Igor Stepanovich, Chapter 2Character Sheet: Igor Stepanovich
Appearance
Prelude
Journal Entries:
Name: Igor Stepanovich
Player: anonymous, by request
Status: N.P.C. (Player resigned)
Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Mage
Essence: Questing
Nature: Survivor
Demeanor: Loner
Tradition: Euthanatos
Mentor: ?
Cabal: None
ATTRIBUTES:
Physical: Strength-2, Dexterity-4, Stamina-2
Social: Charisma-1, Manipulation-3, Appearance-2
Mental: Perception-4, Intelligence-2, Wits-4
ABILITIES:
Talents: Alertness-3, Awareness-4, Dodge-2, Intuition-4, Streetwise-2
Skills: Drive-1, Firearms-5, Melee-2, Stealth-3
Knowledge: Investigation-1, Linguistics (English/German/Russian/ Ukrainian)-3, Poisons-1
SPHERES:
Correspondence-3, Entropy-3, Forces-2, Prime-1
Backgrounds: Arcane-5, Avatar-3, Destiny-2
Merits & Flaws: Danger Sense (+), Diabolical Mentor (-), Hunted by KGB (-), Overconfidant (-)
Arete-4
Willpower-8
Quintessence-3
Paradox-0
Appearance: Age: 32 yrs old. Height: 5'10". Weight: 165 lbs. Hair: Blond. Eyes: Brown.
Prelude:
What is there to say about my past. My parents were poor. Really poor. My father had weird ideas about union of workers and stuff. KGB didn't like them much, so, both parents disapeared. I remember a bit about that night. Flashes mostly. Some screaming, some blood. Woke up in an orphanage. Never heard from my parents again. Stopped crying after a while. Tears are useless.
Stupid orphanage. Military discipline. Put fire to the place and fled. More screams, lot of fire. I think some died there. Lucky them. They escaped where noone can opress them. But that escape isn't one of my options. I have to survive. I just have. Sometimes, dunno why I bother.
I became a merchant. A black merchant in a black market. Nothing good lasts for very long. Ended up hunted by a bunch of idiots with guns. Ended up at uncle Pietr's place. Funny, I didn't even remember I had an uncle until that night. I told him all the names I knew and all the information I had 'bout the idiots with guns.
Next day, I'm in front of this governmental building. An address in my hand and a short letter my uncle gave me. Supposed to find a job there, out of reach of the idiots.
Funny. Uncle is high ranked KGB. Amusing how quickly they managed to hear about my father's ideas a few years back. This world is worth shit. Now, I'm a KGB agent. Oh joy. I get to free people from this hell. No matter what's on the other side, it can't be worse than here.
File #: 3407
Agent Name: Igor Stevanovich
Specialty: Assassination
Date of enlistment: January 14th, 1985
Training officer: Major Franz Denlimark (ID# 2102)
Lieutnant Ivan Navichski (ID# 2401)
Age: 32 yrs old
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 165 lbs
Hair: Blond
Eyes: Brown
Past assignments:
HIGHER SECURITY CLEARANCE NEEDED
KGB Rating: GOOD
Personnal Notes:
10/21/85
ID# 2102: Shows good promise. Calm, reliable agent. Capable of initiative within the assignments' parameters. Clearly above average marksmanship. Very intuitive
07/05/86
ID# 1903: Works well as solo or within a loose team structure. Shows some problem adapting to more rigidly controlled assignments. Good initiative.
09/30/86
ID# 1700: Some insubordination problems during an assignment, but managed to complete it satisfactly outside established parameters.
03/23/87
ID# 1700: Got into a fight with the agent in charge of the assignment. He was suspended for 3 weeks with disciplinary mesures and a period of probation of 6 months afterwards.
10/11/87
ID# 1903: Good potential for assassination field agent. No outstanding leadership. Some friction with his previous superiors. Transfered to assassination department in counter-intelligence bureau.
09/25/88
ID# 1221: Good agent. Completed tricky assignements without any major mishaps. Doesn't always keep to assignment parameters. Assigned to training agent #2401 for intensive assassination training.
01/03/90
ID# 1221: Blown cover during middle phase of assignment by directly ignoring orders from superior. Suspension 3 months and severe disciplinary measures proposed.
04/20/90
ID# 1221: Reassigned to assassination. Preliminary contacts shows a better attitude towards superiors and KGB in general.
03/27/91
ID# 1221: Saved assignement from complete disaster with quick thinking and good initiative. Even managed to complete satisfactorly two secondary objectives. Recommendation for advancement. Got reliable gut feelings
07/21/91
ID# 1221: Tentative to have him lead a 4 man team lead to assignment failure and leadership problems. Solo assignments only should be advised.
10/01/92
ID# 1505: Performs well above average. Reliable and shows initiative. Works best in solo missions. Excellent intuition.
03/12/93
ID# 1505: Some friction with current direct superior, assigned to a new superior. Very calm and mostly emotionless.
10/10/93
ID# 1505: Some unclear circumstances lead to assignment supervisor serious injury. Agent presumably involved in the feat, but no serious proofs. Still, he clearly acted outside ordered assignment parameters.
Disciplinary actions and 6 months of suspension. He has been warned this was his last warning.
04/11/94
ID# 1505: Back on assignment. Assigned on mostly suicide missions. His instability toward his superiors is seen as a mostly irreversible trend. Serious psychological supervision established.
05/23/94
ID# 1505: Performs very well. Completed his last 2 missions, whose probability of sucess were estimated at less than 5%. Psychological profile shows a stabilization of personnae for the moment. Shows very high ability to spot dangerous situations and avoid them.
06/31/94
ID# 1505: Disapeared during his last mission, under unusual circunstances (see linked field report #102591 of agent #3021).
07/09/94
ID# 2901: First efforts to track him down show nothing. No records of any kind since disapearance.
07/13/94
ID# 2901: Agent has been sighted. But lost track again.
CURRENT STATUS:
Got sensitive and secret informations about his last 2 missions. A Hunted and Kill on Sight status has been authorized if he can't be captured.
Agent in charge of the case: #2901
I still remember that night, but I'm still confused when I try to reconstruct what really happened. Target was a simple business man near Warsaw. Tailed him for a few days. Ready to jump in and clean him. No sweat. I knew there was something wrong. I could feel it in my pores. Something in the air. Oppressing and dangerous. But, what could be wrong?
I'm there. 20 feet from him. In his back. Night outside. Complete silence. Take out the gun, aim and hell breaks loose... Pain... Intense pain. I'm not quite sure if I died that night. Even though I'm sure I begged for it more than once. Pain... Red Pain...
Pain...
"...stupid sleeper. Better luck next incarnation..."
Pain...
"...tired of you KGBs dummies..."
Pain...
I probably died 'bout that time.
Then, pain changed to chaos. I hear weird things. Heaven? Hell? We all know there's nothing after. Light... Blood? no... no blood.
"...who are..."
What I see is not real. I'm dead. That's all.
"...to interfere..."
I come back to life. Pain... but good pain. Bearable pain.
Jay is there. Old man. Pale, very pale. Never smiles. How does it feel to awaken? I wasn't sleeping old man. I was probably dead.
He started to teach me. Magick he calls it. Will over Reality. The reality of Chaos. Everything is chaos, waiting to be unleashed. Space has only one dimension. Every thing is at the same place, if you only know how to look. Stupid things. Doesn't make sense. But I SEE it with my own eyes. I've been to Paris, I've been to New York. Even though I never set foot outside the loft. What is real and what's not. I'm lost... But seems like reality is what you believe it to be. I don't know what I beleive anymore.
There's been a time, while I was with Jay, that I lived it. I lived magick, I breathed magic. But not anymore. I don't believe in that crap anymore. And suddenly. Jay is talking to me. Middle of the night...
He interfered with some other people's plans. Now, they want to interfere with him. Hey, I know this pattern. This, I can deal with.
"...deserved a good (?!) death. Couldn't see it. Paradox..."
I remember something about paradox. Something that has to do with magic. Something useless to know. Magick is not real.
"...hounds after me. The fun begins. Show them Death, Decay and Chaos, they'll thank me for it later..."
I have to go. They won't come after me. I'm hard to trace it seems. I take back my old stuff. Slip away in the night. Jay laughing and singing in the background. The man was nuts.
I'm out and away. Moving away from everything. Going to the farthest place on Earth from my past. California. I heard that place was always looking for a few good hitman. And I'm the best.
The night was dark and silent. I was moving quietly in the deserted streets, almost fleeing from my past and the recent events. A few homeless were still moving around, with the slight hopes of catching a piece of interesting garbage others forgot behind. Empty shells and empty lives.
La nuit etait sombre et silencieuse. Je me deplacais silencieusement dans les rues desertes, fuyant presque mon passe et les evenements recents. Quelques sans-abris se deplacaient encore, avec le faible espoir de trouver un bout de dechet interessant que d'autres auraient oublie derriere eux. Des coquilles vides et des vies vides.
Why were they clinging desesperatly to this ruined life? Can't they see they would be better off dead, and eventually, starting a new life with new hopes and promises? Endless and useless suffering. And even in my haste, I found time to be Merciful. I liberated maybe 5 or 6 of them from their prisons. From their hopeless lives. Quick and painless, like I was taught to be. After that, I felt good. Better than I felt in the last few months. I even reached the old train station with a smile on my face
I think.
Pourquoi s'accrochaient-ils desesperement a cette vie ruinee? Est-ce qu'ils ne peuvent voir qu'ils seraient mieux morts, et eventuellement, debuter une nouvelle vie avec de nouveaux espoirs et de nouvelles promesses? Souffrances sans fin et inutile. Et meme dans ma hate, je trouvais le temps d'etre misericordieux. J'en ai libere peut-etre 5 ou 6 de leur prison. De leur vie sans espoir. Rapidement et sans douleur, comme on m'a enseigne. Apres cela, je me suis senti bien. Mieux que je me suis senti dans les derniers mois. Je suis meme arrive a la vieille gare avec un sourire sur mon visage, je crois.
No time to sleep yet. Too busy waiting. Waiting and waiting for the first train to Prague. Too busy defending myself against my memories, against my past. Was I dead and this was just a dream? And for a while, the philosophical issues shrunk into oblivion to let a strangely realistic and practical mind in control. Inventory of my possessions. Some hard cash. 10mm pistol, entirely polymers and ceramics. Hidden in my coat, easy to slip thru clumsy metal detectors and x-ray checks. Standard KGB's assassin equipment. Sure, they could try to search me, but hardly anyone do that anymore, relying on the more "reliable" detectors and technology. Maybe there was such a conspiracy that used technology to enfeeble people's mind after all. But if it makes my job easier, I wasn't up to complain. Hmmm, some vodka, faithful friend for years. Basic clothes. Identity cards, real sets and forged set I used on my last assignment. No use. Both would flag an alert with the KGB. But I was expecting their response time to be 15-20 mins, enough I hoped to disappear again after passing the border. A lighter. Funny, I don't smoke. Polymer knife. Short, but nice, strong blade. I do ok in knifefights. You can't always use firearms for a job. Diamond edge. Can cut thru most things.
Pas le temps de dormir encore. Trop occupe a attendre. Attendre et attendre le premier train pour Prague. Trop occupe a me defendre contre mes souvenirs, contre mon passe. Etais-je mort et ceci n'etais qu'un reve? Et pendant quelques temps, les questions philosophiques se sont perdues dans le neant pour laisser un esprit etrangement realiste et pratique en controle. Liste de mes possessions. De l'argent liquide. Un pistolet 10mm, completement
en ceramiques et polymeres. Cache dans mon manteau, facile a passer a travers les detecteurs de metaux maladroits et les examens rayons-X. Equipement standard pour les assassins du KGB. Bien sur, ils pourraient me fouiller, mais a peu pres personne ne le font desormais, se fiant plutot sur les detecteurs et la technologie plus "fiable". Peut-etre y avait-il vraiment une "conspiracy" (the French word eludes me) qui utilisaient la technologie pour empater l'esprit des gens. Mais si ca me facilite le travail, je n'etais pas pour m'en plaindre. Hmmm... un peu de vodka, amie fidele depuis des annees. Vetemens de base. Cartes d'identite, une serie authentique et une serie contrefaite que j'ai utilisee dans ma derniere mission. Inutile. Les deux allaient sonner une alerte chez le KGB. Mais je m'attendais a ce que leur temps de reponse soit de 15-20 mins, assez j'esperais pour disparaitre de nouveau apres avoir passe la frontiere. Un briquet. Cocasse, je ne fume pas. Un couteau en polymere. Court, mais une bonne, solide lame. Je me debrouille dans les combats de couteaux. Tu ne peux pas toujours utiliser des armes a feu pour une job. Tranchant de diamant. Peut couper a travers presque n'importe quoi.
