but Marie protects them. As Robert pulls up alongside the SUV and Scarpedin lines up for a point-blank shot from his mini-gun, the SUV brakes hard and dozens of red hot bullets chew through empty space, tearing chunks out of the curbside. Thankfully they’re not near any residential areas.

Robert takes in the lay of the road, and sees there’s no easy way for the SUV to get around them without going into a ditch or a concrete median, so he turns and stops the car so it is sideways across two lanes, with Scarpedin and his mini-gun facing the oncoming vehicle. The telepath’s car slows quickly and tries to cut across the median of the road, but even and SUV can’t get over the barrier. It crashes to a stop, presenting its passenger side to Scarpedin’s aim.

Scarpedin fires, tearing the SUV to pieces. It starts to flame, and Robert tells him to stop shooting. They don’t know why the telepath stole Terry’s heart, and he doesn’t want to risk ruining everything by having Terry’s heart destroyed in an explosion.

Scarpedin gets out of the police cruiser, holding a police shotgun up as he rushes for the crashed SUV. Robert keeps his distance, covering the area with his pistol, hoping to make sure the telepath doesn’t make a run for it. Scarpedin gets to the SUV and pulls open the obliterated passenger door, seeing that the driver’s door is hanging open, and there’s no body. In the back seat he sees a bloody duffel bag, and he grabs it quickly and runs to get away from the car, which he expects to explode because that’s what always happens in the movies.

Scarpedin shouts that the telepath got away, and Robert guesses the man must have used magic to turn invisible again. He gets as close as he dares to the driver’s side of the burning car, spotted a wretched trail of bloody footprints, heading toward the nearby ditch. In the meager light of street lamps and flashlights, Robert thinks he might be able to track the telepath, but while he’s in the process of looking for blood in the grass, a car approaches and slows down as its driver sees the wreck in the middle of the road.

Both Robert and Scarpedin can see the driver dialing on a cel phone while simultaneously turning his car around and getting the hell away. They have to content themselves with having gotten Terry’s heart back and at least wounding the telepath, and they high-tail it before the cops show up. The SUV never explodes.

They’re too worried to head back to the hospital, which police will no doubt be heading to, so they have to leave Scarpedin’s bike behind. Robert picks a direction and drives.

Scarpedin is in the back seat with Dr. Gomez, a bunch of voodoo supplies, and the dufflebag that holds Terry’s heart.

“Marie?” Robert asks, “what were those guys up to? Why did they want Terry’s heart?”

The voice of Marie replies, “If I could ask their spirits, I could know better, but the tools in this case, they have been prepared for two types of rituals.”

Robert says, “Make your best guess. We’re not going back.”

“One, child,” Marie intones, “would take the boy’s heart and destroy it, and so destroy his spirit so he could not rise again. And the other, by the blessings of the loa, is the same ritual we were to perform, to bind the boy’s spirit.”

“Sh*t,” Scarpedin says. “What did they want with Terry? Terry, man, talk to me.”

“I have not yet performed the ritual,” Marie says. “Help me, foolish man.”

Robert glances back occasionally as he drives. Scarpedin is holding feathers and strange sticks in odd positions, and even Dr. Gomez gets involved, repeating a Creole prayer over the bloody heart in the dufflebag. Long minutes pass, and Robert finds himself lost in the ruined nightscape of New Orleans. It is when he is driving through a neighborhood that looks completely deserted, still with no power from the hurricane two months ago, that Marie whispers into his ear.

“Child,” she says, “hand us the bracelet, and pray.”

Robert hands Scarpedin the bracelet.

The car begins to slow, and its headlights flicker. The engine does not gutter, but it feels like the vehicle is struggling to keep moving. The air becomes thick with the smell of rot and the sea, and suddenly all the lights in the car go dead, and Robert is driving blind in an impenetrable darkness. He almost presses on the brake, but a hesitation grips him.

And then, just as suddenly, the lights are back on, and the car seems to surge with speed. All down the road, street lights burst on, stretching away, pointing out the path to take, and in the corner of Robert’s eye he thinks he can see short people watching from inside the ruined houses along the road. Robert presses on the gas, nervous regardless of if they’re ghosts, fey, or just squatters.

“Um, Terry?” he asks.

There’s nothing.

He looks back. Scarpedin has a smug smile on his face.

“How’s it feel to be dead?” Scarpedin asks.

Robert frowns and grabs the bracelet out of Scarpedin’s hand, and the moment he touches the bracelet he can see Terry sitting in the passenger seat next to him, casually spectral, his arm hanging around the head rest as he turns to reply to Scarpedin. Terry looks at Robert and smiles.

“Holy-,” Terry starts. “Robert, god damn man, you guys did it. I mean, I’m dead, but I can see you again. This is amazing.”

Robert gives Terry a hint of a smile. “Good to have you back. We’ll have time to rave about how cool we are that we brought you back from the brink of the beyond later. Right now, Terry, let me know: can you do the whole planeshift thing to Gaia?”

“Yeah, pretty sure,” Terry says. “Why is that so important?”

Robert glances at Dr. Gomez in the back seat. “Oh, no reason. I just wanted to make sure you still had your magic. Scarpedin, talk to Terry for a bit.”

Robert hands the bracelet back to Scarpedin – he can no longer see or hear Terry – and then he turns his attention to Dr. Gomez. While Scarpedin barrages Terry’s ghost with questions about the afterlife, Robert drives and talks to Dr. Gomez, thanking him for helping them stop the criminals and convincing the man it’d be a good idea to keep helping them, especially since Robert’s bleeding pretty badly from multiple sword wounds. Dr. Gomez agrees, and he tells them they can come to his house for the evening.

Robert listens to Scarpedin interrogate Terry as he drives to Dr. Gomez’s house, but his mind is busy planning how best to take revenge on Adrien Lee.

It’s nearly 3 a.m. The streets are nearly empty, but nevertheless, it’s odd that every stop light they come to is green.


----------



## Zustiur

I'm confused. You only posted today... but I've already read it?
Did we lose some posts?
The last thing I seem to remember the party had just reached Savanah.

Zustiur.


----------



## RangerWickett

You're a little out of the loop. The boards crashed, and we lost everything from December to May, so I'm reposting, and using the spare time to write other things (like submissions to Dragon magazine, a cartoon script, and more episodes of the storyhour).


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween_

Robert and Scarpedin spend the night in the police cruiser, parked in Dr. Gomez's garage. They occasionally catch glimpses of a party going on inside the main house, but aside from the doctor's wife, no one else knows they're there. The doctor's wife is dressed as Morticia from the Addam's Family. On a hunch, they ask the doctor his name. Adam Gomez.

Over the next hour, Dr. Gomez and his wife tend to Robert and Scarpedin, not asking any questions. The doctor performs minor surgery on Robert's wounds and tends to a few injuries Scarpedin still has from earlier in the day, while his wife brings them all the candy they could want, joking that they have the best "fugitives from the law" costume she's seen all night.

Robert and Scarpedin talk to Terry a lot, trying to make sure they understand the situation clearly. Terry is completely positive that Adrien Lee knew what he was doing and killed him in cold blood, and that Belladonna not only did nothing to stop it, but practically gave her approval. A few tests reveal that while Terry can still sense magic, and is pretty sure he'll be able to plane shift if needed, he can't seem to use any of the other types of magic he could do when he was alive -- healing, illusions, some attack and defense. He can't even levitate things with telekinesis.

Robert's high begins to fade. When he started this mission a few hours ago, he was planning to arm up, attack Adrien Lee, get revenge, and then die. After what had happened with Walter, he had not really been eager to sit around and let innocents be harmed by people like . . . well, like him. But now that he has managed to accomplish something so bizarre as bringing Terry back as a ghost, he's reconsidering his martyrdom plan. In a way, that's a good thing, because he realizes he actually feels like what he's doing has some meaning. But now he also has enough time to ponder, to remember what he has done because he thought it was right, and to think about what really separates him from a murderer like Mr. Lee.

It's nearly 5 am, and he's starting to drift off to sleep. The Gomezes have gone into their house and to bed. Scarpedin is still chatting incessantly with Terry, asking him whether ghosts get sleepy, but the man's voice has a nice droning quality to it that is helping his eyes get heavy.

Then his phone rings. The number is blocked.

Robert struggles to shake off his sleepiness, and tells Scarpedin to be quiet. He pulls out the police radio, sets it to transmit, and answers his cell on speakerphone. He is greeted on the other end by Adrien Lee. There's something strange in the man's voice; he sounds detached, neither smug nor nervous, and Robert's attempts to goad the man into admitting anything he has done wrong all fail.

Adrien Lee suggests that what has happened this evening has been a terrible misunderstanding, the result of information given to him by a source he has now learned had its own agenda. In short, he says, he was deceived, and that someone he trusted betrayed him and an accident befell that hurt Terry. Mr. Lee then says that he has Terry under his protection now, but that the boy is recovering and cannot speak.

So much has happened, it takes Robert a moment to realize that Adrien Lee is trying to con him, and that the man doesn't realize that Robert knows Terry is dead. Which is strange, because it suggests he doesn't know about what happened at the morgue. Robert is curious, but nervous. He asks what Adrien Lee wants.

Over the evening, Lee says, he has learned through his daughter Belladonna that Robert, John, and Scarpedin were discussing some sort of retribution against him. He offers to meet with Robert in the morning, so he can see that Terry is safe. All he wants is to clear up any confusion. His brother-in-law's house was already attacked tonight, and he just wants to make sure no one else gets hurt.

Robert takes a few seconds, then agrees. He doesn't know many landmarks, so he says for Mr. Lee to meet him at a Starbucks near the St. Louis Cemetery. Robert will come alone, and Mr. Lee should only come with Terry. A moment later, Robert adds, 'and Belladonna.'

Mr. Lee chuckles, saying he's amused that Robert is treating this like some sort of prisoner exchange. But he promises to be there.

As soon as Lee agrees, Robert turns off his phone and the radio, and turns to Scarpedin.

"Okay, that made _negative_ sense. Help me figure this out."

"I dunno man, I was kinda planning to go to sleep. The sugar high from all that candy's wearing off."

Robert glares at him the way a mom looks at a disobedient child before she starts giving him a well-deserved beating.

"Just do it," he says. "Now, he doesn't know that we know Terry's dead. He definitely doesn't know we actually have Terry, which means he didn't have anything to do with the stuff at the morgue. Unless he does know what we know, and he's just trying to throw us off and make us think he's got bad intel. Which means he's expecting us to lay an ambush for him, which means it won't be him there. Right?"

"Yeah." Scarpedin holds the bracelet near his eye. "Y'know, this thing has all kinds of weird writing on it."

"So," Robert continues, "if he's going to have someone else there, that means he wants to ambush us too, which means we shouldn't be there. But he has to figure we'll figure this out, and that neither one of us is going to be there. So what does he want?"

"Hey," Scarpedin says, "Terry thinks maybe we ought to ditch the cop car, in case the cops were able to track the radio transmission."

Robert nods, and they sneak out of the Gomezes' house, Robert still talking to himself.

"If he actually _does_ want to make peace . . . that makes no sense, because he knows Terry's dead. So he must want to capture or kill us. If he knows that we know Terry's dead, then he knows we won't fall for it, so he has to be banking on us wanting revenge. If he thinks we don't know Terry's dead, then we wouldn't want revenge, so we're not a threat, so why would he risk killing us in a public place? Scarpedin, does any of this make sense to you?"

Scarpedin is unfazed. "Sh*t, Robert, half the stuff you say doesn't make sense to me. I just want to know, y’know, are we gonna kill him?"

"Terry," Robert asks, "do you have any reason for us not to kill Adrien Lee?"

Robert watches as Scarpedin listens to the response from Terry's ghost in the bracelet. Scarpedin shrugs. "He says he has a few reasons why not to, but his overall consensus is, 'kill the bastard.'"

Robert nods. He's glad he's not the only one who's not one-hundred percent sure on this thing.

They head for a nearby intersection and wait for a taxi. Robert pulls out his phone and starts calling the Bureau. He just wishes he knew what Mr. Lee was planning.

* * *​
In a distant part of the city, a body and repair shop flickers with light as Nathan tries to fix the damage caused to his car by a glancing mini-gun hit and a frag grenade. His vision is filled with the flare of a welding torch when the vision comes.

He's drinking his morning Starbucks coffee, looking out the door at the nearby cemetery, when he sees a woman enter, next to a man dressed all in black. The man's face is concealed, and the woman's hands are tied, but no one seems to notice. They sit down at a nearby table, the man puts a briefcase under his chair, and then the bomb goes off, obliterating the store and killing a dozen or more people.

Nathan snaps out of the portent, the flare of the dreamed explosion fading into the flame of the torch. Nathan turns off the torch, stands, and stretches, then checks his watch. He lets out a breath, then shakes his head in bemusement.

"Awfully unusual number of bombs going off these days, I'd say."

He heads to get his laptop. He has a few hours before the breakfast rush, and there's research to be done.


_*End of Eighth Session*_


----------



## RangerWickett

_Halloween
Nearly dawn_

Scarpedin closes his cell phone and shakes his head. “Didn’t work.”

“That’s what we get for using one of your plans,” Robert says. “I guess they arrested him, huh?”

Scarpedin nods, and Robert shrugs as if to say, ‘what can you do?’

They had called Whitey and sent him to recover Scarpedin’s bike from the hospital, but the cops apparently were still interested in a scene where heavy military weaponry was used. Now the two men are hiding in a motel room, all the lights off. The place is quiet, just two men, two ghosts, and an arsenal of unlicensed firearms.


_Way down yonder in New Orleans,
In the land of the dreamy scenes,
There’s a Garden of Eden. You know what I mean.

Creole babies with flashin’ eyes
Softly whisper their tender sighs
Then stop. Won’t you give your lady fair a little smile?
Stop. Ya bet your life you’ll linger there, a little while.

We’ve got Heaven right here on Earth,
With those beautiful queens
Way down yonder in New Orleans._
– “Way Down Yonder in New Orleans,” Louis Armstrong​

“If we’re not dead tomorrow,” Robert says, “we can break him out, right Terry? Over to ‘Gaia,’ into the prison, then back here to ‘Terra,’ then back out once we have Whitey.”

Robert has to hold the bracelet to hear Terry’s ghost’s answer.

“Maybe,” Terry says. “I still haven’t tested it. I feel like I can, but I don’t know how often.”

“Let’s not waste it then,” Robert says. “We’re going to need a getaway route if this screws up. We can always try the same trick to walk into Lee’s mansion and kill him in his sleep.”

Marie LeVeau’s voice intrudes, deep and wary. “That would not work, my child. His gris-gris man, whose Christian name is Tom Jones, has protected the house against spirits, and you could not walk over from the land of the loa.”

“Ah,” Robert says.

He’s glad she told him that. One of his plans had been to walk into Mr. Lee’s place, drop a grenade, and have Terry plane shift him out. Robert half-smiles at having dodged that bullet.

“Oh, Marie,” he says, holding up the necklace he took off the swordswoman, “could you do-”

“No child,” Marie says, and she makes a hushing noise. “The sun rises, and the day of spirits ends. I must leave you now. It was a pleasure to help. You children have brought a bit of magic back to this dying old city.”

“Stick around,” Scarpedin says. “Don’t let no stupid sunshine tell you what to do.”

Marie laughs. “I’ll see you two boys again in a year.”

Robert shrugs. “Marie, you’ve done a lot for us, and I don’t like to leave favors unfulfilled, so I’ll try to swing by next Halloween, assuming I’m not, y’know,” he laughs, “dead.”

Marie laughs. “Oh no, boys. I _will_ be seeing you.”

And they hear no more of her.

Sunlight peeks in through the open window. Outside, the sky is a dim blue, clear of clouds. The air is warm, and is full with the scents of last night’s city-wide parties.

Scarpedin stands, checks his cell phone for the time, then lifts their sniper rifle and takes a quick look down the street from his second-floor vantage point. A black van is pulling to a stop on the side of the road a half-block from the Starbucks, and two men in black suits that Scarpedin recognizes from his trip to Gaia emerge.

“Bureau’s here,” he says. “And John. So what do we do again?”

Robert relaxes and lies down on the bed. “Nothing. I got everybody to come here, and I’m _tired_. Let them figure it out. Wake me up if anything interesting happens.”

“You mean when Mr. Lee shows up, right?”

“No, when Santa Claus shows up. Of course I mean when Mr. Lee shows up. Except, dammit, now I’m going to be thinking about whether Santa Claus does actually exist in this stupid world. I’m going to sleep.”

“Terry,” Scarpedin asks, holding the bracelet on his wrist to his ear like he’s listening to a broken watch, “is Santa real?”

Robert hisses for Scarpedin to be quiet.

Scarpedin pulls the sniper rifle back in the room and shrugs. Time passes.

* * *​
John, on a bench across the street from the Starbucks, smokes.

In the middle of the night Robert had called Raine and gotten the Bureau all geared up for a major operation, telling them Adrien Lee assassinated Terry and that whoever hired him might be responsible for severing the connection between Terra and Gaia. When John got wind of it, he volunteered to help. Not all of the Bureau’s people are yet in good enough condition to assist after being stuck on Gaia for a week, so every little bit helps.

So that, he ponders, is why he’s sitting at a bus stop, having to turn down each bus that comes by, smoking a cigarette while the city around him reeks of . . . ash. He know it should smell like rot or beer or burnt pumpkins, but as always, he only smells ash. That doesn’t bother him, though. He expects it. 

What bothers him is that Robert and Scarpedin are alive, after they went on what should have been a suicide mission last night to try to kill Adrien Lee. John wants to see Lee get the punishment he deserves, and in hindsight, having learned that their mission wasn’t suicidal, John wishes he had gone along.

That, he thinks, brooding and smoking, is why he’s really sitting at a bus stop. He wants to kill Adrien Lee, and he knows Robert and Scarpedin must be planning some way to kill the man, but the Bureau needs him alive.

It gives John a headache. But that doesn’t bother him. He expects pain.

He just hopes the Bureau won’t screw this up.

* * *​
It’s early, and Belladonna wishes she could be hung over. It’s the day after Halloween, and last night should have been a party. But she’s still in shock from seeing her father kill Terry.

The car stops inside her father’s compound, and the driver lets Belladonna out. The place is riddled with guards in casual clothes and armpit holsters, which she approves of in light of all the chaos of last night. It is only now sinking in for her how confused her father must have been last night, since he had actually allowed her to sleep in her own home, with minimal protection. Rumors said they had found bombs in Uncle Maurice’s mansion, and when she talked to her father an hour ago he sounded uncomfortable.

A few stern glares at the guards gets her into the house despite the heightened security, and she makes her way to her father’s study. The guard outside the door doesn’t deter her, and she’s already opening the door before she realizes that all the men here work for her uncle, not her father.

“Dada,” she says.

Her father sits behind a desk, a classical oil lamp sitting beside his laptop computer, both illuminating his face as he types away. The rest of the large room – its antiques, book cases, and cabinets filled with emergency small arms – lies in darkness.

“Just a moment, daughter,” her father says. “You look distressed, and I don’t want my business to distract me from helping you.”

But, Belladonna realizes, he hasn’t looked up at her since she came in.

“What’s wrong, dada?” She starts toward him, determined. “I didn’t ask you why last night – I was too shocked-”

She hesitates, remembering looking at her costume this morning, and the stains from Terry’s blood.

“Dada,” she says, “I need to know why you did it. I know what you do, but this isn’t like you.”

Her father frowns and keeps typing. After a minute, he clicks a few times, then closes the laptop. Now only the lantern light keeps away the darkness.

“Donna-Belle,” he says, “you remember how Dr. Jones would sometimes put charms on you to protect you, and he would tell you not to resist? I need you to do that for me now.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

He glares at her. “Are you going to disobey your father? Do as you’re told.”

Belladonna shakes her head. “This is wrong, dada. Something’s wrong. Where are all your guards?”

Her father suddenly goes stiff. Belladonna looks around nervously, and she thinks she can see something in the shadows of the room. She reaches for one of her derringers and is about to run for the exit when she feels the man’s will sweep across her, feeling like someone is tugging at every inch of her body, trying to force her to move. She resists, her anger at all the troubles she has dealt with these past three days giving her the strength to break free of the compulsion. Firing a quick shot into the shadows she runs for the door.

“Help,” she shouts. “Someone’s in here with my father!”

She pulls open the door and then comes short when the guard outside puts the barrel of a pistol to her chest. After a moment of fear she sneers and drops her gun.

“Who do you work for?” she hisses.

The guard just smiles and pushes her back into the room, then closes the door. In the far corner on the desk, the lamp is blown out, and she feels the man’s will creeping upon her in the dark.

* * *​
An hour before the Bureau gets set up at the Starbucks, Nathan is slowing to a stop in a residential neighborhood across town. He doublechecks the address on the mailbox, then parks his car and gets out.

He walks up to the door, sliding on his black sunglasses and adjusting his hair after the long evening.

Outside the front door he checks his phone for the time – 6:30 am – then smiles and rings the doorbell.

After a minute, he rings the doorbell again. 

The street is completely lifeless at this time of morning, and the air is chill, but Nathan keeps his confident smile on. He feels a bit peckish, and wonders if he’ll be able to get something from the Starbucks after he keeps it from blowing up.

From inside he hears a disgruntled voice telling him to hold on.

Nathan sighs and blinks, repressing a yawn. He straightens his back, checks his tie in the reflection of the nearest window, then smiles directly at the peephole.

The door opens slowly. A security chain pulls tight. Through the crack Nathan sees a sleepy eye, and below it a coffee mug.

The man takes a sip, then asks, “Who are you?”

“My name is Nathaniel Beckford. Good morning. If I may inquire sir, are you Sergeant Jobe Bundholm of the New Orleans Police Department?”

“Retired, but yeah. You’re English?”

“Yes, I am.” Nathan smiles, always amused that Americans feel the need to verify this. 

“Mr. Bundholm,” he continues, “I apologize for coming to your house at such an early hour, but I have an urgent job and I need your help.”

“My help?” Jobe moves a bit to get a different view through the door. “Are you FBI?”

“No sir,” Nathan says. “I’m a psychic.”

Jobe Bundholm blinks twice, then sips his coffee. Nathan takes this as a sign to continue.

He asks, “May I buy you breakfast and discuss the specifics? It is rather urgent, and I’m willing to pay you a thousand dollars for your assistance.”

From inside, a whiny woman’s voice shouts, “Joe! Who the hell’s at the door?”

Jobe Bundholm grimaces.

Nathan smiles sympathetically. “Wife?”

Jobe nods and laughs. “We bought all this candy, and got no trick or treaters. The ball and chain’s a little pissed. You want some?”

“Oh, no, I’m quite fine. Mr. Bundholm, if you’d be willing to come along, we could perhaps discuss this some place free from your no doubt otherwise sweet and lovely wife.”

“Joe! Who’s ringing the doorbell at this time of the morning?”

Jobe grumbles, then nods. “A thousand bucks? McDonald's good for you?”

Nathan nods. “I can wait while you get dressed, but-”

The door closes, then a moment later reopens wider. Jobe Bundholm is fully dressed, though his clothes are wrinkled. Nathan can’t help but notice he looks like Carroll O'Connor, who played Chief Gillespie and Archie Bunker.

A little defensively, Jobe says, “I slept on the couch last night.”

Nathan nods nonjudgmentally, then directs Mr. Bundholm to his car.

“What’s this all about?” Jobe asks.

“As I understand it, Mr. Bundholm, you are trained in demolitions and received multiple commendations for your work in that field when on the police force. Is that correct?”

Jobe nods as he gets into Nathan’s car. “What’s this all about?”

Nathan gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

“I need you to disarm a bomb for me.”

“You planted a bomb?”

“Oh, no,” Nathan says disarmingly. “I had a vision. The bomb is at a Starbucks.”

“Ha.” Jobe leans back, his mouth open. After a moment he says, “You’re serious about this psychic thing, boy?”

“Quite,” Nathan says.

And they move, driving through a city slowly waking up from a dream-like Halloween.


----------



## RangerWickett

_November 1, 2005
7:30 am_

“Yo, Robot,” Scarpedin says. “Santa’s here!”

Robert mutters something vulgar from beneath his pillow. Scarpedin is undeterred, and he keeps yelling at Robert until the man sits up and comes to the window, rubbing his eyes.

“Take a look at this, killer,” Scarpedin says.

Robert peers through the sniper scope, and recognizes Nathan’s BMW, with rough patches of unpainted metal – the remnants of bodywork done to repair bullet holes. The car is only half-visible, parked down the street from the Starbucks, unobtrusive. A quick sweep of the area shows that of the Bureau, no one, not even John, has spotted it yet.

“How the hell’d you spot that?” Robert says.

Scarpedin looks offended. “You don’t understand the level of restraint required for a bored man with a sniper rifle. Anyway, what’s Nathan doing here?”

“Do you think he sold out to Mr. Lee?” Robert says. “Oh, wait, John probably called him.”

“We can’t trust him,” Scarpedin says. “He’s British.”

“Scarpedin, you’re some sort of knight of the round table. That makes you British.”

Scarpedin shrugs in acceptance.

“Quick,” Robert asks, “what’s John’s number? I need to make sure he called Nathan and that we don’t have a third party gonna f*ck everything up.”

“John doesn’t have a cell phone.”

Robert sighs. After a moment he grumbles and starts to call Raine, intending to get a Bureau agent to hand John a cell phone. “Man needs to get into the twenty-first century.”

_* * *_

A man in a black suit comes up to the bus stop and hands John a cell phone, then nods and hurries back to his concealed location. The phone rings almost immediately, and John listens to Robert berate him briefly before getting to the point. John frowns and sighs.

“Nathan? No, I didn’t call him. I didn’t have a phone until just now.”

John cranes his neck to try to get a good view through the windows of the Starbucks, but just then a pair of cars, far too fancy for the neighborhood, pull up across the street. John takes cover, then whispers into his shoulder radio.

“They’re here,” he says.

Over his earpiece, Raine says, “Be on guard. Remember, we need him alive, and we need zero profile on this operation.”

More chatter fills his ear, but he’s distracted when he sees just who’s getting out of the car. Over the phone he hears Robert’s reaction too, and the man does not sound pleased.

_* * *_

Jobe Bundholm is sipping his tall brazilian caramel mocha latte as he eats an egg McMuffin, while Nathan considers his vision. He needs to be on the look-out for anyone with a briefcase, or any pair with a man and a woman.

Outside, two black cars pull up at the curb, and the doors open. Out steps Adrien Lee, wearing a five-thousand dollar suit and holding a twenty-dollar briefcase, and then beside him comes his daughter Belladonna, wearing the sexiest outfit Nathan has seen in recent memory. 

“I don’t think they’re here for the coffee,” he says to himself.

Jobe looks up and hums in curiosity. Nathan smiles to him reassuringly.

“I’m fairly certain, Mr. Bundholm, that the man with the bomb is about to come in. I’ll distract him if I can. Are you ready?”

Jobe takes a gulp of his latte, cringes at the heat, then nods.

The door opens, and Nathan is about to stand and greet Belladonna. But even though she looks directly at him, she directs her father to a table in the middle of the room, and the only reaction she has at his presence is an odd, rather meaningful look in her eyes. Nathan can’t help but think it’s a plea. The father and daughter sit down silently without ordering, and Mr. Lee places the suitcase at his feet.

Nathan concentrates, sending out his mind to try to feel what Belladonna is thinking, but he cannot get in. It feels like someone else is already there, and Nathan nearly is spotted by the second presence before he withdraws his psychic intrusion. There is much more to this situation than Nathan had originally guessed, but he doesn’t know how long he has until the bomb goes off.

“Belladonna!” he shouts. He stands up, arms wide and cheerful as he slowly approaches the table. “I didn’t expect to see you here today! What’s going on? Who is this?”

The stiffness in Belladonna’s posture fades slightly, but when she speaks her tone is nervous.

“Nathan,” she says, “you shouldn’t be here. My father and I are here on . . . very important business. Maybe you should _leave_.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” Nathan says, “you’re here to meet a young man, which is why you’re so well dressed, but your father is very possessive?”

Belladonna frowns angrily, and says, “No.”

“You’re going shopping in this wonderfully run-down part of town?”

“No,” Belladonna says.

Nathan thinks he sees the faintest smile struggle onto Belladonna’s face. She is thankful to see him, he knows, but he doesn’t know how to free her from whatever compulsion holds her.

Nathan sees Jobe Bundholm in the corner of his eye, crawling across the ground toward the Lees’ table. It looks like the motion is starting to attract Belladonna and her father’s attention, but Nathan slaps his hand on the table.

“Yes!” he shouts. “I can’t believe I forgot! It’s your father’s birthday! Coffee barrista, get this man-. No, get everyone here a cup of whatever they care to drink, on me! Nothing is too good for the father of my dear friend Belladonna!”

Belladonna stiffens again, and now Adrien Lee moves. Nathan guesses that one person must be controlling the both of them.

“Who are you?” Mr. Lee says, his voice raw and angry.

“Nathaniel Beckford,” Nathan says. “I gave your daughter a ride from Texas.”

Mr. Lee’s eyes unfocus slightly and roll up for a moment, but then the man leans back nervously. “You’re the psychic.”

Nathan nods, but before he can speak he feels something try to grip his mind and take command of him. Nathan shrugs off the compulsion easily, then reaches out smoothly and takes a cup of coffee from the barrista’s tray as she walks by. He sips and smirks to Adrien Lee.

“Happy birthday,” he says, keeping the man’s attention focused on him.

_* * *_

“What’s going on down there?” Robert asks over the phone.

“Y’know,” John says, “I really have no idea.”

He draws on his cigarette.

“I can’t read lips too well, but it looks like he’s leading everyone in the shop in a round of the happy birthday song. Wait, something’s happening. A guy just stood up out of nowhere.”

_* * *_

“Done,” Jobe says as he stands. 

He holds out a small black cylinder, and tucks a pair of wire cutters into his pocket. 

“I took out the battery, and cut the detonation line. Bomb’s disarmed.”

The barrista turns in curiosity. “Bomb?”

Adrien Lee is looking down at the suitcase on the floor at his feet. It lies open, with a professionally-disarmed bomb sitting out in the clear view of everyone in the room. The barrista sees it too, as do several patrons who are still singing, ‘How old are you?’ The room goes quiet.

“No one panic,” Nathan says. “I have the situation under control.”

He takes the battery from Jobe’s hand and stamps it on the ground while everyone watches nervously.

He has only a moment’s warning as Adrien Lee’s demeanor shifts from angry to coldly murderous. The man pulls a gun and aims for Nathan’s chest, and in the same moment Belladonna screams, Jobe ducks for cover, and the barrista grabs Mr. Lee’s arm and deflects the shot so it misses Nathan’s heart.

Inside the Starbucks, the breakfast crowd panics and runs shrieking for the door, while outside the Bureau sounds the alert and begins to rush in. Amid the chaos, Nathan takes a moment to savor another vision averted. He ducks, grabs the briefcase, and runs for the door along with the throng. He hears gunshots and yelling from Belladonna and her father, but he knows he needs to keep this bomb away from Adrien Lee and the telepath controlling him.

Nathan runs out into the street, intending to head for his car. There are many people scattered around him, so his pace is irregular, which saves his life. The sniper rifle shot aimed for his heart instead catches him in the shoulder, the street roars with the retort of a hypersonic bullet. Nathan cries out in pain, but he’s drowned out by the even greater screams from the terrified crowd.

As he runs for the cover of a nearby car, Nathan wishes that his visions would be a bit more forthcoming with details in the future.


----------



## RangerWickett

_November 1, 2005
7:35 am_

The Starbucks is empty except for Belladonna, her father, the bomb disarmer, and a dying barrista, shot by her father. Now Belladonna struggles, feeling the telepath’s will pressing down upon her again. The barrista is bleeding on the floor, and she can hear a back door of the shop being broken in as what she guesses are Bureau agents storm the coffee shop from the alley.

She knows that the telepath wants her and her father to die to cover his tracks, and already she can see her father raising his gun to point at the door the Bureau will enter from. With the telepath forcing her body under his control, she feels like she has too much time to watch what is happening, too much time to see her father being driven to a suicidal attack, and too much time for her to sit and be powerless.

She refuses to be powerless, to be the defenseless little girl her father always saw her as.