6h30am. I got on the train. They took the passports for the usual verification. Uneventful. Arrived at Prague. Slipped off the train before it even stopped. The timer was on. 15 mins to disappear before the hounds showed up. People yelled at me to stop it right there.
Were they blind? They knew I couldn't stop. Once I started running, nothing could stop me. I am a shepherd, I am a predator. I have to look over my flock, I have to hunt down its weakest members. I couldn't stop, not then. Sure, I could have escaped into Death. Easy. But I have a responsability to humanity. Escaping was the coward's thing to do. I am not a coward.
In the train station, I slipped into the crowd. I melted into the mass of humanity. Surrounded by preys. As I approached the exit, I scanned the security. They've been warned already. 6 guards. Discreetly took out my gun, shot someone in the knee and slipped the gun back in my coat. Didn't use the silencer for maximum effect. Screams and panic. Guards splitting off to send someone to check out the gunshot. I yelled: "There's a guy with a gun shooting at people!", vaguely pointing toward a high concentration of humanity. More panic, preys running away, spreading. The guards were quickly overwhelmed, I passed the gates with dozens of unsuspecting citizens. Then came the hard part. Getting out of Prague.
Called a cab right outside the station. I was lucky. Out of dozens of people trying to get away from there, happened that it stopped for me. Hopped in and sent it toward the airport. As I set foot in the airport, I got this weird gut feeling that something is wrong. I sticked to a group of tourist while I checked the area. I spotted 2 guys. I was willing to bet my year's pay they are KGB. So, they were here already. I checked my watch. 19 mins. I took too long. I went to the bathroom. Breathing heavily as the stress was starting to shoot adrenalin in my system.
Empty bathrooms. Clean, horribly clean. Trapped. I looked at myself in the big mirror. I looked like shit. Scary looking. I closed my eyes, cleaned my mind and just opened to any last minute, brillant idea I might have.
Got it!
I waited. A businessman walked in. Clean stab, almost no blood. I pulled him in a booth. Took his clothes, briefcase, papers. With the knife and a little bit of luck, substituted my picture for his on his passport and a few other documents. I supposed at least 3 hours before they found him. I needed a flight that lasted less than 2 hours, giving me about 1 hour to disapear there. In 3 hours, they would know what identity I took, trace my flight and would wait for me at the airport if I didn't vanish before then.
If I miscalculated something, I was dead. No use in worrying then, nothing to do about it. It was all in the hands of Destiny. Oh, Destiny, sweet mistress. Best friend and worst betrayer.
I moved out, trying to stay out of sight of prying eyes. I spotted 3 more agents now that I knew what to look for. Luckily, I slipped thru the airport without any of them noticing me. Got on the first flight possible. Geneva. In Geneva, called a cab, brought him to a quiet street, shot him cleanly. Took his clothes and his papers, went back to the airport with the cab. Picked up a business man that was back from a trip to France. Clean shot also. Hid the body of the cab driver behind a garbage canister in a dark alley and the business man in the trunk of the cab, which I parked not too far from the airport.
I gave myself at least 24 hours before they found the body of the business man.
Moved back into the airport with a new identity (I took 10 mins to buy myself a few tools to help me switch pictures and "adjust" informations of certain documents). Found quite a bit of money on that last meat.
Those 3 deaths were uneccesary deaths, but I had to survive. I mourned them deeply though. Fate can be cruel sometimes. Fate, another unfaithful lover.
Took a plane to Fort Lauderdale and from there, moved by bus/train to California. Pretty uneventful. I stayed alone, avoiding most people, living off the money I found on the meats. Here, I was pretty much out of reach of the KGB. I allowed myself to relax a bit and enjoy the trip.
Saturday, June 3rd, 1995 10:50 a.m.
Igor covered his eyes with his hand, squinting as he looked up at the sun beating down on him. He pulled out his glasses and adjusted his collar. It was uncomfortably hot, he thought, here in California. Looking around, he realized that his clothing must make him stand out rather awkwardly. Dark and heavy, though it suited his mood, in the cloudless summer skies of California, it was cooking him.
Igor left the bus station, walking across the street to the blue painted nightclub that stared at him. It was called "Klub Kulture" and it seemed mostly shut down, though a small cafe in the front dished out ice cream to punk clientele while the tinny sounds of some punk band blared at him from the back as it rehearsed. Off to his left, some bubble machine produced clouds of opalescent globes, hundreds of them whirring away to fly in whatever hot breeze happened along. Looking at them, Igor thought the machine and the bubbles were a good analogy of life. Each bubble was an existence, being churned out in countless numbers, to live a meaningless life and be destroyed while the machine turned out more. The bubbles were not the thing. It was the search for the perfect bubble that mattered and everything else was chaff, himself included.
Ignoring the stares from the attendant in the cafe, Igor walked in back. Round badly painted tables, which probably seemed worse in daytime lay scattered everywhere while the band practiced behind the bars of a cage. Below them, there was a dancing pit, or slam pit as punks liked to use it.
"We're closed," a man's voice greeted Igor. He turned to face the man, a large man, somewhat overweight, sporting a blue outline of a woman's body on his right arm. It seemed to wiggle as he flexed his arm, propping both of them on his hips.
"I said, we're closed. What's a matter, you deaf?" The man loomed close to Igor.
Igor looked at one of the empty tables. The band had stopped playing, watching what was going on.
"I jes want to watch band," he said in his best imitation of broken English. "This problem?"
"Yea, it's a problem. Get out!" The man thumbed the door Igor had entered through. He thought about making an issue of it, but something didn't sit right with him about the place. The walls seemed to have eyes and Igor decided that discretion was the better part of valor. As he exited, he knew, he just knew that the man was watching him intently as he left. Signals were flashing all around him, if he could only pick up on them.
As he left the place, it hit him. The man wasn't a sleeper. He had been aware. Igor looked back and saw that the man, and a young woman with dyed black hair were staring back out at him. Their eyes seemed to strip his guises away. They let him know he wasn't welcome.
Hollow Ones, he realized. Without thinking about it, he had wandered directly into a nest of Hollows. He wondered what they made of him. If they thought he had anything to do with the Technocracy, and it that mattered to them, he just might find that his existence in this seaside city would be very short lived. And though not afraid of dying, there were certainly other things Igor wanted to accomplish.
Igor hightailed it down Front Street, heading for the big hill that dominated this end of the downtown area. As he passed the copy center, he noticed a large dike to his left, along what must be the river. He saw that there must have been a bike path along its top as several bikes passed that way. Curious and with nothing better to do, Igor walked briskly past the copy centers buildings and climbed the steep sides of the dike, grabbing weeds to help himself up. He saw that there was indeed a bike path along the top and the river, full with the incoming tidal bore, winked at him with reflected sunlight. He pulled out his city map and walked along, trying to relate streets he saw to the map. Passing behind the blue building that housed Klub Kulture, Igor stepped off of the path towards the river to hide himself. It was in this way that he met Frank Guttmann.
Frank coughed as Igor was about to step on him, and Igor kindly stepped aside.
"Skuse me," he offered.
"You got any change, mister?" Frank proffered his hand. The man stank badly and Igor retreated somewhat.
"No. No change," he lied.
"Then fuck you," Frank spat. "Get the fuck out of here."
He seemed more belligerent than most homeless that Igor had encountered, which drew the Russian's curiosity.
"I am looking for place to stay," Igor inquired of Frank. "You know good place?"
Frank didn't answer, so Igor took out a flask of Vodka.
"Here, you want drink?"
Frank jumped to life.
"Thank's buddy!" he took the proffered flask with shaky hands. The miserable wretch begged to be put out of existence, but where they were was too private.
"Ah, I wish rest," Igor stretched his arms. "You know good place?"
Frank smiled, displaying a row of rotten teeth. "Fuck yea," he answered. "Come with me, Ivan."
"Igor," the Russian corrected.
Frank looked at him and laughed. "Whatever you say, Ivan"
Frank led Igor along the path, under two bridges and approaching a third, ducked off the path into a stand of thick willow trees. The path was hardly used here, judging by its cracked poor condition. Before joining Frank, Igor looked around. Only the tops of a mobile home park could be seen. Except for a white heron fishing in the river, they might as well have been alone in the world, only the distant sounds of traffic reminding them otherwise. Igor left the asphalt of the path and crashed down into the Willows, beside Frank.
"So, where you from, Ivan?" Frank asked, helping himself generously to Igor's vodka.
"Russia."
"Hmm, ya don't say. Well, I used to be a marine. I used to kill commies, ya know." Frank looked strangely over at Igor, who glared at him in return. "Hey, it's alright. We're friends now. No more commies," Frank cackled at some hidden humour in his remark. The vodka was taking effect.
The man was dead already, Igor decided. Helping him was more than a kindness, it was a duty. The knife was so sharp that Frank probably didn't even feel it enter his throat, and by the time Igor had cut it open, Frank couldn't have done a thing. Igor was careful not to let blood get on his clothing. Wiping his knife on Frank's soiled trousers, Igor looked around him. He got the dreadful sensation, like he had in Klub Kulture, that he wasn't alone anymore. He carefully peered through the weeds and willow fronds, but he could see no one. The heron gave a protested cry and Igor looked to see what startled it, but there was nothing. A tingling feeling crept up is spine, making the hair at the base of his neck stand on end. A feeling he had felt rarely, and only as a child came upon him them and he realized that he was afraid. He looked up at the sun, hoping that it's bright illumination would shed some comfort, but the feeling wouldn't go away. He fished around in Frank's wallet and found seventy five dollars, which surprised him. He also found a snapshot of Frank A. Guttmann, reading his name for the first time, in uniform alongside seven other marines. A dead Asian was spread out at their feet, his chest blown open. That creeping feeling was upon him again and Igor found that it was beginning to get harder to breathe. Throwing down the wallet but keeping the money, he stepped carefully out of the thicket and back onto the path. Walking calmly, he left the path at Water Street and made his way back downtown, searching out somewhere to spend the night.
Saturday, June 3rd 2:29 p.m.
Igor washed up at his motel on Beach Street. Outside, a continuous steam of vehicles paraded down on their way to the Boardwalk. Frank could here screams from the rides carried on the air, while gulls and young women in bikinis accosted his ears and eyes respectively as he considered the outside world.
Changing into the expensive summer clothes he had bought, he thought he probably looked more like a tourist than a native, but that would change with time. Slipping on some sandals, he walked out and crossed the street, heading for the beach.
Looking at the legs of some women he had passed, he nearly bumped into another homeless person, this one a black woman, though that fact could be barely noticed as she was dressed almost entirely in rags and heavy clothing that covered almost all her body and face, except for the area around the eyes. These eyes captured him and they seemed to squint as they regarded the Russian.
"Hey mister, how about I tell you your fortune. Cost you only a dollah."
Igor was thinking that the woman must be cooking alive under all that material. She at least ten times hotter than he could have ever been in his old woolen clothes, now packaged at the motel for incineration at the next convenient opportunity he could find.
"No thank you," he said politely. "I can't afford it."
"The hell you can't!" she retorted. "You never know when evil's got his eye on you. Can you afford not knowing what trials and tribulations you have in store?"
The pitch was not irresistible, but it was nearly so.
"Alright, here's your dollar," Igor said, dropping the accent. "Now leave me alone."
The woman pocketed the dollar. "Give me your hand," she demanded.
Igor had no intention of doing any such thing, but given the mad look in the woman's eyes, it seemed easier to humour her. He gave her his hand.
She took it and began to weave her body in a circle. A couple of other young women, seeing Igor holding her hand, pointed and giggled. Igor wanted to shoot them or sleep with them. He wasn't sure which came first.
"Oh, you got a powerful following, Mr. Stepanovich," the woman said.
"What!" Igor's eyes widened. "What's that? How do you know my name."
"You're being sought by both the living and dead. Both seek to have you cross over, but that wouldn't be a good thing - for you at least."
"What are you talking about?!" Give me my hand!"
But the woman locked her grip on his hand even tighter. Reflexively, Igor's free hand slipped inside his shirt and gripped onto his pistol.
"There's someone who wants to speak with you," the woman announced.
"Hey you fuck! You killed me! You sonofabitch! Who gave you the right to decide who lives and who dies!"
The garrulous voice coming out of the woman was startlingly clear. It belonged to Frank A. Guttman, recently deceased ex-marine. Several people had heard the voice and looked over, but seeing Igor and the woman, decided it was some part of some weird freak show that they were better left out of.
"I'm gonna kill you!" Frank's voice promised. "I've got some friends on this side and they're gonna help me do it!"
Igor pulled his hand away.
"What happened? Whad'I say?"
Igor didn't answer but hurried off. He held onto his hand. It had hurt where she grabbed him. Right when that strange voice came upon him, it had tightened so tight, that he thought it was going to break his own hand.
Inside, an arcade machine promised to tell Igor's fortune. For some reason, the young Euthanatos found the quarter in his pocket and plugged it in. There was a cackle from the animatronic magician in the booth and a card dropped out. Igor picked it up.
"I'm gonna kill you, Ivan," the card said. Igor cast it aside and walked out of the Casino arcade and down to the clogging sand of the beach.
A young girl visiting the Boardwalk with her older sister saw Igor throw down the card. She picked it up and ran after him.
"Mister, you dropped your card." She offered it to him and he woodenly took it. Though he didn't want to, he looked at it again. He felt he had to.
"You will have a great adventure."
Igor stared at the card for the longest time, then he put it in his pocket and continued down the beach. There, he took off his sandals and let the hot sand burn his feet, until he could cool them in the cold Pacific.
Saturday, June 3rd, 3:32pm
Under the burning sun, Igor slowly walked to a small place by the boardwalk, choosing the place for the view of the ocean and surely not the cheap junk-food sold there. Looking around, observing the people, getting a feeling for the ambiance of the town. Soon enough, he'll have to drop the too noticeable tourist look and blend in.
Sous le soleil brulant, Igor marcha lentement jusqu'a une petite place,sur le boardwalk, choisissant l'endroit pour la vue de l'ocean, et surement pas le pietre junk-food vendu la. Regardant les alentours, observant les gens, essayant de ressentir l'ambiance de la ville. Bientot, il devra se departir de son accountrement trop remarquable de tourist et se fondre a la population.
The sounds of the waves and the empty horizon plunged Igor deeply in reflection. He thought he escaped the madness, the insanity. But it found him even here. He was hallucinating now. On that thought, he took out the card and reread the short sentence. His intuition was playing games with his mind here. But nothing he can do about it except settle down for now. Should he eventually see a shrink?
Les sons des vagues et l'horizon vide plongerent Igor profondemment dans ses reflections. Il pensait qu'il avait echappe a la folie. Mais elle le trouva meme ici. Il hallucinais maintenant. Sur cette pensee, il pris la carte et relu la courte phrase. Son intuition jouais des jeux avec son esprit ici. Mais, rien a faire sinon s'etablir pour l'instant. Devrait-il eventuellement voir un psy?
A body builder was flirting with a suntanned youth on the beach. Why life has to be so deep and so complex? He checked his wallet. About 300$ US left. Enough maybe to last a week or so. He had to find a way to secure an income quickly. He tried vainly to remember names or places he heard of in this region. But the KGB didn't have many things happening on the west coast of the states, and all he could remember was an agent he trained with, who's been assigned somewhere in CA as an eventual contact or informant. Getting in touch with anyone even remotly connected to the KGB would be close to suicide. So, he had to get in touch with the underground somehow.
Un culturiste flirtais avec une jeune fille bronzee sur la plage. Pourquoi la vie doit etre si profonde et complexe? Il verifia son portefeuille. Il lui restait a peu pres 300$ US. Peut-etre assez pour durer une semaine a peut-etre. Il se devais de trouver une facon de gagner son pain rapidement. Il essaya vainement de se rappeler des noms et des endroits dont il avait entendu parler dans cette region. Mais le KGB n'etait pas tres actif sur la cote Ouest des etats, et tout ce qu'il pouvait se rappeler etait un agent avec qui il avait ete entraine, qui avait ete assigne quelque part en California, comme contact eventuel ou informateur. Se mettre en contact avec quelqu'un relie, meme de loin, avec le KGB etait presque suicidaire. Donc, il devait entrer en contact avec la pegre d'une facon ou d'une autre.
But even with all those worries, Igor couldn't completly shut out the memory of today's events with the ex-marine and the weird insanity that took place in his mind afterwards. Dead people are usually just that, dead. The souls move on toward new destinies. Well... some believe in ghosts.
Mais meme avec tous ces soucis, Igor ne pouvait completement oublier les evenements d'aujourd'hui avec l'ancien marine et la folie bizarre qui pris place dans son esprit apres. Les personnes mortes sont habituellement justement ca, morte. Les ames se deplacent vers de nouvelles destinees. Mais... quelques uns croient aux fantomes.
Tonite, he would visit a few bars. And trying to look the part, he suddenly left the restaurant and moved purposely toward the closest clothing store he could find. He moved around a few minutes before realizing he wouldn't find anything on his own. Walking down a small alley, he scanned the passerby, and set his choice on a nice blonde, chewing gun with a nonchalant look, obviously waiting for someone.
Ce soir, il visiterais quelques bars. Et essayant d'avoir l'air le type, il quitta soudainement le restaurant et se deplaca vers le magasin de vetements le plus pres qu'il puisse trouver. Il marcha quelques minutes avant de se rendre a l'evidence: il ne trouverais rien par lui-meme. Marchant le long d'une petite allee, il observa les passants avant d'arreter son choix sur une jolie blonde, qui machait une gomme nonchalemment.
"I be looking for clothes store."
"Yewwwwh. You sure could use one. Hey, you rusky or something?"
"Dah. Know good store?"
"Way cool! Ok. hmmm... You prob should be looking at America's. Cool place. Prob can find yourself something nice. You speak rusky? Tell me something!"
Just my luck. Chose the most annoyingly friendly person in town.
"Where America store?"
"Oooh, it's really not far. Just move down that way 'till you cross the main boulevard. It's gonna be to your left."
"Thank you"
And he moved on, quickly, before the girl could come up with something else to say. On each side of the street were lined what could be nice houses, but in a sad need of repairs. Most windows where closed. It looked almost dead. A weird chill was upon him suddenly, filling him with a cold dread, beyond his reason to explain. This part of town could use some remodeling. Recycle. Tear down those sorry looking things and grow brand new houses in this fertile earth. The chill stuck with him even thru this feeble attempt to focus on something else. He felt watched.
Et il quitta rapidement, avant que la fille ne trouve quelque chose d'autre a dire. Sur chaque cote de la rue, se trouvais ce qui pourrait etre de jolie maisons, mais dans un etat lamentable. La plupart des fenetres etaient fermees. L'endroit avait presque l'air mort. Un frisson bizarre l'envahi soudainement, lui amenant une froide premonition, sans que sa raison puisse l'expliquer. Cette partie de la ville aurait besoin de renovations. Recyclage. Detruite ces choses minables et faire pousser de belles maisons neuves dans cette terre fertile. Le frisson resta avec lui meme au dela de ce pietre essai de se concentrer sur quelque chose d'autre. Il se sentais surveille.
Who was he to decide who is to live and who is to die?
It was so obvious to his senses who needed to move on and who still had something to live for. Was everyone else so blind? Did they think he ENJOYED doing it, judging who needed a good Death? They're the ones who made their own lives miserable, and they blamed him when he mercifully ended the torments, the hopeless pain. Humanity will be stuck in torpor until it understands the need for it. Until it opens its eyes and see how stagnation is a poison that burns it from inside, that has to be purged, purified and rebuilt into something new.
Misunderstood, he still has a vital job to do. Shepperd and predator.
He walked the few blocks to the main boulevard, oppressed by a queer sense of dread, which disapeared just as suddenly when he reached the noisy street, invaded by shops and stores of all kind. Multitude of people were walking around, their purpose known only to themselves.
America was a huge and flashy store, strongly advertised by flashing neons and a loud musical cacophony. Hard to miss. Youngsters of all styles filled the alleys, looking for something new and cool to buy. North america was a country in search of itself. Its youth was confused and unguided. But when in Rome, act like a Roman they say. He slipped in the store, spotted something that looked decent, but still young and trendy and bought it. The music was an affront to his sense of harmony, but he forced himself to enjoy the beat, try to get in the mood of it. And eventually, he found something strangely strong and full of vitality in it, inspiring.
Saturday, June 3rd, 5:23pm
After putting his new acquisitions in his motel room, Igor left to find all the newspapers he could put his hands on. That was a good way to be quickly informed about an area, as much political-wise than underground-wise. He expected to find comments in newspapers about Maffia or Yakuza bosses and their known locations. There was a newspaper stand not even 100 feet from his motel.
Looking for a quiet place to browse through his stack of newpapers, he found a small classy restaurant that looked quiet enough and took a table. The place, La Tulipe Noire, looked like a French/continental restaurant with a 1930s look to it. The place was old, but clean with an efficient staff.
The meal was good, but expensive. The staff was discreet, but Igor thought he spotted a few curious stares his way. This country was turning him into a bad sort of paranoiac.
Saturday, June 3rd, 8:48pm
Back at his motel, Igor settled down for a short evening of TV watching. The News channel will prove especially instructive. He heard so many rumours about America, but now was time to know what it was really like. The streets probably weren't paved with gold and the level of open violence and corruption ought to be considerably lower than what some people joked about back in Russia.
And in the background, probably the room next to his, some people engaged in sexual interactions, very enjoyable by the sound of it, but very annoying as far as he was concerned. Some aspects of this country were degenerated, he had to admit.
He spent considerable time watching MTV, being fascinated by the videos and the weird music. But the music had something very appealing, something... vital. It reminded him of a beast, half trapped within musical "rules", trying to get out.
After a while, he quickly scanned the news channels.
A murder, a few impressive car crashes. A man holding an hostage. A case court about a football player who is accused of killing his wife. Violence and corruption, filling the screen, filling the mind of thousandsof viewers every hour. Maybe the censuration of information is a good thing after all. But the issue makes one wonder.
Saturday, June 3rd, 10:49pm
Igor quickly scanned through his copies of the Good Times and The Metro, looking for any information about interesting nightspots. Preferably something not too classy. Let's take a shot at trying to get in touch with someone interesting, out of the blue. Maybe his intuition will serve him right. One section that caught his interest in particular was the personnal ads in the Good Times. He carefully scanned through that, looking for anything that might inspire him or give him any hints about what to do next.
Sunday, June 4th, 1995 1:57 a.m.
Igor walked alone. He was always alone. Wandering about the streets, people he passed shied away from him as if sensing that he was dangerous. Igor ignored them. More than that, he tried to convince himself that their feelings about him did not matter.
It is a lonely road I walk, he thought. Seeing a couple embrace in a doorway and then run laughing for their parked car, a feeling, dusty and dry but not yet dead, rose from somewhere deep inside Igor. He reflexively grabbed his gun, as if defending himself. But he couldn't fight feelings.
Watching the couple drive off, neither had been fit for a "good death", Igor just turned and walked in a different direction, clouding his mind with purpose so he could better forget all that welled up inside him.
"Excuse me, mister?"
Igor whirled and confronted the voice.
The young teenage girl backed away. Though it was night, the bright lights of the halogen lamps from the car dealership gave him enough light to see her, see how dirty she was, she how strung out she was. Blotches marred her skin in what would have been a pretty young face, while her straight blond hair hung limp and lifeless. Watery sad eyes darted over him, as if trying to read in a glance what sort of man he might be. If she knew what I was, how she would scream, Igor thought.
"Could you spare some change?"
Money? No, he couldn't spare it. But if ever a life begged for a "good death", here was one. Igor nodded and reached into his pocket for his gun. The silencer was still affixed and taking a quick glance around he pretended he would give her some money.
"You won't hurt me, will you?"
Igor's hand paused.
"That's a strange question. Why do you ask me that?"
"It's your eyes," she told him. "I'm sorry I bothered you. I'm just kind of hard up."
Igor cursed silently. Was he such a open book that every passer by could read his intentions? Almost as if to prove Fate wrong, he pushed his hand past the gun in his pocket and grabbed his wallet instead. As the girl's hungry eyes watched him, he flipped through his finite store of cash and pulled out a ten.
"Here," he said, handing her the bill. With a trembling hand, the young girl took it.
"How old are you?" he asked her.
"I'm old enough," she said sharply, taking the bill but keeping her eyes glued to his wallet. "Say, do you think you'd like some company?" she asked him. "Cheap. Twenty dollars and I'll stay the night."
Igor wanted to say she was overpriced, but didn't, strangely not wanting to hurt her feelings.
"I'm sorry" he started to say, trying to let her off gently. The more he talked to her, the more he realized that she wasn't ready for death . She was just too much afraid that it wouldn't be a kindness - yet.
"Wait!" she said. "Please, I just said that. III'm tired of sleeping on the street. I just want a soft bed and maybe a shower. I'll stay with you - for free. I just don't want to be alone anymore. Please, mister."
Alone, there was that word again - and those feelings.
He turned away from her and walked down the street. Why he stopped, he couldn't have said. Turning around to look at her, seeing that she still watched him, he said nothing but his eyes said it all. She came to him and wordlessly, he took her back to the motel.
Sunday, June 4th 2:10 a.m.
Igor unlocked the door and let her in. Casting her eyes suspiciously about his room, she satisfied herself that she had not let herself into some chamber of horrours and settled down onto his bed. Igor had paused at the door and taken most of his money and all of his papers out of his wallet, leaving a twenty inside. Pretending to empty his pockets, he put the wallet on the scratched laminated top of the dresser, making sure she would see it. She watched him with those large watery eyes, but said nothing.