For just a moment, her will surges, and she finds the strength to move. The door to the back entrance is kicked open as she yanks a stiletto out of her hair. Her father aims for the Bureau agents as she opens her only vial of rare tetrodotoxin and coats her blade. And the Bureau agents shout for him to drop his gun as Belladonna stands up between the gunmen and drives the stilleto blade into her father’s forearm, straight into the vein.

“Don’t shoot!” she shouts.

Her father glares at her with an anger that is not his own, and his body siezes up as the poison paralyzes his nerves. His gun clatters to the ground, and she catches him as he begins to fall. The agents surround her, black suits pressing in and sweeping across the room, securing the building. One agent stoops next to the bleeding barrista, puts a hand on the man’s chest, and concentrates. The barrista begins to cough as he comes back from the brink of death.

“Where’s the bomb?” one demands, pointing a gun at Belladonna.

Belladonna points outside, where Nathan ran. 

“The bomb’s disarmed,” says the man who just disarmed the bomb, cowering on the floor. “My name is Jobe Bundholm, NOPD.”

While the agents are distracted, Belladonna conceals the dagger in her hair again. Then she yells at one the agents. “My father was mind-controlled. He’s been poisoned. You have magic, don’t you?”

The agent who healed the barrista is about to stop and help when the agent interrogating Jobe curses.

“Sh*t,” he says. “He’s a cop. Wipe him.”

The spellcasting agent goes over to Jobe, puts a hand over his eyes, and concentrates. Jobe looks dazed.

Meanwhile, the lead agent reports into a shoulder radio, “A witness says there’s a teep nearby. Raine, Balthazaar, be on watch. The Lees are not the primary suspect. I repeat there is a teep nearby.”

“Dammit,” Belladonna says. “My father is going to die.”

The magic-using agent turns around, touches her father on his chest, and whispers a Creole prayer. Her father begins to breathe again. The agent nods to Belladonna, but looks displeased.

“More cops coming,” says the lead agent. “The situation is over for now. Withdraw, everyone.”

“What about these two?” says the agent who just saved Belladonna’s father.

The lead agent shakes his head. “No time. We’re out.”

And almost as quickly as they came in, the Bureau agents are gone, leaving no trace they were there.

Jobe Bundholm blinks, then staggers to his feet and runs for the door.

* * *​
Struggling with the pain of a bullet wound in his shoulder, Nathan takes a best guess of the direction the sniper shot came from – down the street to the west – and he takes cover in front of the eastern entrance of the Starbucks. The Starbucks is probably nearly empty by now, and Nathan hopes the sniper won’t get trigger happy and start firing at pedestrians.

Jobe runs out the front door, and Nathan stops him from running out into the sniper’s view.

“What’s going on in there?” he asks.

Jobe opens his mouth as if to explain, but words fail him. Just then, Nathan notices a police car pulling up from the south. The car stops nearly in front of the Starbucks, and a cop kicks open the door. At the same time, John comes running over from the bus stop across the street.

“Ah, John,” Nathan says, “good to see you. Here, come help me.”

Nathan then turns to the cop. “Officer!”

He starts toward the police officer, holding Jobe by his arm, with John following angrily. As he passes back in front of the Starbucks, he looks inside, but sees that it is completely empty.

The police officer comes up, hand on his holster, and he orders them to stop.

“Yes, officer,” Nathan says, “but here in the suitcase is the bomb that just scared everyone out of here.”

“Nathan,” John says, “let’s get the hell out of here. There’s still a sniper around.”

The cop hesitates, then holds out a hand and asks for the suitcase. Nathan hands it over. In the distance he can hear the intermittent retorts of a sniper rifle firing, but he’s confident he’s safe. The cop takes the briefcase and says into his radio that he has the bomb. He puts the bomb in his car, and then stops behind the car door, his body partially concealed by the door.

Nathan senses that something is wrong, and he pushes Jobe to the ground just in time as the cop turns and fires.

* * *​
Scarpedin says nothing as he scans for the sniper, using his own sniper rifle. Robert watches from over his shoulder, dispassionate at the sight of Nathan being struck by a sniper bullet. He watches Nathan duck for cover, and sees faintly in the corners and shadows of the intersection, a dozen or more Bureau agents moving through alleys, trying to cover the scene without being seen.

The panic is just dying down in the street, and the sniper has not fired a second shot in half a minute, when Robert gets impatient and leans out the window, trying to get a view of what’s going on. Then for a moment he is completely dazed as his head is whipped sideways. When he gets his bearings again, he has fallen over, knocking Scarpedin to the floor of their motel room.

“What the hell?” Robert says, feeling a horrible welt on the side of his face.

“You were shot,” Scarpedin says. “In the head.”

Unfazed, Scarpedin gets back to the window and goes back to searching for the sniper, careful not to expose any of his body, just the sniper scope.

Robert blinks, then remembers the necklace he took off the Canadian woman. Now that he thinks of it, she wasn’t _nearly_ as torn to bits by the mini-gun as he would have expected.

“Y’know,” Robert says, “any other day I would need a while to get over not just dying, but I think I’m good. Hey, Scarpedin, give me that bracelet Terry’s on.”

The window Scarpedin is aiming out of shatters as a bullet strikes it and flies into the room. Scarpedin stands up angrily and reaches for his sword, but Robert stops him.

“I’d say don’t be stupid,” Robert says, “but that’d be pointless. How about, ‘you be the diversion’?”

Scarpedin grimaces, then hands Robert the Terry bracelet. Robert goes over his plan with Terry’s ghost as he gathers up two pocketfuls of smoke grenades, the mini-gun, and a bit of ammo.

“Make sure you don’t leave any of this here,” Robert says as he tosses a smoke grenade out the door onto the balcony. “This cost a lot of money. Especially that sniper rifle which did us exactly zero good.”

“Whoa, wait,” Scarpedin says. “I’m supposed to run out there and let the guy shoot at me?”

Robert nods, grinning. “I gotta find out where he is. Don’t worry. Apparently John, the _angel_, can heal you if you get shot. Now you flank left, and I’ll stick to the cover of-”

Scarpedin interrupts. “Alright, time’s up, let’s do this!” 

Scarpedin springs out of the motel room and sprints for the staircase to the ground floor, screaming something that sounds like, _“Leeroy JENKINS!”_

Robert sighs.

“He ran off without the necklace?” Terry says.

Robert nods. “Alright, let’s go save his ass.”

* * *​
Nathan tries to avoid getting shot as John steps inside the cop’s reach and elbow’s the man in the bottom of his chin, dazing him. John is busy disarming him and shooting out his kneecap when Nathan notices another car approaching. It looks just like the one that dropped off Adrien Lee and Belladonna earlier.

John says, “He must’ve been working for Mr. Lee.”

Before Nathan can explain the situation, the second car screeches to a stop in the middle of the street near the cop car. A back seat door opens, and Nathan and John both aim guns and take cover behind the hood of the cop car. But no one emerges. The driver window is black, impenetrably tinted.

Strangely, the passenger seat of the cop car opens, and then the briefcase holding the bomb begins to move as if pulled by an invisible hand. Nathan gasps and fires, and he hears a man grunt. The briefcase falls back into the passenger seat, and Nathan leaps through the open driver’s door of the cop car to grab it.

“Someone’s invisible,” Nathan tells John.

John fires off two errant shots at the space between the cop car and the second car.

“Bugger,” shouts a disembodied voice in the street. “Let’s go!”

The back door of the getaway car starts to swing, but before Nathan or John can react, Balthazaar and two other agents appear from the nearby alley beside the Starbucks. One agent snaps a finger, and the getaway car suddenly goes dead as its engine shuts off. Balthazaar throws what looks like a small grenade in the street, and when it goes off it bursts with a spray of fluorescent red paint. The paint coats the invisible telepath, and though he leaps clear of the paint cloud, he’s still faintly visible.

“After him,” Balthazaar shouts.

John, Balthazaar, and the spellcasting agent follow the fleeing telepath down the street and then down an alley, while the second agent moves in to arrest the driver of the getaway car.

Nathan, already shot and a little nervous about someone else getting the bomb, looks over at Jobe, who is pressed against the side of the cop car, breathing heavily.

“Relax,” Nathan says. “I’ll be right back. I just need to dispose of this. Good show back there, by the way. Most impressive.”

He smiles, then stands up and looks for a dumpster he can ditch the bomb in. Instead he sees Scarpedin scampering down the street to the west, cursing as sniper shots ring out. In the distance, he can hear police sirens approaching.

* * *​
John, Balthazaar, and a Bureau agent give chase down alleys, through kitchens, past abandoned flood cars. John has always been fast, but he feels something old in him, something forgotten, the thrill of the hunt and the take-down. He has pulled ahead of Balthazaar and is nearly to the paint-covered invisible telepath when the man pulls something off his body and drops it in the middle of the alley.

John hears the click of metal on the ground, and he leaps for cover, jumping behind a pile of trash. The Bureau agent is closest, Balthazaar a bit further behind, so when the grenade goes off, the fragmented shards of steel that cut through the air kill the agent, stagger Balthazaar, and nearly hobble John.

Cursing, John spits out his cigarette and puts his hands on the vicious gash on his leg, hoping he can still heal. He doesn’t know quite how he does it, and he feels almost dirty doing so, but his wounds close, and he can walk again.

Balthazaar, temporarily slowed, runs up and helps John to his feet. The man is bleeding from shrapnel, but he looks undeterred. John takes a moment to make sure there’s nothing he can do for the agent who ran straight into the blast, and then they return to the chase, but now he’s not sure which way their quarry has gone.

* * *​
Robert tosses a second smoke grenade at the base of the stairs to give himself some more cover. The sniper, whoever he is, isn’t stupid. After he took two shots at Scarpedin, he noticed Robert and fired at him, catching him in the belly. The necklace did done its job again, but a faint crack crossed it. Robert doesn’t want to risk being hit again.

He thinks he has it pinned down where the sniper is – hiding in fourth story motel room a half block away – but Robert isn’t confident enough in his aim to risk plowing a thousand bullets from this heavy-ass gun into a honeymoon suite accidentally. He waits for the latest shot to miss frenetic Scarpedin, and then he breaks from the cover of the smoke, hustling down the street, grunting under the weight of the gun and ammo.

He spies a rifle barrel sticking out of a window just before a bullet catches him square in the chest. He tastes blood in his mouth, but he still doesn’t have any holes.

“Robert, be careful,” Terry says.

Robert laughs weakly, really not sure why he’s risking his life like this. He drops to his knee, braces the mini-gun, aims, and fires. As he guessed, the first twenty or so bullets chew into the third floor and the balcony, but the next eighty or so tear the sniper’s room to pieces. Robert struggles against the kick of the gun, and finally releases the trigger five seconds later as his hit shots begin to stray off target.

In the distance he can hear Scarpedin cheering him.

The cop cars are approaching from down the street, and normally Robert would have nowhere to run, and no easy way to explain what he’s doing.

“Terry,” he says, “now.”

He feels the world around him lurch, and just as the lead cop car skids and presents its side to him, cutting off his escape, the whole street vanishes. Banyan and cyprus trees surround him, and his feet sink into a marsh. The spectral figure of Terry’s ghost is visible beside him, and there is no city in sight.

He’s once again on Gaia.

“That was awesome,” Terry says. “You got him.”

Robert suppresses his pleasure at having killed the *sshole sniper, and he shrugs for Terry’s benefit. “I’m not really much for killing, y’know?”

* * *​
Belladonna helps her father hurry down the alley, heading in the direction she guesses the Bureau did not go. She supports her father, his arm over her shoulder, since even with the curative magic he’s still a bit groggy from the poison.

She’s never been in this part of the city before, and has no idea where the alleys are taking them. Her father points in a direction, and she goes. She knows she has to get her father to safety, but she also has to know the truth of what happened.

“How much of it were you controlled for?” she asks.

“Not now,” her father says. “We’ve got to get out of here. I don’t know who we can trust.”

Sirens sound in the distance, and Belladonna keeps running. Finally she slows, her voice ragged with anger.

“Tell me, dada. Did you kill Terry, or was it him? I’m not going anywhere until you answer me.”

Her father shakes free of her support and throws out a hand flamboyantly. “What do you want me to say? Yes, I did! I did because everything I had been told showed that he was a danger to you, to our home. This is what we _do!_ And I asked you! A father should never need his daughter’s permission, but I asked you, I made sure.”

“You can’t kill an innocent man, dada!”

Her father shakes his head. “You will not tell your father what to do. I know there is far more to this city than you suspect, and I will do whatever I have to to keep you safe from-”

The sound of footsteps approaching silence Belladonna and her father, and they slip into the shadows that fill the alley. Belladonna can hear a man shouting, Balthazaar’s voice, the noises of pursuit, of radios calling out in an effort to stop someone. For a moment she thinks she and her father are in danger, but then she feels the faintest sensation, the tactile presence of a desperate, powerful mind looking for help. She knows it is the telepath, and she knows that he is aware of her.

The footsteps are growing close, but they falter, and she can feel the man again trying to take control of her. She cries out for help, the rest of the world a blur as she struggles to resist the compulsion. She hates this man, and is terrified of being under his control again.

Then she hears a gunshot, and she comes to. At first all she can see is a smear of red paint in the air, but then her mind cuts through what her eye is seeing, and she recognizes the telepath, dressed in body armor and adorned with countless weapons and devices. He is standing next to her father, she realizes, and they are grappling, the man trying to keep her father’s gun away.

The two men trade vicious kicks, elbow slams, and powerful short punches, and she sees a side of her father she long suspected, but had never believed. If he had not recently been poisoned, she knows her father would have killed the telepath already, even with just one arm. But he is slow and weakened.

The footsteps of the pursuers are close, but not close enough. For a moment she is gripped with her fear of the telepath and her anger at her father. But she sees the man has nearly turned the gun back at her father, and she cannot wait.

Belladonna steps in, draws her stiletto, and slams the needle-like blade down through the neck of the telepath’s armor. The man cries out and tries to shake free, but he loses his grip on Belladonna’s father. Caught between foes, the man tries to concentrate, to reach into their minds, but he never gets the chance.

Adrien Lee grabs the telepath’s face in his left hand, plants the gun to the man’s temple, and fires three times. The alley rings with the sound of the shots, and only after they fade away does he let go of the man and let his body fall. Belladonna blinks, but feels nothing at the sight of the dead man at her feet.

And then the Belladonna and her father are gone. When the wounded John and Balthazaar reach the body, there is no sign they were ever there.

* * *​
The gunshots have stopped. The sirens are no long swinging through the streets, but have parked and are setting up a perimeter around the crime scene. The smoke is clearing, and ambulances and news crews are on the way.

Nathan shuts the cover of the dumpster, pulls out his cell phone, and dials 911.

“Oh hello. No, I’m not in any danger. I just wanted to report that I just saw someone suspicious depositing a suitcase in a dumpster on St. Louis street, in an alley near the Starbucks. There was talk of a bomb, so I thought you might like to know. . . . Oh, it’s my pleasure. You sound very stressed, but don’t worry. Things should be under control. Well, have a nice day, and don’t forget to send some cops to look into that dumpster. Cheerio.”

He hangs up and turns off his phone. Down the street, he sees a black van open its doors, and Balthazaar, John, Scarpedin, and a few men in black suits scramble in. Nathan makes a mental note to tell the Bureau that there was a telepath, but now he has to go find Jobe Bundholm, give the man a thousand dollars, and tell the news crews what a hero he was. With luck, Mrs. Bundholm will see him on the news at noon.

*End of Ninth Session*


----------



## Sollir Furryfoot

Bump for one of my favorite storyhours


----------



## RangerWickett

_November 1, 2005
7:45 am_

In the swamp outside of Gaian New Orleans, Robert Black and the ghost of Terry Abrams take their best guess of the direction to the French Quarter, where it will hopefully be safer than the marshland. They manage to avoid getting too close to the strange white alligators or the seemingly empty hovels on stilts that stick up between cyprus trees, tinny jazz curling out of their open doors and windows.

Robert and Terry have a lot of time to talk, but they don’t say much of importance. One risked his life to give the other a chance to not die in vain. After that, neither feels like talking would mean much.


_The thrill is gone
The thrill is gone away
The thrill is gone baby
The thrill is gone away
You know you done me wrong baby
And you'll be sorry someday._
- B. B. King, “The Thrill is Gone”​

Robert is finally feeling sunken stones under his feet, a sign that he’s coming out of the floodlands and is nearing the French Quarter. The sun is up but shadows are still long, and Robert is tired. Out of the shadows of the forest, just at the edge of the French Quarter, a cloaked figure appears ten feet in front of Robert. It is the same strange, faceless figure that confronted him and the others less than a day ago when he was last on Gaia. This time it does not hold a lantern, but a book.

_“You have returned,”_ it says, its voice crackling dryly, but with an undertone of deep, squirmy wetness._ “Good.”_

Robert hesitates. “Terry, don’t ask it any questions, but I would like to know if you could do anything to make sure this thing doesn’t kill me.”

It floats less than a foot closer, but as the edge of its robe slides into the water near Robert, the surface begins to ripple and reflect faint images, moving like a dozen inter-spliced films. He can’t make out any single event, but Robert thinks he sees a flash of himself, holding a bloody blade, and of a beautiful Asian woman lying in snow, and of sand blowing across a cave in a storm.

“You got a book,” Robert says, ignoring the visions. “Good for you. I’m not interested in making any deals.”

_“You do not need to give up any secrets to me,”_ it says. _“I ask but a small price. Deliver this to the fallen one, the one who calls himself John.”_

“No deals? Then it’s okay if I ask a question?”

The hooded creature, faceless, bows in an exaggerated nod, but then it holds up a hand sharply. _“However, I do have answers that you would find critical. You,”_ it pauses and points at Terry, _“and you, longwalker.”_

Robert glances at Terry, and the ghost looks seriously tempted, but then he shakes his head. “No, Robert. It’s too dangerous.”

“This guy might know who wanted you dead,” Robert says. “And then, by extension, who tried to kill me. So yeah, um, mysterious black-cloaked figure. Yeah, you. Is that the answer you’re offering?”

The secret-keeper bows slightly, but Robert isn’t sure if it’s nodding or shrugging.

“Okay,” Robert says, “that was pretty ambiguous. I want to know who wanted Terry dead, who’s behind all this. What do you want in exchange? You want me to deliver the book to John?”

The hooded figure shakes its head, and something of its posture makes it look amused. It slides a step closer, raises a skeletal green hand to its hood, and pulls it back.

Robert _knows_, with certainty, and he feels disappointed, like the world has lessened significantly. He also _knows_ that he should not remember what he just saw under the creature’s cloak, but he does.

Tendrils, flesh the color of seaweed, veins thick with violet puss, coiled into the shape of a man, and eyes, countless, strained up between the tentacles, trying to peer out every inch of the body, eyes that are undeniably human in the midst of an alien horror.

The secret-keeper resets its hood, and Robert does his best to pretend that he doesn’t actually remember what he saw, but he feels so weak he doubts he’s convincing. The creature almost curtsies, pressing the book into Robert’s hands, and then it turns and departs slowly.

“Uh . . . yeah,” Robert says, blustering. “Yeah, thanks for nothing. I’ll cover my end of the bargain, which is, y’know, delivering this book to John, but then, uh, yeah, then we’ll be square.”

A small crowd of people appear on the street, walk past the secret-keeper, and when they pass the creature is gone.

“So,” Terry says. “I think what you did was pretty stupid, but you don’t look insane. So, what did it show you?”

“You didn’t see?” Robert asks.

Terry shakes his head. “Do you know who’s responsible?”

Robert frowns. “No. What a gyp.”

“Well, we’re at the French Quarter. It should be safe for me to get us back to Terra.”

Robert nods. Try as he might, he cannot remember what the secret-keeper told him, but he has a sense that he _will_ know, soon enough.

* * *​
Eventually, Nathan regroups with the Bureau, and Robert reappears near Jackson Square. By 9am they’re all gathered in the Bureau office. There’s still much to figure out. 

Robert and Scarpedin explain that Terry’s still around, and that he’s still quite able to travel between the two worlds. Though Terry claims to be mentally exhausted after his second jump in just an hour, he wants to help the Bureau, and Robert and Scarpedin are willing to go along. Nathan is willing as ever, since he had a vision of a person being imperiled on the road to Savannah. John, while he feels a duty to help the Bureau, is a little bitter at Terry, since he feels like he’s being treated as an outsider now since he didn’t go running off stupidly to try to kill Adrien Lee.

That brings them to the hitch. They still didn’t manage to kill Mr. Lee. While Nathan assures them that there was a telepath there controlling the actions of father and daughter, Robert wants to see Mr. Lee for himself, this time under more controlled circumstances. No bombs, for instance. Nathan is confident there will be no bombs. He feels that he’s becoming quite proficient at sensing bombs, what with there being three in the past three days.

They call Adrien Lee and basically strong-arm him into meeting them one last time, this time in a place of their choosing, the very public and outdoors courtyard in front of the New Orleans Aquarium of the Americas, currently closed for repairs. Mr. Lee agrees unhappily, and they set a time, warning the man not to contact the police, or to bring anyone but himself and his daughter.

When that’s set, Robert hands John the book he received from the Secret-Keeper, and relates most of the story. The book confuses John. He says that he received a letter from the owner of a shop here in New Orleans, a letter that said he had a book that would explain some of the questions John had.

“What questions?” Robert asks.

John says not to worry about it. Nathan says this means it has something to do with him being an angel.

But the book John has solves nothing. The first of half the book is written in heiroglyphics, the second part in Greek, with a small section in the back – made of paper that seems to gleam like silk woven with silver – with a form of writing that no one recognizes. John feels a strange familiarity when he sees it.

Scarpedin suggests it might be ancient Sumerian, like out of _Snow Crash_.

This prompts Balthazaar to say that he thinks Scarpedin is too much of a loose cannon, and he insists that Scarpedin not come along when they go to meet Adrien Lee. Scarpedin says stupid things in response to this that do not help his case, and as entertaining as he is, even Terry, who has a soft spot for the man since he saved him, can’t justify bringing along someone so aggressive and, frankly, insane on a low-key mission like that.

Scarpedin agrees, but only if the Bureau springs Whitey from prison. This is easily done, and a few mind-wipes and computer hacks later, Whitey and Scarpedin are in Balthazaar’s van, on the way to a dockhouse Balthazaar owns on the eastern shore of the Mississippi. They suspect that the cops might be looking for the group, so Balthazaar warns Scarpedin to stays put.

After Balthazaar drives off to head to the meeting with Adrien Lee, Scarpedin smiles to his old biker buddy, and together they start looking for ways to trash Balthazaar’s place.

* * *​
At the Aquarium of the Americas, the few people who pass by the courtyard are all talking about the rumored attacks of last night and this morning. Adrien Lee and his daughter Belladonna sit in the middle of the otherwise abandoned plaza, waiting for the Bureau. He is confident being so out in the open because one of his few servants he can trust, Tom “Gris-gris” Jones, claimed to place a powerful spell upon him to keep harm from befalling him this day. He will need it, because there is still so much to do. He needs to find out who betrayed him, and how deep the betrayal goes.

He knows at least that he has his daughter’s loyalty. She will not leave him.

After the Bureau has set up a perimeter of cloaked snipers and observers, Robert, John, Nathan, and Balthazaar arrive. Balthazaar hangs back, wary of threats, while Robert sits down across from Adrien Lee like he’s an old friend. Much banter is exchanged, but no hint is given that Terry’s ghost is still around, nor does Mr. Lee seem to care. Seemingly idle threats from both parties clearly hint at a deep resentment, and in the interest in making sure they’re not going to have to kill each other on account of bad intelligence, Nathan calls for complete honesty.

Robert of course lies smoothly. He suspects Mr. Lee is doing so as well. But he cannot doubt the man’s tone when he finally, bitterly admits that he was mind controlled, and that his actions were not his own. 

Robert relishes the man’s pain, enjoying seeing Adrien Lee weak, but knows that he cannot kill this man. Two days ago, he would have been willing to slit Adrien Lee’s throat anyway, but after what he has seen, Robert doubts the path he has chosen. Still, he wants answers.

Mr. Lee does not know who wanted Terry dead. He was aware that a hit had been requested, but knowing his daughter’s association with Terry, he was cautious. He had initially wanted to bring Terry to the mansion to size him up and determine if he was a threat, then to protect him if he wasn’t. Unfortunately, Mr. Lee says, he was betrayed, and his mind was controlled.

Maurice Boudreaux, Mr. Lee’s brother-in-law and business partner, has fled the country, and given the holes in security that allowed the telepath onto his manor, and the terrorists with their bombs into the mansion party, Mr. Lee has no doubt Maurice was responsible. He suggests they look for him if they want answers, but Robert declines, saying he’s got more important things to do than clean up Mr. Lee’s messes.

Belladonna says she’s sorry, and that she wishes none of this had happened. That wins her no points, especially not with Robert, who heard directly from Terry that Belladonna did not even try to stop her father from killing him.

Even if Robert accepts Mr. Lee’s story that he was mind-controlled, that still leaves his daughter as a murdering bitch.

* * *​
After using magical telekinesis ("Hey Whitey, look what I can do now.") to unlock the door to Balthazaar’s private office from the inside, and after he has stolen Balthazaar’s computer and smashed his desk trying to see if the man keeps vampire porn, Scarpedin turns his sights to the speedboat docked in the boathouse. He and Whitey get on board, toss in the computer and a few other looted items, and hotwire the thing.

Scarpedin doesn’t know how to drive a boat, but he figures the Mississippi is a big river, so he’ll probably have time to figure out how before he crashes the thing.

* * *​
Negotiations begin between Robert and Mr. Lee, reparations of a sort for Terry’s death. Mr. Lee knows in which hospital the lead Canadian terrorist – the man with the mini-gun – is being treated, and he agrees to let them have the man.

“And one more thing,” Robert says. “You know, I won’t even try to lie here. I wish I could kill you, but y’know what, I can’t. But if I’m going to let you live, I want to make sure that you do at least one thing good with your life, since I’m sure you’re going to go back to being a murdering bastard as soon as we’re not around.”

“Would you like etiquette lessons?” Adrien Lee asks.

Robert laughs once. “No. But . . . I want you to build a playground. A place for children to have fun. I’ll be back in a few months, and if I find a new playground that you’re responsible for, you won’t have to die.”

Mr. Lee almost rolls his eyes, but when he sees the intensity in Robert’s gaze, he shrugs, laughs, and says, “Fine. I-”

“Alright,” Robert says, cutting him off. “We’re done here. I never want to hear another word from you, Mr. Lee. Belladonna, I hope I never see your face again. Not that I’m a violent man, of course.”

He smiles, stands up, and leaves. The Lees say nothing as the rest of the group departs.

* * *​
Somewhere in the middle of the Mississippi River, Scarpedin cuts back the engine because he hears something thumping. Curious, he and Whitey track the noise to a metal case in the back of the boat, about six feet long.

“Holy sh*t,” Whitey says. “This dude’s got someone locked in his trunk. Do you think it’s a chick?”

Scarpedin shrugs and opens the case. As soon as daylight shines inside the trunk, a scream fills the air, and the metal trunk fills with flames, covering the body of a flailing person. In just a few seconds, the person has completely incinerated.

Scarpedin comes to the obvious conclusion. “Balthazaar is smuggling vampires across the Mississippi!”

He tries to call Robert, but Robert calls him first, telling him to meet them at a particular hospital, so they can talk to the Canadian ringleader.

“Oh, I dunno,” Scarpedin says. “I might be too much of a loose cannon. Too crazy to come along. You sure you want me?”

“Shut up, Scarpedin,” Robert says. “We’re doing this, and then we’re getting out of New Orleans, so meet us there if you don’t want to get left behind.”

Scarpedin huffs, a little angry. “Fine. But do me a favor. Ask Balthazaar what his computer’s password is, okay?”

A moment passes, and then Robert’s exasperated voice replies, “No.”

“Fine, man,” Scarpedin says, “but you’d better watch out, Robot. You can’t trust Balthazaar. He looks like Kevin Kline, and he’s smuggling vampires.”

Robert hangs up. Scarpedin fumes for a bit.

“Alright, Whitey,” he says, “drop me off at the nearest dock. Then you can keep the boat.”

Whitey nods proudly. “Awesome.”


----------



## RangerWickett

_November 1, 2005
11:00 am_

The group heads to the hospital where the leader of the Canadians is being treated for multiple gunshot wounds, and what appears to be a few longsword slashes. As they’re walking into the hospital, Nathan gets a text message from an undisclosed source, listing an email address and a password, with the note “You’re being watched.” Nathan quickly logs into the account on his laptop, sees one email message with a huge attachment, and decides to wait until he can make sure he’s not going to get a virus.

On the floor with the Canadian, a handful of tough-looking men in casual clothes are waiting – employees of Mr. Lee, they guess – but the men seem to be expecting them, and give them space. Aside from Balthazaar and a Bureau tech, Robert, Scarpedin, John, and Nathan are alone with the Canadian.

Nathan tries to use his psychic powers to sway the man’s will and make him more pliable. It looks like it works, but it could just be the painkillers. They start asking questions.

His name is Matthew Jasons. The Bureau tech verifies that he is associated with a group of Knights of the Round, and that he is wanted for murder by the Canadian branch of the Bureau. Jasons claims that he doesn’t care about the politics, just as long as he and his crew are well paid and well-equipped. He says that his employer had offered, in addition to a sizeable sum of cash, magically-enhanced weapons – infinite ammo clips and such. After this mission, he’d planned to go big time.

He says, groggily, that he and his group of British and Canadian mercenaries were contacted by an Anthony DeVries, the dark-skinned British telepath, who had a job for them in the states. First they were supposed to assassinate a traveling couple in Alaska, but the man managed to get away somehow, so a few days later they were redirected down to the States, to head to New Orleans.

Anthony’s mind control got them across the border in a truck full of weapons, while a few of their group flew ahead, then had a mind-controlled patsy (an airline pilot) veer his plane off course and nearly smash it into the Sears Tower, ensuring that flights would be grounded for a few days, since they needed time to get to New Orleans. They also contacted some Knights of the Round associates of theirs in New Orleans, to set things up before they arrived. Anthony apparently was in contact with someone who provided him intel, because they knew where Terry was the whole way.

Jasons goes through a list of his crew and contacts, all dead or arrested. The Noah Wylie-looking driver who John killed after the car chase, the George Clooney gunman who Robert killed in the hotel, the sniper who Robert killed with the mini-gun, Jasons’ wife the swordswoman who Scarpedin killed with the mini-gun, Anthony deVries who Mr. Lee killed with the pistol in the alleyway; the two French men that Nathan turned in for a bounty were their Knights of the Round contacts here in the city. After the French knights were caught, Jasons says he contacted a group of Rastafarian neo-Voodooists, but he never heard from them because he was shot first. Robert and Scarpedin verify that they took care of those guys.

He doesn’t know why deVries wanted Terry dead, nor for whom deVries was working. The Bureau tech says he’ll look into it, but so far the man looks like he has no record at all. He says he’ll contact the British branch of the Bureau in London for assistance.

To Robert’s disappointment, it does appear that Adrien Lee actually didn’t have anything to do with the assassination.

Balthazaar then fills in a few holes. Under interrogation, Morgan McCool, the Christian Bale look-alike who initially antagonized the group at the Texas Renaissance Festival, said that his employer, “Mr. O,” had been trying to find a way to planeshift, and had somehow learned that Terry possessed that power, and sent people after them. It’s unlikely that the two groups work for the same person, because they were at odds with each other.

Also, at Scarpedin’s prompting, he explains that he had been keeping the vampire in the trunk of of his boat for interrogation, because he found a trail that led from some of the local vampire groups to the neo-Voodoo Rastafarians, involving some sort of ritual they were planning. Robert guesses that it probably had something to do with why they were after Terry’s heart.

Balthazaar says he didn’t really need the vampire anymore, but wonders what Scarpedin was doing that led him to open the trunk in the first place. Scarpedin just laughs.

The group leaves the hospital, and John suggests to Mr. Lee’s thugs that it might be smart to kill Matthew Jasons, to make sure he can’t incriminate Mr. Lee. They then get back into Nathan’s car and Balthazaar’s van, and head back to the main Bureau office, planning to debrief before they leave for Savannah.


----------



## RangerWickett

_November 1, 2005
1:00 pm_

Last preparations are being made for their departure. Robert, Scarpedin, John, and Nathan will take Terry’s ghost to Savannah, to the main Bureau office in America. Balthazaar will be going with them.

They still don’t know why someone wanted Terry dead, nor why crossing between the two worlds of Terra and Gaia has recently been impossible, but when they get to Savannah and get in touch with the bulk of the staff who are on Gaia, they should be able to answer these questions. John is going along out of a sincere desire to help, and because he wants to know the truth of the two worlds. Scarpedin is going because Terry asked him to protect him, and despite the fifteen hundred year gap since he took up the mantle of a knight, he’s still not one to break a promise. Robert won’t say why he’s going.

Nathan is feeling a bit nervous, though. He has never stayed with a group for this long, not since he began following his visions. He still doesn’t feel like his vision from three nights earlier – the demon bowl, the island, and a pursuing figure in the fog – has been resolved, and though he can assume things will not happen as he originally saw because Belladonna will no longer be traveling with them, he’s still worried why he received the vision in the first place.

Earlier this morning he had a vision of rainstorms, a woman getting hit by a car in Alabama, a man hitch-hiking outside Savannah, and a group of angry men beating each other to death in an Irish bar. He’s always taken visions one at a time in the past, but now it feels like things are snowballing. He resolves to find out what’s going on, and quickly, before things get worse.

First step, he thinks, is to find out who is ‘watching him,’ as he was warned by the text message.

He turns on his laptop, updates his antivirus software, downloads the film, logs off the internet, and cautiously watches his computer’s processes as he opens the zip file. It is no malicious program, though, but rather a huge collection of photographs, reports, and evidence listings, all related to an investigation of him and the group he is with. A readme powerpoint presentation guides him through the information. If nothing else, he has to compliment the informant on his graphic design and professionalism.

From what he can see, a group of FBI agents have been called onto the case, an X-Files-esque pair who investigate paranormal crimes, along with a counter-terrorist agent specializing in bomb disarming. They have been watching the group since the Greyhound explosion, have been tracking their cell phone calls, and, if the satellite photo is to be believed, they’ve been staking out the Bureau office here in the French Quarter.

More disturbing is the information Nathan finds about his companions. Scarpedin truly does have a record that falls apart after a few years ago. To Nathan, this seems to prove his claim that he came through time from King Arthur’s court, but to the government this makes him look like a terrorist with a poorly-constructed identity. 

John has a slightly-better crafted alias, but he has ties to a former colonel with CIA contacts who has since become a Catholic father. This makes sense if John is a fallen angel, since he would need someone to create a new identity for him, but again, it makes him look suspiciously like a terrorist to the government.

Terry has a strike against him because people reported him on the Greyhound bus, with a ticket courtesy of the airline, but he never bought a ticket. He also apparently had a juvenile record of car theft in his home of Chicago.

Records of Belladonna and her family show ties to government corruption in New Orleans, though their tracks are covered well. Then there are records of the Canadians, who actually were terrorists, and due to some poor policework, or imaginative guesswork, the FBI seem to have come to the conclusion that Nathan and his group are working with the terrorists.

Nathan’s own dossier makes a note that he comes across looking too clean, with multiple reports filed to the police around the country, but no criminal record except one speeding ticket that Nathan was able to contest and get dropped. There is the unfortunate fact that Nathan has no living relatives, and that he moves around the country and has fairly substantial financial resources.

Nathan’s car was reported helping suspects flee the scene after the car chase and mini-gun fight on the freeway.

Nathan can’t help but be amused. He can see why the FBI might think they’re criminals, especially with a conspiracy theorist heading up the investigation, but thankfully there’s no evidence actually linking them to any crimes.

Then Nathan comes to Robert’s report.

As he reads it, Nathan marvels at how, the few times he had tried to ask Robert about himself, the man had skillfully turned his queries away, so that at the time he had not been curious. But now he sees that Robert has been doing something not too different from Nathan himself. He has traveled around the country and even out of the country, and through the investigation was just recently begun, there are many accounts of missing persons being reported within a week or two of him visiting different places.

Then there’s the eye-witness report and forensic evidence from three nights ago in west Louisiana, where a man was murdered by a hitch-hiker, and then his body ditched in the man’s vehicle which was then set on fire in a remote marsh. The wife and son had spoken to a police sketch artist, and had described the hitch-hiker as resembling Don Cheadle.

The murdered man’s body, even after burning, was autospied to show his throat had been slit by a very sharp knife, perhaps a razor.

Only by chance was Robert linked to the crime. He was seen with Nathan, John, Scarpedin, and Belladonna here in New Orleans, and his picture ended up being seen by the right officer. A warrant has been issued for Robert’s arrest on the charge of first degree murder.

The powerpoint presentation ends with a warning to avoid the police and FBI, and a number to call once Nathan has shaken pursuit. From the sound of it, it looks like the person who provided the information wants a favor in exchange for getting them out of trouble.

Nathan reads all this when Robert is less than twenty feet away, in another room of the Bureau office. He closes the file and ponders the situation.

* * *​
“If we’re gonna go on this trip,” Scarpedin says, “we’re gonna need some money from the Bureau. And I’m going to need to become a Bureau agent.”

“No,” Balthazaar says. “There’s no way you’re becoming an agent.”

John asks, “Why do you need money, Scarpedin?”

Scarpedin shrugs. “I dunno. It’s useful.”

Robert says, “We need to unimpound his motorcycle again. And . . . Scarpedin had this idea. Honestly, I feel stupid even knowing about it.”

“A going away present from Mr. Lee,” Scarpedin says. “I need about thirty bucks. I want to buy a copy of _The Matrix Revolutions_ and leave it on his front door step. DVD version, in full screen.”

Nathan comes in then. “The old ‘burning bag of dogsh*t on the doorstep’ trick. Excellent.”

Robert rolls his eyes. “So we can get Scarpedin’s bike out, using magic or something, and then carry it in the back of Balthazaar’s van. We should keep all the guns in there too.”

Balthazaar says, “You should leave the guns here. What happens if we’re pulled over?”

Robert seems unconcerned. “We can hide them. Or, y’know, just hop over to Gaia, right Terry? Anyway, I spent way too much on that stuff to just-”

Robert flinches a bit and looks over his shoulder. He sees Nathan, who has a hand on Robert’s shoulder.

“Oh, you’re reading my mind,” Robert says. He shakes his shoulder. “Come on man, don’t touch me like that. Y’know, ask before you read someone’s mind.”

Nathan smiles, and Robert notices something odder than usual in the man’s expression. He looks into Nathan’s eyes for a moment, trying to figure out what’s up. He feels almost like he’s being judged by the man. Then Nathan relaxes and nods.

“Sorry chap,” Nathan says. “I just wanted to let everyone know that the police and FBI are waiting not far outside, watching us. I’m going to need to keep a spare seat in my car for a hitch-hiker I’ll be picking up in Alabama this evening, and I think Robert should ride in the car with me. Balthazaar, can we get some sort of illusion to make him look like someone else? The police are looking for the group of us, and I hope to throw them off the trail a bit.”

“We can do that.” Balthazaar nods. “Where’d you find this out?”

Nathan explains, leaving out the part about Robert potentially being a killer. He suggests Scarpedin and John go with Balthazaar, since they can hide in the back of the van where there are no windows. Balthazaar sets about planning the new illusionary aspect of their departure, and Nathan excuses himself.

As he leaves, he looks at Robert one more time, considering what he saw in his reading, and trusting that he has made the right choice.

* * *​
Agent David Dollins looks rather unsurprised when Nathan walks up to the window of his stake-out car. Dollins looks a bit like Jason Biggs, in a crisp suit befitting an FBI agent.

Nathan brushes off his polite, stuffy accent, thinking it’s more appropriate than his normal, more colloquial speech patterns.

“Agent Dollins,” he says. “Do you mind if I talk with you for a minute?”

“Who are you?” Dollins says, his driver’s window cracked slightly.

“I was made aware that you were investigating me in conjunction with some potential criminals. I assure you I’m not hostile, but I wanted to clear things up.”

Dollins cranes his neck, looking embarrassed to have been found out. He nods, squints, and gestures for Nathan to sit in the passenger seat. Nathan gets into the car.

“So,” Dollins says, “what’s your story?”

“Well, I was traveling through Texas to see some sights in Houston, and I had a vision that people would need a ride. You see, I’m psyhic.”

Dollins grins, half-disbelieving, half-giddy.

“Yes,” Nathan continues, “I was told that you believed in the supernatural. I assure you, I had no previous contact with the people to whom I gave a ride, and now that I will be leaving New Orleans, I intend to have no further contact with them. I certainly did not want to leave the city while under investigation, and I was hoping I could provide you a statement now and go on my business, leaving you and yours to your investigation of those I gave a ride to.”

Over the next few minutes, Dollins records Nathan giving a deposition. Nathan does have to lie a bit to distance himself from the events that would demand more investigation, like the car chase or Terry’s death, and he assures Agent Dollins that he is severing his ties with John, Nathan, Robert, Belladonna, and Terry. 

At the end of the deposition, Dollins says, “You’re sure you want to go on record stating that you’re a psychic, and that some of your actions were motivated by visions?”

“Yes,” Nathan says. “Some people say you’d have to be crazy to believe such things, but I know they’re true.”

Dollins sighs and nods, then ends the recording.

Nathan rehearsed this story three times before he came out to talk to Dollins, and if his information is accurate, he should have succeeded in shaking the attention of the FBI. To be certain, though, he wants to provide a gentle psychic nudge to the agent.

As the conversation comes to an end, he reaches out to touch the man’s forearm and thank him. To Nathan’s surprise, Agent Dollins jerks his arm away. Nathan hestitates, and Dollins smiles at him.

“Some people say you’d have to crazy to believe in such things,” Dollins says. He takes a breath and tucks away his recorder. “Thank you Mr. Beckford. We’ll call you if we need anything else.”

Nathan nods politely and gets out of the car. He has a feeling the agent will not be following him.

* * *​
Nathan and a disguised Robert cruise east out of New Orleans, followed by John and Scarpedin in Balthazaar’s dark van. A light rain blurs the sky, and the only radio station not talking about the terrorist attacks of the day before is a blues station. Only Terry enjoys the music.


_Baby please don’t go.
Baby please don’t go.
Baby please don’t go down to New Orleans
You know I love you so,
Baby please don’t go._
- “Baby Please Don’t Go,” Muddy Waters​

In the passenger seat of Balthazaar’s van, Scarpedin pulls out his cell phone and starts dialing a number.

“Who are you calling?” Balthazaar asks.

“Our psychic said we were being followed by the cops,” Scarpedin answers. “I’m gonna call Crimestoppers and report that I saw myself heading north, so they won’t follow us.”

“Don’t be stupid,” John says from the back. “They can trace those calls, you know. If they actually are looking for us, you’ll be leading them to us.”

Scarpedin laughs. “Come on, it’ll be funny. I can tell them about Balthazaar smuggling vampires.”

Scarpedin presses the send button on his phone and puts it to his ear. Meanwhile Balthazaar rolls down his driver-side window.

After a moment listening to his phone ring, Scarpedin says, “Hello, this is Agent Black of the Department of Homeland Security. I’d like to report a crime. I-”

He curses as Balthazaar reaches over and yanks the phone from his hand and tosses it out the window.

“Sh*t, man,” Scarpedin says. “You . . . you bastard. Turn around and get my phone back.”

Balthazaar looks out the side mirror. “Someone just ran over it. I told you not to call that number.”

Scarpedin fumes, sits back in his seat, then starts complaining to Terry’s ghost. Since only the wearer of the bracelet – Scarpedin – can hear Terry’s replies, the conversation truly sounds like the ravings of a madman. He ends up sullenly looking out the window as they head out of Louisiana, while John smokes in the back and asks Balthazaar questions about what they’ll be doing in Savannah.

“Who’s in charge of the Bureau office in Savannah?” John asks.

Scarpedin rolls down his window to clear out the cigarette smoke, even as the rain occasionally gets inside.

“Normally it’s the Chief,” Balthazaar says, “but right now he’s stuck on Gaia. The ranking officer is Jenny Windgrave, a field agent.”

“Hm,” John says. “I want to talk to her.”

“I can give you her number,” Balthazaar says. “912-555-9575.”

John says, “I gave my phone back to Raine.”

Balthazaar says, “Scarpedin?”

Scarpedin looks over from the window, amused. “Oh, you want me to make a phone call? Hm, I wonder why that might be difficult.”

“Oh, yes,” Balthazaar says. “There’s no use complaining.”

Scarpedin sighs. “Here, give me yours. I’ll pass it back to John.”

Balthazaar pulls his phone out of his coat pocket and hands it to Scarpedin. Scarpedin dials a number quickly, presses send, then promptly throws the phone out the window. It lands by the side of the road.

“Boy,” Scarpedin says, “this is going to be a fun trip. Don’t you think so Terry? Yeah, Terry, that sounds like a good idea.”

Scarpedin smiles widely to Balthazaar, then leans back in his chair and listens to the music as he drifts off to sleep.

It’s seven hundred miles to Savannah. The long road stretches out before them.


_*End Tenth Session, and End of Act One*_


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Eleven, part one*

It’s late in the evening, and rain is pouring intensely as the two cars approach Savannah, Georgia. They’re the only cars on the road. It’s been a long trip, and eventually Robert got tired of the quiet in Nathan’s BMW, so now he’s in Balthazaar’s van with Scarpedin. John is in Nathan’s car, a few hundred feet ahead of the van.

John spots someone on the side of the interstate, standing placidly in the rain, holding something the size of a grapefruit in his left hand, and with his right hand extended, thumb out for a ride. Nathan suggests stopping to pick him up, but when they get closer John recognizes the man – a Japanese man in a soaked business suit, holding a huge toad; it must be Wiji-wiji.

“Just keep going,” John says wearily. “Trust me.”

Wiji-wiji smiles and waves at them as they go past, then holds out his hand for the next vehicle.

Scarpedin spots someone on the side of the interstate, and he wonders if they’re about to get attacked. Then he recognizes Wiji-wiji, and yells for Robert. Robert looks and immediately tells Balthazaar to stop. The van pulls to a wary stop, and Robert opens the sliding door on the side.

“Goingu my way?” Wiji-wiji asks.


_ Rain, rain, rain, a wicked rain
Falling from the sky
Down, down, down, pouring down
Upon the night.
Well there's just one chance in a million
That someday we'll make it out alive._
“Wicked Rain” – Los Lobos​

“Yo, Weej!” Robert says.

Despite not trusting the Japanese fey at all, and despite realizing that the toad in Wiji-wiji’s hand is a dried, dessicated corpse, he waves for the man to get inside.

However, a heated debate breaks out among Robert, Scarpedin, and Balthazaar about who the man is (a Japanese fey), how they know him (he gave us turkey legs and golfed with us at a Ren Fest), and why they trust him now (oh, we don’t, but he’s still fun). Wiji-wiji waits calmly in the rain, a smile on his face the whole time, until finally an agreement is reached.

“Okay,” Scarpedin says, “you can come with us, but you gotta leave the frog.”

Wiji-wiji nods in understanding, and he sets the frog down on the side of the road. It suddenly swells with life, as if the rain had fixed its dehydrated (and dead) state, and it hops away into the night.

“Shank you werry much,” he says. “Rucky you guys came arong.”

He gets into the van, glances at Robert and Scarpedin, and for a moment his smile falters. But then it comes back as full as ever. Robert notes this, but says nothing and slides the side door shut. They drive off.

* * *​
The Savannah office is the main branch of the Bureau for the Management of Magicks in the United States. Most of its facilities are on Gaia, however, and the current staff on Terra numbers only about thirty. Most of their analysts and diviners are on Gaia, and they have been out of touch for two weeks now.

Jenny Windgrave is the third highest-ranking Knight of the American branch, a field agent, not trained to direct the logistics of a nation-wide police force devoted to concealing the existence of magic to the general public. Her greatest advantage so far has been that most magic-users haven’t wanted to press their luck yet, so she has been able to respond to the few incidents, even though the Bureau’s response time is much slower than usual. The Bureau is not in its finest form, Jenny is stressed, and while most of the staff like her, she has never been in a command role before, and she knows they don’t quite respect her authority.

She needs these next few hours to go well. The people who helped the New Orleans office get on its feet just pulled into the parking garage, and judging by the report Raine filed, they don’t respect authority much either. She _needs_ their help, so she has to make sure they feel comfortable and that they have a reason to help her.

The first signs don’t look so good. She’s watching and listening to a live security camera view of events in the foyer of the Bureau’s office building. The group has just arrived, and already they’re balking at having to write their names in the book at the front desk. Jenny says a quick prayer, then cocks her head, smiles to her ghost, and says she’d appreciate his help too.

* * *​
The discussion from the parking deck to the sign-in desk was heated. John wants nothing to do with Wiji-wiji, suspecting he might have been responsible for them getting attacked in the first place. Scarpedin is nervous around the fey, but is getting a kick out of his ‘Engrish.’ Robert says that he feels like Wiji helped them, and that while he doesn’t trust the man, they can safely keep him around to see what he has to say, because if none of them trust him, he won’t catch them off guard. Of course, what Robert _doesn’t_ say is that he wants to find out if Wiji-wiji has some sort of sway over him on account of the ‘gift’ of the turkey leg back at the Ren Fest.

Nathan doesn’t like Wiji-wiji much. When he tried to read the man and see if he was a danger, he just got a head-ache, and flashes of a strange, bleak landscape where fey danced and wailed in the air. Balthazaar says that, if nothing else, the Bureau will want to know what he wants.

The whole time, Wiji-wiji smiles, and when Robert finally just asks him what he wants, he smiles even wider and bows in appreciation.

“I have a fava’ to asku you, Robato-_san. Demo,_ I do not wanchu say what in puburicu. _Sumimasen_. It is nothing dangerousu, though.”

“Is it okay if the Bureau asks you a few questions?” Robert asks.

“_Hai_.”

Robert says, “See, he’ll behave. Now hopefully they’ll have a few board games to keep him occupied while we’re here.”

“_Scrabburu_,” Wiji-wiji says. “Werry good gamu.”

They head into the Bureau office building and give the front guard a bit of a hard time. John is disappointed that there’s not more security, but Balthazaar assures them it’s there, just not apparent. Eventually they stop causing a hassle just for the sake of causing a hassle, and they sign in, take the elevator, and go to meet the acting head of the American Bureau, Jenny Windgrave.

The elevator doors open, revealing a welcome group. Jenny Windgrave, a gorgeous Native American woman in a white suit (Scarpedin remembers seeing an interview with the voice actress who played Pocahontas in the Disney movie – Irene Bedard – and thinks she looks like her) greets them, then introduces them to her lead staff – Mr. Luckshore, a data analyst and expert on magic; Mr. Fitzgerald, a Warka (sorta like an African orc) who is in charge of field ops; and a man she simply calls Tagin, their computer specialist.

Jenny chats with Balthazaar for a moment, saying it’s good to see him again, then invites the rest of them to meet with her in a conference room, where they can get them some refreshments and get down to business. Wiji-wiji has mysteriously begun to refuse to speak in anything but Japanese, so she calls for a translator and some fey specialists to make sure they don’t do anything that could offend a potentially powerful kami.

Jenny is friendly and charming, but not quite the leader type the group expected. However, she seems to have a handle on the situation, and after just talking to them for a few minutes she has a good sense of what they are interested in, and what she needs to offer them to get their help. She talks to Terry with her own ghost as an intermediary, and treats him as a person, not a tool. She has a bit of a hard time with John, who seems to be acting recalcitrant as if he’s on a crusade of bitterness, so she doesn’t waste much effort trying to sway him.

From John’s responses, Jenny can tell he doesn’t like the idea of the Bureau at all. She can sympathize with him – when she first started she wasn’t comfortable with the idea of keeping secrets, erasing memories, and spreading lies – but she’s seen the danger of magic, and she knows that the Bureau is the best group of people to handle it. She just hopes John will change his mind when he has more experience with magic.

Jenny tells the group that the Bureau will devote its resources to getting to the bottom of who was after Terry and the rest of them, and how it ties in with the separation of Terra and Gaia. She offers Nathan aid from the Bureau to help him resolve his visions. She promises that, once they can get in touch with the office on Gaia and get the necessary people they’ll be able to clear any unwanted police attention from the group’s records, which pleases Robert and Scarpedin. She also offers John the services of the archives division to translate the two books he got from the secret keeper in New Orleans. Then she asks if they need anything else.

“Sort of a longshot,” Robert says, “but can you bring Terry back from the dead?”

Jenny shakes her head sadly. “Not after this long. A few healers have the power to possibly bring someone back who died within a few minutes, maybe even a day, but the toll on them is great. No magic can bring someone back after longer than that.”

“Sh*t,” Scarpedin says, “what about the Holy Grail?”

Jenny smiles at the quaint story. “It’s just a legend, a metaphor for healing and a restoration of the old days, just like Excalibur was a metaphor for the masculine authority of the king. Yes, according to some rumors the grail has that power, but the Bureau is a over hundred years old, and we have never found any conclusive evidence for its existence.”

“Excalibur was real,” Scarpedin says. He holds out his hand. “It was about, oh, yay long, or yay long when it was activated. Normally it was just, y’know, a hilt, but when Arthur used it, it had a whole sword of sunlight. Made killing vampires a hell of a lot easier.”

Jenny blinks, then smiles.

“What is it?” Robert asks.

“I was just reminded of a friend of mine,” Jenny says. “He was a little insane too.”

* * *​
Nathan excuses himself, saying he has to pursue a vision he had, and after making sure Jenny doesn’t need them, John goes with him. Robert, Scarpedin, Balthazaar, and Wiji-wiji stay at the Bureau office with Jenny as she makes the necessary arrangements. Terry needs about a day to attune to the area so he can planeshift to Gaia, and Jenny is confident she’ll have enough resources available by then.

She has no idea whether the Bureau on Gaia will be in any condition to help immediately. The last reports before the two worlds were cut off, over two weeks ago, was that the main office had been attacked, so Jenny intends to go in with a half-dozen field agents, heavily-armed with full defenses. The Bureau office on Gaia is huge, scattered at the base of a giant magical tree, and in some parts extending to its boughs, so it might be a bit of a grind to get through if things are in a bad state.

Different people play Scrabble with Wiji-wiji, and Robert fills Jenny in on the story with the Japanese man. He can’t help but like Jenny. She’s attractive, has a good sense of humor about the fact that magic is real and she has to deal with it for a living, and still seems like a normal person, not obsessed with her work. Still, she looks stressed, and Robert wonders if he could help her take a load off her shoulders. After a long conversation, apparently about business, but with an undertone of growing fondness, Jenny excuses herself to take some calls coming in from other offices.

Scarpedin chooses that moment to come over and tell Robert he’s taking too long, and that he’s being timid. When Jenny comes back, Scarpedin winks to Robert, then turns to Jenny.

“Hey, um, where’s the coffee room?” he asks.

She points down the hall and gives directions.

“Y’know, I’m not sure I’ll be able to find that, and I don’t make coffee too much. Could you show me the way?”

Jenny is a little put off, but she nods and agrees. She tells Robert she’ll be right back.

Two minutes later, Scarpedin comes back in, looking a little pissed. A minute later Jenny returns, looking exasperated. Robert overhears her telling some aide to hurry up and get the group a hotel room so they can get out of the office. Robert heads over, not quite sure if he’s concerned, or if he’s taking advantage of an opening.

Quietly he asks, “What’s wrong?”

Jenny looks away. “Your friend, Scarpedin. . . .” She bites her lip. “He’s a bit of an *sshole.”

Robert grimaces. “What did he do?”

She gestures for him to follow, apparently not wanting to bring it up in public. She takes him to the staff lounge on the other side of the office floor. She starts to explain how Scarpedin was a bit rudely forceful as he made a pass at her, and Robert listens as he casually closes the door to the lounge.

Then, in his smoothest voice ever, Robert says, “No, don’t tell me. Show me what he did. Here, ah, . . . I’ll be you, okay, and you do whatever it was that Scarpedin did, okay?”

Jenny’s demeanor changes suddenly from irritated to amused. She grins a bit, then uses her hands to make sure Robert’s in the right position as she comes up behind him and turns him to face her. Pressing herself against him, Jenny leans in and kisses him. That’s where the reenactment breaks down, and they kiss for nearly a minute.

Jenny pulls away, looking a bit embarrassed. Robert smiles, feigning embarrassment too.

“Um, Jenny,” he says, holding up a hand to keep her from leaving, “I think you have my gum.”

Jenny stops, nods, and pulls Robert’s gum out of her mouth. She smoothly hands it back to him, then readjusts her suit as she leaves the room.


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Eleven, part two*

Bonnie Bell accepts the flirtatious grins of the patrons of Gallogly's Tavern, and just as readily accepts the drinks they offer to buy her. Whiskey is her drink of choice, and she has long since come to terms with being the epitome of many stereotypes of Irish women. She's a short, wiry, Catholic woman with red-brown hair and a great love of whiskey. Mike Gallogly, owner of Gallogly's Tavern, where Bonnie has worked the past few months as a bouncer, tells her she looks like Emily Mortimer (from Formula 51).

She loves Gallogly as a boss -- he has helped her get on her feet since she moved to Savannah from North Ireland -- but she has been feeling the urge to start moving again. It doesn't help that, ever since he saw what he thought was a tattoo of a cross on the small of her back, Gallogly has kept joking that she's an embarrassment to the Catholic church because she doesn't have any children yet. Gallogly doesn't know the truth about Bonnie, and she'd like him not to ever have to find out.

She's been wanting to bring up leaving the tavern for a few days now, but she keeps on getting sidetracked by the drinks the patrons offer her. Plus there's that little issue of the ghost causing all the ruckus.

Almost on cue, she hears a scuffle breaking out at the far end of the tavern. One college boy has started yelling at one of his friends, only he's not speaking English (or Gaelic, Bonnie thinks). It's still early in the night, though, so the outburst only lasts a minute. The ghost usually isn't strong until after midnight.

The door to the tavern opens, and an odd trio walk in. One is a well-dressed blonde man, another a middle-aged woman in a black suit and sunglasses, and the third a dark-haired man in cheap, dark clothes, smoking a cigarette. Bonnie downs her fourth glass of whiskey this night while she listens to the group talking to Gallogly. To her dismay, she realizes the blonde man is English. She forces herself to set aside her ingrained disdain for the English, and instead focuses on what they're asking.

"I have a reason to believe, sir," the English man says, "that one of your customers is going to be beaten to death this evening in a bar brawl."

Gallogly laughs. "You're a little skinny to be picking a fight here. Did McOji send you?"

"No sir. My name is Nathaniel Beckford. I'm a psychic."

The dark-haired man next to the Englishman snorts in amusement, and the woman in black gives Nathan a look of disapproval. Bonnie, intrigued, walks over to them and quietly clears her throat.

"Excuse me. You gents here from the Bureau?"

The smoking man half-sneers. "You work for the Bureau?"

"No," Bonnie says, slightly offended. "Do you?"

"No," says the man, blowing smoke.

"I do," says the woman in black. "Elizabeth Cavers, Bureau investigator."

Bonnie waits for a second, then glances at Nathan, the Englishman.

"Oh," Nathan says, "no, I don't work for them."

"Alright then," Bonnie says.

"I say, are you Irish?" Nathan says. "It's a pleasure to meet someone else from Britain."

Bonnie again is slightly offended. "I'm from the other Ireland."

"Oh," Nathan says. "Well, I have no problem with that. Are you a patron here?"

"I'm the bouncer," Bonnie says proudly.

She stands as tall as her 5'8" frame will let her. The smoking man snorts again.

"You got a f*ckin' problem?" she asks.

The man rolls his eyes and walks away. Nathan apologizes and explains the situation. He and his companions have just come into Savannah, and while some of them are away working with the Bureau on some other business, Nathan and John came to the tavern because Nathan had a vision there would be danger tonight. Agent Cavers is there to help them locate what might be causing the problem.

"Oh," Bonnie says, "you mean the ghost? Yeah, we were wondering about that."

"Indeed?" Nathan says. "This might be easier than I suspected."

* * *​
"I just spoke to the translator who was speaking with Wiji-wiji," Jenny says. "She says your fey friend wants to go out."

Robert sighs. "What time is it?"

"Nearly eleven," Jenny says. "I hope you understand if we're hesitant about letting the group of you run around the city. Terry is our only way to get in touch with the rest of the Bureau, and you were attacked in the last city you stopped at."

Robert almost rolls his eyes. "Don't remind me. Alright, hey Weej, what do you want to go out for?"

Wiji-wiji, still refusing to speak English, looks over from his game of Scrabble with Scarpedin. He smiles, raises a hand to the air like he's toasting, and shouts, "_Kanpai!_"

“Thanks,” Robert says, weary. “That really helps man.”

Scarpedin suggests, “We should go buy him some more games. This game sucks.”

“You just don’t know how to spell,” Robert says.

Scarpedin is speechless with anger for a second, then seethes out, “They _changed_ how you _spell_ things since when I grew up. Do you know how we spelled ‘motorcycle’ back in Camelot?”

“No,” Robert says.

“That’s right,” Scarpedin says. “You don’t. So let’s go get something like a Playstation or something. Oh, hold on, Terry has a suggestion. Hold on. He says . . . alright, nevermind what he says.”

Robert just looks blankly at Scarpedin for a moment. Then he gestures for Jenny to lead the way. 

“Care to come with us?”

“I’ll drive,” she says.

* * *​
The seventeenth challenger rushes at her, and Bonnie just cracks the man in his face, dropping him to the floor of the tavern before he can even swing at Bonnie. Catching her breath, she looks around the assorted unconscious patrons. She discreetly pulls her gloves tighter, hoping no one realizes she’s wearing cold iron brass knuckles under the leather.

“Well,” Gallogly says from behind the bar, “you just knocked out all my customers. What now?”

Elizabeth, the female man in black, has a hand up, concentrating on some sort of spell to keep the ghost from possessing her, the Englishman Nathan, or the smoking John.

Nathan, the Englishman, says, “The ghost is trying to possess Bonnie now, but it’s not able to. Are you a magic-user?”

Bonnie grins and shakes her head. She looks around, trying to address the Indian ghost that’s been causing all these problems. “Hey, ghost, I know ye’re pissed. You were killed by the English a couple a hundred a years ago, and y’know, my people have been getting killed by the English just as long as yours, or longer. So why don’t you just tell me what you want, and stop possessing people and making me knock you out, alright?”

Nathan shakes his head. “I sense that he just wants to kill an Englishman.”

Bonnie turns and smiles jokingly at him. “Well, are you up for it?”

Nathan considers for a second, then shakes his head. The Bureau woman suddenly looks in the direction of Gallogly, looking dismayed.

“The ghost is heading for the bartender,” she says.

Bonnie points at her boss and shouts, “Knock yourself out, right now!”

“What?” Gallogly says. “Why would I-?”

Bonnie starts to advance on her boss, clenching her hands into fists. Gallogly gives a short yelp and starts punching himself, to little effect.

Just then, a new patron walks into the tavern. He’s tall, dressed in brown leather, and kinda ugly, looking like Richard Moll. For a moment everyone waits, expecting him to get possessed and start attacking Bonnie, but the man instead takes a look at the pile of bodies, then at Bonnie, Nathan, John, and the woman in black, and then he turns around and leaves.

“That’s odd,” Elizabeth says, “the ghost seemed like it hesitated. It’s vanished now. Which means . . . I can track it.”

Bonnie waits nervously as the Bureau woman walks across the room, guided by some magic, heading toward a wall of antiques and southern or Irish paraphenalia. For a moment one of the patrons starts to move, regaining consciousness, and Bonnie lightly kicks him in the head to knock him out again. Meanwhile, John heads outside after the strange man.

“Gallogly,” Bonnie says, “you can stop hitting yourself.”

“Oh thank goodness,” says her boss.

The woman in black, points at the wall. “Here it is. This pipe.”

Bonnie and Nathan go over to examine an old Indian pipe. It was a recent peace offering from Gallogly’s Tavern’s rival: McOji’s Irish Pub. 

“That bastard McOji,” says Gallogly. “He tried to curse my bar. Well, we’ll get back at him.”

The Bureau agent says, “You’ll do no such thing, and don’t make me _force_ you. You’re going to give us this pipe, and we’re going to exorcise the ghost so it can pass on instead of being tormented.”

Bonnie asks, “So who was that guy who just walked in?”

John walks in just then. “He drove off in an old beat up Taurus. I got the license plate number. You guys figure out what’s going on in here finally?”

“Yes,” Nathan says. “And it was relatively painless as well. One of my easier visions.”

Someone groans from the pile of bodies.