"I'm going to the store," he said. Closing the door, he at once regretted having brought her back with him. He had left the wallet, an obvious invitation to rob him and leave. That way, he wouldn't have to deal with her - with his own needs.
Taking a deep breath, he walked back down the way they had come over to the liquor store just a half block from his motel. Ducking in, he ignored with disgust the lecherous appraisal that the ancient Asian woman working the counter gave him. As he came up to the register, he thought, here is a life that is far older than it should be. As he handed the money over to this woman, he couldn't help thinking, yes you are in need of what I offer, but I cannot give it to you now. But there will come a time, he silently promised her, when I will release you too from this place. There were so many lives in need of release, he realized. No wonder he had been drawn here.
He walked back to his room, wondering what he would find when he got back. Before that revelation would come though, he was accosted by the mundane, this time in the form of a gun, so much cruder than what he carried. Still, it was a gun and he had to respect any promise of death.
"Give me your money, freak!" Igor hardly thought he looked freakish. In fact, he probably looked a bit too serious, but the comment was said to be rude and belligerent. Hardly surprising given the stark, almost insane grey eyes that looked at him over dark untrimmed handlebar mustaches. The mugger took no precaution to disguise his features, nor the garish cheap tattoos that covered his bare muscular arms. Though he was shorter than Igor, the mugger seemed overcompensate for his wrath, as if Igor's height were a commentary for all that had gone wrong in this man's life.
"Hey fuckhead! You deaf? Give me - the - MONEY!"
Igor shook his head but remained calm.
"You better to go," he said, once again imitating the hick from the Siberian sticks.
The mugger's reply was to cock his gun.
"Not good idea," Igor warned him, yet making no other move.
"Fuck you!" the mugger spat, his grey eyes narrowing to smokey slits. Igor saw the finger squeeze the trigger, as if in slow motion. The gun exploded (Entropy 3 - no paradox) and the shrapnel miraculously missed Igor - though it did quite a number on the mugger.
Noting there had been no apparent witnesses, Igor stepped over the bloody shreds of what had been a face and made his way back to the motel.
When he opened the door and saw that she was still there, he was both relieved and afraid and the conflict of those feelings ate at him. Closing the door, he heard someone scream. If the girl heard the gun go off, it didn't seem to have had an effect. She glided out of the steamy bathroom, naked except for a towel. Cleaned up, she presented a much better sight, though the dark circles under her eyes still told stories of too many drugs and not enough good food. The times that Igor could see past the blotches on her face and the needle tracks on her arms, he could admit she was pretty, not in a glamorous way, but more real. Wholesome was not a word that would fit well on her anymore, but there was something about her that had more than a touch of innocence. It was a strange paradox.
"I brought food," he said, dropping the accent. For some reason, he didn't want to pretend around her. It was good to drop the masques now and then.
She smiled and, dropping the towel, glided into bed. He gave her the back and she tore it open, eager to see what was inside. Settling on milk and chocolate donuts, she turned on the T.V. and watched with fascination the empty images scattered over the channels. Igor contented himself with a vegetable drink and getting ready for his own shower. When done with that, he wasn't even surprised to see her still there.
He got into bed. Her hands snaked over to him, while her skinny arms embraced him. She started to kiss his nipples, but he pushed her away.
"You're under age. I could get in trouble," was all he offered as reason. She didn't buy it though.
"Says who? Do you think the cops care what somebody does with someone like me. I could die and they wouldn't even care. You've got nothing to worry about."
Igor shook his head. "It's alright. That's not why I brought you here," he said to her, admitting something of the truth. "Just relax and watch the television."
She shrugged, and turned away, back to the television. As sleep began to overtake her, she turned back to him, wrapping herself around his body. Woodenly, glad that she was sleeping, he eased his way against her skin and listened to her heartbeat as he too fell asleep.
Sunday, June 4th 7:10 a.m.
Igor awoke. The T.V. was still on and the sun showed no mercy as it forced its way through the cheap curtains. The girl was awake, dipping her finger into yogurt and watching some cartoon while she licked her finger clean.
Scratching his head, Igor looked at the watch to check the time. It was early.
"What's your name?" Igor asked.
She looked over at him suspiciously. "What's yours," she countered.
He half smiled. "Igor."
"Eegore?" she said, grimacing. "Like Frankenstein's assistant? Charming."
"I like it," Igor told her. "Do you have a name or do you prefer, `Hey You?'"
"Lily," she said, almost embarrassed. "Don't make fun of it," she warned him, rather testily.
"Why should I? It's a pretty name," he said. "It suits you."
She snorted, laughing. "I'd rather have, Igor," she told him.
"Fine," he said. "From now on, you're Igor and I'm Lily."
She looked over at him but didn't say anything.
"So, Igor, where are you off to today?" he asked her.
She looked over at him. "You kicking me out?" She said this as if she had been expecting it all along.
He wanted to say yes. He was burning to get rid of her. But that was only part of him, and the weaker part at that.
"No, you can stay here as long as I do," he told her, though if someone asked him why, he could not have said.
She perked up at his answer.
"Where you from, Igor?" he asked her.
Again, she responded with her own question. "O.K. Where you from, Lily?"
"Russia."
Lily looked at Igor, suspiciously. "Russia?" Igor nodded a confirmation.
"Well?" he prompted.
"Vancouver," she told him. "Vancouver, Washington."
She didn't seem to like questions, so he let it go.
"What are you doing here, Igor?" she asked.
"I thought I was Lily."
"Igor suits you better," she said, finishing the yoghurt and grabbing another. "So?"
"I don't know," he said. "I'm just looking for my place in life."
"Good luck," she said.
"And you?" he asked.
She stopped eating. "I don't know. Here's nice, until you decide to kick me out."
Igor nodded.
Sunday, June 4th 9:02 a.m.
Igor saw that the landlord was waiting for him near the cheap row of apartments on Center Street, near to where he had picked Lily up - almost across the street in fact. The landlord was a short impatient man, full of wiry energy and too much focus on other's lives and not enough attention paid to his own. He wasn't the sort of person one would consider for the good death, but he was the sort one would want to give one anyway.
"You got cash?" was all that he said to Igor.
Igor didn't even waste words but handed over several one hundred dollar bills, covering at least six months rent and the security deposit. That still left him over $8200.
The landlord, his appreciation for Igor having risen steeply, gave him the papers for the lease and left, driving off in a B.M.W, waving to Igor as he left as if the two had been life long friends. Igor was more than glad to see him go.
Igor spent most of the morning reading papers. When Lily showed up with her bag of things, they left to go buy furniture for the cheap apartment. Number one on the list was a television set. Lily seemed downright happy, which puzzled Igor. He had never been that happy and it seemed strange to him to see that in someone else.
"You know, someone murdered the old lady that ran the liquor store, the one near to where you used to live," Lily informed him. "She lived above the store."
Igor nodded. "People die."
"It just sucks," she commented. "Live a sucky life and then die. Life sucks."
Igor nodded. "Well, maybe she at least had a good death," was all that he said.
Sunday, June 4th, 11:51 a.m.
It wasn't much. But now, three old wooden chairs with a matching ink-stained table and a heavy couch inhabited the appartment. And of course, the precious T.V. set, precariously perched atop a big box. Igor left his sight linger a few moments on Lily, heavily absorbed, flipping thru the channels.
Ce n'etait pas beaucoup. Mais maintenant, trois vieilles chaises en bois, ainsi qu'une table tachee d'encre du meme style, habitaient l'appartement. Et bien sur, la precieuse television, perchee precairement dessus une grosse boite. Igor laissa son regard s'attarder quelques moments sur Lily, tres absorbee, qui faisait le tour des canaux.
She'll bring you problems, Igor old pal. You know that. You can feel it in your bones, but even then, you prefer that over facing more of that terrible loneliness. Having her around seriously reduces your ability to deal with the unknown. She can't even take care of herself, if the condition you found her in is any indication.
Elle va t'apporter des problemes, Igor vieil ami. Tu le sais bien. Tu peux le sentir dans tes os, mais meme la, tu preferes cela plutot que de faire face a encore plus de cette terrible solitude. L'avoir dans les parages reduis serieusement ta capacite de faire face a l'inconnu. Elle ne peut meme pas prendre soin d'elle meme, si la condition dans laquelle tu l'as trouvee est un indice.
"You know any place where I could get a job?", Igor asked.
"Tu connais un endroit ou je pourrais avoir du travail?", Igor demanda.
"Don't look at me, I'm not all that good at finding jobs you know... Thought you would have figured that out by now, maybe the classified or something?",Lily replied, trying to be helpful.
"Ne me regarde pas, je ne suis pas tres bonne pour trouver du travail, tu sais... je pensais que tu l'aurais deja devine. Peut-etre dans les annonces classees ou quelque chose?", Lily repondit, essayant d'etre utile.
Igor grunted in reply, ending the conversation. Why not? Taking today's newpapers, he flipped to the classified sections and quickly scanned thru the job offers. Igor tried to list the skills he possessed that could be used to find himself a job. He was good at killing people. And that's basically all that he learned in the last 15 years. His chances at finding that kind of job in the classified were pretty slim, to say the least. The thought made him smile. His first smile in a long while.
Igor grogna en reponse, terminant la conversation. Pourquoi pas? Prenant les journaux d'aujourd'hui, il tourna a la sectionn des annonces classees et survola rapidement les offres d'emploi. Igor essaye de faire une liste des connaissances qu'il disposait, qui seraient utiles pour se trouver du travail. Il etait bon pour tuer les gens. Et c'est a peu pres tout ce qu'il a appris dans les 15 dernieres annees. Ses chances pour trouver ce genre d'emplois dans les annonces etait tres faible, meme avec de la chance. Cette pensee le fit sourire. Son premier sourire depuis un bon petit bout de temps.
Why did he take Lily with him? His job wasn't to repair or salvage lives, it's recycling them. Other people wasted their time doing that, like the Choristers he heard of. His approach should be more direct, more practical, and bets on a winning horse, instead of a lame one. So why this?
Pourquoi a-t-il pris Lily avec lui? Sa tache n'etait pas de reparer ou de rescaper des vies mais bien de les recycler. D'autres personnes perdaient leur temps a faire cela, comme les Choristers dont il avait entendu parler. Son approach devrait etre plus directe, plus pratique et gager sur un cheval gagnant, plutot qu'un cheval boiteux. Donc, pourquoi ca?
But somehow, deep inside, he felt good doing it and that was something very precious to him. Somehow, they were very alike him and her, sharing a similar fate but on different levels. By helping her out, he was helping himself. Acting goody-goody and feeling good about it was one thing, earning money to survive was another.
Private investigator? That would be ironic. Ironic enough to be tempting.
"Lily, do you know any drug dealers?"
Startled by the question, she was silent for a few moments before she burst out, "What kind of fucking question is that?? I never sold drugs and I..."
Igor quickly interrupted, "Relax, I used to work for underground organizations and that's what I'm good at. Just trying to get in touch with someone to find some work..."
"Oooh. You were a drug-dealer back in Russia?", she said, timidly.
"No. Not even close", he smiled a bit before adding, " but what I was doing wasn't... humm.. totally legal. Used to work for big bosses." Very BIG bosses...
"Oh. I don't know anyone really big. Just know Joey. He's the one I contacted for pot sometimes"
Looking at the needle marks on her arms meaningfully, Igor simply commented, "Good enough. Where can I meet him?".
Feeling uneasy under his glare, she quickly hid her forearms by crossing her arms in front of her, "He hangs at the Cat every night or so to sell his dope. Can't miss him."
Igor got up, took out 200$ from his funds and put it down on the table.
"I'm going to look for a job and check out the beach. Buy some food for the fridge and some clothes.", but he still couldn't suppress a small desire to see her take the money and disapear from his life. Would be easier that way.
"But I got clothes!", she looked at him, slightly confused.
"I meant nicer clothes, some of yours make you look cheap", and he walked out of the appartement, and into the street.
Sunday, June 4th, 12:51 pm.
Half-heartedly, Igor checked out a few places, but the hot noon sun soon drained him of his motivation. He hoped to get used to this californian heat, but right now, this felt more like a sinner's hell than a vacation spot.
An old couple, obviously tourists, slowly walked down the street, visiting every shops. The woman was talking about a few items "they didn't have back home" and the old man was simply smiling, listening to her quietly. They seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Laughter broke out on his right. A teenage girl, on the third floor of an appartment building, was sitting on a balcony, chatting wildly with a cordless phone, her conversation often ponctuated with spontaneous laughter.