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Eleven, part three*

It's like having two squabbling kids in the backseat. Wiji-wiji is refusing to speak (or at least speak in English), and Scarpedin is talking to his imaginary friend, Terry. Jenny has parked at a Wal-Mart, and Robert goes in to buy games to keep Wiji-wiji entertained. Jenny stays in the car, listening with the aid of a translation charm, but pretending not to be paying too much attention. She knows that if the Chief were in charge, he would never have found himself in the position of a babysitter.

Of course, the Chief probably would just have arrested the group and seized the bracelet Terry is bonded to, rather than put up with the sort of smart-ass remarks she's coming to expect from these folks. Even Robert, who puts on a good show of being charming, suave, and polite, is not quite smooth enough to hide his true feelings. Jenny's had a lot of experience dealing with criminals and liars, and it bothers her a little that Robert is the best liar she has met.

It bothers her even more than she's rather attracted to him.

From the back seat, Scarpedin begins cursing. Jenny turns to see what the commotion is, just in time to witness what resembles a moment out of a Jackie Chan movie. Scarpedin has apparently gotten fed up with something, and is trying to grab Wiji-wiji, and in response the fey unbuckles Scarpedin's seatbelt, wraps it around the man's arms, rebuckles the belt into the middle seat lock, then unbuckles his own seatbelt, slips out of the harness, throws it across Scarpedin's head and around his neck, then buckles it into Scarpedin's belt lock.

The end result is that Scarpedin is pinned with his arms stuck to his chest. Wiji-wiji grins to Jenny, leans back in his seat, and pulls out some sort of hand-held electronic device. She hears sounds of a video game coming from it.

"Are you alright?" she asks Scarpedin.

Head pinned to the back seat, Scarpedin nods weakly. "Yeah, I'm cool."

A little later, Jenny gets a call from Agent Cavers, who went out with Nathan and John to the Irish pub. Cavers tells Jenny that they’ve solved the problem at the tavern – it was coming up on the anniversary of the death of a ghost who was stuck in a pipe, but they’re going to exorcise the ghost. They should have that finished in less than ten minutes, with another half hour or so to adjust the memories of the tavern staff and customers. Jenny gives her approval on this.

However, there’s another issue they’re going to investigate before the night’s out. A strange man came into the pub and left as soon as he got a look at Cavers, which makes her think the man might be trying to hide from the Bureau.

At this point in the conversation Cavers hesitates, saying Nathan just slumped over. A moment later Nathan wakes up, saying he’s had a horrible vision of a woman being kidnapped and killed. After a moment of thought, Jenny tells Cavers to call in one of their freelancers – Ian Sunstrom – and work with him to handle the situation. They’re so short-staffed that at this time of night they’re going to need to call in some outside help.

Cavers asks if Jenny plans to come in on this herself, but Jenny plans to keep the group split up, so in case anyone’s trying to target them, they’ll have to split their resources. But she does plan to head back to the Bureau office, where things are more secure. Jenny ends the call, just as she sees Robert coming out of the Wal-Mart.

Wiji-wiji leans forward and smiles at Jenny. He speaks in Japanese, and makes a modest request. Jenny hides her nervousness, and nods slightly in agreement so Scarpedin won’t realize she knows what the fey is saying.

Robert rolls a cart up to the door, full of bags full of games. Jenny opens the trunk, then gets out to help Robert stow all his purchases.

“So Jenny,” Robert asks, “did everything go smooth while I was away? Scarpedin didn’t give you a hard time, did he?”

“No,” Jenny says. “Hey Robert, would you be willing to spend a few more hours out, to help me relax? I know a club not too far from here, and there’s an arcade there to keep these two occupied.”

“Sure,” Robert says. Then he pauses and sighs. “Is it a bad sign that I’m completely alright with going out clubbing with a Japanese fairy and the ghost of my dead friend?”

Jenny shrugs. “You learn to cope. You’re also going out because an attractive lady asked you to go with her.”

Robert nods in understanding.

* * *​
After some divinations, investigative police work, and some hunches, Nathan determines that the woman he saw in his vision is going to be killed at Bonaventure Cemetery, the larger of the two major historical cemeteries in Savannah. It’s only a few blocks from the Bureau office, so they decide to link up with a bit more aid and then investigate.

Despite Agent Cavers’s statement that she needs to ‘clean’ the scene at Gallogly’s Tavern, Nathan insists that they bring along Bonnie. He has a hunch that his visions here in Savannah are related, and he vaguely recalls having another vision with Bonnie previously. He thinks she’ll be useful. When Cavers admits that they’re going to be getting help from a freelancer anyway – one Ian Sunstrom – that clinches it for Nathan. They bring Bonnie along.

What surprises Nathan the most is Bonnie’s eagerness to come. All she stops for is to fill up two flasks with whiskey, and then she bids her boss goodnight.

On the road, Bonnie asks what brought them to Savannah, but John warns Nathan not to go spreading secret information. Bonnie seems a bit too buzzed to worry about it, though, and she drops the questions.

Outside the Bureau parking deck, they meet their freelance help, Ian Sunstrom. He’s tall, with long red hair, a smug expression, and a long black trenchcoat. Nathan and John confer for a moment, and decide he looks like Eric Stoltz. Nathan does a quick reading while they’re getting out of the car to greet the man, and he sees a bleak humanoid shape hovering behind Ian – his ghost. Nathan concentrates, and the darkness resolves into an aged man dressed as an Italian cardinal from centuries ago. The ghost, worryingly, looks like Peter Cushing, who played Grand Moff Tarkin in Star Wars.

Then the ghost sneers directly at Nathan, and Nathan’s reading is interrupted as a fierce head-ache strikes him.

“Sorry about that,” Ian says. He has a rugged southern accent. “George gets a little pissy around strangers unless they’re good Christians.”

“George?” Bonnie asks.

Ian gestures to the empty space beside him. “Giovanni. My ghost.”

“I’m Christian,” Nathan says defensively. “Your ghost has no reason to dislike me.”

Ian asks, “You Catholic, Pip?”

“No,” Nathan says.

Ian smiles. “Well, then he hates you.”

Bonnie says, “I’m Catholic.”

Ian shakes his head. “Do you have a c*ck?”

Bonnie scoffs and shakes her head.

“You’re talking,” Ian says, “and you’re a woman, so he hates you. Don’t worry though, he hates me more.”

Ian lifts the pendant around his neck – an ankh.

John clears his throat. “This is real fun, but what are you here to do?”

Agent Cavers says, “Mr. Sunstrom, you’re to assist us on a potentially dangerous mission. Compensation will be as usual, or double if combat is involved. You understand of course that you’re to be discreet.”

“Yup,” Ian says. He grins to the others. “A thousand bucks for one night’s work, and they don’t arrest me for shootin’ people. Best job I ever had.”

While Nathan and John exchange concerned looks, Ian opens the driver’s door of his car, moves a shotgun out of the way into the passenger seat, then gets in. He starts his car and looks expectantly to Nathan.

“C’mon Pip, I don’t charge by the hour.”

A minute later, the two cars are on the way to Bonaventure Cemetery.


----------



## Sollir Furryfoot

Almost caught up


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Eleven, part four*

They’ve been at the club for five minutes, and Jenny’s not sure who’s playing who. Between being charming and inquisitive about each other’s lives, Jenny and Robert intermittently receive phone calls from the group they’ve sent to the cemetery, keeping them aprised. In their conversations, Jenny notices that Robert doesn’t talk about himself much, but he’s very interested in her. Or at least so he appears. She wonders if he realizes she’s trying to figure him out as much as he is her.

“They just reached the cemetery gates,” Jenny says, putting away her phone. “There’s an empty cop car there, and an Oldsmobile which looks abandoned. Nathan did a reading, but didn’t find-”

She is interrupted by vulgar shouts from the direction of the arcade.

“Yeah, f*cker! Take that. Feel the wrath of Kong, b*tch! I crush Gojira and stomp on your ass!”

Robert and Jenny look over to see Scarpedin and Wiji-wiji engaged in a fierce game of _Rampage_. Despite herself, Jenny can’t look away. She hasn’t played the game in a decade at least, but she recognizes that something special is going on. This is the most amazing game of Rampage she has ever seen, and over the course of two minutes she witnesses an epic duel between the giant ape and the giant lizard. Finally, Scarpedin triumphs.

“High score, b*tch!” the man shouts. He kicks the game and spins, hands in the air as he woots victoriously.

“So Jenny,” Robert says nonchalantly, “where’d you go to school?”

Jenny is still focused on the video game. “You do realize it should be nearly impossible to win a game against a fey who is specifically attuned to games, right?”

“I beat him in jacks and golf,” Robert says.

“Hm,” Jenny says. “That’s suspicious.”

Jenny’s phone rings. It’s a call from another Bureau branch out west. She smiles with mild embarrassment, then excuses herself to answer it. This leaves Robert alone for a few moments with a drink he hasn’t touched.

Wiji-wiji sidles over and slumps into the chair where Jenny was.

“You wanna pray a gamu?”

“Oh,” Robert says. “You’re speaking English now?”

“_Hai_, for you, Roboto-_san_. I have an importanto requesto.”

Robert glances in the direction of Jenny. She’s out of sight, beyond the thick of the club’s crowd. Scarpedin’s away trying to woo some chick with talk of his Rampage exploits. Robert runs his tongue across his teeth, considers, then leans in.

“What do I have to do?”

“Oh, no,” Wiji-wiji says. “Not requiredo. A requesto. Werry importanto, _demo_ also _himitsu desu._ Secretto, _hai_?”

“Okay,” Robert says. “Just between the two of us. What are you up to?”

Wiji-wiji adjusts his suit and tie as he answers. “In ozha world, on Gaia, Bureau has . . . _anno_, how you say, prisona. My Engrish no too good.”

“Of course not,” Robert says. “Half the time you sound like you’re speaking Spanish. I can hardly understand you. Now tell me what’s the problem with this prisoner.”

“His namu is O-Ragumaro. Ancient Japanese sorcerer. Bonded with _oni_, demon _desu_. I must speaku with him. And you, _tomodachi_, must come too. You must pray Go.”

Robert is unfazed. “You want me to play a game of Go with a Japanese sorcerer bonded to a demon, in a Bureau prison on Gaia. Um . . . why?”

“_Sore wa himitsu desu_. If you knew, Roboto-_san_, it would ruin everyzhing. _Totemo sumimasen_.”

“You can’t tell me? Are you going to let this guy go? I don’t know if that’ll go over so well. In fact, I’m not so eager to stay involved with all this crazy, you know, magic stuff. I’m going over to Gaia to make sure these Bureau folks can handle this, and then I’m handing them Terry and leaving, okay?”

Robert pauses.

“Unless,” he says, “you want to tell me _why_ you want this favor. I’m sorry, but Wiji-wiji, I’m getting tired of all these secrets.”

“_Hai, wakarimasu, demo_ it must remain secret. If I could exprain, I would, _demo dekimasen._ I cannot terru you.”

“Then I’ve got no reason to help you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a girl coming back soon.” Robert smiles proudly, then falters. “I hope.”

Wiji-wiji frowns, then he snaps a hand at a waitress. The woman comes over, and Wiji-wiji orders three glasses of Kirin beer, and three shots of sake. As the woman heads off to get the order, Wiji-wiji smiles.

“We pray gamu.”

Robert listens.

“I wirru have three grassu of _biru_. _Anata wa_ three shot grassu of _sake ga arimasu._ Drinking game, _hai?_”

“We’re gonna have a drinking game?” Robert chuckles. “If I win, you tell me what this secret is, and if you win. . . ?”

“You take me to see O-Ragumaro.”

“Okay,” Robert says. “What are the rules? I’ve still got to decide.”

Wiji-wiji explains the rules. Robert will have three shots, Wiji-wiji will have three full glasses of beer. Wiji-wiji gets a head start, and Robert cannot touch any of his shots until Wiji-wiji has finished his first beer. Also, to make sure neither of them try to disrupt the game, neither Wiji-wiji nor Robert can touch each other’s glasses. Finally, each of them is only allowed to use one hand at a time, so they can’t try to chug two drinks at once.

Robert considers this for a bit, looking for some sort of trick or loophole. He figures that unless Wiji-wiji has some sort of magic trick to let him chug 48 ounces of beer before Robert can down 4.5 ounces of sake, it should be an easy win. Just to be safe, he makes Wiji-wiji promise not to use magic. Wiji-wiji laughs, saying Robert is very silly and that magic doesn’t exist. But he agrees not to use magic.

The waitress brings over the drinks. She sets them in the middle of the table, three tall glasses for Wiji-wiji, three small shot glasses for Robert.

“Rememba,” Wiji-wiji says, “you no touchu your grasses untiru I finish my first _biru_, and we cannot touch each ozha’s grasses, _hai_? Whoever finishes their drinks first, wins.”

Robert nods. “Sure.”

Wiji-wiji grins, takes his first beer, and begins to chug it. Robert has a flash of that Japanese hotdog eating champion, but he’s still confident he can outdrink the kami of games. As Wiji-wiji finishes his first glass of beer, Robert reaches out to take his first shot glass.

Robert raises the shot glass to drink it.

Wiji-wiji, though, isn’t moving to his second beer. Instead, the Japanese kami has turned his empty glass upside down. He moves it over one of Robert’s shot glasses, then lowers it, trapping the shot glass inside the beer glass.

With his shot on his lips, Robert realizes that, by the rules, he can’t move Wiji-wiji’s glass, and so he won’t be able to get to his third shot glass. There’s no way for him to win.

Wiji-wiji smiles, lifts his second glass of beer, says, “_Kanpai_,” then begins to drink.

Robert’s mind reels. He needs a way to keep from losing, and there’s only one available to him. He grabs the table and flips it, knocking Wiji-wiji and Robert’s other drinks to the floor.

“Crap,” Robert says. “I guess the game’s a draw.”

Wiji-wiji looks down, his mouth agape in a mixture of awe and surprise. He looks up to Robert and slowly a huge smile spreads onto his face.

“You are a werry good praya, Roboto-san.” He wags a finger in mock admonishment.

The waitress starts complaining at them for messing with the table and spilling the drinks, but all Robert can do is lean back in his chair and sigh in relief. That’s one bullet dodged.

* * *​
Nathan has sensed a name, and Agent Cavers is familiar enough with Bonaventure Cemetery to know where they’ll find that grave.

The five of them slide quietly through the midnight darkness of the graveyard, visibility cut by thick shading oaks and their dangling Spanish moss. This is an old place, from before the Civil War that burned the rest of Georgia but spared Savannah. Old ghosts linger here, faintly whispering to Nathan, but he is concerned with the living. He shivers at the sounds of howls, perhaps just distant ships on the Savannah River, perhaps a pack of ghost hounds said to drive out interlopers and thieves.

“Must be here for me,” Ian mutters.

Something moves nearby behind a tombstone. As one, four flashlights swing to the spot of the noise. John raises his silenced pistol, Nathan trains his gun’s laser sight, Agent Cavers quickdraws a .45, and Ian pumps his double-barrel shotgun. Then, half a second later, Bonnie spins and holds up her fists.

“Who’s there!” she calls out.

A young black woman staggers out from behind a grave marker, looking frightened. She panics when she sees all the guns trained on her, but Ian chants a brief incantation as she turns to run, and when he finishes his spell she has calmed down and stopped moving.

“This the girl you saw?” Ian says.

Nathan nods. He starts toward the woman, hoping to talk to her, but from nearby John yells for them all to take cover. Everyone ducks behind trees or gravestones, except the woman. Nathan starts to move to her, but Ian simply shouts.

“Duck, woman!”

The woman obeys instantly, falling to the ground and hiding.

Nathan looks over to where John is, beside a huge stone obelisk.

He calls out, “What’s the problem, John? I don’t sense any danger.”

“There’s a sniper somewhere,” John says.

Ian scoffs. “Shooting through these trees? Yeah right.”

Nathan, confident there’s no danger, stands and walks over to where John is. When he sees the body, he scowls, wondering what he did wrong.

A dead police officer lies beside the obelisk in a patch of dried blood. A massive exit wound is visible in his chest. Either someone hit him point-blank with a giant pistol, or it’s a 50-caliber sniper rifle.

“Is it safe?” Bonnie says from a bush.

Nathan nods and pulls out his cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” Agent Cavers asks.

“Robert,” Nathan says. “You probably should call someone from your team.”

John asks, “How’s Robert going to help?”

“Oh,” Nathan says, “I think he might have something to contribute to the investigation of a crime scene.”

Ian comes over, shotgun slung over his shoulder. “I don’t get it. You said someone was gonna kill the chick. Why’s there a dead cop?”

“I don’t know,” Nathan says.

He doesn’t say so, but not knowing worries him.

* * *​
In a fourth floor room on a building just outside Bonaventure Cemetery, a man named Dick Thevenot – who looks like Charlie Murphy in an expensive suit – leans over beside his hired sniper, looking out the window at the cemetery.

“So?” he says.

“They’re not there,” the sniper says. “I count five, but they’re missing a few from New Orleans, and none of them have the bracelet. I can take out probably two before they scatter.”

“Nah,” Thevenot says. “We’ve got other plans. C’mon. They’ll trace the bullet back to this building pretty soon. Time for us to be getting.”

“What about the girl?” the sniper asks. “She can identify you.”

Thevenot considers the course of action he has to take, and he smiles darkly.

“I’m counting on it.”


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Eleven, part five*

Robert isn’t eager to show off his CSI knowledge, but Nathan is insistent, so he helps them as best he can over the phone. A few camera phone pics and descriptions later, along with a quick talk with the rescued woman, Robert figures out a little. They put the pieces together to get the following picture.

The woman was seduced – magically, it seems – by a tall, bald black man, well-dressed, with a long face. Scarpedin insists they ask her what actor he looked like, and she says he looked kinda like Charlie Murphy, who played on Chappelle’s Show. After getting picked up, the woman says her recollection is fuzzy. Apparently she was taken to the graveyard, and her car was left abandoned so the cop on duty to patrol the graveyard would go investigate.

Jenny has her people do a quick check, and it seems like the cop in question checked in recently, more recently than could actually be possible, given that his body has been stiff for at least half an hour. It seems like whoever set this up wanted the group to get there before the cops noticed one of their officers was dead.

The cop was shot by a 50-caliber sniper rifle, magically-guided. Nathan can’t do a reading on the bullet because the shock of the murder is still imprinted on the murder weapon, and it ruins his concentration. Ian has no such problems, though, and with the aid of his ghost Giovanni he sees the past of the bullet, back to when it was fired, and before, allowing him to get a vague ID on the sniper (who looks like a grimy Tom Hanks), and determine where he shot from. Jenny calls in a few agents who were off-duty to investigate and possibly apprehend the sniper. They’ll also start investigating the well-dressed spellcaster.

A few other pieces of evidence – a half-burned Polaroid of the woman, bits of blood trickled in a circle, the pattern of foot prints and angle of the victim’s body – suggest that their perp – Charlie Murphy – was at the scene, and that he performed some sort of spell to send out a call. They suspect that somehow the man triggered Nathan’s vision, but gave him false information.

It doesn’t quite make sense. The man was obviously trying to lure them there, into the position for a sniper to take them out, but he didn’t. That, to Robert and Jenny, suggests he was interested in someone who wasn’t there, probably Terry. But they don’t know if this is someone from the group of Canadian terrorists, or Morgan McCool’s group out of New York, or some third group. It’s possible the person doesn’t even know Terry is dead.

Whoever he is, he was willing to kill a cop just to get their attention. Everyone is quite eager to see this man brought to justice. (Everyone except Ian, who doesn’t really seem to care either way as long as he’s getting paid.)

When Nathan, John, Ian, Bonnie, and Agent Cavers (along with the soon-to-be memory-altered woman) leave Bonaventure Cemetery, they notice tire tracks of a car that weren’t there when they arrived. Nathan does a reading, and sees a Ford Taurus. It could be a coincidence, or it could be the ugly man in leather who showed up at Gallogly’s Tavern. At about the same time they get news from Bureau investigators that the room the sniper shot from has been abandoned, so they decide to track down the man from the bar, since he probably has some connection.

Eventually, with a bit of divination and a bit of hacking into Savannah’s traffic camera database, they locate the Ford Taurus at a Denny’s. The group sets up across the street and waits for the man to come out of the restaurant, since they don’t want to make a scene. When he finally finishes up (the man apparently has the ability to imbibe huge amounts of coffee) and gets into his car, Ian drives up and blocks the car’s exit, and John emerges from the bushes, a gun pointed through the driver’s side window.

They pull him out of the car, and though he resists a bit, eventually they get him to hand over his weapons, and then Agent Cavers arrests him. In his car they find numerous spell books and a handful of specially-etched glass spheres. The man identifies himself as Shanon Mercer, an ‘antiquities dealer.’ Ian laughs at that, because he has called himself the same thing. Really, it just means smuggler of magical artifacts.

Within the hour, Mercer is in custody at a small Bureau holding facility in their office, and Jenny, Robert, Scarpedin, and Wiji-wiji have returned. At first John has concerns that Mercer might use magic to escape, but Jenny assures him they have that under control. She explains the rules of magic for those who weren’t clear on it.


Normal humans cannot use magic.
Humans can use magic if they are bonded to a ghost or have some other connection to a source of magical power. In Ian’s case, this is his ghost Giovanni. In Scarpedin’s case, they suspect it has something to do with the Dalai Lama prayer beads he bought in Savannah. 
With the right training, some humans can cast spells from rituals, but these require a lot of set-up and aren’t as reliable as normal spells.
Some rare humans are psychic, like Nathan, and can use limited magical abilities without a ghost.
Creatures from Gaia, such as elves and the fey, can use magic innately.
There are some humans, even rarer than psychics, who do not fit these patterns. Often they have some element of magical ancestry, such as a great-grandfather who was an elf. Terry, who was able to use magic without a ghost, and John, who didn’t even need any magical training, fall into this category.

Nathan, of course, shares his theory that John is an angel, so he’s not human in the first place. Jenny, despite being a devoted Christian, is uncomfortable with the idea of angels being physical beings, and tells them there’s no evidence angels, in the classic sense, actually exist. Any creature claiming to be an angel (or a demon) is just some manner of magical creature from Gaia.

The Bureau has developed numerous methods for detecting the type of magic a person uses, and neutralizing it. They have devices which resemble thick metal bracers with locks, that go around the necks of prisoners. Each must be specifically attuned to the type of magic it is nullifying, which takes a few minutes, but once it is set and in place, the person is unable to use any sort of personal magic. There’s still always the risk of concealed magical items, and of course in a world of magic there are always ways to cheat the system, but the Bureau has a lot of experience, and they’re rarely surprised.

John takes this moment to snipe about the fact that the Bureau obviously was pretty surprised when they weren’t able to get between Terra and Gaia. John, it seems, is still very unimpressed with the Bureau. Still, he hopes that if they get to talk to the Chief on Gaia, maybe _he_ will actually inspire some confidence.

To show them how they work, Jenny has a Bureau tech align one of the magic-nullifying neckbracers with Scarpedin, and while he’s wearing it he can’t use any magic. Ian says that he’d like one of those for himself, since his ghost can be a pain in the ass, and the less connection he has with him, the better. Unfortunately, the wards cost tens of thousands of dollars to create.

All in all, the night has been wearying and unsatisfying, but before they go to bed, they listen in on an interrogation of Mercer. They find out that, in addition to trafficking in magic items, he also steals and sells ghosts. Many humans learn about magic and want to have it for themselves, but not everyone is lucky enough to find a ghost that will bond with them, so Mercer scours graveyards and antique shops looking for ghosts he can capture and sell. 

“People like him created Legion,” Jenny says at the mention of this.

Robert asks her what Legion is, but she says it’s not a happy story. She’ll save it for the morning.

Mercer explains that’s why he was at Gallogly’s Tavern – to try to get the ghost. He claims he followed the group to the cemetery because he thought they were going to set the ghost free there.

The group doesn’t buy his story, but the Bureau doesn’t have any mages available who could pry the information out of his mind, and even if they did, such mind control is illegal without either consent of the target, or a warrant issued by magical courts, and those courts are located on Gaia. Ian offers to do it himself, but Jenny won’t let him. The laws are there to protect people from magical abuse, she says.

A bit unsatisfied, the group decides to call it a night. Tomorrow, in the afternoon, Terry should be ready to travel to Gaia. They’ll be expecting the worst.

_*End of Session Eleven*_


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Twelve, part one*

Terry remembers the uncertainty of when he first met this group, one of the last days of his life. He could not help but dwell on Lin’s death, but walking through a Renaissance Festival had felt surreal. Had there been a point to it?

“Gather ‘round. Boys and girls of all ages, gather ‘round and see some the greatest hostile magical territory incursion gear the modern world has to offer.”

Terry snaps out of his memories. He’s not at some show now. He’s with the people who fought to avenge his death, in the office of an organization that doesn’t exist, as they get ready to go to another world and see if they can help. It’s still surreal.

Tagin is the name of the Bureau tech who is addressing the group. He has a smirk on his face like he doesn’t quite take the situation seriously. He’s a skinny man – looks kinda like Seth Green – and he’s explaining to the others how the equipment he has will help them stay alive on Gaia.

There are two other ghosts present. One is Jenny’s, a young Indian man with a gunshot wound in his stomach, dressed like a medicine man or something. The ghost’s stern expression cracks for a moment, and he huffs in amusement at the phrase “stay alive.” Terry chuckles a little, and the ghost nods to him as if to say, “It’s alright to find the world of the living interesting.”

The other ghost is bonded with the freelancer the Bureau brought in, Ian. Looking exactly like Terry would have expected a medieval Italian cardinal to look, Ian’s ghost glances at Terry dispassionately, then looks away, somewhat contented. Terry has the feeling Ian’s ghost just convinced itself it could destroy him in a fight if it came to it. Also, he could swear he just heard hints of a Latin choir chanting ominously, but he’s pretty sure it was just his imagination.

Occasionally Scarpedin looks at him.

Only one living person and the handful of ghosts he runs across can see him. It’s worse even than that Patrick Swayze movie, because at least he still had a girlfriend to watch over. And so this what eternity will be. No wonder most ghosts are insane.

It’s surreal. He wonders what the point of it all was.


_He said, I’m gonna buy this place and see it go.
Stand here beside me baby watch the orange glow.
Some’ll laugh, and some just sit and cry,
But you just sit down there and you wonder why.
So I’m gonna buy a gun and start a war
If you can tell me something worth fighting for.
I’m gonna buy this place, that’s what I said.
Blame it upon a rush of blood to the head._
“A Rush of Blood to the Head” – Coldplay​

They're on the ground floor of the Bureau office. As soon as they're ready Terry will planeshift them to Gaia, where an equivalent room should await their arrival. The Bureau office on Gaia is supposed to be as large as the Pentagon building, and as far as any of them know it could be filled with hostile magical monsters.

With lukewarm enthusiasm Tagin explains how the group can use the specially-made walkie-talkie headsets and magic-detection readers, electronic devices that normally would not work on Gaia without Bureau intervention. He is greeted by the lukewarm enthusiasm of the group. 

“Are we gonna have to fight things over there?” asks Bonnie, the Irish bouncer.

“We don’t know,” Jenny says, “but we’re going to go in prepared for anything. Our-”

Ian interrupts, “George wants to know why you’re bringing the chick along.”

He’s talking about Bonnie. Since only Ian and the other ghosts can hear what Giovanni actually says, no one realizes that Giovanni actually doesn’t seem to care about Bonnie.

“We’re-” Jenny starts, and then she pauses as he ghost whispers to her that Giovanni did not actually ask the question. She half-rolls her eyes, then draws herself up. Everyone’s eyes turn toward her.

“If this expedition fails and we lose Terry, it will spell the effective end of the Bureau, which means that within a few weeks we can expect opportunistic magic users to start abusing their power when they realize no one’s around to keep check on them. This mission has to succeed, and so we will gladly accept the help of anyone who offers. Agent Cavers testifies that Miss Bell is a skilled fighter, and she already knows about magic. 

“Does anyone aside from Ian’s _ghost_ have a problem with bringing her along?”

Terry smiles. She makes him feel like he’s actually doing something useful, and she knows how to put a smart-ass in his place.

* * *​
Since Scarpedin is busy prepping for the incursion and Robert looks like he’s trying fervently to avoid having to carry a gun, Terry has Scarpedin hand the bracelet over to Robert so the two of them can chat.

“How are you handling it?” Terry asks.

“Fine,” Robert says. “Wait. _You’re_ asking me this?”

“Just ‘cause I’m dead doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Robert shrugs. He starts to say something, then looks like he changed his mind. “You know eventually we might have to hand you over to the Bureau, right? I’m sorry, but _this_ group isn’t going to save the world.”

In the background, Scarpedin samples different firearms and magically-enhanced swords. He tests the guns by aiming at John and making ‘bang’ sounds, and for the swords he makes lightsaber noises as he swings them.

“I can see your point,” Terry says. “Still, I thought you looked like something was bothering you.”

Robert eyes dart in another direction for a moment, then go back to Terry. Before Terry can look at what had Robert’s attention, the man’s smooth denials get him.

“Yeah, I’ve got a problem,” Robert laughs. “I, ah, met a nice-looking lady, and . . . well, you were a grown man. I won’t tell you exactly what’s on my mind, but let me just say it’s not some,” he laughs again, “_adventure_.”

Terry nods, then shrugs, figuring it’s something Robert doesn’t want to talk about. Instead he gets quiet, and as he expected, Robert loses interest and treats him like the ghost he is.

Unnoticed, Terry finally looks where Robert had glanced. Wiji-wiji, sitting beside a desk covered with ammo clips and utility belts, is eating Oreos.

“My team is ready,” Jenny says. “Does anyone need any help?”

Jenny has traded out her casual business attire for a long white trenchcoat, but otherwise she looks unarmed. Beside her is Agent Ulwelf Fitzgerald, who looks surprisingly like Lauence Fishburn in his magical disguise, but Terry can see past Ulwelf’s disguise. In truth he’s over six feet tall, broadly muscled with a gray-skinned face like a neanderthal. Under his black trenchcoat is a tactical bodyarmor vest, a pair of guns, and an array of magical charms that jangle as he carefully adjusts his sunglasses over his snout. Balthazaar has his normal vampire-slaying get-up, along with a sword and a gun loaded with cold iron bullets. Lastly is an overweight man in a poorly-fitting bullet-proof vest, with stringy unkempt blonde hair; this is Finagle P. Luckshore.

John asks, “These are the only Bureau agents coming with us? You, two agents, and a kid?”

Terry wonders if John knows the kid’s name. He doubts it, and chuckles.

Jenny looks unconcerned at John’s question. “I’m leaving Agent Cavers here in case we don’t come back. Terry said he wasn’t sure he could get more than ten or twelve people, isn’t that right?”

She looks at Robert, but Terry considers that’s close enough.

“Right,” he says. “At least I think so. I haven’t actually done more than one at a time since I died.”

“Terry says that’s right,” Robert says. “But, ah, he says he’s not positive. I just don’t want to, you know, get stuck there alone when the rest of you are still chilling here.”

Jenny says, “I have faith that this will work, but if you want you can stay behind.”

Scarpedin thumps Robert in the chest. “Don’t be a b*tch, man.”

Robert waves off the concern. “I’ll come, I’ll come.”

“Pardon me,” Nathan says. “While we’re gone, are you going to be tracking down the murderer of the police officer?”

Balthazaar scoffs. “Get your priorities straight.”

Jenny lifts a hand slightly to cut off Balthazaar. “Nathan, if we’re lucky we’ll spend only a few hours on Gaia, and we’ll be able to bring back more resources to help us handle the threats here. There’s also the chance things could be much worse over there, in which case, sadly, a single murdered cop is less important. 

“Right before the connection was severed the Bureau office was calling for assistance because of an attack. That was two weeks ago.”

“I’m just nervous,” Nathan says. “I haven’t gotten any new visions to guide me, and the last one appears to have been a trick.”

“We will devote all the resources we can to find him,” Jenny says, “once we get back.”

The group continues to discuss specifics, and Terry is left to ponder. Nathan received visions warning him that a Starbucks was going to explode, that a mansion was going to explode, and that a bus was going to explode. He’s picked up hitch hikers, thwarted a violent ghost, and stopped Scarpedin from breaking a leg. But he didn’t have a vision warning him that Adrien Lee was a murdering bastard. Terry didn’t have any help from precognition that time.

“Terry,” Robert says. “Do you need anything before we leave?”

Terry wonders for a moment if all ghosts get this absorbed in their thoughts. Then he answers. “I’m ready.”

Scarpedin says, “Let’s roll,” and tries to dramatically pull back the cocking mechanism of a pistol, but it takes him several tries. Terry hears Jenny’s ghost chuckle, and it makes him feel better.

Robert, Scarpedin, John, Nathan, Bonnie, Jenny, Ian, Ulwelf, Balthazaar, and Wiji-wiji. Ten people. He's pretty sure he can get that.


----------



## Funeris

Hey RW, just wanted to let you know that I'm still reading.

More importantly, I'm still enjoying this awesome modern storyhour.  Great writing as always.

~Fune


----------



## RangerWickett

My biggest concern is that it might be too slow, but it's building to some rather fast-paced events. Let me know if you have any critique or questions.

Meanwhile, here's the image I'm going to have in my sig until someone tells me it's too big.


----------



## Archetype

Great sig, Ryan.  Your artwork?
(Just use a spoiler button to minimize it, if anyone gripes.  It fits the story perfectly)

This is the only storyhour I've wanted to invest the time in to keep reading for long.   The Modern setting is refreshing, and I love all the lyrics used  (try some Cowboy Junkies lyrics sometime, if you know them,  they have an appropriate bluesy flavor).  Thanks.

Hmm ... a ten-person party headed to a showdown with possibly dozens of magical creatures in a place the size of the Pentagon?  Break out the minis and battlemats!


----------



## Blacklamb

Heya, I am only to the first half of the front page, but it's a great read!
I had a question tho, where'd you get your Japanese from, because so far it's been dead on.

Looking forward to catching up to the end sometime this summer!

Blacklamb


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## RangerWickett

Blacklamb said:
			
		

> Heya, I am only to the first half of the front page, but it's a great read!
> I had a question tho, where'd you get your Japanese from, because so far it's been dead on.
> 
> Looking forward to catching up to the end sometime this summer!
> 
> Blacklamb




Takeda-_sensei_ and Horibe-_sensei_ at Emory University. I don't know how to read kanji anymore, but I know enough to throw random phrases in whenever Wiji-wiji talks. When I roleplayed him I would occasionally pause to think of what I wanted to say next, and would allow myself to lapse into random, muttering phrases like, "_Ano, Eego ga chotto taihen desu. Nihongo ga wakaru? Iie? E, zannen da yo._"

Only one of the players knows any Japanese, and it actually made sense that his character could know what I was talking about. Only a few times did I actually say anything meaningful in Japanese, but whenever I did he'd look at me funny, not sure if I meant it. Like, "_Kono mazoku wa maho tsukai desu. Demo, shinpai shinaide kudasai. Watashi wa kochira o korosu to omoimasu. Ganbatte._"

Anyone care to guess which PC that was?


----------



## RangerWickett

Archetype said:
			
		

> Great sig, Ryan.  Your artwork?
> (Just use a spoiler button to minimize it, if anyone gripes.  It fits the story perfectly)
> 
> This is the only storyhour I've wanted to invest the time in to keep reading for long.   The Modern setting is refreshing, and I love all the lyrics used  (try some Cowboy Junkies lyrics sometime, if you know them,  they have an appropriate bluesy flavor).  Thanks.
> 
> Hmm ... a ten-person party headed to a showdown with possibly dozens of magical creatures in a place the size of the Pentagon?  Break out the minis and battlemats!




Yes, I drew it, but I don't think it's anything special. As for Cowboy Junkies, I like the music, but I swear, I don't know any of the lyrics. The singer's voice is so light I never really notice the lyrics. Now I'm a little embarrassed. Time to pay more attention.


----------



## Blacklamb

Very Cool. 
Thanks I was curious, as I am on my 3 semester now. 

Also Once again. Great story!


Blacklamb


----------



## Steverooo

Oh, I don't know... I think his Engrish stinkas!  _Annata-no kuni-no kotoba-wa yoku hanase-masen, hai?_  "An' that's all I got to say, about that!"


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Twelve, Part Two*

The room isn’t dark.

Fluorescent lights fill the arrival foyer fully as the group appears on Gaia. The room is large, spacious, clean, white. There are no windows, just a desk with a phone and a computer, and a single door with a thin line of etched wards surrounding it. There are no screams in the distance, no ominous atmosphere, no muted sounds of dripping blood or creaking metal. The walls look plastic, almost antiseptic.

Everyone falls into defensive stances, aiming outward with swords, uzis, shotguns, and fists. Robert and Terry stand in the middle of the group, unarmed. Terry notices the Irish woman, Bonnie, glance over her shoulder at him and do a double-take.

“Who’s this then?” she asks.

“Hi,” Terry says.

Everyone who isn’t a Bureau agent turns and looks. Here on Gaia, ghosts are visible, and a moment of surprise passes through the group as they see Terry for the first time since he died. He had not realized it before, but so far only Scarpedin and Robert had yet worn the bracelet he’s bonded to.

“Good to see you, Terry,” Nathan says.

Terry shrugs with embarrassment.

Ian smirks. “So this is Wonderboy, huh?”

“Cut the chatter,” Balthazaar interrupts, ending the conversation.

“Stay on guard,” Jenny says.

She walks over to the computer, her bonded ghost Pataman standing careful guard beside her. She leans over the desk, looking nervous to sit at the chair, then brushes her hair out of the way and starts clicking and typing.

“Listen, ah, Jenny?” Robert says. “Isn’t this a little less spooky than we were expecting?”

“Everything looks normal,” Jenny says. She frowns at the computer, then shakes her head. “The network’s fine. I’ve even got Bureau email waiting for me.”

She stands up and gives the group a tentatively optimistic smile. “It looks like everything’s under control. I just didn’t imagine two weeks would have passed without them finding some way to get in touch with us.”

John glances at the door. “It could be a trick.”

Nathan shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t feel any great danger.”

John scoffs. “That one as reliable as your _last_ vision?”

Nathan smiles despite the insult. “Well, it does feel like something’s being suppressed here.”

Jenny nods. “Yes. The majority of the Bureau complex here in Savannah has been warded to make it a bit more like Terra. It keeps most things from just straying into the offices.”

Balthazaar says, “It used to always give her headaches.”

“Look,” Jenny says, “I think we’re safe here. We can check out in the hallway, just to make sure there isn’t a zombie horde, and then I’ll call the Chief’s secretary and let him know we’re here.”

Robert hesitantly asks, “Are zombie hordes something we should expect?”

Jenny smiles widely and shakes her head, and the tension of the situation lightens. But then Ian’s ghost Giovanni speaks.

“I do not like the woman’s flippant attitude. She risks all of your lives.”

Ian leans his shotgun on his shoulder and glares at the Italian ghost. “George, when the hell was the last time you worried about people dying?”

Giovanni stands in silent disdain.

Ian laughs. “Don’t worry, y’all. That’s just George trying to win points by pretending he cares. I think Pocahontas has it under control, but, if ya don’t mind, the man with the shotgun’s gonna check the hallway for zombies.”

While Ian goes to the door, flanked by Ulwelf, Balthazaar, and Bonnie, Robert takes a nervous breath.

“Terry,” he asks, “you can get us out of here in a pinch, right?”

Terry nods. It feels good to be able to use body language, since people can actually see him.

“Alright,” Robert says. “If things look bad, forgive me for being selfish, but it’s better for us to run than risk dying, right?”

John, Nathan, and Scarpedin nod. Jenny is only a few feet away, but it looks like she’s not paying attention, or else she’s giving them space.

“Okay,” Robert continues. “Terry, if I give the word, like if I say ‘now’ really urgently, you grab whoever you can get, and we leave. And, um, try not to leave Jenny.”

John laughs. “Women are bad luck.”

Nathan smiles. “Something you want to tell us there, John?”

Outside the door there’s a faint cry of fright. Everyone tenses, but Ian appears at the door and smiles.

He calls out, “It’s clear. There was a chick out here with some folders, but she’s not a zombie. I think I scared her off, though.”

* * *​
It takes less than five minutes for the news to pass through the Bureau building. The group gets ushered through hallways, past offices and various departments, drawing attention from employees in white shirts and black ties wherever they go. A handful of agents in black suits meet them and escort them, and the whole trip is a blur, though Terry makes certain to memorize the path they take, in case they need to escape.

Everything looks fine here in the Bureau. Terry can sense almost palpable disappointment coming from Scarpedin, but the rest of the group is relieved. The snippets of information they get as they go paint a rough picture of the past two weeks:

The Bureau was attacked by a mercenary unit of unseelie fey, ogre-like creatures, Knights of the Round, and a large number of general soldiers of fortune who probably hadn’t realized what they would be getting into. In total about five hundred people and creatures attacked, and though they managed to cause a lot of havoc, the Bureau sent up an alert and agents from around the world were able to use keys to gate in and join the defense. The whole conflict lasted less than an hour, but when it was over and the surviving attackers were being rounded up for arrest, they discovered that no planeshifting or teleportation magic was working.

Despite the deaths that occurred during the attack, the Bureau in Savannah is currently overstaffed, since over half of the agents from offices around the world responded to the threat, and have since not been able to return home. They had made little headway in fixing the connection between Terra and Gaia, so the group’s arrival is a relief to many.

They don’t have time for any more questions, because by then they have been ushered into a second-floor conference room with a long table, projector screens, and a thick window – the first window they’ve seen this whole time. Looking outside, Terry can see a truly massive tree, easily hundreds of feet high with branches spreading out hundreds more, dropping the land in a strangely gleaming dusk. Other Bureau buildings dot the landscape, and the shadows between the buildings are deeper than they should be.

Jenny is at the door, talking to a short female agent who looks like she has a faerie for a parent. Terry notices Wiji-wiji watching the half-fey agent with a slightly weaker smile than normal, and it strikes Terry that until just now he had almost forgotten Wiji-wiji was with them.

Jenny finishes her conversation with the other agent, then turns to the group.

“The Chief is on the way. You should all find a comfortable seat, since we’ll be here for a while. There’s so much to report.”

Ian frowns. “So I guess I should put the shotgun away, then?”

A few minutes of nervous chatter follow as the group takes their seats, except for Robert, who seems nervous. When the door opens, everyone looks up expectantly. The man who walks in is clearly in charge, and Jenny and Ulwelf defer to him immediately. Even Balthazaar, a former agent who had been arrested by the Bureau, nods respectfully. It worries Terry a little that his companions don’t look like they’re willing to give any respect.

“Damn,” Scarpedin mutters. “I was hoping for Will Smith.”

Terry squints a bit, and has to admit that the Chief of the Bureau does look remarkably like Tommy Lee Jones.

“Jenny, Agent Fitzgerald,” the Chief says. He pauses for a moment, then, “Balthazaar. Jenny, you brought an odd group with you. I understand the ghost standing by the window is the one who was able to get you here from Terra?”

Jenny nods.

“Good,” the Chief says. “Thank you for coming to help, and now if you don’t mind, let’s get down to business.”

Robert speaks up. “Chief what?”

The Chief stops before sitting. “What?”

“What’s your name?” Robert says. “Y’know, I’m Robert Black. This is Terry. . . .”

“Abrams,” Terry offers.

“Terry Abrams,” Robert says. “I’m here with Nathan, and John, and Scarpedin. Over there’s Ian.”

Ian nods, “Howdy.”

“And his ghost is a creepy guy whose name I don’t remember.”

Ian says, “George.”

“And that’s Bonnie.”

“Aye?” Bonnie looks up as if she had dozed off.

Robert points at the gents. “That’s Jenny Windgrave, and . . . Ulwelf, and the bastard here is Balthazaar. See, that’s us. That’s . . . who we are. We just came a long way, from, y’know, another world, and I thought it’d be nice to know each other’s names before we started doing the whole ‘playing with magic’ thing. So you’re ‘the Chief.’ Chief what?”

Jenny looks stricken. “Robert.”

The Chief shakes his head. “It’s alright. Robert, is it? Thank you for the introduction. You can just call me the Chief.”

“What?” Robert says with a laugh. “You don’t have a name?”

“Chief,” Jenny says, “you’ve got to forgive Robert. When I tell you what they went through to get to us-”

“Don’t defend me Jenny,” Robert says. “No, all I asked is a simple question. We’re doing your little club a favor, and excuse me, but I’m a little tired of all the mystical ‘we use magic so we don’t have to make sense’ crap. I mean. Really. How hard is it for you to answer that question?”

The Chief considers for a second. “If this is going to be a problem, Mr. Black, I can have you escorted outside while we address the threat to the public’s safety. You are doing us a favor, and you know, that gives you points in my book, but son, you’re not in charge here. Now, if you’d please, take a seat and let’s get to work.”

“No, I don’t please,” Robert says.

Nathan whispers, “Oh dear.”

“I’ve been hauled off to Gaia, where I was attacked by a nymph and a giant black puma. I was nearly blown up in a bus, in a mansion, and in a Starbucks. I’ve been shot at. _Terry’s_ been shot at and _killed_. I think I’ve earned to have things go my way, don’t you? 

“Look,” he continues, “I’ve been trying to find a way so I can just drop this whole ‘magic’ thing and go back to a normal life, and that means I’ve got to find someone who’ll make sure people aren’t trying to kill me or trying to steal Terry and do whatever _crazy_ Dr. Evil plan they’ve cooked up. If I can’t trust you to tell me your name, how do I know I should trust you with Terry?”

John and Scarpedin are laughing. Terry can’t help but smile too.

The Chief leans in slightly, points at the bracelet Robert is wearing, and says, “If the ghost bonded to that bracelet is the only way we can fulfill our mandate, then whether you respect our authority or not, we will have the bracelet. It is a courtesy that we’re even keeping you here. Your tone sounds a bit uncooperative, and at this moment, in this situation, with that bracelet as your only bargaining chip, being uncooperative is pretty damn close to being threatening, and I don’t take well to threats.”

“_Oh?_” Robert says, smiling. “_You_ don’t take well to threats?

“Terry,” Robert says, his expression tough and empowered, “_now_.”

Disappointed but not surprised, Terry concentrates on Robert, Scarpedin, Nathan, John, and Jenny, figuring the rest might be a threat if he brought them along. At the last moment he remembers Wiji-wiji and focuses on him, then attempts to plane shift back to Terra.

When the world should fade away and become starker and more real, instead everyone just looks at him expectantly.

“Terry?” Robert says through clenched teeth. “We’re supposed to be making our spiteful escape now.”

“It’s not working,” Terry says. “Something’s stopping me.”

“What?” John says. He looks for a moment like he’s about to go for a gun, but Nathan stops him.

The Chief claps his hands once and starts to walk around the table toward Robert. Terry sees for a second that Robert has dropped his hand to his pocket where he keeps his straight razor, but he isn’t making his move yet.

“Son,” the Chief says, “you might not like us, but we’re not incompetent. You brought us the most important magic item in the world right now. We’re not going to let you just run away with it.”

“Hey!” Terry says. “I’m not some _thing_, man. Don’t you f*cking try to hurt them, or even if you do get the bracelet I’m stuck in, I damned sure won’t help you. Back the f*ck off.”

The Chief stops a little more than an arm’s length from Robert, and he glances at Terry. Then he turns casually and walks back to the head of the table.

Robert whispers, “Um, good job Terry. Next time let’s try to be a little more diplomatic, okay?”

Terry grins despite himself.

From the head of the table, the Chief says, “Let’s say that we were being cautious in case tempers got out of control. You yourself said that you wanted to hand the bracelet – and the ghost – over to someone. Don’t let a little frustration cause you any trouble. C’mon, sit down. We’re wasting time with all this.”

Jenny looks up at Robert. “Please Robert. Once we’re done, I promise I’ll explain and this will make sense.”

Robert rubs his chin, then shakes his head. “No, tell me now.”

Jenny’s demeanor is not at all aggressive like the Chief’s was, but when she speaks it is undeniable that she’s in charge. Reasoned, calm, like she’s talking a good friend out of a bad decision, she says, “No Robert. Come sit down with the rest of us.”

Robert glares at the Chief, then takes a seat.

“Alright,” the Chief says. “It’s good that we can all trust each other.”


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Twelve, Part Three*

A new Bureau agent – a dull-faced blonde man named Michael – casually manages a computer display of pertinent information as he presents the story of the attack.

“The attack began in the early evening in Savannah, timed terribly if you had actually wanted to defeat the Bureau, but almost perfectly if you wanted to lure away as many agents as possible from offices in the U.S., Australia, and China.”

Terry keeps glancing at Scarpedin during the presentation. It’s irritating, but now he can’t stop trying to figure out what actors people look like. Michael looks kind of like David Duchovny, and has the same sort of voice. Having grown up listening to Mulder explain all manner of impossible things as if they were real, Terry finds it easy to believe the bizarre evidence from Michael’s presentation.

“We have little doubt that the attack was orchestrated by whoever severed the connection between Terra and Gaia. Whoever that person was is either on Terra and thus out of range of our divinations, or he has some extensive magical defenses. Out of the world of people who don’t like the Bureau, there are thousands of possible suspects, but we have a few problems in our investigation.

“First, we lack mobility. The anti-Bureau cells tend to hide on Gaia, but now we’re stuck with 18th century methods of travel. We dispatched a few agents by sailing ship to England last week, but even with magical aid they won’t get there until late November.

“Second, we have no idea how this was accomplished. No magic that is currently understood by our experts could cause such a complete severance of the two worlds. That leaves more ancient and occult magic – things even the magi think are myths. This means even if we do find out what caused this, we have an uphill battle because we don’t know how it happened, and our enemies do.

“Third, the evidence is contradictory. We interrogated the prisoners we took from the assault, and used a few less savory methods with those who did not survive-”

“Michael,” the Chief warns.

Michael nods. Terry guesses even some of the Bureau agents don’t fully approve of their Chief.

“From their reports,” Michael says, “there’s little consistency regarding who hired them. Some believed they were working with a Knights of the Round contingent. Some were mercenaries from former Soviet nations who entered the country via teleportation keys, who believed they would be attacking a government military research facility. We had a master martial artist from Gaian Taiwan leading a group of sorcerous disciples. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern. A group of unseelie fey actually claimed they were trying to break a prisoner from the 1800s out of our prison.”

Robert perks up slightly at the last piece regarding the prison, but then he relaxes quickly.

John sighs loudly. “Are you really this incompetent?”

Michael, who had missed the earlier head-butting of Robert and the Chief, looks at John and waits for him to continue.

John drops his face in his hands for a second, then looks up.

“Russian terrorists _teleported_ into the country? An army amassed outside your main headquarters and you didn’t see it coming? I mean, do you do _any_ intelligence gathering before the fact? How do you keep someone from just teleporting in and kidnapping the president?”

Scarpedin chuckles. “Hey Robot, you wanna kidnap the president?”

“What?” Robert says. He glances at Scarpedin. “Of course not, that’s crazy.” Then he mouths ‘We’ll talk later,’ and gives a faint smile.

Jenny says, “You can’t teleport into D.C. The Masonic designers of the city made sure it was in a particularly non-magical part of the country, and the layout of buildings and streets reinforces that.”

Ian clears his throat. “Can we, maybe, get back to business? I feel kinda weird being the one to say this, but I _am_ getting paid to do a job.”

“Yeah,” Robert laughs lazily. “That’s cool. Go on Michael. Tell us more about how incompetent you are.”

Michael shrugs and continues. “The person or group who orchestrated this is familiar with our techniques, and they went out of their way to avoid leaving a trail. Divinations are always spotty when you don’t have a direct connection with the target, but now that your group has arrived, we have a new route we can take.”

Nathan says, “I’m rather good with divinations myself. I’m a psychic, and I have visions.”

The Chief shakes his head at Jenny. “You really brought a wonderful group to me, didn’t you?”

“Pardon me,” Nathan says, “but you do seem to have an awful lot of problems with my companions and me. I was simply trying to ask what method you planned to use.”

Michael answers before any more anger can develop.

“A séance.”

Michael looks at Terry, and slowly everyone looks at him too. Then a moment afterward, Bonnie turns, appearing a little out of it.

Terry laughs. “With me? Can’t you just ask me, since I’m here?”

“More directly,” Michael says, “we’d be trying to find out, through your spirit, who wanted to kill you. By contacting your essence and using you as a sort of filter for the divination, we’ll get a better sense of who was behind it.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and then Jenny says, “Terry, I should warn you, it’ll dredge up things you might not want to think about. But I have a sense you want to know the answers, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Terry says.

The projector fizzles for a moment, and the lights in the room flicker. Only then does Terry realize how fervent his answer had been. He calms himself down, and the lights go back to normal.

“I think Casper’s pissed,” Ian says.

Terry looks away in embarrassment. He’s just in time to catch a nervous, disapproving look the Chief gives to Jenny.

* * *​
The room is positively crowded now, with two extra diviners, the ten people Terry brought along, the Chief, and Michael. Robert has taken off the bracelet and put it in the waters of a scrying bowl. Terry feels a little less tangible, not that he was in the first place. He knows that his friends have an itchy trigger-finger now, and that they expect the Bureau to try to steal the bracelet he’s bonded to.

Terry remembers an old story his teacher taught him. At the end of the war between King Arthur and Mordred, the two armies gathered for a chance at a truce. The knights on both sides were told that if they saw any of the opposing force draw a sword, they were to attack, and tensions on both sides were very high. Still, Arthur and Mordred were slowly making progress toward some sort of peace, but then one of Arthur’s knights spotted an asp in the field slithering toward the king.

He knew that if he did not kill the asp, it would bite the king and slay him, so he drew his sword to cut off the serpent’s head. Mordred’s knights saw this, thought it was an attack, and they drew their swords in turn. And so the final battle began at Camlann, in which Arthur and Mordred perished.

“You guys keep cool,” he says, “okay?”

“Like Fonzie,” Nathan says.

The diviners begin their spell, and Terry tries to empty his mind as he was told to do. Still, thoughts creep in, and true to Jenny’s word, they’re not things he wants to think about.



> ”Hey, kid, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
> 
> The vision has a caption, bizarrely enough.
> 
> _Chicago – 1999_​
> Terry, his arm reaching through the car window he just smashed, cringes and looks over his shoulder, realizing he’s just been caught. The man’s not a cop, though. He’s dressed in a ratty black suit, with sunglasses and a crumpled black hat. Terry can’t make out his face, aside from the thick sideburns on his round face.
> 
> Terry starts to rummage for the rock he used to smash the window; it’s somewhere in the seat. The man in the suit walks over, grabs him by the arm, and yanks him away from the car, and Terry’s arm gets cut on lingering shards of glass.
> 
> “Are you trying to steal my car?”
> 
> Terry shakes. “Let go of me!”
> 
> The man’s grip is intense, and he grins.
> 
> “What the hell are you trying to steal a piece of sh*t like this for?”
> 
> The question catches Terry off-guard. He glances at the car, a battered Dodge Sedan, probably twenty years old. He looks back at the man. Something’s strange about him. He looks amused.
> 
> “Hey, I wasn’t going to steal it. I just was going to go driving, then bring it back. Please, I’ll pay to fix the window, but you can’t take me to the cops.”
> 
> The man leans his puglike face close, and through the sunglasses Terry feels like he’s being scrutinized.
> 
> “Nah,” the man says. “I wouldn’t do that, kid. I’ve got something more _interesting_ planned for you. C’mon, get in the car.”
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Southampton, UK – 2000_​
> The door into the den of Headmaster Russel Vanderschmidt feels heavy, significant. Once Terry’s inside, the first thing he sees is a brass sculpture – a head with a face on each side, set on a pedestal against the far wall.
> 
> “Ah, Master Abrams,” says a rich, commanding voice. He laughs. “You never do knock, do you? Come in.”
> 
> With the benefit of hindsight, Terry thinks his teacher bears a strong resemblance to Patrick Stewart. The old man stands and meets Terry halfway across the room. Something about the way Headmaster Vanderschmidt treats him always bothers Terry; it feels like he’s trying to show Terry that they’re friends, even though Terry’s just sixteen years old.
> 
> He can’t begrudge the old man, though. He’s trying to be friendly, and he has helped Terry cope with the fact that he can use magic.
> 
> “Terry,” the headmaster says, “I’ve been looking through your files, trying to find some information that might help us better unlock your potential. I assume you’re aware that you’re rather unique among my students, correct?”
> 
> With a shrug, Terry moves to a chair and sits. He’s expecting a reprimand for running away from the school this past Sunday.
> 
> A glower crosses Vanderschmidt’s face for a moment, but then he sits across from Terry.
> 
> Vanderschmidt says, “My students are mostly highly studious, the . . . the _book-learning_ sort. They struggle to learn specific spells, and can barely manage to cast a spell without having to consult a text. Even I only have a few spells memorized, and I’ve been doing this for nearly forty years.”
> 
> “Am I in trouble?” Terry asks.
> 
> The headmaster laughs. “No. Terry, you have a natural talent. I’ve seen you create spells almost spontaneously. You’re still weak and uncertain, but you have an innate power. You’re not in trouble, but there might still be a problem. You see Terry, almost no people can use magic without training, and those who can usually only do it with the aid of a bond to a ghost. But you don’t have a bonded ghost, Terry.”
> 
> “Are you saying,” Terry asks, “that I’m not human?”
> 
> Vanderschmidt leans close, and his voice is full of restrained enthusiasm.
> 
> “No, Terry. I’m saying that you might have the ability to be the epitome of what humanity is. I know you’re nervous about being here, Terry, so far from your family, but you would be doing yourself a disservice if you were to abandon your studies.”
> 
> “I’m sorry,” Terry says, “but I can’t stay cooped up here.”
> 
> “Well then,” Vanderschmidt says, “there are some spells you might particularly want to look at. There are some places you cannot _walk_ to.”
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Paris, FR – 2001_​
> This was when he first met Lin. Half-French, half-Chinese, she looked like Shu Qi, from _The Transporter_. She was performing her magic show for a crowd of a few hundred, at the start of her career.
> 
> Terry remembers seeing the fire, seeing the blood spraying across him, then hearing the gunshot. But no, he knows those were different times.
> 
> “Terry,” Vanderschmidt says, “it is my great pleasure to introduce you to Lin Noelle, the niece of an old family friend. Lin, this is Terry Abrams, one of my _less_-enthusiastic students.”
> 
> Backstage, the anticipation of the audience beyond the curtain echoes Terry’s thrill at meeting Lin. Her smile is beautiful, and she demurely shakes his hand.
> 
> “Terry,” she says with a soft, nearly-French accent. “You’ve come a long way to see my show.”
> 
> He looks her in the eyes, flashes a slightly overwhelmed smile, and says, “It’s the best trip I’ve taken in months.”
> 
> There’s red.
> 
> Four years later, the side of Lin’s head spurts blood, and she slumps to the ground. He tries to catch her in his arms, but he loses his balance, and the bullet aimed for him strikes his leg. He feels the world spinning around him, blurring, but then a hand touches him on the shoulder.
> 
> He hears the voice of Jenny’s ghost, telling him to be calm, to just remember and not be frightened. Slowly, he returns to the memory of France.
> 
> The crowd’s cheering slowly fades as Lin finishes her introduction and the music begins to play. Dressed in a classic stage magician’s outfit, complete with top-hat and black stockings, Lin has promised to show the crowd a few old, clichéd magic tricks. As she moves to the gymnastics array that figures prominently in her performance, she takes off her hat and tosses it like a frisbee to backstage. Terry catches it, and she winks at him.
> 
> The audience laughs and gasps at Lin’s strange combination of acrobatics and magic. She flips between bars like a circus performer, then uses a wand to levitate a hoop that she jumps through. Later she hangs upside down, holding onto the bar of a long swing with her amazing legs, swaying from one side of the stage to another as she performs card tricks and other classic magic acts, all a little tongue in cheek, but with an element of real sorcery that the audience will ultimately find impossible to believe.
> 
> She throws playing cards and cuts apples in half with them. When she misses one apple, she pulls out her wand and shoots a stream of fire from it, pretending to be petulant that she missed. She actually levitates over the stage.
> 
> And everyone watching assumes it’s just a trick.
> 
> So far her act is nothing particularly unique, aside from the fact that Terry is totally enamored with the woman. But as she finishes her series of trite card tricks and sawing herself in half, she acrobatically swings to a large metal chest hanging from a rope, twenty feet above the stage. A small catwalk extends to beside the chest, and an assistant comes to her and begins hand-cuffing her hands and feet together.
> 
> With subtle innuendo toward her burly male assistant, Lin announces that she is going to lock herself in this chest, which will then be wrapped with a heavy chain and padlocked. Her assistants will set up a field of swords under the chest, then set fire to the chest itself. When the fire burns through the rope, the chest will plunge into the field of swords and impale itself. She plans to pick the locks on the cuffs, cut a hole in the chest with her playing cards, slip her arm through that hole, pick the padlock on the chain, then pick the lock on the chest, then escape. When they tested the trick, she says, it took about a minute for the fire to burn through the rope, but she’s confident she can get out in fifty-five seconds.
> 
> She climbs into the chest, firmly cuffed, and then dramatic music begins to play as they close the chest, lock it, wheel out the ten-foot square field of swords. Then they set the fire. Terry watches, anxious despite himself, and fifteen seconds in he sees first one playing card shoot out of the chest from the inside, then three more, slashing a hole that Lin punches her arm through.
> 
> She begins to pick the lock with a hairpin at twenty-five seconds in. She finishes at thirty-three and starts pulling the chain free. The chain swings, flips end over end as it falls, then crashes amid a field of swords.
> 
> She goes to work on the lock of the chest itself, but then at forty seconds the fire on the rope causes it to weaken, and the chest falls a half inch. Lin drops her hair pin, and for a few seconds she flails at the lock with her bare hand, vainly trying to pull it free. Then she pulls her arm back inside.
> 
> At fifty seconds, a playing card cuts through the chest, almost striking the lock, then another, then a third. The fourth card finally slices the lock, leaving it dangling, but just then the rope snaps, and the flaming chest falls to the field of swords. People in the audience scream in horror, thinking the escape artist trick had gone horribly wrong. When the chest strikes, it shatters to pieces, and fire and smoke burst into the air.
> 
> There’s a second of silence. Even the dramatic music stops. Then a spotlight snaps on, aimed at the piece of rope still dangling over the stage. Lin hangs from the rope with one hand, waving with the other. The audience begins to cheer, and the rope lowers Lin to the ground, unharmed. The fire and ruin of her magic trick flickers behind her, and she bows to the audience.




“Aagh!” screams Nathan, flailing with an arm and knocking the bowl with the divination focus off the table.

Terry snaps out of the memory and the spell is ended. As he comes to his senses, he sees Nathan slumped on the table, shaking a bit. It’s like the times he has had a vision, but much much worse.

“Get him under control!” the Chief says.

“Don’t touch him,” John says, standing up and dropping a hand to the small of his back, where his gun is.

Michael reaches into his coat and begins to pull out a sword hilt, and Ulwelf’s hands are moving as if to cast a spell.

“Wait!” Terry shouts. “Stop!”

“I’m cool,” Nathan says weakly. “Very Fonzie, given the circumstances.”

Bonnie says, “What the hell just happened?”

Aside from Wiji-wiji, she’s the only person who doesn’t seem tense. She gets out of her chair and picks up Terry’s bracelet where it had fallen on the floor, and then she pats Nathan on the back.

“Wake up,” she says. “Ye spoiled our party.”

John relaxes a little. “Nathan, did you have a vision?”

“Yes.” Nathan nods casually, shaking his head to clear it. “Nothing major, though. Just the end of the world and all.”


----------



## RangerWickett

*Chapter Twelve, Part Four*

“I saw destruction. No, not _exactly_ destruction. But there were places where people should be, but instead there were just ruins. It was like radioactive fall-out, like _28 Days Later_ before you realize there are zombies.”

The group assembled looks at Nathan.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says. “This is starting to overload my Crazy-Sh*t-ometer. What are you talking about?”

Nathan leans back in his chair and takes a breath.

He says, “While we were watching the images that divination spell showed us from Terry’s past, just when the coffin fell from the sky, I had a vision.”

“Coffin?” Terry asks. “You mean the chest she was doing the escape artist trick in?”

“Well it looked like a coffin to me,” Nathan says. “Just as it hit and exploded, I saw a flash of . . . I think _seven_ locations. First there was Paris. It was quite distinctive. I saw the Eiffel Tower and the _Champ de Mars_. The sky was a dull orange-brown, like there had been fire recently, but there was no sign of any people. The ground, where there should have been gardens, was gray dirt.