He felt alien. He didn't fit here. Why did he come? He left everything he had, everything he knew, for this? No job, some money and a cheap appartment. All this because he had to survive, because his life was forfeit back home. Home. His fate was a hard one. Dying was probably much simpler, and sweeter.
Death was a strange temptation. Starting over. A fresh start.
His thoughts and his steps took him through a quieter part of town. On his left stood a cemetery, old and deserted. Invaded by weeds and bushes. And in the center of it, a lone figure kneeling in front of a grave. He was the reason for him being here, at this cemetery and maybe even Santa Cruz.
As Igor quietly walked up to him, the man was absorbed in a prayer or a long monologue with a newly dug grave. A long grey trenchcoat covered most of his body, only an emanciated face and long black hair showing. Igor stood quietly behind the man, lost in the intensity of the moment.
"He had a good death", felt like the right thing to say somehow.
Without turning to look at Igor, the man replied, with a deep, lifeless voice,
"Yes, but knowing that only help to endure the pain. The pain is always there."
"You are the reason I am here.", it wasn't a question. Igor somehow felt drawn to this man. There was something about him that put Igor at ease, but left him confused.
"Yes and no. A confused mind, a chaotic mind often makes random choices. Only coincidences guide its fate. ".
Sensing the man would reveal more, Igor stared at the headstone, reading thefine script:
Martin Swanson
1975-1995
The man, seeming to notice Igor's curiosity, added, "Colon Cancer. Painful for both of us.""
The russian silently nodded. A few moments passed. Sweet silence drowned the cemetary.
"Respect what you are. Come and serve me. ".
What am I? I'm not even sure anymore...
The man stood up and turned toward Igor. His eyes were pits of darkness. His voice was a whisper from the grave, "These are troubled times. We need all the help we can get. If you change your mind, I'll be here."
Without another word, Igor turned around and left, leaving the man alone with his graves.
Sunday June 4th, 1995 6:59 p.m.
It was still light out. Igor and Lily munched overpriced salads and sipped sodas in the Atrium at the Catalyst. It was early yet, but a band was setting up on stage. Igor thought the name sounded something like "Foghat", whatever that was.
Lily had supposedly set up a meeting between he and this, Joey, who occasionally sold her drugs. She'd said that Joey turned out to be in need of "protection" and that Igor might be interested. Igor wasn't sure about that but he was willing to talk, so Lily had called Joey up, setting up this meeting.
A small slender elderly man, probably in his late fifties, waved at Lily from a distance. This character was wearing flower print matching pants and shirt, suede vest, with long beads and long grey hair with a rainbow hair band around his head. He had a two buttons on, one with a peace sign and the other saying "Jerry Garcia Lives." As he sat down, Igor caught a whiff of patchouli oil.
Lily had told Igor that Joey was a small time drug dealer, serving the yuppie crowd of ex-hippies and new-agers. He was peaceful and avoided the hard core drug scene. He mostly sold recreational drugs on the side, to supplement his income from selling medicinal herbs and ointments. He had recently lost his connection for some of his supply and had been forced, by client demand, to search out a less reputable source. Igor thought that Joey might be a good source to contact some Cult of Ecstasy if he ever wanted to, which he doubted he ever would.
"Hi, I'm Joey," he said, offering a toothsome smile that would have put a horse to shame.
Igor shook Joey's hand. "Lily tells me you might have a job for me," Igor said, getting to the point at hand.
Joey nodded, his head bobbing up and down with an incredible range of motion. The movement of his grey hair was almost hypnotic.
"Yea, I lost a good buddie to a bust in Arizona. Now, until I can hook up with another source, I'm having to go to an interim supplier."
"What's the material?" Igor asked.
"Ecstasy,.some L.S.D, speed, you know, cherry stuff."
"Why do you need me then?" Igor asked him, sipping his soda.
"Well, the dude I'm dealing with is one Chico Hernandez. You ever heard of Chico?"
Igor shook his head.
Lily cut in with an explanation. "Chico's and his partner Denis push a lot of the drug market here locally. Chico works the Flats and Denis does the upscale crowd. They're very protective about their territory and they warned Joey here a long time ago."
"Some beautiful warning, man, let me tell you," Joey said. He whipped back his grey hair to reveal his neck. "Chico's partner Denis did this to me six years ago." There were burn scars, as if from a cigarette, all along the back of Joey's neck. They must've been deep and painful. "We've come to an understanding since then, but I've always had as little to do with those unhip cats as possible."
Igor could understand why dealing with them would make Joey feel nervous.
"How much?" he asked the important question.
"Two bills," Joey said.
"Two what?" Igor said, looking at Lily.
"He says he's gonna give you two-hundred dollars."
"And a deal on some powder and a free kilo of grass," Joey added.
"I'm not interested in drugs," Igor told him. "And you're a cheap bastard. You expect me to risk my life for two-hundred dollars?"
Igor started to get up. Joey jumped up and grabbed Igor's wrists, his eyes pleading the Russian to sit back down.
"Hey, be cool, man. We can talk about this."
Igor sat back down.
"Hey, two bills is good money for what I'm asking. It's just a half hour gig, and then you go. No big deal."
"If it wasn't a big deal, then you go alone."
Joey shook his head. "Not cool man. Lily said you were cool."
"He IS cool, Joey," Lily said, leaning on Igor's shoulder. "He's very cool and he's good. He worked back in Russia, didn't you, Babe?"
Igor cast his eyes down. Lily definitely had somewhat too large of a mouth. But he would talk to her about it later.
"I'm experienced, if that's what you're asking," Igor said, hoping to put the matter at rest.
Joey bobbed his head up and down. "Cool. O.K. Well, since this is the first time I'm dealing with Chico, let's call it five bills then, O.K.?"
"I'll think about it," Igor said curtly. "When and where is this to be?"
"Eleven o-clock," Joey said. "Tonight."
Igor checked his watch. Just less than five hours away.
"Where?" he asked.
"Not far. You'll find out when the time comes," Joey told him. Joey took two one-hundred dollar bills out of his wallet. "Cmon man. It'll be easy. I'll give you two now and three more when I come back with my skin intact, O.K?"
Igor looked at the money, trying to decide of laying his life on the line for five-hundred dollars was worth it.
Sunday June 4th, 1995 7:17 p.m.
Igor took a good look at Joey, trying to judge him. Was he worth taking a chance with his own life?
But it's a place to start and, with his less than sucessful attempts at finding a stable source of income today, the best lead he had to a good income for now.
Joey looked like a small time dealer. Someone Igor could deal with.
Igor took the two hundred dollars, turned and left without looking back. Lily trying her best to keep up with his fast pace.
"Five bills??? You got five bills from Joey for this job? Wow! You are gonna get rich! Ain't it great, babe?", Lily exclaimed barely after they left the Cat.
"You talk too much and don't call me babe." Igor replied, his tone cold and distant. "Keep the Russia thing for yourself. I talked too much."
Lily's face turned from pure joy and wonder to hurt in an instant. "But, but I thought you would be happy about this job. I'm, I'm sorry... you're mad at me, aren't you? I'm sorry. "
The Russian just ignored her and kept on walking, going to the appartment. Lily followed, looking miserable and keeping silent all the way back. Somehow, Igor felt bad about his snapping at her. More than he dared admit to himself. But he had good reasons to be mad, no matter how miserable it made her. Still, he didn't feel too good about it neither.
Back at his place, he sat at the kitchen table and took out his gunsmithing kit. One hour later, his weapon had been cleaned and greased, his ammunition doubled and triple checked. Not a word had been exchanged as Lily watched silently the T.V., obviously not in one of her best moods.
Ten thirty quickly came, a heavy silence still hung over the appartment. The girl still watching the tube and Igor relaxing on the bed, getting ready for what could turn out as a long night.
He got up and equipped himself. But he just couldn't get himself to leave tonite without saying something. Anything.
"Sorry I snapped at you. I'm tense tonite." Igor blurtered out.
A forced smile timidly appeared on her lips. "It's ok. I get carried away sometimes."
The ambiance was still very awkward. Not able to find anything more to say, Igor left quietly, intending to meet Joey at 11pm as agreed.
Sunday June 4th, 1995 11:32 p.m.
They were parked next to a field on a lonely road off of Empire Grade, well past the university. There was a partial view of Santa Cruz, just off between two trees. The lights sparkled coldly in the distance. Off to his right, a cold looking grey bank of heavy fog lay off the coast, slowly moving in as the land cooled from baking in the sun all day. Dim filtered lights from ships, big tankers miles offshore, could just be seen.
Joey stood, smoking a cigarette, absently looking at his watch. Igor had met Joey at the Cat a half hour before and the two of them had driven to this lonely spot. Perfect place for a ambush, Igor thought.
"Will they be here soon?" he asked Joey.
"Soon," Joey nodded, taking a drag on his cigarette. It glowed fiercely.
"I'll scout around. I won't be long." Igor left, crunching dead grass underfoot as he walked over the uneven ground. A bobcat yowled somewhere farther toward the hills. Igor skirted the field, but found nothing suspicious.
He walked back, just as a car became visible.
"Perhaps, I should hide," Igor suggested.
"Naw, I want you here where they can see you," Joey said. He seemed jittery, unsure of himself.
The car, a black Ferrari, pulled into the field. Two men exited the car.
"Hello Joey," one of them, the taller one, said.
"Chico," Joey nodded. He raised his hand and the other one took it.
"Denis here says he remembers you well," Chico said. "Don't you Denis?"
Joey looked afraid. Igor could see that the Denis comment had shook him up some. "This is MY friend, Ivan," Joey said, nodding to Igor.'
"Ivan? Sounds Russian, Denis commented. Igor said nothing, just watched with his hands in his coat.
"Well, let's get down to business, tata," Chico said. "Let's see the money."
Joey pulled out a roll of bills and handed it to Chico. Chico counted it quickly and nodded to Denis, who pulled a sealed box out of his car. It was posted as if to mail, Igor noted, watching them in the beam of Chico's car. Smart. If caught, the police would have to get a warrant to open it, buying time for smart lawyers to do their work.
"Business seems pretty good for you, Joey," Chico commented. "Denis here has been commenting on it."
Joey shrugged. "Well, yea sometimes. It's been good this summer. Falls to shit later," he said. Igor didn't buy it. He doubted that Chico and his friend did either.
"We've been thinking of maybe buying you out," Chico said, lighting his own cigarette. "But then, we thought that maybe just having you disappear might look good for our rep. We haven't done anyone for a while now. Heat's been to heavy with all this Hacker crap. But, maybe the time has come."
Joey gave a panicked look to Igor. Chico and Denis just laughed. Soon, the reason became apparent. Even before his eyes, Igor saw the pair of them start to change, their clothes disappearing while their hands turned quickly into huge clawed monstrosities. As tall as he was, Chico was growing still taller. Denis was no slouch either.
Joey's eyes rolled over as he watched this. He fainted, falling to the ground. The two werewolves seemed to think that this was very funny. They grunted something that Igor thought might be laughter, then as Denis prepared to deal with Joey, Chico turned to Igor, as if expecting him to fall and faint away as well.
Sunday June 4th 1995, 11:46 pm
What is this insanity? Werewolves??? I'm crazy. The madness is still hugging my soul like a second skin. A dream or a nightmare. If I die, my soul will die, drowned in madness.
Monstruosities. Reality should be rebelling against them. They can't possibly exist.
But real or not, the death of his being occupies many of the infinite number of his probable short-term futures. He had to make the right choices.
Igor froze in apparent terror, while the thing that was Chico advanced toward him, his bestial face distorted by a terrifying grin. <Igor subconsciously prepares a Dim Mak (use Entropy to find points of weakness on his foe... additional damage)...>
And when the monstruosity was almost at arm's lenght, Igor screamed out in apparent terror, pulling out his gun and firing 3 rounds in Chico's face, at point blank. The sound of the silenced shots were drowned by his own scream.
{Dim Mak - 2 successes/0 paradox}
With tactical position and opponent tactic, Igor receives initiative advantage.
Igor fires his gun (I assume heavy pistol). Aims for vulnurable points. Total Difficulty 6.
Igor hits. (Interesting dice rolls. You rolled 4x10's.)
Damage, 4+4+2-3=7 damage.
Werewolf Chico is incapacitated.
Sunday June 4th, 1995 11:47 p.m.
Igor, using a skill he didn't know what to call, knew somehow that the werewolf had a weakness in his leg, and others near his left kidney and the lower back of his skull.
Igor's first two shots buckled the leg, hitting the weak part of the bone and shattering it. As the Chico-thing spun around, he plugged it twice more - kidney - back of skull. Chico lay wounded and near death. Denis rose up from where he leaned over Joey, but made no untoward move toward either Joey or Igor. Denis' face began to shift, becoming more human, but retaining some of the bestial features.
"Niiice," it hissed. "You tuff - Russk. O.K. - you take JoJo and go. You O.K."