“Then there was some sort of Japanese style castle. It looked like a pagoda. Then I saw a city with strange-looking buildings, things I had never seen, that looked like it was in the arctic. Fourth was a small ruined town built on . . . it looked like giant steps that were cut out of the top of a mountain.

“For the fifth one, it was like I was flying past the Great Pyramids in Egypt, like where I was looking wasn’t actually there, but somewhere nearby. Either way, the Nile river wasn’t there at all. The sixth one looked like . . . I can’t quite pin down why I think this, but I distinctly remember feeling like it was something out of _The Lord of the Rings_.”

Ian interrupts, his tone serious, “Movies or books?”

“Movies, actually.” Nathan sounds surprised at himself.

“Good,” Ian says. “I never could get into those damn novels.”

Jenny asks, “What about the seventh place?”

Nathan glances at Terry. “Oh, the seventh place was fairly obvious to figure out. Terry, I’m sorry old chum, but it was Chicago. I saw the Sears Tower, looking like it hadn’t been kept up in centuries, and the whole city was covered in brown and gray dust.”

Ian claps his hands. “It _is_ the f*cking Lord of the Rings. We’ve got ‘two towers.’ He apparently saw Weathertop and the pass through the Misty Mountains, and. . . . Well, I got nothing.”

Nathan says, “It wasn’t quite like that.”

Robert asks, “Well, then what was it? That’s not really, y’know, something we can do about. Normally you have visions that are pretty straight forward. Most of them involve bombs. And we go, and we stop the bombs, or actually _you_ stop the bombs since they’re usually trying to blow up some of the rest of us, but the point is, the bombs get stopped. By us.”

“No bombs here,” Nathan says.

“Right,” Robert says. “You just got this crazy, make-no-sense vision in the middle of another crazy make-no-sense magic spell. So, hey,” he turns and look at the Chief, “do you think you can help us out here? Enlighten us a bit?”

John sounds stressed. “Don’t piss him off. Whatever’s going on is pretty big, right?”

A slightly hesitant Michael interrupts. “Chief, do you think this fits with the World Mage theory?”

The group gets quiet and looks at the Chief. He nods a few times too many, then says, “The divination, yes. We’ll have to look into the vision. Give them the overview.”

The group settles back into their seats, awaiting another long story.

“‘World Mage’ is an old term,” Michael says, “one of those ‘myths of the magi’ we were talking about before. The stories say Merlin and Morgan le Fay were world mages, as well as most famous magicians of the ancient world. The specifics about the title are unclear, but the core element of the story is that world mages control the connection between Terra and Gaia.”

Robert laughs. “You’re just now bringing this up? Hey, Scarpedin, didn’t you know Merlin?”

Scarpedin frowns. “I dunno. Did I? Um, yeah, yeah I did. He was an ass. I don’t remember liking him much.”

“Pardon me?” Michael says.

Jenny waves him off. “Scarpedin claims to have been a knight from King Arthur’s time, sent through time.”

The casualness with which she passes along the information amuses the group. She seems to get where they’re coming from, where the rest of the Bureau doesn’t.

Michael blinks, and continues.

“There are other stories about people who could easily travel between Terra and Gaia. The original keymakers, the gatekeepers, countless fey who claimed they were more than they actually were – demons and angels and such. But the world mage story is one of the hardest one disprove, because all of the main characters of the tales were powerful mages who were adept at travel, and who became devoted to hiding after the fall of Camelot.

“The story goes that there were many world mages at a time, one for each continent, and that they could draw power from the connection between the two worlds. When King Arthur died and Camelot fell, the surviving knights started a secret crusade to destroy the world mages, thinking that they had helped the fey attack humanity.”

Scarpedin nods. “Makes sense.”

“Most of the world mages,” Michael says, “went into hiding, but a few were killed, which is said to explain why the two worlds are not as close together as they were back in more mythic times. Like I said, the specifics of the magic are unknown but are extremely powerful, capable of affecting entire continents at a time. One explanation we considered was that the last world mage died or was killed-”

Bonnie interrupts, “Wait, they’re just dying now? They sure live a long time.”

Ian’s ghost Giovanni hisses, “Stop this woman’s pointless speech. She wastes air with the obvious.”

Robert looks over his shoulder at the ghost like he’s about to pick a fight.

“Oh,” Robert says, “I’m sorry. Maybe some things aren’t as obvious to those of us who don’t,” he waves his hands in the air dramatically, “_do magic._”

Ian mutters, “If I could shut him up, I would.”

Jenny quietly encourages Michael to continue.

“Again,” Michael says, “if the last world mage was killed at a moment to coincide with the attack on the Bureau, that might have been how the worlds were separated. Unfortunately, we don’t know what it takes for someone to become a world mage, or if you even can, so we have no idea how to fix it. The group that we sent sailing to England intended to contact the Fey Court and see if they have any answers, but the fey are hard to deal with, and might actually like it if humans can’t interfere with them.”

John scowls. “So we know nothing still.”

The Chief stands up. “That’s not correct. We know that Terry Abrams was killed, and that he was able to travel between the two worlds. We don’t know whether the young lady, Lin, was killed because she had the same sort of power, or if it was an accident, but we’re going to find out. This is old, secretive magic. What we’re going to do when we get back to Terra is arrange quick, discreet contact with every hermit, scholar, archaeologist, cryptozoologist, cosmologist, cosmetologist, and Scientologist who might know something.

“We’re looking for world mages. Let’s get to work.” He looks to Robert. “Meanwhile, we should discuss you handing us over that bracelet, so that we can get to fixing this mess.”

The group looks to Robert. Terry wishes they were looking at him, since it’s his fate their deciding.

“I think,” Robert says, “that we’re going to stick with Terry for right now. Maybe once we see you’re not the colossal screw-ups you appeared at first glance, we might trust you.”

The Chief takes a moment, then nods. “That’s fair. Let’s head back to the transit room. How many can you get at a time?”

Robert hesitates for only a moment. “Ten. We, ah, we don’t want to risk any more than that.”

Ulwelf stands. “I will stay here, Chief.”

“Why? We just have nine.” Robert counts with his fingers. “You, me, Jenny, John, Nathan, the new guy and the new girl, Scarpedin, and Balthazaar.”

“What about the fey?” Jenny asks. “He makes ten.”

Wiji-wiji, silent for what seems like ages, smiles and says, “You not supposed to remember me. Robot-_san, kochira onna ga totemo mezurashii, yo?_”

“Exactly,” Robert says. “No, sorry, I just forgot he was here.”

It sounds believable, the way he says it.

Nathan stands and stretches. “I do rather hope we’re able to work together on this. I’ve never saved the world before.”


----------



## RangerWickett

*Chapter Twelve, Part Five*

“Wow,” Terry says, “it’s only eleven a.m.? Ah well. Time to go back to being ignored.”

As they’re back on Terra, Robert is the only person to hear him. He smiles, and Jenny thinks it’s for her. They sure seem to be getting along well, despite Robert hating her boss.

The Chief and Jenny get the Bureau on Terra up to date on the information from Gaia, and have them start checking into both the long-term issue of fixing the separation of the two worlds, and the short-term problem of the mage who had the cop killed the night before. If their hunch is correct that he was after Terry, then he might be involved in the overall plot.

Since the rest of the group wants to get away from the Bureau for a while, they decide to follow an unrelated personal issue on John’s behalf. The Bureau has not been able to sufficiently translate the text in the Egyptian book John has, the one which Robert was tasked to give to him by a thought eater in Gaian New Orleans, so they decide to look up an Egyptian museum on the outskirts of the city, since the director, one Benjamin Durbin, has advanced degrees in Egyptology.

Jenny goes along, and she brings along Ian as back-up. Bonnie tags along because she likes the group, and Nathan vouches for her, sensing that she’ll be important some time in the future. Wiji-wiji comes because Robert’s afraid to let the fey out of his sight. To all of them, Jenny gives a reminder that Durbin is not aware of the existence of magic, and that they should not be careful to change any of that.

The museum looks like a mausoleum, its walls polished black marble, and its design wholly reminiscent of ancient Egypt. The large group – Ian, Jenny, Bonnie, John, Robert, Nathan, and Scarpedin – offers a meager donation when they enter the museum, and while the secretary contacts Dr. Durbin for them, they browse through the old artifacts.

“Keep an eye on Ian,” Jenny says with a quiet smile to Robert. They’re out of earshot of the mercenary mage.

“What for?” Robert asks. He idly looks at Arabic inscriptions on a more recent artifact.

Jenny leans in close, as if to share a secret, and perhaps something more.

“He styles himself a treasure hunter and tomb raider. He always has bad luck when he goes into tombs, though. He got bonded to his ghost in an old Catholic vault, and I arrested him for trying to explore a maze under an Indian burial mound. That’s why he works for us now. So make sure he doesn’t steal anything, okay?”

“Okay,” Robert says. “You know, that reminds me of a time I went to a convenience store, bought a candybar, and had a perfectly normal day. Weird, isn’t it? It’s like we have so much in common.”

He laughs. Jenny laughs with him.

“Shush,” hisses Ian from across the room. “You’ll wake the dead, and the dead get pissed when you bother them.”

A new voice says, “Are you an expert on the dead?”

The group looks up from their curiosity to see a tanned bald man in a dark gray suit, wearing black rubber gloves. He looks a bit like Ben Kingsley. With a smile to Ian, he walks over to the statue of Anubis Ian was so looking at, then nods to it like it’s an old friend.

“If the dead are properly put to rest,” the man says, “nothing can wake them. I am Dr. Durbin. My secretary told me you have business with me.”

John nods to get the man’s attention and pulls out the book. Durbin draws in an awed breath, then regains his composure.

“Let us go back to my private study,” he says.

* * *​
The museum is just the front of a rather large complex, fenced in with razor wire and shaded with massive trees covered in Spanish moss. A chain-link fence walls in the walkway to a small building in back, separating the walkway from a small garden of Egyptian paraphenalia, including a few small black pyramids marked like tombstones. 

Terry feels oddly subdued here, and he senses some sort of subtle magic that would make it harder for him to use spells. There are no ghosts in the garden, but Terry sees Giovanni considering the place with scorn.

A slender black dog prowls the garden, and it growls at Ian. If not for the chain-link fence, the hound, which looks almost like a black jackal, would likely attack Ian.

Scarpedin asks, “Can I buy your dog?”

Durbin, deathly serious, shakes his head. “No. I dare not risk letting him free. He’s quite savage to anyone but me. Come inside. This is my mortuary.”

The small building is indeed a strange combination of library, morgue, and embalming studio. A storage room contains all the necessary materials for mummification, a process which Durbin says he has nearly perfected. He claims that he has to make all his own material, which considerably slows the process. While Durbin heads into a kitchen to get some fig cookies, Scarpedin quietly announces that he doesn’t trust the man, and thinks they should kill him.

The group relaxes with tea and cookies in Dr. Durbin’s library, and John shows the Egyptologist the book. With little trouble, the doctor skims the text and provides a translation. He says that the book is a copy of an older text, a heretical book that claims the Egyptian gods were mere mortals, and that they stole their divinity by slaying a powerful creature of the heavens. The illustration with this passage shows something vaguely reminiscent of an angel.

“Does the angel look like someone famous?” Scarpedin asks.

“What?” John says. “Shut up. This is important.”

Bonnie leans in and looks at the illustration. She squints, then says, “I think he looks kinda like that chap from _Pulp Fiction_, Samuel L. Jackson.”

“Wow,” Ian says. “The Egyptian pantheon killed Samuel L. Jackson. They must’ve been some bad mutha-”

“Shut your mouth,” Durbin says. “Do not repeat such heresy.”

Durbin says that he’s very interested in the book, especially a section in the back that is not in any language he’s familiar with, a language John grudgingly admits looks familiar, but he can’t read it either. (The book had also resisted deciphering spells the Bureau had tried.) Durbin offers to buy the book and provide a translation if he can manage it, and John agrees. Durbin says he wants to make sure he has legal proof of this, seeing as the book is highly rare. He wants to make sure he will have credibility if he decides to present this to some scholarly journal, so he goes to draft a contract on his computer.

“So,” Ian says when Durbin leaves the room, “who else wants to find an angel and kill it to become a god? C’mon, I can’t be the only one thinking it.”

“John’s an angel,” Nathan says. “I had a vision of-”

He stops in mid-sentence, looking stricken.

“Jenny,” he says, “call the Bureau.”

Just then, Nathan’s phone rings. He pulls it out and looks at it like it’s dangerous.

Jenny flips out her phone and sends in a call with incredible speed. Nathan’s phone rings a second time, and the rest of the group watches in confusion. Jenny gets an answer on her phone.

“Tagin,” she says, “I need you to trace a call to Nathan’s phone, _now_.”

Nathan’s phone rings a third time.

“It goes to voicemail on the fifth ring,” he says with casual nervousness.

It rings again.

Jenny says, “It’s ready. Answer it.”

Nathan answers the call and puts it on his cell’s speaker-phone. “Hello. This is Nathaniel Beckford. How may I help you?”

“You got a crowd listening in?” says a deep male voice.

“I am with some friends,” Nathan says, “if that’s what you mean. Please, if you’d prefer I keep this private I can go outside. It’ll be just a minute.”

“Nah,” the man says. “I’m in kinda a rush. Look, you’ve got someone in your group who can travel to Gaia, and my employer has changed his mind. He doesn’t want you dead. He likes the way you handled yourself in New Orleans, and he’d like to hire you. Is the planeshifter there?”

Nathan looks around the group with a bit of a shrug. Terry knows he can’t talk over a phone, and every second the group tries to stall or lie, the more likely they are to get found out.

“Yeah,” Scarpedin says, “I’m here. What’s up, b*tch?”

Everyone else in the group suppresses a groan.

“Terry Abrams?” the man on the phone says.

“Yeah,” Scarpedin says. “What’s it to you? You wanna hire me? Okay, give me a number. In fact, gimme a number, then multiply it by five, because where I go, my posse goes.”

The voice laughs. “Hey, I know you’re probably nervous, seeing as we did try to kill you and all, but you kicked the asses of the guys we sent, so we decided we’d like to let you hear our side of the story.”

“I’m not hearing a number,” Scarpedin says. “And I like numbers with lots of zeroes in them. I’ve been looking to buy myself, y’know, a jet, and those cost a lot.”

John looks like he can barely restrain himself from throttling Scarpedin. He mouths out some sort of advice, but Scarpedin, grinning, doesn’t notice.

“I’ve got a suitcase with fifty thousand dollars,” the voice says, “for the trouble of you coming to a first meeting.”

Jenny, trying to divide her attention between this call and the call she placed to the Bureau, has a look on her face like something doesn’t fit.

“So,” Scarpedin says, “multiplied by five, that’s two-hundred and fifty thousand. That’s four zeroes. I can handle that.”

“Hey, one suitcase,” the voice says. “There’s a lot more available if you see things our way.”

Nathan interjects, “How do we know you won’t try to betray us?”

The man laughs. “Have we been able to beat you yet? There’s an outdoor café at the riverwalk. Meet me there at five, and bring as many of you as you want. Just leave the Bureau out of this.”

The man hangs up.

Robert asks, “Jenny?”

“We have an address,” she says. “He had some dummy transits on the call, but we back-tracked. A team is on the way. If we hurry we can get there in time.”

“No,” Robert says. “C’mon, Jenny. It’s so obvious. The guy calls us, let’s us track him? He expects us to go after him. He’s probably got an ambush planned, so he can grab ‘Terry.’ ”

Scarpedin grins proudly. “Ask Terry how I did. How’d I do, Terry? Pretty f*cking convincing, huh? Muthaf*cker should know not to mess with the _Abrams_.”

Jenny blinks. “Robert, we _expect_ him to lay an ambush. The Chief himself is heading in on this one. More manpower can only help.”

“The Chief’s going?” John says. He scoffs. “Yeah, we’re staying here.”

Jenny turns to Nathan.

“I’m sorry Jenny,” Nathan says. “I’m hesitant, but I have to agree with Robert on this one. Keeping Terry’s more important.”

Ian laughs. “Why don’t we just send the vampire with a soul here?” He nods toward John. “He and Buffy,” he nods at Bonnie, “could handle it.”

Durbin comes back then, carrying a printed contract.

“Who were you talking to?” he asks.

“Our financer,” Robert lies promptly. “We were double-checking the offer you provided, and making sure John had a legal claim to sell the book. Everything sounds in order.”

“Excellent,” Durbin says. “This book looks like it will be quite important. Here’s the paperwork. Let us make a deal.”


----------



## Shann

I signed up just so I could say great job. I love the story so far and hope you continue to update.


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## Darmanicus

I've just finished reading this SH and I'd just like to say it's awesome so far. Scarpedin and Wijji-Wijji.......very cool characters!


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## RangerWickett

I hope to update some time in the next few days. Thanks for the nudge.


----------



## RangerWickett

*Chapter Twelve, Part Six*

Rather than return to the Bureau, or going to the ambush they expect, the group heads back to their hotel. Bonnie has been chatting up Nathan, often mentioning how much she used to hate the British government, or how Terry is the nicest ghost she’s ever met, or that a skinny man like Nathan should learn to build up is alcohol tolerance.

When they get to the hotel, Robert, Nathan, and Scarpedin get packed and ready to leave in case the Bureau botches this case. John has nothing but what he carries, so he stays outside and smokes in the early November humidity.

“I know you have a problem with the Bureau,” Jenny says. “Several, probably.”

She walks out of the hotel lobby and stands beside him. John doesn’t look over. He draws on his cigarette, then exhales. The air is thick and dead, and the smoke floats around him.

“Which is it?” Jenny asks. “The secrecy, or the power?”

John bites in irritation, then pulls out his cigarette.

“I wouldn’t have a problem if you knew what you were doing,” he says. “How long have you been in this job?”

“A little over five years,” Jenny says.

“And, when your Chief was gone, you were in charge of the main office for coordinating a worldwide conspiracy to conceal the existence of magic?”

Jenny smiles. “I interview well. Actually, I’m one of the top-ranking field agents, for monster handling and such. Most of the logistical crew was on Gaia. But I’m not the problem, John. When I first was exposed to all of this, it was a shock to me too. The two main worries I had were the secrecy, and the power. I didn’t know if it was right to actively hide the truth from people, and I was worried that the Bureau might abuse its power since people can’t defend themselves.”

John drops his cigarette and stamps it out.

He chuckles. “I’m not worried about you abusing power. If you were smart, you’d have arrested Robert and just taken Terry.”

He turns to head inside, and Jenny leans back to get the last word.

“I’ll let the Chief know that you _wanted_ us to screw you over. I’m sure he’ll oblige.”

John says nothing as he heads back into the hotel lobby. Jenny is left in the still-lingering smoke.

* * *​
“There’s a package for me?”

Nathan is surprised and worried. The hotel desk clerk hands over a small package, slightly bigger than a pocketbook, and Nathan accepts it gingerly.

Bonnie, who is still tagging along, asks, “Why so worried?”

He sends out his senses to see if there’s a bomb inside it, and he finds nothing.

“I’m not worried,” Nathan says.

He thanks the clerk and goes to see what he has just received, wondering how he can manage to shake the Irish bouncer woman. He sits down at a lobby desk which has no other nearby seats, and Bonnie seems to get the point, turning away to give him some privacy.

Inside the package is a cell phone. Remembering _The Matrix_, Nathan waits for it to ring on its own, but after a moment he shrugs, opens the phone, and looks through the contacts. There is only one listed – “Virgin, Savannah.”

He hits Send.

* * *​
“Bring Scrabburu,” Wiji-wiji says to Scarpedin.

Scarpedin, in a rare introspective moment, nods quietly. He is facing out the balcony window of his hotel room, toward the trees that dot Savannah and beyond them the wide river, but he is not watching those. He is watching the reflection of the TV screen. _Monty Python’s The Holy Grail_ is showing, and memory flickers in the back of Scarpedin’s mind.

He wants to get his motorcycle and ride, but he doesn’t know to where. Where does a knight go when he fails to protect his charge?

A knock comes at the door, and Robert peeks his head in.

“Hey, um, Scarpedin,” he says, “Terry had a question to ask you. It’s about magic.”

Scarpedin grins at the distasteful look on Robert’s face. But then Scarpedin shakes his head.

“Not in the mood for it right now, Robot.”

He turns off the TV, grabs the Scrabble game box, and heads out the room. Robert frowns at him as he leaves, but Scarpedin’s attention is focused on figuring out how to best track down the people who wanted Terry dead.

Robert and Wiji-wiji follow Scarpedin to the elevator. Ian, who Jenny had set to watch the hall for trouble, falls in with them, and chatter surrounds Scarpedin as he descends to the ground floor. He makes a note to figure out how to create a boom box with magic so he can have a dramatic soundtrack for moments like this.

The elevator opens to the lobby, and Scarpedin strides out, concealed firearm in his coat, mapcase with concealed sword slung across his back, cell phone and credit cards in his pocket. He takes a detour to the gift shop to buy sunglasses so he can finish the look. Robert, Wiji-wiji, and Ian head off to talk to the others, and Scarpedin takes the moment to himself to nod his head a few times, getting in the mood to kick ass.

He leaves the gift shop and head for the lobby exit. The others in his group – Robert, John, Jenny, Bonnie, Ian, and Nathan – stand between him and the exit.

As he tries to press through, Robert smiles and says, “What’s with the sudden bad-ass kick?”

“I don’t trust the Bureau,” Scarpedin says, “but I don’t want them to f*ck up capturing the guys who wanted Terry dead. I’m gonna go kick ass and shovel snow.”

Jenny frowns. “There’s no snow in Savannah.”

Scarpedin half-nods his head. “_Oh well_. Make way.”

“Scarpedin,” Jenny says, “hold on just a minute.”

“Yeah? Oh yeah, a lady’s favor. I get it.” He holds out his hand to receive her endorsement on his quest.

The group sighs. Scarpedin maintains his composure, not letting them sense his confusion.

“Scarpedin,” Robert says, “Jenny just got a phone call. They got the guy.”

Scarpedin stands still for a moment, looking at the hotel exit through his cool new sunglasses. He cocks his head slightly to Robert and drops his voice, as if it’s an aside.

“They didn’t screw it up?”

“I know,” Robert laughs. “It surprised me too.”

Jenny interrupts. “We captured the man and his sniper accomplice. They’re being taken to the Bureau offices now for interrogation.”

“No casualties?” Scarpedin asks, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

“No,” Jenny says sternly.

A moment passes.

“Alright then,” Scarpedin says. “Terry, we-. Robert, ask Terry if he wants us to go rough up this guy for him.”

Robert says, “I assume you mean, ‘interrogate personally, with the Bureau’s blessing.’”

“Whatever,” Scarpedin says.

John says to Jenny, “Will they let us do that?”

Jenny says, “You don’t _actually_ intend to rough the guy up, do you?”

Robert takes on the burden of lying. “What do you take us for, Jenny? We just want a chance to look at this guy face to face, and we don’t want your ‘Chief’ or any of his cub scouts around to coddle this *sshole. He might’ve been responsible for killing Terry. We deserve a chance to look him in the eye and find out why.”

Jenny considers Robert for a short moment, then sighs and nods. “I’ll call ahead and see what I can do. Just the four of you?”

Robert glances at Scarpedin, John, and Nathan. “We’re taking Ian with us too.”

Jenny leans in disapprovingly. “Mind control and enchantment magic is _not_ allowed.”

“Sure thing,” Robert says. “I just need an extra set of eyes or ears or whatever telepaths use.”

Nathan grimaces slightly, his hand to his brow as if he has a head-ache.

“I think I’ll bow out. I have some other business to attend to. Bonnie, will you go in my place?”

“Did you have a vision?” she asks.

“Of sorts,” Nathan says. “I just sense it would be bad for me to be with the group at this time.”

He stands up and nods politely to the group.

“When you get back,” he says, “check your voicemail. Jenny, a pleasure.”

Jenny smiles to him as he departs. She even manages to keep the smile and her good cheer when she turns back to Robert.

“I’ll get you your private time with the man,” she says, “but we still have due process. I know you might think the man deserves it, but if you do anything improper to him-”

“It’s okay, Jenny,” Robert says. “Don’t worry. You know me. The _last_ thing I want to do is hurt anybody.”

“C’mon,” Scarpedin says. “We oughta get going.”

Robert starts to call a cab, and Jenny starts to call the Bureau. While the rest of the group are out of earshot, Robert leans in close to Jenny.

Grudgingly he says, “Tell the ‘Chief’ I’m proud of him.”

Jenny puts a hand on Robert’s cheek and shakes her head with amusement. Then she steps away to get back to business. Robert honestly feels a little bad about lying to her, because he’s fairly confident they’re going to kick the ever-loving sh*t out of this man.


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Twelve, part seven*

The group comes off the elevator onto the jail level in a hurry. The office is reminiscent of a police station, but with fewer guards. Which is fine, because they only have three prisoners in custody now – Shanon Mercer the relic dealer, and these two new captives.

A heavy metal door separates the entry room from the hall with the cells, and two men in black suits guard the door, standing beside what looks like a modified metal detector. Tagin, the Bureau computer expert, is checking security camera feeds and other technical things. He sits bolt up when he spots Jenny and the others.

“Jenny,” Tagin says, “the Chief wants to see you. I don’t know if he’s happy about this arrangement you’ve made.”

Robert glances at Jenny. “Oh come on. Tell your boss to-”

Jenny shakes her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it and be back in a minute. I think it’s best if you don’t tag along for this. Sean, where’s the Chief?”

“_Tagin_,” he replies, bitter. “Chief’s in A&D, trying to pin down who this guy is. Get this, his driver’s license says he’s ‘Chuck Norris.’”

No one in the group chuckles except Ian. Wiji-wiji actually bows and mutters something about Mr. Norris being a great hero.

“I’m sorry about this,” Jenny says, “but the Bureau and bureaucracy go hand in hand.”

“Thanks,” Robert says.

Jenny goes to the elevator and leaves, and the group as a whole adopts the posture of people in a doctor’s waiting room.

Tagin clears his throat and walks up to them, his voice low so the two guards at the metal detector won’t hear.

“You guys gonna go in, or what?”

“We can do that?” John asks.

Robert says, “Of course we can. Thanks, ‘Sean.’”

“Tagin,” Tagin replies.

“Hey,” Scarpedin says, “what is it with the Bureau and not wanting to use their real name?”

“You mean ‘the Chief’?” Tagin says with a chuckle. “I don’t know what his problem is. Me, I just hate my parents, so I don’t want to use my given name.”

“So what,” Scarpedin says, “is ‘Tagin’ your ‘hacker name’ or something?”

Wiji-wiji grins. “Douburu negative, _ne_? Werry interesting gamu.”

Tagin clears this throat again. “Jenny won’t be gone too long. You might want to head in.”

Bonnie says, “Ye’re not breaking any rules, are ye?”

Tagin puts his pinky finger to the corner of his mouth like Doctor Evil. “You’ll find ‘Chuck’ in cell six.”

One by one, the group files through the security door into the jail. The metal detector does not go off, despite a shotgun, several handguns, a sword, and other sundry weapons concealed among them. There are no guards inside, just a bevy of security cameras.

Robert says, “I don’t think Jenny set this up.”

Ian laughs. “Pocahontas, have a problem with you guys torturing a prisoner? Whatever gave you that idea? Oh, and for the record y’all, George suggests we burn the murdering witch with the fires of heaven until he talks.”

“Let’s just do this,” John says.

“Do what, precisely?” Robert asks. “I told Jenny I wasn’t going to let you guys kill him.”

“I’m going to get answers out of him,” John says.

Terry, silent and unseen, feels a chill when John says this. What worries him is that he doesn’t disagree.

They reach the door to cell six and have a brief powwow. Ian casts a spell to let him listen to surface thoughts, and John assures them that he can heal any wounds he has to inflict, as long as they don’t cut anything off. At this pronouncement, Bonnie decides that she’ll stay outside, claiming that she’ll guard the door, and be there to let them out when they’re done. Wiji-wiji says he wants to stays with her.

With that squared away, they head inside.

The room has no windows, just the classic mirrored wall, a long metal table, and chairs. The prisoner – tall, black, with a long face that makes him look like Charlie Murphy (Eddie Murphy’s brother) – is dressed in a fine business suit. He sits hand-cuffed, his feet cuffed to the chair legs. A metal collar sits on his neck. They recognize it as one of the magic-nullifying collars the Bureau uses.

Terry sees a ghost hovering beside the man. If the collar is working right, the ghost will be unable to use its bond to the man to let him cast any magic.

“He has a ghost,” Terry says to Robert. “But the collar should keep us safe.”

Robert repeats that to the group.

At the sound of Robert’s voice, the prisoner looks up and smiles cockily.

“Are you here to break me out and take my offer?”

Scarpedin laughs. “We’re here to break something.”

John walks up to the man, grabs his forearm, and braces it against the edge of table, then glances at Robert.

“First question?”

Robert nods and says, “Look, I don’t like having to use violence, so please just answer our questions. What’s your name?”

The prisoner frowns. “I offered you a deal, and now you’re gonna try to strongarm a n*gga?”

Robert rubs his face. “I’m tired, and I’ve been having a lot of trouble with people not telling me their names. Now you don’t want John here to break your arm, do you?”

“Dick,” the prisoner says. “Dick Thevenot.”

“Dick,” Robert says. “Appropriate. Okay, dick, who do you work for?”

Dick says, “Sh*t, man, if you’re not going to accept my offer, I got no reason to talk to you.”

“We’re still considering,” Robert says. “If you’re better than the Bureau, you’ll answer some of our questions, and you’d better hurry up, because we don’t have much time to ourselves in here.”

“Okay, alright.” Dick Thevenot works his mouth like he’s trying to figure out how to say what he wants. “I work for some people who don’t like the Bureau.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much,” Scarpedin says.

Dick shrugs. “Can’t say much else about them. Ask me something else.”

“Why’d you want to kill Terry?” Robert asks.

“Y’know,” Dick says to Scarpedin, “I didn’t send that order, but I heard that my bosses, they thought your planeshift magic would be a problem. I mean, if you’re trying to make sure no one can planeshift, it’s easier to kill people who are trouble than to try to recruit them and have them talk to everybody and sh*t, y’know? But, hey, I’m sorry man. We got nothing against you now.”

Scarpedin blinks. “What do you mean?”

Robert bites his lip. “He’s saying, Terry, that he’s sorry his people tried to kill you, but he wants to move on now.”

“Yeah, well,” Scarpedin shrugs, “I don’t like it when people kill my friends.”

John groans, and Robert suppresses a sigh. Apparently Scarpedin has forgotten that he was pretending to be Terry.

“Wait a sec,” Dick says. “This ain’t Terry Abrams. You saying we actually _did_ kill him?”

John puts Dick into a joint lock for his hand. “We’re the ones asking the questions here, not you.”

Dick grimaces, but keeps talking. “So how the hell are you all getting over to Gaia if the kid’s dead? Look, this is new sh*t, and my bosses will pay well to know what’s up.”

“Shut up,” Robert says casually. He turns to Scarpedin and says, “Good job,” then turns back to Thevenot.

“So, dick, why did you want to separate the two worlds?”

Dick shakes his head. “I’m done talking.”

John shrugs and presses down with full force on the man’s wrist and lower forearm, using the edge of the table as a lever to snap Dick Thevenot’s arm, breaking both bones in the forearm. Thevenot screams, and the rest of the group gasps in shock.

A half-second too late, Robert remembers he needs to pretend that he’s shocked too. “No, wait,” he says, half-heartedly.

Dick reels for a bit, then spits at John. John keeps a firm grip on the back of Dick’s neck, keeping him immobile as he adjust position to the opposite arm.

“Holy sh*t, man,” Ian is shouting. “You just broke the motherf*cker’s arm! I . . . I want to go on record as saying I did not actually want to _endorse_ my ghost’s suggestion. Holy sh*t.”

“Now he knows not to withhold information,” John says.

“Whoa, calm down,” Robert says. “Let’s not cry over split bones. We’ve still got some questions to ask. So, dick, what are you and your group up to?”

“Screw you,” Dick growls.

John snaps the other arm, and now even Scarpedin winces with some revulsion. The man’s groans are horrible, and Bonnie calls in through the doors to ask what’s going on. Robert yells back for her not to worry.

“Okay John,” Robert says, “that was pretty horrible.”

Scarpedin shrugs. “Hey, you missed what he did to Morgan. Broke the guy like a wishbone.”

“Hey,” John says, “this guy’s been trying to kill us! Don’t go getting squeamish now. Keep asking him questions.”

“I ain’t telling you nothing,” Dick says.

John breaks one of Dick’s fingers, which elicits only a pained grunt.

“Look,” Robert says, pointing at the man. “He didn’t even feel that. He’s going into shock. Just . . . just heal the guy.”

“Yes,” Ian says. “For the goddess’s sake, can we not break any more bones?”

John sighs. “Fine. I won’t break any _more_ bones. I can heal these ones up a few times and just keep snapping them.”

John slaps the man’s face to get his attention. “Hey. Answer one of our questions and we’ll heal your broken bones. If you don’t, I’ll shatter the bones in your fingers, which I’m pretty sure I can’t fix.”

Robert watches as Dick glares at the group one by one. Something’s odd about the way his eyes skim across them, from head to toe, like he’s sizing them up, or looking for something. Not quite certain what it means, Robert tries a new question.

“Were you the one who killed the cop last night?”

“Not me,” Dick says. “I have a hired sniper. He did it.”

“Okay,” Robert says. “Heal him.”

John reluctantly concentrates and casts three spells to fix the prisoner’s arms and fingers.

“Thanks a lot, b*tch,” says Thevenot when he’s healed up.

John laughs once, then puts Thevenot’s hand palm down on the table and drives the heel of his own palm down onto the bridge of the hand, shattering the bones.

“Don’t give us a hard-,” John starts, but Thevenot interrupts.

Finally the man seems truly incensed. He screams at John and tries to lunge out of his chair. He curses at John for several seconds, and John backs off. When the man’s outburst ends, Thevenot ends up cradling his shattered hand.

“This isn’t working,” John says. “If he just _now_ is snapping, that means it’s gonna be a long time before he decides to fess up.”

Robert says, “Ian, you got anything with your spell thing?”

“The mojo works,” Ian says, “but Buc Nasty here’s got a pretty strong will.”

John says, “I think a lot more is going on here than we know. I mean, this guy is some kind of bad-ass, and we just went and told him Terry was dead. Ian, can you and your ghost talk to the dead?”

“Dah!” Robert says. “Slow down.”

Scarpedin mutters, “Maybe we didn’t break enough bones. I mean, he’s got more.”

The four of them are absorbed in their own discussion, and so they do not notice that Dick Thevenot has closed his eyes and is concentrating as if on a spell. They all assume that the bonded ghost is what gives the man his power, and that the collar he wears thus keeps him from using his magic.

Terry is the only one to notice anything. To him, the room seems to darken as Thevenot draws power from the injuries to his body, channeling the pain into magic. The man looks up from under his brow and smiles, directly at Terry.

“Look out!” Terry shouts, but only Robert hears him.

Black tendrils, invisible to the living, reach out and stab at the hearts and limbs of Scarpedin, John, and Ian. They begin to go into seizures of pain, and they fall to the ground. Robert reacts quickly, pulling out stun gun and straight razor and advancing on the prisoner.

Thevenot growls and pulls at his bonds, which fall apart, magically unlocked. Robert slashes at the man’s throat, but Thevenot blocks with his forearm, not even wincing as the blade cuts to sinew. He stands and slams a fist into Robert’s chest. The blow crackles with magic, and Robert’s heart stops. He staggers back and falls to the floor, but as he falls back Thevenot reaches out, grabs Robert’s wrist, and pulls off the bracelet Terry is bonded to.

Terry is shouting, calling for help, but his voice is cut off as the bracelet is yanked off. Robert falls to the floor, coughing and clutching his chest.

John has managed to fight through the pain, and he gets to his knees. He sees Robert fall and Thevenot ready to make a break with Terry’s bracelet.

“Bonnie!” he shouts. “Get in here!”

Thevenot smiles his cocky smirk, and as John forces himself to his feet and prepares to attack, the mage simply clenches his fist and vanishes. John curses and leaps, swinging a wide kick through the space Thevenot just occupied, assuming the man has turned invisible, but he hits nothing.

Bonnie opens the door, and she and Wiji-wiji step in. John shouts for her to close the door because the prisoner’s invisible, but Wiji-wiji shakes his head.

“He prane shift,” the Japanese fey says. “To Gaia. Quick, herupu Robato-_san_.”

“Dammit,” John says.

He kneels beside Robert and uses magic to restart his heart, then moves on to Ian and Scarpedin.

“Sh*t!” Robert screams. “He stole Terry! How the hell did he-?”

“Robato-_san_!” Wiji-wiji pulls Robert to his feet and leans close, grabbing both his shoulders. “We can forrow. Do you trust me?”

“What?” Robert shakes his head, confused. 

He notices that where Thevenot had stood, a small glass sphere lies cracked on the ground. It looks just like the soul gems the relic dealer Shanon Mercer had used to trap ghosts.

“The ghost was a fake,” Ian says once John has cured the pain wracking him. “Dammit, sorry, I should’ve seen it.”

Bonnie glances out the door, worried. “The Bureau are coming! Even Tommy Lee Jones.”

Wiji-wiji shakes Robert. “Do you trust me? Zhere is no time!”

Robert looks around, seeing them all alive but helpless to do anything to stop the bastard that just escaped. He doesn’t know what it will cost him, but Robert nods.

“Quickry!” Wiji-wiji shouts. “Come to me.”

Shouts are coming down the hall, and everyone scrambles to get close to the Japanese man. Robert watches the door.

The Chief rounds the corner, a gun in hand. He holds it out, aimed at the group, and he opens his mouth to shout something, but just then the world grows more vivid, and the interrogation room vanishes as they blindly travel to Gaia.

_*End of Twelfth Session. To be continued. . . .*_


----------



## Slife

Really nice story hour.  Reminds me a lot of Jim Butcher's Dresden Files series.


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## Corbert

Slife said:
			
		

> Really nice story hour.  Reminds me a lot of Jim Butcher's Dresden Files series.




I have 7 books of that series.  I have been mining them for material I can throw at my players   .


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## Blacklamb

I finished!

Thanks RW for such a wonderful attention grabbing story!


Blacklamb


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## RangerWickett

*Session Thirteen, part one*

Having just left the hotel, having left behind the others because he has seen what they will do to the man and he knows he cannot walk beside them now, Nathan heads for his car in the parking garage. He casually checks it for bombs on the undercarriage, then gets inside and sits. He closes his eyes and takes a breath.

The road splits into three paths, he sees, one through city, one through sea, and one between. The road of glass and light ends in a mirrored room filled with only one man. At the end of the whale road, a man holds a beam of sunlight in his hands.

The long road, however, has no torches of its own. If opportunity and chance fall into the proper holes, the way will be lit at middle and end, but Nathan fears that the travelers will lose their way just as they begin.

A massive scaled fire stalks out of sight at the fork in the road, holding forth a golden hand. 

Nathan slides out of the vision and frowns in consternation.

He cannot travel with Robert, John, and the others, but that does not mean he hopes they fail. He takes out his cell phone, and makes a call that will light the way. A man answers at the other end of the line.

“Hello,” Nathan says. “My name is Nathaniel Beckford. I’m calling in response to the package you sent.”


_ Those who have seen the needles eye, now tread,
Like a husk, from which all that was now has fled,
And the masks, that the monsters wear,
To feed, upon their prey._
”Wandering Star” – Portishead​ 

* * *​ 
They were on the fourth floor of a building when they planeshifted. On Gaia there is no building, just the branches of a huge tree, cracking and snapping around the group as they fall to the ground thirty feet below.

John feels no fear as he falls, and in the back of his mind he thinks that he has had much worse before. He catches onto a branch, steadies himself, then drops and rolls. He lands a half second after the rest of the group, but he is the only one able to walk right away. The rest are groaning, except Wiji-wiji, who simply looks exhausted.

The air is sparkling, chittering with voices hidden in the woods around them, sounding like a choir trying to lend drama to the chase. John needs only a moment to get his bearings, and then he spots the escaped prisoner a hundred feet away, fleeing through the woods. With supernatural speed, John sprints after Dick Thevenot, gun in hand. He is on the hunt, and he knows his prey won’t escape.

Thevenot glances over his shoulder, but doesn’t stop running.

“How the hell’d you follow me?” he shouts.

Beside Thevenot floats Terry, his form wispy and desperate. He is shouting for help, but his voice is faint, suppressed by some spell of Thevenot’s. John sees the bracelet clutched in Thevenot’s hand, and he knows that he cannot allow the man to get away with it. Without slowing down, John fires off several shots, hoping to distract his prey, not hit him.

Thevenot whips his head backward to try to dodge the shots, and he stumbles over a mass of brush. John closes in, leaping clear over the brush and landing like a raptor upon Thevenot. His foot drives into the back of the man's leg, staggering him and knocking him off balance. The mage falls against a tree and spins, sneering at John. He thrusts out a hand, and a burst of force knocks the gun out of John’s grasp.

“Just one of you, b*tch,” he laughs. 

John expressionlessly steps in and swings a fist downward into Thevenot’s face, then grabs the mage's shoulders and drives a knee into his stomach. Amazingly, Thevenot barely flinches, and he begins to chant a spell, which John somehow recognizes as Aztec though he cannot understand it. John tries to punch him to disrupt his concentration, but Thevenot deflects the blow with an incredible strength, and the blow misses. Energy crackles around the mage’s hands, and he draws back as if to strike into John’s heart.

But then, just as the spell's last syllable passes Thevenot’s lips, his eyes widen like he has just heard the voice of God judging him, and he gasps. He staggers forward and John steps out of reach. Thevenot falls to his knees and accidentally touches his own chest with one of his hands. A scream tears out of him and pierces the fey forest as his spell shatters his ribs. He slumps to the grass and dirt, a river of blood leaking out of his mouth.

John frowns, more than a little surprised.

“Did you do that?” Terry asks.

John blinks, then shakes his head. “He just got overeager, I guess.”

He doesn’t believe it himself, but he has no better explanation.

* * *​ 
John returns to the group a few minutes later, the unconscious, broken body of Dick Thevenot over his shoulder, and Terry’s ghost by his side. The group is excited to see they’re safe. Terry smiles in embarrassment.

“Sorry for letting myself get kidnapped,” he says. “I should’ve seen that coming. I’m a damsel in distress, aren’t I?”

“Why didn’t any of you come with me?” John asks.

Bonnie is the first to raise her hand. “John, d’ye realize that ye run about as fast as a horse?”

John says, “Yeah, so?”

“So, Prince Charming,” Ian laughs in his gruff southern accent, “that ain’t natural. We’re natural sort of people, and the only thing I do like a racehorse is piss.”

Scarpedin says, “I heard the dude screaming, so I figured you had it under control.”

“John,” Bonnie says, “I was just gonna mention that I have a broken leg so I couldn’t follow, and could ye please fix it for me?”

John carefully lowers the captive’s body to the ground, says, “We’re going to interrogate him _right_ this time,” then moves over to help Bonnie. He glances at Robert, waiting for his explanation.

Robert is lying on his back at the base of the tree, Wiji-wiji sitting Japanese style beside him.

“Hey, I wanted to kill the guy too,” Robert says, “but I think I had just suffered a heart attack before we teleported.”

Wiji-wiji grins. “Robato-_san_ is werry smart. He used many branches to break his farru.”

“Thanks,” Robert says. “Hey John?”

John nods. He has a lot of people to heal, and having a responsibility to them leaves an ashen taste in his mouth. John expects he’ll wear himself out using healing magic, but everyone needs to be able to move.

Scarpedin and Ian gag and bind the prisoner, with Ian having to repeatedly tell his ghost Giovanni that they obviously don’t need his advice on how to interrogate the man. As John makes his rounds healing the group from their fall, they discuss the current dilemma. 

Wiji-wiji explains that the man they captured was like Terry, in that the area nearby him – maybe a hundred-foot radius – made the connection between Terra and Gaia close. Nearby either of them, Wiji-wiji could cross between the two worlds. The group asks if this is because Wiji-wiji is fey, and Wiji-wiji replies, a bit obliquely, that he’s not entirely fey. The way he explains it, it sounds like he’s the opposite of a changeling. Instead of being a creature left in place of a human baby, he was the human baby, raised by the fey of Japan, and given some of their powers. When asked for more information about himself, Wiji-wiji declines, claiming his Engrish isn’t werry good.

The group begins to whine among themselves about how the Bureau was incompetent not to have foreseen Thevenot’s trick, which they have now figured out. Thevenot might be something like Terry, a possible ‘world mage,’ and so he does not need a ghost to use magic. However, he had Shanon Mercer acquire a ghost for him, so that when he was captured the Bureau would put up protections to stop the magic the ghost could provide, not even considering that the man might have other powers.

This complicates things. Obviously the people behind the separation of the two worlds are not themselves limited from planeshifting, which would explain why killing Terry was so necessary for them. Right now Thevenot is their only lead to who is behind the whole situation, and how to fix it.

“We need a place to interrogate him,” John says. “Out here, in the woods with the fey, it’s not safe, and I don’t want him trying to escape again. I think we need to go to the Bureau.”

“What?” Robert says. “No, not a chance in hell. They’re the ones who screwed this up in the first place, and they probably would just arrest us if we went back to them. In fact, the next time I see ‘the Chief,’” he waves his hands in the air mockingly, “ might have to. . . .”

He trails off.

“Have to what?” Bonnie asks.

“Be rude,” Robert says. “Anyway, we’re not taking this guy to the Bureau. They’ll just screw it up again.”

“Not the one on Terra,” John says. He cocks his head in the direction of distant buildings, visible through the fey woods. “The one here.”

“Oh,” Robert says. “Well okay then.”

“Pardon a stupid question,” Ian says, “but I saw you break both his arms, and he didn’t talk. How are we going to make him say anything?”

The air is disturbed with the rattlesnake trill of a deck of cards being shuffled. The group turns to look at Wiji-wiji, who holds out the deck for Bonnie to cut.

“Pray gamu?” he asks.


----------



## RangerWickett

I don't know if I'll get a chance to update this before Gen Con, but once I get back I'll plan to update regularly.


Brief aside:

Due to my recent fascination with the show 24, I've realized that, with a bit of reworking, I could probably fit in a few more plot threads and take the New Orleans set of adventures and stretch them into 24 separate episodes.

You have five main groups. The PCs, the Bureau, the Lee family, the Canadian terrorists (heheh), and the Rastafarian voodoo folks. I have to shift the time a bit to make things work out, and I have to add a new section so that the whole story could be contained in 24 hours, instead of spanning weeks like it does in the game. My main difficulty here is that I want to include the Renaissance Festival, so I can have some of the build-up to the main plot, and so I can have Wiji-wiji. I think I might have to drop him for this shortened version, though.

2pm to 3pm. Bureau agent Raine is watching the news about a terrorist bombing of the Neches River Bridge in Texas overnight. Meanwhile, unlikely heroes (the PCs) are coming into town, Nathan driving with the rest of the group sleeping in the car. Get to a hotel, rest for a bit and recuperate. Get a hot shower scene with Belladonna. Meanwhile, Raine is coordinating with the Savannah Bureau, learning that there's still no word on why the two worlds are separate, but that there's a lead from some odd reports coming out of Texas.

We have a phone call between Belladonna and her father, and then show Adrien Lee and Maurice Boudreaux preparing for the party. PCs call the Bureau, and just as they're about to leave, Robert arrives, tired. We cut to Balthazaar while he's in the middle of a fight with a vampire, but vampire gets away. PCs meet the Bureau, and Balthazaar shows up. Then we cut back to the hotel, where Robert fends off the Canadian George Clooney assassin.


3pm to 4pm. PCs get report that Robert's wounded. Fill rest of episode with Bureau trying to track down assassin's accomplice. Eventually they get a suspect with information about some sort of deal going down later this afternoon, at the zoo. Meanwhile, PCs move into Belladonna's place, then go and visit a magical bookstore for John's sake. While shopping for costumes Nathan has a vision of the zoo. Before they can react, Canadian terrorists attack and attempt to kill Terry, and we have an escape in a car. This is a new scene, which I need so I can establish Terry is the primary target.

4pm to 5pm. Scarpedin goes to the zoo while everyone else tries to avoid the Canadians. I invent a subplot with Adrien Lee and Maurice Boudreaux, something that displays their friendship but a potential for a rift. End with afternoon shoot-out and battle at the big cat section of the Audubon Zoo.

5pm to 6pm. Graveyard events. Learn something (which wasn't in the actual adventure, but which is needed to keep the tension up) about that there's going to be danger on Gaia, and that the Bureau agents trapped there will die if they're not freed before midnight.

6pm to 7pm. Work in a new quest. The PCs need to get some sort of special item to help Terry focus his plane shift power. This involves chasing down some bad guys who aren't related to the main plot much. Cops get involved and try to chase the PCs, and they escape with the aid of Balthazaar, getting to Belladonna's house and planeshifting right at the last minute (because everything in 24 has to be Awesome).

7pm to 8pm. Go over to Gaia, and have some hard times. Not sure what, but they run across the secret keeper.

8pm to 9pm. Get to Bureau office on Gaia. Kill guard vampires, then have to get a spell to free the agents from magical control so they can defend themselves. Realize more vamps are on the way, and they won't be able to escape before the vampire's attack.

9pm to 10pm. Set up defenses against vampires, fight them off, rescue Bureau agents.

10pm to 11pm. Get back from Gaia, celebrate. Visions involving vampires, and a vision that meta-comments on the style -- the vision starts with "the following takes place between 1am and 2am," and then briefly flashes events from later that evening. While the PCs are partying, follow the Bureau folks debriefing, figuring out a hint of what's up, and prepping to protect Terry. Belladonna talks to her dad, then tries to keep Terry from going to the party. End with a revelation that Maurice is working with the badguys; he demands to be more involved in the plan, in exchange for the favor he's granting.

11pm to 12am. A mostly Terry-Robert episode, leading up to the start of the Halloween party, a few sneaky events going on there as John and Nathan try to figure out what's up. Meanwhile the vampire that Balthazaar failed to kill earlier in the day is stalking women in the French Quarter, and he kills the woman Nathan was flirting with earlier at the bar, and collects her blood. Balthazaar looks into this, and finds out that the vampires are gathering rare components for a powerful ritual the Rastafarian neo-Voodooists are preparing. Balthazaar gets into a fight and has to run, and Mr. Lee meets with Robert.

12am to 1am. Balthazaar on the run, Robert talking to and then tailing Mr. Lee, Terry being convinced to go along to the party. Robert nearly gets picked up by cops on account of the man he murdered on the road, but he gets away, goes into hiding, and eventually gets a ride from Whitey to the party. The Canadians show up at the party.

1am to 2am. Before the big action begins, John and Yuko the Bureau agent try to tail one of the Canadians, to find out what he's up to, and possibly disarm the bomb. That fails, so we go to car chase, gunfight, avoidance of bombs. Robert shows up at the party, gets pulled into the secure room, and then leaves just before Mr. Lee kills Terry.

2am to 3am. Group links back up, disposes of detonators, and tries to make plans for vengeance. To keep the party from being able to go for help, we have the Bureau get wind of the cops reporting that Robert is a criminal, so they have to go on the run. Robert and Scarpedin head to the French Quarter to talk to Terry's ghost, and get contacted by Marie LaVeau, who helps them escape the cops and Bureau.

3am to 4am. In an attempt to bring Terry back from the dead, Scarpedin and Whitey go to get the bike, Robert gets his guns. The Bureau with John's help looks for their missing agent Yuko, and tries to track the Canadians. Here I have to take a major departure so that, by 10 in the morning, we can resolve who's behind the whole thing. So at this point I'd bring a few new bad guys from the main group, including the main leader (who will not make an appearance in the storyhour for a long while). Bad guys talk to Canadians over cell phone about /why/ they need Terry's heart, and we end with Robert and Scarpedin coming to the hotel and realizing people are already there.

4am to 5am. Fight at the hospital, chase, bringing Terry back as a ghost.

5am to 6am. Focus shifts to Adrien Lee's attempts to find out what's going on, and the Bureau tracking these newly-arrived badguys.

6am to 7am. Robert and Scarpedin get a call from Mr. Lee, arrange Starbucks events. We have a bit more of the 'main villains' plot arc, but the bad guys are good at avoiding scrutiny, so the focus is on finding out through Adrien Lee what is really going on. As the sun comes up, Marie says goodbye, and we find out that the telepath has taken control of Mr. Lee and Belladonna.

7am to 8am. Starbucks fight, the trip through Gaia with the thought eater, negotiating with Adrien Lee, Scarpedin and Whitey's antics. End with Bureau folks from Savannah arriving at the New Orleans airport. Then, moments after they get off the plane, Dick Thevenot gets off the plane too, and he puts in a call to his boss, saying something ominous.

8am to 2pm would resolve the end of the conflict. We'd have the seance, but we'd skip the vision of the doomed cities because this version would not involve world travel. Of course, in the real game it didn't happen that way, so it's kinda silly for me to be considering this.


----------



## Slife

*BUMP*

Is gencon over yet?  This has slipped to the third page.


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Thirteen, part two*

The door to the Bureau compound opens like some sort of airlock. Invisibly small lines of warding text surround the door, keeping errant fey away and blocking general intrusions of evil spirits. Outside the threshold is a dark, wild forest where hidden figures dance and sing and lure mortals to nights of revelry and weeks of lost memories, while inside lies a maze of steel and modern office decorations, lines of cable connecting countless electronic surveillance devices, and written or digitally-stored records of the answers to thousands of millions of mysteries, all guarded by inscrutable agents in black suits, black ties, and black sunglasses.

Michael Dunne emerges from behind a wall of Bureau agents, his long gray coat and relaxed expression belying the imposing greeting. He looks out the door at the group gathered there, then lowers his gaze to the blood-soaked prisoner being carried between John and Scarpedin.

“If I give you the room you want,” Michael says, “will you tell me what this is about when you’re done?”

Robert says, “Sure.”

His answer both assures Michael that he’s telling the truth, and assures the others with Robert that they’ll tell Michael only what they damn well please.

The agents watch with bristling curiosity as Robert, John, Scarpedin, their prisoner Thevenot, Ian, and Bonnie walk inside, followed by a light-footed and grinning Wiji-wiji. Robert’s ghost Giovanni glares at the agents, while Terry lurks close to Robert, looking nervous. The agents all know something is amiss, but Michael has warned them not to push the group. They have perhaps the most valuable bargaining chip in the form of Terry, and if they’re here without the Chief it means something went wrong on Terra.

“You’re lucky,” Michael says. “You picked the entrance near the cafeteria. When you’re done, meet me there, alright?”

The group as one looks at him and shrugs. Robert gives him an encouraging smile, and then they follow one of the agents to the interrogation room.

* * *​
They sit the unconscious Dick Thevenot in a chair in the center of the interrogation chamber, but don’t hand-cuff him, since Wiji-wiji says that would ruin the game they’re going to play. Wiji-wiji sits in another chair in front of the prisoner, and tells Robert to lean against the wall in a dark corner. Scarpedin is to stand close by, Bonnie is to sit in a chair opposite Scarpedin, and Ian is supposed to stand behind Wiji-wiji’s shoulder.

John stands on the opposite side of the room, behind Thevenot, out of sight. He holds a pistol and is to kill Thevenot if the man looks like he’s going to escape again.

Wiji-wiji holds up his deck of cards, and splays them in his hand.

“Gamu we pray is called, ah, Masquerado, _wakaru_? I wirru be invisible to him, and you wirru pray role. Pretend. _Anno_, rie to him, _hai_?”

They frown, but go along with it.

Wiji-wiji shuffles the deck in his lap, and nods at John, then to Thevenot, indicating for him to heal the prisoner. John cautiously concentrates to perform a last bit of magical healing to bring Thevenot to consciousness, then backs away and aims the gun again, keeping an angle so if he has to shoot, he can’t accidentally hit anyone else.

Wiji-wiji continues to shuffle, and as the prisoner begins to stir awake and his eyes flutter open, his attention is drawn to the cards. Wiji-wiji shuffles again, the crisp snapping of the cards the only sound in the room, and then suddenly he stops. His gaze is intent on Thevenot, and without looking away he holds out the deck to Scarpedin him.

“Take cardo _kudasai_,” he whispers, “and terru me what it is.”

Thevenot still lolls a bit, clearly out of it, but he doesn’t look anywhere but at Wiji-wiji.

Scarpedin draws a card from the deck. “Um, it’s the Jack with the red pointy thing on it.”

Wiji-wiji nods. “You are _kochira no ichiban tomodachi_, his best friend.”

Thevenot suddenly sits a little straighter and glances at Scarpedin. He laughs slightly, then shakes his head.

“Jin,” Thevenot says, his voice still rough from the blood caked in his throat. “Did you save me?”

Scarpedin glances left to John, then right to Wiji-wiji, then nods. Loudly he says, “Yes. You know I wouldn’t let you get hurt, man!”

Thevenot grins. “Where am I?”

Wiji-wiji sharply extends the deck to Bonnie. She pulls a card and says, “Queen of Spades.”

“You,” Wiji-wiji says, “are woman he _reast_ wants to see.”

Thevenot glares suddently at Bonnie. He asks, “What’s the bitch doing here?”

Bonnie looks to Robert for help, then looks back at their prisoner. “What do you _think_ I’m here for?”

Thevenot growls. “Look, I know I screwed up, Jin, but you didn’t have to bring Dee in on this sh*t. They didn’t find anything out, and I probably killed a few of them. Plus, we know what they can do now, right?”

Bonnie says, “Is that what you think?”

“Lay off him,” Scarpedin says. “He did his best.”

When he speaks, it sounds like Scarpedin is legitimately pissed at Bonnie, but whether that’s because the magic is affecting him too, or because he’s just playing along too well they can’t tell.

Wiji-wiji lifts the deck over his shoulder for Ian to take a card. He does and says, “Five of clubs.”

Thevenot glances up and cocks his head at Ian. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Wiji-wiji grabs the card out of Ian’s hand, frowns at it, then shakes his head. 

“He no one important,” Wiji-wiji says. Then he looks at the deck face-up, picks a card out, and hands it to Ian. “Jack of clubs. You possible enemy of his.”

“That’s better,” Ian says. He points at Thevenot and grins. “You’re lucky we don’t kill you for screwing up.”

“Sh*t,” Thevenot says. “You ain’t nothing special. Jin, tell this steroid-popping Governator-reject to back off before I pull his heart out.”

“I dunno,” Scarpedin says. “I’m with. . . ,” he pauses and glances at Ian, “what’s your name?”

Ian glowers at Thevenot and says, “You know who I am. What’s my name, huh?”

The prisoner scoffs. “Oh, I’m real scared, _Vlad_. Hey, I heard you were fishin’ for some rubles in your pocket and you accidentally popped off your testicles.”

Scarpedin grins, “Yeah, he gave ‘em to her. What’s _her_ name, Dick?”

Dick glances at Bonnie, then back at Scarpedin. He squints and cocks his head. “Wait, something’s wrong here.”

Wiji-wiji quickly pulls a card from the deck and tosses it to Robert. Robert catches it reflexively out of the air, then glances at it. King of Hearts – the suicide king.

“You are person,” Wiji-wiji says, “who he is most afraid. _Totemo kowai._”

Robert slips into his persona immediately.

“Enough,” he says.

Everyone looks at him, and Thevenot draws in a breath, then curses quietly.

“Why not tell me exactly what happened?” Robert continues.

“Sh*t, senator,” Thevenot says, “nothing went wrong. I got inside the Bureau, and I managed to find out what they’re using to still planeshift. They got the ghost of that kid Terry stuck into a bracelet, and he’s still able to do his magic. I managed to get the thing too, but . . . I dunno, something happened. I can’t remember. Where am I?”

Robert ignores him. “This could look very bad for me. I’ve got my constituents in New York to win over.”

Thevenot frowns. “New York? I thought you were in Illinois?”

Ian laughs and turns to Robert. “Yeah, who the hell do you think you are? Hillary Clinton?”

“Nah,” Thevenot shakes his head. “Something’s wrong here.”

“Yes,” Robert says. “What’s wrong is that you failed your mission. We might as well all just give up now.”

Thevenot looks at Bonnie as if expecting her to say something, but then he leans forward and sneers at Robert.

“You can’t pull out now,” he says. “You do, you’d better be able to go without sleep for a few weeks. Guards won’t stop us.”

The way he says it, it’s like he’s implying he thinks Bonnie, Scarpedin, and Ian are all dangerous.

Robert laughs. “You’re just going to teleport in and kill me?”

Dick shrugs, cocky.

Robert says, “Do you think your boss would be so rash?”

“Don’t f*ck with us, senator,” Scarpedin says.

The group, tensely hoping Dick would reveal something about who’s in charge, sighs in frustration. Robert simply glares at Scarpedin chidingly, then turns back to the prisoner.

“So,” Robert says, “what are we going to do now?”

“All of us can go next time,” Thevenot says. “You just report them as terrorists or something, and when they show up we’ll teleport in and take them out.”

“Don’t you think your boss would want to interrogate them?” Robert asks.

Thevenot glares. “You seem pretty interested in the guy you’re working for. Maybe you’re asking a few too many questions. He’ll do what he wants. You owe him for getting you elected in the first place.”

Robert laughs. “You don’t seem to realize how much you screwed up here. Look, I know you’re afraid of me, and you’ve got a good reason to be. Do you even _know_ the status of the project? Things have changed.”

Thevenot looks nervous. “Like what?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you know first,” Robert says, “and I’ll tell you what you got wrong?”

At this, Thevenot shakes his head slightly. He looks around at the group one by one, looking groggy and confused. Robert winces slightly, realizing he pushed too hard. Scarpedin suddenly leans in.

“Hey,” he says, “um, I forgot our boss’s name, and where he lives. Can you, like, remind me or something?”

Thevenot suddenly snaps out of his confusion and glares at Scarpedin. “You son of a bi-”

Three silenced pistol shots fill the room. Thevenot sags as two bullets pierce his lungs, and a third slices through his heart. He turns weakly and bares his teeth at John, then falls out of the chair.

“Damn John,” Ian says. “Don’t you think that might’ve been a _bit_ premature? We hardly got anything out of him.”

John shrugs. “We got enough.”

“We got enough?” Ian points at the body. “You just blew Marvin’s head off, Vince! This kind of sh*t doesn’t just _accidentally_ happen.”

John scoffs and puts his pistol away. “This goes to the American government? It’s not something we need to be involved with. Robert, go out there and tell the Bureau we’re out. They can handle this thing themselves.”

Scarpedin grumbles. Bonnie sighs and casually wipes Thevenot’s blood off her face. 

Robert looks at the body on the ground, then sees Wiji-wiji watching him.

“I think we lost this game,” Robert says.

They take a moment to collect themselves, then head out to ask Michael for some favors from the Bureau.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Corbert said:
			
		

> No, thank you for posting  .  Great story, very entertaining.




Still reading along on this one, wanted to echo Corbert's comment now rather than wait till I'm all caught up.  This is great reading, a fun change of pace from 'Medieval' fantasy, and all around well written.
Thanks for sharing your time and imagination!

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

All caught up, really great read, looking forward to finding out just which way they'll turn next... with the way these players make decisions how did you keep your RP going not knowing if they'd even stay on any particular course for long?

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

I'd hate to hijack the thread with bumpage...

of course another solution would be for the author to post . . .


----------



## RangerWickett

My apologies for such a long delay. I've been working on D&D writing projects, so I let myself get distracted from fiction for quite a while. I'm going to take today to get back into the groove of the story, and then I'll get to posting.


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Thirteen, part three*

After the intensity of the interrogation and resulting execution of Dick Thevenot, the Bureau office cafeteria feels hollow and subdued. The place is practically empty except for them - Robert and his group, plus Michael. There must be more agents at the door, but Robert wonders where everyone is eating now.

"If you want us to handle it," Michael says quietly, "you're going to have to either hand over Terry, or work with us."

The group of them - Robert, John, Scarpedin, Bonnie, Ian, and Wiji-wiji - are sharing a long table with Michael. There is an almost universal sigh of displeasure at the man's statement.

"I'm sorry," Michael says. "If this information is accurate, and one of the senators from Illinois is somehow involved with a plot to monopolize control of plane shifting, there aren't any other options. Except maybe we could ask the people behind all this to kindly give us rides back and forth so we can stop them."

Bonnie replies in crisp Irish lilt, "We could do it ourselves."

Robert looks at her in amusement. "Why are you even here _with_ us? Aren't you a bouncer?"