Impossibly, at his feet, the Chico-thing shifted, as if it wasn't as badly hit as Igor had thought.
Sunday, June 4th, 11:49pm
Igor, keeping his gun out, carefully walked over to Joey. He was confused and still under heavy adrenalin from the events that took place only seconds before.
Casting a glance toward Chico, Igor was barely surprised when he noticed his wounds started to close and heal at an incredible speed.
Dragging Joey back to the car, Igor commented to Denis, "Not that I care that much about Joey, but I'm paid to bring him back alive. If you want to ice him, do it outside my shift."
As a second thought, Igor looked at the package and brought it with him in the car after he settled the unconscious body in the passenger seat.
"And if you need to get in touch with me, tell Joey..."
With one last incredulous glance toward the duo, Igor drove out, trying to clear out his mind of the insane things he saw tonite.
"Why can't America be normal, just for once...", he mumbled to himself...
Monday June 5th, 1995 6:52 a.m.
Lily woke up with a start. Igor was already up and out of bed, his gun aimed for the door. Whoever it was, they were persistent. The pounding continued, loud and with force. He, she or they were not going away.
Igor was just about to tell Lily to peek out the window. That way, if anyone fired, they would hit her and not him. Igor couldn't say why, but the words refused to leave his throat just then. Instead, he risked his own self, peeking out the window. It was just one person, a man with bright red hair, wearing white chi pants and a loose shirt.
"Cmon, I know you're in there," the man yelled. "Please, I have something to tell you and I'm not going away until I do."
Igor was relieved that it wasn't either Denis or Chico. He was thinking they might have looked Joey up at the Cat after he'd dropped the old man off. This guy probably had the wrong address. Still
Igor decided to pretend that no one was home. He motioned for Lily to go to the bathroom. He held his finger up to his lips to tell her to be quiet. The young girl needed no urging.
However, the pounding continued. The man was going to draw the police. One of his neighbors would call, if they hadn't already - and that was something Igor needed to avoid.
He cracked the door open.
"What!" he barked, keeping his gun handy. So far, no danger sense.
"I need to talk to you," the young man insisted. Igor had never seen him before in his life.
"Get out of here! You have the wrong address!"
"No, I don't. I don't want to appear threatening, but there are important things I have to say to you. If you don't hear me out, bad things can happen."
"Bad things will happen - to YOU, if you don't get out of here!" Igor hissed. But the man refused to budge.
He held out his hand. In it, he held ten gold coins. "This is yours if you just hear me out. That's all you have to do."
Igor looked at the coins and then at the man.
"It's your funeral," he told the redhead.
The man entered and took a quick glimpse of Igor's studio apartment. "Nice place," he lied. He handed the coins to Igor. They were heavy. Igor thought they must be real. They were English sovereigns, ten of them.
"O.K. You got ten minutes. One minute for each coin. Talk!"
The man, who'd been expecting Igor to offer him a seat, sighed, and then began what he had to say.
"I'm a representative of a Tradition called Verbena. You've probably heard of us." Igor hadn't. "We're a strong force here in Santa Cruz. We've been looking for one such as you. To be truthful, when we scryed for one of your Order, we never expected to find him in Santa Cruz. A week ago, the Chorus would have had you destroyed. Now, they don't dare alienate another Tradition."
Igor didn't know what he was talking about.
"Anyway, you're here and maybe that can be to both of our advantages. The Chorus is calling a Tribunal tonight at Midnight, at the Unity Temple. All Traditions are invited and we plan to be there."
"And you want a bodyguard?" Igor asked, fishing for what this guy was talking about.
"No, we're perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves. Anyway, we'll make it known to the Chorus that you're in town. They'll have to invite you. As far as I know, you and one other are the only members of your Tradition in Santa Cruz. We can't find the other. He's probably buried himself somewhere. But, we'll make it known that you're to be invited. After all, what sort of Tribunal would it be without the Euthanatos?"
The what? Igor tried to gage how much time had passed. Hopefully, ten minutes wouldn't take much longer.
"What we're after is this. You come to the Temple. As a Euthanatos, you'll have a vote. Whatever happens, we want you to cast that vote with us."
"What am I supposed to be voting for?" Igor asked.
"Right now, my order is fighting a desperate war with the Technocracy. The Chorus is seeking to hamstring us by forming an alliance of all the Traditions against us. If they do that, it will be war, but not with the Technocracy. What we're saying is that the others should just mind their own business. We're not asking for help, just to be left alone. And I assure you, that the measures we're taking will help protect all Magi in Santa Cruz. If it weren't for us, the Techs would have overrun all of You long ago."
Igor chewed on all of this. Judging by what this unnamed man was saying, he included Igor among that "You', magi. But that was correct, wasn't it? Igor knew that there was something beyond himself. He knew what Hollow Ones were. They were magi - like - himself? Is that what I am?
"If you cast your vote in support of us, I'll guarantee we'll make it worth your while. Whatsmore, we'll give you our support. No one else could guarantee your safety against the Chorus. What do you say?"
Igor said nothing.
"Well, think about it. Remember, we Verbena have ways of dealing with those we think failed us. I'd rather it didn't have to come to that but desperate times make for desperate measures."
The man walked out.
"We'll send word to the Chorus. They'll have to invite you if we let them know about you. Remember! Support the Verbena representative. You'll be rewarded. And as for this conversation, it never happened." The man tossed a roll of bills onto the floor and then walked away. Igor picked them up. They were crisp, as if they'd just come from the bank. Hundred dollar bills - ten of them.
Monday June 5th, 1995 4:40 p.m.
Igor and Lily had just returned from the corner liquor store with sandwiches, chips and a T.V. guide for Lily. A woman, dressed in a white robe with a hood, was waiting for them. She just smiled, as if recognizing Igor, and handed him a card. Opening it, he read - You are invited to a special service at the Unity Temple, at the corner of Broadway and Seabright. Reverend Joy.
Monday, June 5th, 1995, 4:52pm
After enterting the appartment, Lily turned to Igor with a bothered look on her face.
"What is all of this about, baby? Some kind of secret organization like the KGB and CIA who wants you in? They sure seem to pay well. Two grands for just talking to the guy!"
The Russian was thoughtful for a moment before replying.
"I don't know. There is money involved for sure though. I think they got the wrong guy, but if it means I get showered in gold coins and bills, I won't argue the point."
The girl walked over to Igor and tried to peek over his shoulder at the card he was still holding, rereading it for the tenth time. He was almost hoping there was some information in there that he missed the first ninth times.
"What does the card say??", Lily asked.
Igor grunted, before finally tossing the card on the table and walking toward the bedroom.
"It's the invitation the nutcase told me about. It seems he's not totally insane and the invitation is real enough."
"Are you gonna go? It sounds dangerous and mysterious...", Lily inquired.
From the bedroom, Igor's voice echoed as he undressed, getting ready for a cold shower.
"Yes. I want to know what this is about and learn where the money comes from."
Magi? That is a word from his past. Something he left behind on a cold and dark night. It's coming back to haunt him, just like Frank's ghost. There seem there was no running away from it, even on the other side of the world. Then, better confront it and plunge in the madness.
There seems to be different groups operating within the city. The Chorus, The Verbenas. Euthanatos also. Whoever they were. Technocracy. Seem to be an opposing organisation. Names that meant nothing to him, even though he worked for the KGB almost 10 years. Code names for known organisation then? Possibly.
What do they want from him then. Information from his KGB background? Most of it would be obsolete now. Maybe hiring him? No, the nutcase made it quite clear they didn't need that kind of protection.
The only thing left was that they have the wrong guy. Maybe another russian operating within Santa Cruz was the guy they wanted.
The memory of his meeting in the graveyard and the strange conversation that took place came back to him for a few seconds before fading away again.
But somehow, he FELT that he was connected to all this. It was all connected to the madness he lived for a few months, before fleeing in the night. And the only way to find out more was to attend the meeting.
Let's take the information he had at face value. The Chorus are ordering a meeting of the "traditions". They are to vote (one vote per "tradition" it seems) on a matter of recent Verbenian's actions. On the other side, the Chorus supposedly would be looking to ice him for a reason or another but can't do it right now, as they need the support of all the "traditions" for this little vote of theirs.
So, he's been blackmailed by the Verbenians. The Chorus didn't know he was in town until the Verbenians told them. Now that they know, it might get dangerous for him. And only the Verbenians can protect him. Looks like a setup for a nasty blackmailing operation. Put the target in danger and offer yourself as the only possibility of getting out of it. And ask for a favor in return for the "protection". Igor didn't like to be blackmailed. He hated not to be in control.
Monday, June 5th, 1995, 11:31 pm
The rest of the evening passed without any extraordinary event. A quiet supper home, with Lily watching some T.V. while Igor read the local newspapers. At 11pm, the Russian dressed for the occasion, double-checked his gun, pocketed the invitation and left with a small wave to Lily, as she watched him leave, a slightly insecure look marring her pretty smile.
(What you do know about the Unity Temple is that a Christian church has occupied the sight since about 1860. The current building still retains the Church trappings of a cut in cross on the stone three story tower. About a fourth of the actual church grounds, not counting the dormitories, is given over to a small but colourful garden which occupies the corner of the lot closest to the intersection. The actual occupying church bills itself as an alternate religion and is said to incorporate philosophies and tenets of all major religions and philosophies - not only Christianity, Judaism and Islam, but Hinduism, Janism, Hinayana and Marayana Buddhism, Confucism, Animistic beliefs of Native Americans, Africa the Caribbean and Japan, as well as the tenets of the great Western philosophers.
Services are held daily and some worshippers seem to actually live on the site, in the dormitory and office building behind the actual temple. Acolytes wear robes varying from white to those made of elaborate Bali cloth. Incense continually burns while gongs sound and sonorous voices chant monotone yet captivating mantras. The priest in residence at Unity Temple, is Reverend Alana Joy)
Tuesday June 6th, 1995 12:03 a.m.
One by one, everyone was led into the room, whose borders were cramped by the large polished stone table that occupied its center. Thirteen chairs had been placed around the table, built of the same heavy red granite that the table itself was made of. The Reverend lifted her hands and the sounds of a series of chimes seemed to dance in the air, as if touched by wind. There was no wind however, only a still calm that serenely dulled the senses, beckoning those that sat at the table to gaze inward at the stone swirls. Blood red flowed over and through white of crystaline purity, touched here and there by bits of clear quartz.
Until they had finished assembling, the "guests" mostly occupied themselves by looking around the room, at the austere decorations, and at each other - mostly the latter. Ten men and women assembled in the room, not counting the Chorus acolytes who left as soon as their business was finished.
The room they were in was in the second story of the tower at Unity Temple. There was obviously a room above them as well, but few at the gathering could speculate what might be in such a room. Outside, traffic at the corner of Seabright and Broadway sped by, oblivious to the weight of discussion and power assembling in the quaint little building, once a modest stone church. Behind the small but colourful garden, the L-shaped building had given way to a series of chambers and halls, built of cool seamless stone, where burning incense and the new-age air of sonorous chanting and mantras crowded out thought until one felt the pull of joining in the chant, becoming one with everyone around them.
Since they were all expected, white robed acolytes led them as they arrived to the Tribunal Chamber, which by local reckoning in a history largely unknown, had gone unused for over a hundred years. Once seated, they were given clear water, served in simple wooden mugs, or hot green tea, as they preferred. For food, arriving magi were handed lacquered wooden bowls, whose dark brown lacquered interiors were filled with pieces of fresh baked flour tortillas.
"Now, following the custom of the last Tribunal held in this room, more than a century ago, we shall be seated in order. I ask you not to take umbrage at the course of this seating. We do not need any further arguments than shall be posed this night." The Reverend Alana Joy was a small, slender woman with electric blue eyes that seemed to pierce whoever she was looking at. Though she looked incredibly youthful, her snow white hair made her seem older but what her age could have actually been was anyone's guess.
"Dreamspeaker," the Reverend said, smiling and opening her hand toward the table, to indicate that someone should sit down.
The first to sit down at the Reverend's gesture was a young woman who had been ignoring all others, content instead to gaze into the tabletop. Her dress was made of what looked like a coarse cotton weave, cunningly dyed in enchanting patterns of black, brown and green that hugged her curvaceous figure. The woman's hair and skin were brown and her eyes, when they regarded them all, were a dusky green, large and softly stunning. The woman's race was indeterminate, and perhaps she was a melding of different peoples.
"I am Waahia," she told them. Waahia was a Speaker.
"Euthanatos," Reverend Joy whispered, the smile leaving her face.
A blond man dressed in a nondescript sport coat moved forward with cat-like ease and fluidity and sat down next to Waahia. His brown eyes squinted and regarded all of them as he looked around. He looked lean and dangerous, like a wild animal.