Bonnie smiles and cocks her head. "Nathan said he thought I'd be useful, and eh, what else am I doing?"

Robert restrains himself, and looks back at Michael.

"Who even _are_ the senators from Illinois? There's Obama, but I _refuse_ to believe he's a bad guy."

"_Hai_," Wiji-wiji nods. "He seems so nice. He tarku so werru, just rike you Robato-_san_."

"There's Rollins," Michael says. "Nic Rollins, Democrat senator of Illinois since 1996. As far as we know, he has no association with the magic-using world."

Ian says, "A muggle, huh?" 

Robert glares sidelong at Ian, then says, "Okay, none of that's important right now. Here's how it's going to be. We don't know who we can trust, so before Terry decides who he's going to go with, there are some favors we'd like to ask."

Michael shakes his head. "This sounds like you're making demands."

"Yeah well," Robert says, "I suppose nearly dying - _again_ - brings out my inner bank robber. Thankfully, you look like you're more open to reason than your boss."

"Go on."

"Alright. We need to know more about this world. About you guys, the Bureau, and about the people who don't like you. I know that will probably take all day, so just get us, like a DVD with the information. I want to never have to deal with magic again, but if it comes up, I want to know who might want to kill me because I forgot to throw salt over my shoulder or something. 

"I want a tour of this place. I want to know you're not growing secret brain slugs in the basement, so I want to see everything.

"And once we get all that, we'll decide what we're going to do. The guy we shot, he offered us fifty thousand dollars for Terry. Now, we weren't going to hand him over, but you might want to check your bank account. I'm just saying."

Michael reacts with aplomb. "I don't have much authority. Why don't we just go talk to the Chief directly?"

"We can't plane shift again until tomorrow," Robert says. "We have a two-a-day limit. Plus, . . . well not 'plus,' exactly. More like 'primarily.' _Primarily_, it's because your Chief's a dick. So how about you have your buddies get us some rooms, and then you can spend the rest of the day explaining why we shouldn't just go tell an _actual_ government agency with some _actual_ power, okay?"

For the next hour, Michael tells them about the history of the Bureau, about its general structure and function, and about his own experiences on the job. Along the way, Scarpedin asks if they can get cool magic weapons, while Robert subtly prods for information about the Bureau prison. Then, when the questions are starting to die out, Terry asks one of his own.

"Why is the Chief so worried about me?" he asks. "Why does he talk about me like I'm a thing and not a person? I know there are other ghosts that he has to deal with all the time, so what's the problem with me?"

Michael ponders for a moment, then says, "It all goes back to Legion."

That story takes quite a while to tell. 

When it's over, they take a break to have some actual food, and the group discusses the situation.

John sums it up best.

"Why is this even a problem?" he says, "Before we knew about magic, everything was fine. Now, people who are magic can't get from Gaia to Terra, so it's almost like we're back where we started. Why don't we just say 'screw the Bureau,' and let things stay as they are?"

The idea is met with wide approval from everyone but Terry. When pressed, he admits that the only reason he stayed around after dying was to find out who was after him, and stop him. He wonders what's the point of existing as a ghost. Scarpedin tells him not to worry; they can still deal with the bad guy without the Bureau's help.

While the main group discusses whether it will be possible to avoid bringing down the Bureau's wrath on them, Robert steps aside with Wiji-wiji.

"So yeah," Robert says. "We're here, on Gaia in the Bureau, where there's supposed to be a prisoner."

"_Hai_," Wiji-wiji says. "You and I go, you pray Go, and zhen we go, okay?"

"Wiji-wiji, you do realize I don't have any idea how to play Go, right?"

Wiji-wiji stares blankly for a moment. "_Hontou ja nai?_"

"Sure," Robert says. "So what's the point? You want me to go, and lose a game, in a prison with a demon sorcerer. You're not going to tell me why, are you?"

Wiji-wiji squints, then slowly says, "_Sumimasen_. My Engrish is not werry good."

Robert nods, too tired to keep being afraid of the fey. He looks over his shoulder and shouts at Michael.

"Hey Michael? Can you let me into your prison here? I want to talk to-" he pauses and looks to Wiji-wiji.

"O-Ragumaro."

"To _O-Ragumaro_," Robert finishes, enunciating the Japanese name precisely.

Michael slowly approaches, looking like he's trying to place the name.

John walks over as well, and asks, "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Robert says. "Wiji-wiji wants me to play a game of Go with a Japanese sorcerer who is bonded to a demon, who they have in the prison here. Y'know, normal stuff."

"Oh," Michael says, "him. Why do you want to see him?"

Robert is watching Wiji-wiji, but then he looks at Michael with a start. "What? Oh, why? I don't know. Why do we want to see this guy Wiji-wiji?"

The rest of the group is watching now.

"It is a secretto," Wiji-wiji says. "I sorry, Robato-_san_, but I cannot terru you."

"Huh?" John says. He squints. "Robert, what the hell is going on?"

Robert shrugs. "I dunno. Honestly."

"Good," Wiji-wiji says. "Prease, you musta trusto me."

"Sure," Robert says convincingly. "I won't say another word about it."

* * *​
For the next half hour, the group barrages Wiji-wiji with questions. True to his word, Robert stays quiet, just nursing a cup of coffee with a persistent smile on his face.

At the hour's end the group is frustrated, but ultimately convinced they won't get a straight answer from the fey. Wiji-wiji simply claims that what he needs to do is very important, but that for it to work no one can know what it is that he is doing. The others in the group can vaguely grasp the concept, but they don't really understand. It just seems like the fey is being contrary for no good reason.

When the conversation appears nearly over, Michael says, "It doesn't matter either way. I can't authorize any of you to see that prisoner."

"Well dammit," John says, "now I want to know what the big deal is. It will just be . . . irritating if we never find out. Wiji-wiji, can you tell us what was so important after you're done?"

Wiji-wiji nods. "Oh, _hai_."

"He's lying," Robert says, still smiling.

Ian scoffs. "Look, Uncle Enzo, I'm tired of this. Just go seduce Pocahontas, bring her back here, and have her let you do this thing. Then I can get some rest, and we can get back to absconding with 'the most valuable magic item in the world.'" He nods to Terry. "No offense, kid."

Wiji-wiji nods eagerly. "_Hai_. Werry good idea."

"So what do I get out of this?" Robert asks.

"Big giftu," Wiji-wiji answers. "I owe fava. Trust me."

Robert's smile falters. "Fine. What the hell else are we doing, anyway? Okay, tomorrow I'll go back to Terra, just me and Terry in case anything goes wrong. We'll get Jenny and just Jenny, and bring her back here. Mikey, if she gives the okay, will that work?"

Michael starts, "Ye-"

"Good," Robert says, then he drifts to a sigh. "Really. . . . really great."


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Thirteen, part four*

Robert sits in a car, waiting at the edge of the park, Terry quiet in the back seat, invisible to the sweet woman whom Robert talked into giving him a ride to his 'date'. 

Jenny's car pulls up a quarter block away. She gets out, carrying a dufflebag and dressed in street clothes. She looks around, and Robert tries to notice any signs that she is sending signals to other Bureau agents who might be watching.

Robert looks to his kindly driver. "I think she might have gone to a different park. I . . . Oh look at the _day_ I'm having. I forgot my phone. I really hate to ask, but-"

"Oh, no, please," the woman says. "The way you describe her, this girl sounds great. Go ahead, call her."

Robert smiles. "Thanks."

* * *​
Jenny answers her phone, looking around nervously. "Robert?"

His voice on the other end of the line is cheery, like he's putting on an act. "Jenny! What park are you at?"

"Wright Square Park. That's where you told me to meet, Robert. Look, I need-"

"Uh huh?" Robert laughs. "Really, Jen? Forsyth Park?" He sounds like he's talking to someone else, his tone amused. "She's adorable. She went to where we first met. You know where Forsyth Park is?"

"Yes," Jenny says. "Robert, you told me to come alone, and I am. You can trust me."

"Sure thing, Jen," Robert chuckles. "I'll see you there in ten minutes, okay? You would not _believe_ the day I'm having."

Jenny tosses her hair over her shoulder, smirks, and says, "You've watched way too many crime dramas, Robert. Sure, I'll be there."

* * *​
Ten minutes later, Robert thanks the lady giving him a ride, hops out of the car, and strides toward the Forsyth Park fountain. Jenny is waiting for him, and Terry, walking beside him, is waiting for a signal to get out in a hurry.

"Jenny," Robert says, only a hint of dazzle in his voice.

"Hi Robert," Jenny says. "Where did you run off to?"

"I can show you if you'd like. Nice place, really. Lots of," he looks around the park, "trees."

"Sure," she says. "I'm all packed and ready to go, just like you said. But we're going alone?"

"Yeah," Robert says. "The rest of the group is waiting up. Hey, before you say anything else, you look _great_ today."

Jenny's smile looks so sincere that Robert wonders just how much the woman likes him. Either she's very forgiving, or she is an excellent liar.

"You look really _spirited_," Jenny says. "I hope everyone's alright."

"Why wouldn't they be?" Robert laughs. "You ready to go?"

Jenny hesitates, and then her facade breaks. Her smile fades, and she looks slightly worried. "Look, Robert, are you okay? And Terry, you're okay?"

Robert leans back cautiously. "We're fine. You can see Terry."

Simultaneously she says, "My ghost, Pataman," and Terry says, "She has a ghost."

Robert chuckles. "So, what now? You going to ambush me?"

"No Robert," Jenny says, sighing in relief. "Just when I got your call, I couldn't be sure that you weren't possessed or charmed or an illusion. Pretty much the entire rest of the Bureau is watching this conversation, by the way."

"Oh," Robert says. "Then I want to make clear that I was _completely_ sincere just now. You look great."

Jenny lowers an eyebrow dubiously. "Well we're at a park. Let's take a walk."

Robert glances at Terry, who shrugs and says, "Go for it. There's no anti-planeshift magic here."

Jenny and Robert begin to walk past the various monuments in the park, and Jenny speaks.

"I know that you're nervous, Robert. I'm trying to do my best to show you that you can trust me, so you don't run away again. A lot of strange things happened in the examination room, and our diviners had a hard time seeing through all the latent energy. The Chief thought you were in cahoots with 'Chuck Norris'-"

"Dick Thevenot," Robert interrupts. "That's his name. His ghost was fake, by the way. Another way your Bureau screwed up."

"We know that now," Jenny says. "We also know he attacked you. Honestly, is everyone alright?"

"Everyone but him," Robert says. "John shot him. Killed him." Robert makes himself appear a little overwhelmed by this.

After a moment, Robert shakes his head. "Anyway, why I came back is because we . . . because I want your help. We don't know if we can trust anybody, honestly, but I know we can trust you, and we found some things out. I'd feel more comfortable having you come and see what we're doing than 'the Chief.'"

"He won't like that," Jenny says, "but he _was_ in the wrong with how he treated you. I, certainly, want to help. If you're willing to let me go with you . . . I'm guessing you have some secrets that you don't want broadcast to every agent watching us?"

Robert smiles. "Right. You know, this is why I like you. One reason at least. You . . . you understand what's going on. You know how to be reasonable. And, hopefully, you brought the things I asked you to."

Jenny nods. "It makes more sense now. I guess you plan to leave now?"

"You probably need to call your boss," Robert says.

Jenny smirks. "He'll be watching right now. And he doesn't need to worry. We'll go back to the offices on Gaia, talk about what's going on, and then come back once everything's straightened out. We should be back tomorrow, right?"

"I hope so," Robert lies. "I really just want to see that Terry will be safe. And you can show your boss that Terry won't become another 'Legion.'"

Jenny's eyes widen at the name, and before she can ask where he learned about it, Robert nods to Terry, and they all vanish.

Aside from a few dozen Bureau operatives, no one in the park was looking their way. Forsyth Park goes on with its normal, everyday existence.


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Thirteen, Part Five*

The transition from Forsyth Park to the sparse woods of Gaian Savannah is actually not that jarring. Robert graciously picks up Jenny's duffle bag, nods to her ghost Pataman politely, then gestures toward the distant Bureau offices. They walk.

Robert says, "Yeah, I know about Legion. Michael told us. Some ghost managed to survive after the guy it bonded to died, and it hopped around from person to person until it turned evil and started killing _dragons_." He says the last part with a verbal flourish, amused by the idea.

Jenny nods. "The older he got, the stronger he became, and he was able to cast spells himself. Most ghosts just give the living power to use magic."

She looks at Terry's ghost. "I mean, you can see why the Chief would see a parallel with you, right?"

Terry glowers. "From what Michael told us, it sounds like you were just pissed because 'dragons' provide a lot of funding for you, and you didn't like your donors being killed. Well, y'know, I'm not looking to kill any dragons, so you can keep up your extortion racket."

Jenny's expression darkens. "Legion killed three agents. And a lot of innocent people, along the years."

Robert and Terry exchange an uncomfortable glance.

Jenny nods. "Yeah, Michael wouldn't have mentioned that. Did he mention that Legion possessed him too, and that one of the agents killed was his girlfriend at the time?"

"Sh*t," Terry says. "I'm sorry."

"It was years ago," Jenny says. "Don't worry about it."

Robert says, "He did mention that something went on with the telepaths -- one of them betrayed the Bureau to work with this Legion guy, and that's why your boss has a problem with Nathan. Did he leave anything important out there?"

"A little bitter?" Jenny asks.

"It just seems like everybody's got a problem with just telling the total truth." Robert shrugs, momentarily disturbed by his own hypocrisy. "I know your whole job is to keep secrets, and that's seriously frustrating us, Jenny. John and Scarpedin practically want to just go on the internet and tell everyone the truth about magic."

Jenny chuckles, then sighs. "I used to feel the same way."

Terry asks, "What changed your mind?

"I don't know," she says quietly. "After enough time doing this job, I guess I stopped questioning it."

They walk quietly for a few moments.

Jenny says, "Yes, he left something important out. One of the telepaths killed by Legion -- or rather by Autumn, his accomplice -- was J'quwon, a . . . I don't suppose you know about though eaters, do you?"

A memory assaults Robert, of tentacles and eyes peering out from shadows in the New Orleans night. For a moment he thinks he feels something writhing inside his tongue and he coughs, but then the sensation passes.

"I know about 'em," Robert says. "We saw one in New Orleans."

"Well," Jenny says, "J'quwon was the Chief's friend, or as close as either of those two could have had to it. Honestly, he was creepy, since it felt like he always knew what you were thinking, but kept the rest of the Bureau honest. I think that since he died, as strange as it is, things have gotten worse."

"Weird," Robert says. "So, any other secrets?"

Jenny shrugs. "I tried to date Sean - Tagin, the guy who does our tech work. When I left, they had him under examination to see if he was charmed, to find out why he just let you guys in with the prisoner. And now that we're back to this topic, what actually happened there?"

"Sure thing," Robert says. "But first, I um . . . I need a favor. I need you to let me into your prison. There's a guy I need to see. O-Ragumaro."

Jenny stops and looks at Robert with bemusement. "Alright, I'm going to need an explanation for this. Why do you need to see a Japanese sorcerer?"

Robert looks chagrined, and Terry laughs.

"Oh, we wish we knew," he chuckles.

* * *​
Robert and Wiji-wiji stop outside the cell door. The prison is dark, short hallways and thick walls composed of strange alloys and unique magic holding an undisclosed number of prisoners too dangerous to kill. Robert errantly fingers the golden Japanese coin Wiji-wiji gave him as a prize back in the Renaissance Festival. It shocks him to realize it's only November 3rd today, and that he first met Wiji-wiji less than a week ago.

He knows there are no cameras watching the cell. No eyes peering inside other than his own and his strange Japanese companion's. Through the etched glass view hole of the cell door, he can see the aged sorcerer, his skin withered gray and skeletal, his eyes invisible amid wrinkles, his arms and legs chained together like a Depression-era convict working on the railroad, and a magic-suppressing collar around his neck, slightly hidden by the folds of his tattered green kimono.

The sorcerer's head tilts up ever so slightly, and turns to face them. Robert releases the coin in his pocket with a start, and he wishes that he had not been quite so effective in convincing Jenny to let them do this.

He again wonders why he did, and all he can decide is that he is either too afraid of Wiji-wiji, or he actually trusts the fey.

Robert forces out a chuckle at the thought, then pulls out the antiquated key Jenny gave him. He waves down the darkened hall to the squad of Bureau agents watching in the distance, and with an audible click and hiss of pressure, the door to the cell opens a crack.

Wiji-wiji told him exactly what to do and what to expect, and has given him a crash course on Go rules and strategy. Jenny assured him that never in the sixty years they have kept O-Ragumaro has he tried to escape. And yet still, Robert is fairly certain something is going to go very badly. He takes a breathe, and pushes open the door. Wiji-wiji follows him, and closes the door behind them. 

Both Wiji-wij and Robert bow, and the sorcerer slightly tilts his head in response. Wiji-wiji holds out an ornate, traditionally-crafted Go board, complete with four bowls for beads. While Robert wonders where the slight man was hiding all these things, Wiji-wiji begins to place the board on the ground and speak in Japanese. Something about his voice is different - less jovial, more polite, the words much longer than Robert is used to. It sounds like he is addressing an employer, or an old, respected relative.

Wiji-wiji finishes, and O-Ragumaro nods, gesturing with one hand to the floor. The chains on his arms clink, and at this cue, Robert cautiously steps over next to the sorcerer and reaches for the locks on the bonds. Meanwhile, Wiji-wiji again miraculously produces a pair of rice-straw mats and lays them on the floor.

The lock turns, and the cuffs fall away. The skin under the cuffs is worn to the bone, but the demon-bonded magus does not seem to care. Robert awkwardly bows again then backs away, and both he and Wiji-wiji kneel across from the sorcerer, the board laid out between them, a bowl of black or white beads on either side.

Majestically, O-Ragumaro stands, his kimono roiling about him like a wave on a stormy sea. Then, almost meekly, the ancient sorcerer kneels as well, picks up a black bead, and places it on the board.

Okay, Robert thinks to himself, time to figure out how to cheat.

A few times he tries palming beads and placing them elsewhere while he makes his moves, but each time the sorcerer notices and says something to Wiji-wiji, who then directs Robert to put the piece back. He tries to drop two beads at once while clearing his throat to distract the old guy's attention, but it doesn't work either. When the magus catches him cheating by trying to switch a white bead for a black one, he is thankful that the evil demon-bonded sorcerer isn't a bad sport, but he's no closer to winning.

Then, just as he's beginning to contemplate flipping the board and ending in a draw, O-Ragumaro makes a slight wave of his hand instead of placing a bead, and Wiji-wiji gasps.

"Oh," he says. "He passes."

Robert looks at the board, covered in beads - many more of the sorcerer's black beads than his own white ones. Confused, he picks up one of his beads and places it. He notices Wiji-wiji frowning next to him, then sees O-Ragumaro again gesture that he's passing. Robert shrugs, feeling lucky that his opponent is cocky enough to give him extra turns, and he places another bead, thinking that he's finally getting a feel for the game.

Again the sorcerer passes, and again Robert places a bead, but with growing trepidation. This repeats a half-dozen more times, until Robert realizes he's just filling in spaces already controlled by his opponent. He sees that eventually he'll run out of spaces. He is trapped, and he did not even notice it. He has already lost.

Robert concentrates, looking for a trick he can pull. Then he hears Wiji-wiji whisper to him, "_Domo arigato gozaimasu,_ Robato-_san_."

Despite all his instincts, Robert lifts a hand, and waves over the board. "I pass."

O-Ragumaro bends his head in a seated bow, as does Wiji-wiji. Robert leans back, pulls his legs out from himself, and sits cross-legged on the floor.

"Best of three?" he suggests.

But the two Japanese men ignore him. Wiji-wiji begins speaking, and finally O-Ragumaro responds, his voice windy, and Robert thinks he hears the voice hissing through a hole in the old man's neck. The words are all gibberish, but Robert senses something building, a power gathering in the room.

Wiji-wiji listens to the sorcerer, then nods and stands. He looks once at Robert, his expression apologetic, and then he steps over to O-Ragumaro and removes the mage's collar. Robert leaps up and tries to stop him, but then his legs go weak, his vision blurs, and he stumbles forward, landing on the Go board and scattering white and black beads in all directions. As he blacks out, Robert chides himself for not thinking to fake getting sick. That one just might have worked.


----------



## Sidekick

Ryan - very nice. Good to see you cast thread ressurection on this baby. 

I'm still reading, so if your still writing then Bring it on baby!!

We can consider this a bump FOR JUSTICE!!!!!!


----------



## RangerWickett

*Session Thirteen, Part Six*

Scarpedin chugs his Dr. Pepper, then sets it down next to the Scrabble board. He glances at Robert, and again feels a tinge of nervousness. Robert has been like a brother to him these past few days, a firm ally when the sh*t hit the fan. And the fan has been pretty well coated ever since he met Robert.

"123 pointsu," Wiji-wiji says.

Scarpedin, glad for the distraction, looks at the Scrabble board. 

"That's your total?" he asks.

Wiji-wiji shakes his head and points at the board. "One word. Taking _rong_ time to carcurate. _Gomenasai_."

Scarpedin waves off the man's apology. The guy's got the game pretty sealed, it looks like.

Over the quiet hum of the medical equipment tracking Robert's health, Wiji-wiji quietly clears his throat.

"You appear . . . _ano_ . . . werry worried. Za game is no fun?"

Scarpedin shrugs. "I dunno. I figured you had, like, magic powers and sh*t. Y'know, like this game was supposed to heal him or something."

The board is covered with medical terminology: Scarpedin's attempt to invoke magic to cure whatever is wrong with Robert. Words like 'bandaid,' 'HMO,' and 'cocaine.'

"No," Wiji-wiji laughs. "Robato-_san_ just has concussion. _Anata no atama ga itai, yo_. We pray gamu to keep him company, _ne_?"

"Yeah, I suppose." Scarpedin grunts. "Waste of time. This is not what knights do. This is what modern Americans on soap operas do."

"You modan _Americajin_?"

Scarpedin shakes his head. He does it, and he expects something dramatic to happen, because he feels like he's reached a turning point. The closest he gets is Wiji-wiji turning over a Scrabble piece on the board, then sighing and putting it back.

"Game much easier if you cheato."

Scarpedin leans back in his chair, bored. He looks at Robert, then Wiji-wiji.

"So, Weej, you got anything to do?"

Wiji-wiji adjusts his suit. "Wanna go getto Excaribur? Werry powafaru _katana_."

"Sure," Scarpedin says.

They stand up, and Wiji-wiji nods for the door. "Forrow me."

As they walk out, leaving the Scrabble board behind, Scarpedin asks, "This gonna take a long time?"

"_Hai_."

"You know, Excalibur's not really a katana. It's more like a light saber."

"Crose enough."

* * *​
A few hours later, Robert is awake, looking at the completed Scrabble game lying inexplicably beside his bed. His head throbs a little still, but nothing seems too bad. John had been in a moment before, filling him on what had happened, and Robert knows he should be back in a minute with the rest of the gang. 

The rest of the gang. Robert frowns at the thought. He doesn't like considering any of these people friends. Scarpedin and Wiji-wiji have apparently left for good; some agents Jenny sent reported that they'd been seen boarding a ship that set sail for England. John claims that Ian and Bonnie plan to come with them, Bonnie because she and Terry are starting to get along, and Ian because he claims to like their style.

He's pretty sure he could get them to leave him alone, but he's not sure he wants to. Keeping them around might help him figure out what's going on. Some jackass is behind all this, and while Robert couldn't give a damn about helping the Bureau, he's never been one to let an *sshole get away if he could do anything about it.

But first, there's the puzzle Wiji-wiji has left. 

Robert hears someone approaching and slides a smile on with seconds to spare before they walk through the door.

"Hey Jenny," he says. "And John. And Terry. Bonnie. Um . . . Ian?"

The group each nod a reply. John, Terry's ghost at his side, gestures for Jenny to take a look. Jenny gives Robert a brief concerned smile as she walks up and looks down at the board. Amid an array of medical terms who, according to the score sheet, were placed by Scarpedin, there are seven words placed by Wiji-wiji. Jenny says them out loud.

"Chicago. Paris. Nagasaki. Wellington. Machu Picchu. Qantir. Leng. What are these?"

"They're illegal plays," Bonnie says with a grin. "Ye can't use proper nouns in Scrabble."

"They're seven cities," John says, "like the 'vision' Nathan had yesterday."

Ian grumbles, "And let me guess. We're going to have to find out what they mean?"

Giovanni, Ian's aged Spanish inquisitor ghost, sneers and says, "We have no need of pagan fortune-telling."

Robert sits up, slides his legs off the bed, and stands, only showing his wooziness for a moment. He takes the Scrabble board and folds it, ruining the tiles.

"Creepy dead guy knows what he's talking about for once," he says. "I'm through with playing games. We're not doing this. We all decided, this isn't our business, right?"

There's a ring of nods, Bonnie and Terry grinning a little, Ian looking relieved.

"Jenny," Robert continues, "if you'd like we can drop you off back with your boss on Terra, but we're . . . we're going to leave."

"Can I come?" Ian asks.

Robert actually has trouble faking enthusiasm for his. "_Sure_, why not?"

He realizes that Jenny hasn't been paying perfect attention. Her eyes are half closed, and she glances at him. "I really hope I remember how all those city names were spelled. And Robert, I'm not leaving."

Robert leans forward, surprised.

"I'm going with you," Jenny says. "Wherever you go. I won't even tell the Chief."

John scoffs. "I don't believe it."

Jenny smiles disarmingly. "I might still want to do something about what's going on, but if anything, you all have shown that the Bureau aren't the ones who are going to fix this. I can help you get away from the Chief safely, and if Terry doesn't object, I'd like to try to convince him to eventually come back and help. But it's not too urgent. Sound good Terry?"

Terry's ghost shakes his head in amusement. "Hell, I'm bringing you along even if they don't want you. I need somebody else who wants to find out what's going on."

Robert isn't sure how to feel. He won't deny that Jenny will be useful, but he expects she might be an impediment in the long run. And he does not believe her change of heart at all.

So he smiles, and says, "This is great. I'll tell you guys all about my harrowing," he chuckles, "Go-playing experience, and we can get some supplies for our little fugitive flight."

And so over the next hour, the group talks about what they would need and what Jenny can get them. Jenny leaves detailed information for Michael, prepares a package to be delivered to the Bureau offices on Terra so that they don't have to set foot there again, and then gets a laptop with thousands of files on magic, to keep them informed on their trip, wherever they decide to go. The current plan is to stay as far away as possible from the seven cities from the Scrabble game.

Michael tries to convince Jenny what she's doing is a bad idea, but he doesn't try to stop them. Robert is glad he was smart enough to know better.

Around noon, Terry plane shifts them to Terra, and while they walk with Jenny to deliver her package, Robert feels a buzz from his phone, telling him he has voicemail. He dials and listens to a message.

Nathan's voice says, "Robert old chap, if I'm right, you'll be getting this when you're not sure quite where to go, so I took the liberty of arranging an appointment you might be interested in. Swing by the Virgin Mobile store on Lynn Boulevard at 1pm on November 3rd. Have a safe trip. If you need to reach me, I'll be in New York, fighting vampires I think. Otherwise, I'll see you soon enough, I feel. Oh, and tell Ian he'll get the compensation he deserves."

"What was that?" Jenny asks, coming out of the post office.

"Nathan," Robert laughs. "He wants us to go to a Virgin Mobile store in . . . half an hour."

"Why not?" John says. "It wouldn't be the craziest thing we've done."

Bonnie taps her hip flask, which sounds hollow. With mild disappointment she says, "If Nathan said to do it, then I owe the English pig. He did tell me to keep ye safe, after all."

Ian sounds nervous. "I don't want to stay in this city any longer than I have to unless there's money involved."

With a smile, Robert says, "And Nathan said I should tell you you'll get the compensation you deserve."

Ian's eyes light up. "I suppose I can afford to take a look."

Robert turns to Jenny. "Do you know where Lynn Boulevard is?"

"Of course I do," she says. 

She pulls out her phone. It's a Virgin product.

Less than half an hour later, the group is greeted by a frantic Virgin Mobile clerk who looks like Keenan Ivory Wayans. He claims they are expected, that everything is ready, and that he can get them coffee if they'd like, all while ushering them into a teleconference room. The feed is already live, and in the background of wherever it is are people in casual business attire.

Robert is wondering what the hell is going when the clock quietly chimes 1 o'clock, and a man steps into frame of the camera. He's middle-aged, with white hair that looks a little uncontrollable, and a confident gleam in his eyes. Robert shakes his head in frustration, because Scarpedin's little game is starting to irritate him. He knows the man looks like someone famous, but he can't place who.

"Hello there," says the man with an educated British accent. "You might not know me. My name is Richard Branson, president of Virgin Enterprises. I understand that you've recently gotten involved with . . . well, magic, and I wanted to offer you a business proposal."

The group exchange glances, and then Robert gestures for him to go on.

"I'd like you to be heroes, if that's not too much trouble. And I'm willing to pay you."

Robert chuckles. "Mr. . . . Branson, is it? Your offer is nice, really. But honestly, we're not the 'heroes' type."

"Oh, obviously," says the Rebel Billionaire with a sarcastic grin. "I know what happened in New Orleans, at least vaguely. That's how you came to my attention. I just thought it would be nice, you being so new to this and all, to have a . . . a documentary, of sorts. Consider it endorsing the arts, like the rich used to do in the Renaissance."

"Look, Rich," Robert says, "we've got this other whole gig lined up. You know, some thing about saving the world. I'm not too clear on the specifics. Like you said," he chuckles, "we're new at this."

"Save the world?" Branson smiles broadly. "That would make an excellent sales pitch, don't you think? This really would be a hands-off deal for you. I would endorse you, be a backer, and in exchange all I would like is rights to movies and such based on heroic exploits. Which, given your recent history, I imagine should be rather spectacular. You're ethnically diverse. I'm not sure quite _how_ we would produce it, but I'm confident it will be a hit."

"This is surreal," John says quietly.

"Um, Mr. Branson?" interrupts Ian, voice gruff. "You mentioned payment? Just hypothetically, you know, how much would that be?"

Branson nods. "I was thinking about twenty thousand dollars a week. To a minimum of a million dollars total. I assume saving the world should take _at least_ a year, of course."

While everyone else's mouths hang open, Robert replies.

"Of course."

_End of thirteenth session._


----------



## Richard Rawen

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> My apologies for such a long delay. I've been working on D&D writing projects, so I let myself get distracted from fiction for quite a while. I'm going to take today to get back into the groove of the story, and then I'll get to posting.




Great to have you back!  I'm glad I kept checking in on you, your story makes it worth the effort !!!


----------



## Slife

Great updates.  

I really like Wiji-wiji.


----------



## RangerWickett

Hehe. Well too bad, sadly. This is the end of the story, as far as it stands now. I'm not going to be writing any more on it for a while. There's a lot more, but I don't have time to finish it yet.


----------



## Falkus

I love this story hour.


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## Richard Rawen

As said many times before, this is a wonderful departure from the high fantasy. Thanks for the Gift of your story!

Just a quick BUMP and Merry Christmas to all...


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## Dawn

Great story!  Just got caught up, again.


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## RangerWickett

Thanks for reading.


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## Richard Rawen

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> I'll be updating this weekend. Busy until then.




psst, weekends' over.


----------



## Herobizkit

[RISE from your GRAVE!]

Surely, someone, somewhere finished this story...?  This is the kind of stuff I wish I'd get off my duff and write.

I also purchased EoM: Mythic Earth and loved it, though I have yet to use it in play.

Awesome work... it deserves to be in print.


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## RangerWickett

I'm actually kinda thinking about writing this as a novel, but that would require significant revisions, and I've already got myself onto another project. Who knows? Maybe in 2010.

Oh, but if you want the end spoiled, here it is: http://www.enworld.org/forum/genera...ungeon-avalon-nazi-vampires-hailing-king.html


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## nobodez

I still love this SH, just re-read it for the second or third time. I do hope that one day you can finish the middle of the story, because I really want to see how they get to that ending. And Richard Branson as the Patron is just a brilliant move.


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## RangerWickett

Maybe some day. Right now I'm working on the War of the Burning Sky novel, which will be serialized on this website starting in October.


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## RangerWickett

Bump for double purpose. One, because a fan of this thread asked about the Burning Sky novel I mentioned (you can read it here). And two, because if there's still enough interest in this thread, I might have some time over the holidays to post new installments.


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