"Igor Stepanovich," was all he said. He looked cross for a moment as if, even in that brief statement, he had said more than he had intended.
"Cult of Ecstasy."
The next to sit down was a member of the Cult. He wore tan slacks and a blue Hawaiian patterned shirt, while thick gold chains lay draped around his neck. His arms were hairy, tanned and obviously muscular while his dark eyes seemed to be bright with mirth and cheerfulness. A mischievous grin spread across his face as he spoke, as if he were always tempting them all to leave the room and go outside to play.
"I am Montana Haul," he said, "And I am very pleased to meet you all."
"Verbena."
Two people, a man and woman emerged from the back of the room to sit down. Though they sat next to each other, the Verbs took pains to keep at least a chair's distance between themselves and the Cultist.
The woman was remarkably tall. She had a strong nose and deep blue eyes that seemed sleepy, like a deep pool of water. Her hair was wavy and fell naturally onto her shoulders and she offered them all a smile that seemed if nothing, very sad. Dressed in a simple dress and grey knit top, she sat down with effortless elegance.
"Bessie Moisha," she said.
The man was even taller, but slender with long fine blond hair. Though he wore a suit and tie, his arms when revealed as he took off his jacket were broadly muscular and covered with swirling blue tattoos. He stroked his long blond hair behind him, a grin on his face that could be read as either warm or an invitation to battle. Imposing in his height, he sat down next to Bessie, smirking at all of them."
"Gert Severin," he said.
"Order of Hermes."
"My name is Alexis Affery," the young man nodded as he sat down near but not next to the Verbena. The Herm was as tall as the Euthanatos but somewhat more slender, though elegantly dressed, in an expensive Italian suit. His short cut red hair seemed somewhat unkempt, surprising given his neat dress and a short growth of red whiskers adorned his face.
"Celestial Chorus," the Reverend said, sitting down herself, next to Alexis. "Then she said, "Akashic Brotherhood."
The man who sat down had a lean weather-beaten look about him. He had tanned, leathery skin, with long hair tied back in a pony tail and wore a beard, neat and trim. Once announced, the Brother quickly moved to sit and was busy regarding everyone before anyone even had a chance to notice him.
"Lloyd Davies," he told them.
"Sons of Ether."
The elderly man sitting down next to Lloyd was neatly, but casually dressed in jeans and a simple sports coat. Slender and wiry, he had light grey hair touched with white in places, which he kept short and neatly cut. The Son nodded and smiled to Lloyd and then to the others, and regarded them all with a piecing penetrating look.
"Jack Edar," he said.
"Virtual Adepts."
The young woman sitting down had long blond hair kept unadorned and simple and wore thick rimmed glasses. Her warm smile seemed if anything shy and as she sat, her hands played about on the table as if longing for something to touch. The Adept glanced about nervously and with her eyes locked to the table said, "Anne Evangelista."
"Well, I want to thank you all for coming, and I think we are ready to begin."
"Now quite," Montana, the Cultist, raised his hand. "May I point out that one Tradition seems to have been excluded.
Reverend Joy blinked. "Certainly you don't think I should have invited the Technocracy, do you?"
"That wasn't who I was speaking about," Montana said testily. "I was referring to the Hollow Ones."
Gert put his large hands onto the table and coughed to get everyone's attention. "Excuse me, but I must agree with the kind Reverend here. We cannot allow these vagabonds to be accorded the rights of a Tradition. They are simply an amalgamation of orphans, who seem to fight each other as much as they do any of us. They have no common thread or unifying factor other than that they are not part of our communities or of the Technocracy. And even if we were to acknowledge them, how could we ask them to choose a leader when they are just a mob?"
Anne Evangelista raised her hand. "Excuse me, but I have other things to get onto tonight and I know this isn't the main issue. But if you want my opinion"
"Not really," Gert cut her off.
Before anyone could say anything else, Reverend Joy was quick to comment. "Excuse me Gert, but I want everyone here tonight to have an equal share in speaking." Alana turned to Anne. "Please, continue."
"As I was saying," Anne glared at Gert. "we shouldn't exclude anyone. If a representative comes forward from the Hollows, then they should be allowed to sit."
"But no one has come forward," the Reverend said. "In fact, I had not thought to invite them."
Montana smiled and tapped his glass with his fingernail. "Excuse me, but I happen to know that a representative of a large group of Hollows is waiting outside. I know because I invited her."
"You did what?" the Reverend asked. "How!" She caught herself from saying something else. "You should have conferred with me first," the Reverend said.
"Why? Just because you're summing this Tribunal doesn't mean that yours is the deciding voice here, anymore than one of ours."
The Reverend paused, as if thinking.
"I agree with the good Reverend here," Gert reiterated. "I say, since she wasn't invited, let's keep her out. We should only start showing respect to this scum once they start acting like they deserve it."
"Perhaps we should put it to a vote," Waahia suggested.
"No chance," Montana thumped his fist on the table. Strangely, there was no vibration or sound. He paused, noting this, and then continued. "If you all don't allow the Hollows to sit in on this, then I walk and I am the elected representative of the Cult. I don't care how many Deadheads, Herms and Adepts you bring here, let's face it, the real strength on the coast belongs to the Chorus, Cult and Verbs. Without me, you have no real Tribunal. So, I say, let's let her in or I walk. So, you just all think about it and decide if you really want this Tribunal."
"Fine by me," Gert said aloud. "Go ahead and walk."
"You'd like that wouldn't you," the Reverend glared at the Verbena, her masque of cordiality slowly becoming undone. Across the table, the Chorus leader and Verbena glared at each other, as if daring each other to act.
"As far as I can see, there's no reason for this gathering," Gert growled. "And I veto any attempt to bring in the Hollows. The night's getting old and you've wasted our time enough, Joy. Why not admit it and let us all get out of here?"
"I have no objections to the seating of the Hollow," Waahia said in her soft lilting voice.
"Do any of the rest of you have objections?" Joy asked. No one said anything.
"But I do!" Gert said again, smiling as if triumphant. "I VETO this suggestion and if this council insists, then I declare this Tribunal null and void, according to the tenets of the last Tribunal held here."
Bessie, who had remained silent up until this point stood, "I am sorry, but as co-representative of the Verbena here, I must refute my brother, Gert. I do believe it is only fair that the Hollows be allowed to attend if they so wish to. So, with my vote cast against Gert's, the Verbena are deadlocked and have no vote to cast on this matter, nor can we veto your suggestion." She nodded to Montana, who surprised, nodded back. Montana exchanged a quick look with Gert, who shook his head.
Fuming, Gert folded his arms, not bothering to look at his fellow Verbena seated alongside. For her part, Bessie sat back, as if willing to become insignificant once more.
"Then, we will seat your Hollow," Reverend Joy told Montana.
Montana looked dumbstruck and then, he began to stutter, "Ahh, well, O.K. Great! Ah, she's outside, parked on a Harley."
"I think my Acolytes can recognize a Hollow," the Reverend said sarcastically. "Certainly we've had to teach them enough lessons of late."
The Reverend didn't get up but merely closed her eyes. Everyone waited for what seemed several minutes. Then, the door to the room opened and a leather-clad young woman entered, noisily chewing gum and snorting derisively as she paraded around the table, looking at the assembled magi.
"Why Bitchy thought you dumbfucks would be worth listnin too, I don't know."
"Sit down," the Reverend's calm voice suggested. The young woman stuck a pierced and studded tongue out at Joy, then inexplicably suddenly rushed to sit down. Her actions seemed to surprise herself and she looked around at the assembled Magi, shocked and seemingly a little scared.
"What's your name, Hollow One?" the Reverend asked.
"Helen. Helen Mariana. I'm ah, one of the "Black Arrows", she said.
"Who are the Black Arrows?" Anne Evangelista asked.
"They're one of the pathetic gangs that the Hollows have formed," Gert snorted. "They give themselves butch names, as if they were important."
"We ARE important, you smug furback-FUCKER!" Helen said, rising and reaching for a knife at her belt. Anne pulled her back to her seat. Helen looked at Anne surprised, but her hand left her knife. Anne glanced at Helen's arms. Needle tracks crisscrossed their way, following her veins, looking like a mockery of Gert's tattoos.
Once things had calmed down, Reverend Joy began again.
"Now that we are ALL assembled here," she said. "We come to the reason for our gathering. I shall begin by letting the Verbena tell their side of the story." The Reverend nodded to Gert, who arose and looked around at everyone.
"As you all know, for decades now we've lived here on the coast and in the mountains, sheltered from the Technocracy not so much by our own efforts, as by benefiting from the fight of the mountain werewolves to keep what they see as corruption at bay. This has been the way things have been for over a hundred years. But as you know, the earthquake back in 1989 destroyed a number of nodes. Certain of us," Gert said, glaring at Helen and Joy, "have taken it upon themselves to begin robbing werewolf nodes, raping them for their quintessence. Whatever their motivations in all this might be, the resultant effect has been to weaken the werewolves power. Now the werewolves have to watch their backs as well, not knowing if the attacks are going to come from us or from the Techs. The Techs have made inroads. Pentex has taken over the cement plant at Davenport. Fomori and mutated werewolves have been seen by the dump; vampires are more plentiful in town than they've ever been."
"We have a right to Tass!" Helen spat. "Since you've all seen so fit to deny us, we've taken our own! We have a right to survive! And we never attacked you!"
"Not directly, no." Gert admitted. "But you might as well have. Some of you know this already, but we Verbena have been hit hard. Tech troopers almost made it to the heart of our node two years ago and we only barely managed to beat them off and keep them from torching our sacred oak grove. Now that the werewolf power has been divided, the wolves are not able to watch the frontier like they once were. We've tried to help them but our power is nothing compared to the Technocracy. And certainly, fellow Tradition magi in Saratoga have not seen fit to help us," Gert said, accusing Jack Edar. Going on, "And I should tell you that this has infuriated the werewolves. They've lost face and faith in magi. They see you, not us, but ALL of you as being no better than the Techs and we were only barely able to keep them from declaring open war on all of you. Yes, Reverend Joy, you have the Verbena to thank for keeping the werewolves from torching this place and gutting every acolyte and convert you have. YOU!" Gert pointed at Helen, "have no idea what fury you've awakened."
"So, you admit it!" Helen pointed. "The furbags ARE out to kill us all. Then, you can all see that we were right to begin this war," she protested to the assembled group. "By hitting them now, we can prevent them from every being a threat to us. It was only a matter of time before they turned on us anyway."
"They didn't even know you existed until you started killing their people!" Gert screamed. "YOU FOOL! YOU BLIND PATHETIC FOOL! Don't you know what you've done? In the ashes of the war the werewolves would have launched upon you, only one victor would have emerged - the Technocracy! They would have won without even having had to fight us!"
"That is such pure Techno bullshit!" Helen screamed back. "You just don't want us to grow strong and become our own Tradition. We all know how rich Verbena nodes are, but do they share them? No! And then they scream at us for doing what we must to survive?! Give me a break. By the time the Techs get through those hills, they'll find we're more than a match for them - or any of you!" Helen warned. She looked at Reverend Joy. "We're not the same little kids you used to send your acolytes to pick on," she said venomously. "You all soon find that war has made us strong - very strong! And our plunder of tass is enough to scorch ANY of you off this planet if you even think of getting in our way." Helen looked at Gert and smirked. "That includes you, big boy, and you know its true, don't you?"
Gert nodded. "The Hollows destroyed the Green Hills Werewolf Sept. They raped beautiful self sustaining tass from Gaia's wound and have hoarded it somewhere. With Green Hills gone, the other werewolf groups are struggling to try and plug the gap, but for now, the way to Santa Cruz is wide open for the Techs. They could just march in."
"And they'll find us waiting," Helen promised. "We're not afraid of the Techs, you, the furbacks or anyone. You ignored us before. Now we have the POWER! to protect ourselves." Helen pounded the table and then looked at it much as Montana had done before, as if not trusting its surface.
Helen smiled, looking at all of them like a kid who had her comeuppance on her parents. "So, Magi, what do you say? We Hollows know how to die. You want us to show you the way?"
Now it was Gert's turn to smirk. "Oh, you'll get your chance, soon enough," he promised. "Together, my people and the werewolf tribes have banded together to try and bring the War to the heart of the Technocracy. We have now summoned and chained a power to our bidding that makes your sum of Tass seem like the nothing it truly is," Gert smiled at Helen. "We have brought the Sun Child to us."
"What is the Sun Child?" Anne asked.
"It's a demon," the Reverend explained. "The fools have brought a demon to the mountains, and they intend to launch it upon the Technocracy."
"The Sun Child!" Waahia gasped. "But, the Sun Child laid waste to Oakland just a few years ago! Hundreds were killed and the earth was burned black!"
"We didn't know how to control it then," Gert admitted. "We've learned much since then and we give it what it needs in order to control it."
"And what would that be?" Anne asked again.
Montana answered her. "The Verbena specialty - blood!"
"Blood!" Anne seemed surprised. "Whose blood?"
Gert grew silent.
"Whose blood?!" Anne demanded.
"Tell them," Reverend Joy said. "Go ahead and tell them, Gert."
"Whatever we have done," Gert said to them all, "We have done for the good of our people. We have been forced to this course," he said, again looking at Helen, "and now that we have arrived, we have no intention of turning back. We shall use the Sun Child to destroy our enemies - ALL of our enemies. And if a few sleepers must be sacrificed on the way, then so be it. Certainly their deaths are insignificant compared to all those who have died thus far."
"Insignificant?" Reverend Joy questioned. "Hardly to those sleepers who you culled for this barbarity. Or to their families. Don't you see how this evil has gripped you?" Joy asked. "You claim that the Sun Child shall rid you of all your enemies when what you don't realize is that this abomination is beyond your control. It is rather an enemy to all existence. It is a force of Paradox beyond reckoning, and you have brought it HERE!"
"We control it! You worry our fellows without reason!"
Joy pulled herself back, trying to focus and control herself. When she next spoke, her voice had resumed its calm and serene manner.
"It wants you to think you control it," she said. "My people have already witnessed two events that were undoubtedly perpetrated by your demon. It's testing the waters. While you think it's resting, awaiting your word, it's sneaking out to feed itself. It will rape a million souls and it will not be satisfied. You have brought us a greater evil than even the Technocracy. At least we have means to fight the Techs, but there can be no understanding of this thing. Even the spirits of the dead fly from this thing. Do you know something that they do not?"
"We will not change our course," Gert stubbornly maintained.
"Let us hope we can change that attitude," the Reverend said. "If not, then the purpose of this Tribunal is clear - to form an alliance for the purpose of defeating you and the Sun Child."
"As you always intended," Gert said, spitting out his accusation. "I don't know why you even invited us!"
"To give you a chance to change your minds," the Reverend said. "Though I don't think that is possible. You are too far gone in this madness - too far captured by this lust for power."
"Have you forgotten the werewolves?" Gert asked. "Do you think they will stand by and see you interfere with their plans once more? Don't forget that their shamans are the ones who have helped summon the Sun Child. You will initiate a terrible war if you all follow this course and you shall play into the hands of our enemy."
"There is only one enemy now that need concern us," the Reverend insisted. "And YOU brought it here."
There followed a great quiet as all digested the information brought forth. Finally, the Reverend turned to the others who had not spoken yet, asking them their opinions.
The thin bearded man sat back in his chair, carefully observing the discussion around him. As the tension mounted, he carefully and slightly pushed his chair back from the table. It was a quiet move, and those engaged in the shouting match seemed to pay no attention. When the furor died down, and attention diverted to the remaining four, it was Lloyd who broke the silence.
"Who are your enemies?" he said softly.
"What?" Gert asked, surprised by the sudden question.
"A man is defined by his enemies as much as by his friends or himself. You have stated that you intend to use the Sun Child against your enemies. I would know who they are. More importantly, I wish to know who they will become. Is Reverend Joy now an enemy because she does not agree with you? Will you now unleash the Sun Child upon her? We know where it starts. You have told us that. I would hear where it ends." He fell silent, carefully watching the table.
Gert drew back, assessing the question. "We summoned the Sun Child to fight the Techs. We never intended to unleash it on you."
Lloyd started to ask another question, but Gert held up his hand to show that he hadn't finished. "How many times I have asked why the Akashic warriours in Esalen have never roused themselves to help us. Yes, yes, I know, you say you walk the path of peace. But now I see you, an Akashic and you come not with help but with only empty questions. THIS question of where to direct the Sun Child is not only ours. We have as yet tried to protect all of you from the fury of the werewolves in the past. Consider this, if you attack us, and thereby default, the great werewolf tribes, they will not hesitate to make use of the Sun Child. They have lost many to" he looked again at Helen and Joy, "predations by greedy magi seeking to bolster their own power at the expense of others. The werewolves do not shrink from battle, but I don't think they want to loose more of their people. I do not think that all of you are enough to defeat them. Already, their drums of war have been answered from septs all over the Bay Area."
Gert looked at his hands, his eyes absently wandering over the patterns of rock in the red granite that seemed to capture so many pairs of eyes.
"I would ask that all of you consider what I'm about to say. You distrust our ability to reign in this power, true? Well then, why not give us twenty-four hours to prove ourselves."
"Why twenty-four hours?" Anne asked. "What's going on?"
Gert smiled. "Why, nothing less than the opening moves of war. Even as we speak, the dog as been loosened. The Sun Child Walks."
Stunned silence greeted these words.
"Where?" Montana asked, his voice unsteady and quavering.
"Why, where do you think? It has gone walking over the Hill."
Waahia held up her hand. "But, regardless that Silicon Valley is the stronghold of the Technocracy, but still, more than a million sleepers, innocent lives, still reside there. Would you doom them as well?"
"This IS war," Gert reiterated.
Waahia sagged back in her chair. "I had come here with an open mind. Now I see that you have shut it for me."
Gert ignored her implied threat. "Other than for your vote, what does it matter what you say? The Speakers haven't roused themselves for over a hundred years and your weak numbers offer little sway to my mind. I would tell you this, Waahia, do not stand against us. In answer to this man's question," Gert pointed at Lloyd, "we do not declare YOU an enemy, but by foolishness, YOU may declare yourselves as such."
"The werewolves."
The comment, sounding like a passing thought spoken aloud, came from the old man. This in itself was surprising because it had seemed that the mage was far more interested in the uncannily silent tabletop than in the matter being discussed; he had spent most of the meeting running his hand over its surface and staring at it as if he were looking beyond its surface into its very core.
Perhaps he could. But now he was looking at the Verbena mage, his gaze light, his expression almost but not quite a smile, but his manner was very direct, meeting the gaze of the powerful bloodmage easily.
"What did you tell them?"
His tone is light, suggestive of an idle question...but not so idle so as to be dismissed without an answer.
"When you asked for their assistance in summoning this...creature," he amplified, helpfully.
Gert's eyes narrowed as he regarded the Etherson, as if trying to read something behind the question. "We simply reminded them that it was the garou themselves who first summoned the Sun Child back in Oakland. We proposed that this time, we could help them control it and this we've done."
During this exchange, Igor simply looked at the people assembled around the table. He mostly had a confused look on his face (which he was unsucessfully trying to hide) as if many topics in this discussion eluded him.
Alexis ran his hand through his unkempt hair and spoke at a lull in the conversation.
"So, unless I misunderstand, and you'll have to forgive me for I have had too little sleep, you have summoned this thing - let's not use the word demon, it's so predjudicial - called the Sun Child so that you can inflict it on the Technocracy.
"I think I can speak to this from my own Tradition's history. It always begins like this - you summon a power you know you can control, to do something good. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions, is it not? You may believe that you are the one controlling the Sun Child. But are you so sure?
"I am afraid that while I may not count you as an enemy now, the day will come soon when the power you have summoned will take you out of the sunlit realms and into the dark. And then I will be forced to count you as an enemy, much as it pains me to raise a hand against a brother mage."
Alexis almost sat down again, but then apparently remembered something else.
"As for the grievances of the werewolves against the Hollow Ones and such mages, I think that they are legitimate. I hope you," and he nods to Gert, "Will convey to them that if there is anything that I can do to make up for the sins of my bretheren, any help I can render, I will do so."
And Alexis sat down again.
Helen jumped up from her seat. "DAMN YOU!" she spat in the direction of Alexis, her spittle landing wet and glistening on the table before him. "You think you can JUDGE US?!! You who are so high and mighty! Well, listen here, Herm," the Hollow leaned on the table glaring at Alexis. "Anyone - ANYONE - who wants a piece of us can try and find us willing and waiting! Do you understand that? This is about war and existence, and we don't care what happens to any of you! We will survive!"
Lloyd turned to the others. "The problem goes deeper than that, and is of broader scope then any of us may realize." He turned back to the Verbena. "You have spoken of the Werewolves as though they were a united front. They are not. There are many who oppose your group, both quietly and otherwise. For now, they wait, hoping reason will win the day. Eventually they will be able to wait no longer. They will strike, or you will. It doesn't matter which. When that inevitable day comes, the Garou will go to war against themselves. Their attention will be divided, their focus scattered. You will be called upon to help your allies. Fail, and your alliance shatters into a thousand bloody pieces. Come to their aid, and you get dragged into their politics. Either way, your focus is lost, a situation that can only help our enemies.
"Further, this tribunal is hardly unified on this issue. We will take sides. It is happening already. Look around you! Reverend Joy and her Choirsters will almost certainly fight you. Others will follow. War will break out among the Traditions, and blood will spill. You, of all people, should understand what the spilling of blood does to human passions.
"The Technocracy will have to react. Or are you fool enough to think you can defeat them in a stroke? They will move with precision, coordination, and sound tactics into a field covered by warring factions too distracted by their own battles to fight the one that matters. Can the Marauders or the Nephandi be far behind?
"And in the center, the Sun-Child waits, feeding off the blood we spill."
His eyes locked on Gert. "I have seen war. I know it perhaps better than any person here. You say you control the Sun-Child. I say that point is irrelevant. You do not. . . .you *cannot*. . .control the events that must follow. The factors I have named are but a few that will surface."
His gaze shifted to Bessie. "Your cause is lost before it begins," he said solemnly. "Your tactics betray your objectives. There is only one path open to you." He spoke slowly and emphatically. "Change your course."
Gert shook his head, composed and resolute. "We will not. And any who oppose us will be destroyed. Despite all your rhetoric, you shall find that it simply comes down to this."
Reverend Joy spoke. "Your attitude, Gert, is hardly surprising. I had only allowed the barest bit of hope you could be persuaded otherwise. My true purpose in inviting you here was to show to the others how intractable you truly are."
Gert didn't reply but merely sneered at her.
She rose and all eyes turned to her.
"The outcome of this Tribunal shall be relayed to our Tradition chapters elsewhere. We urge you to contact your fellows abroad but we shall endeavor to do the same and word of this Tribunal shall soon be broadcast worldwide. Based on the outcome of our vote here tonight, we can bring pressure to bear on other Verbena chapters. All Verbena must be held accountable for your actions," she calmly stated to Gert. "If we cannot persuade you, then others of your Tradition will have to renounce you or they will suffer if they do not. Do not doubt it."
"You will not prevail. No matter what you decide otherwise, these minions will not plunge their Traditions into war," Gert told her.
"We shall see. I doubt that even other Verbena elsewhere will support you in this once the outcome of this Tribunal is made known," the Reverend replied. Turning to the others, she said, "As representatives of your Traditions, when we vote, each Tradition shall have one vote. The majority shall rule and if the motion carries, then the measure shall be supported by all the Traditions, on pain of being outcast and hunted."
"The motion being proposed is this - That the Verbena Stone Hollow Chantry will desist their alliance with the entity known as the Sun Child and that they will banish said entity back to the nether regions from which it came. That failing to do this, that the Stone Hollow Chantry will be declared as outcasts to be hunted and destroyed by all those who hold themselves to the Traditions. All Verbena chantries worldwide are called upon to renounce the Stone Hollow Chantry and aid in its destruction or face the same at the hands of all the Traditions. We shall vote in order of our seating. Does anyone have anything to say or add before the voting commences?"
Gert yawned as if the Reverend's words were of little interest to him. He hadn't even finished yawning as he spoke. "I wonder what the members of our little gathering would think if they knew, Reverend, that you were in contact with the Technocracy New World Order."
Waahia gasped. "Reverend Joy, is this true?"
The barest flicker of surprise registered across the Reverend's face, in the form of her eyes, which widened just slightly.
"Well, is it?" the Cultist, Montana, insisted.
Reverend Joy simply nodded. "Yes, it is my intention to warn the Technocracy. Why not? If anyone should expend their energies and resources fighting this abomination, why should it not be our enemies?"
"So, you would use us to gut the Technocracy anyway," Gert laughed. Turning to the others, he said, "You see how the Chorus acts? We've denied nothing, but here THEY are scheming behind all our backs. Don't think that they won't sell you out just as soon if it suits their purpose. As far as their concerned, Santa Cruz is theirs. Once we're gone, who will be next? The Euthanatos? The Hollows? The Adepts? We all know what happened to the Herms and Akashics a hundred years ago. The Chorus burned out their chantries and killed every one of them that they could lay their hands on."
"That was long ago," the Reverend calmly replied to the accusing stares that greeted her all around the table. "Situations and attitudes have changed much since then."
"She's lying," Gert sneered. "Once you vote her way, she'll be done with you. She doesn't need you, just your vote. After all, she's got the Technocracy as an ally now, don't you, Reverend? The way I see it, we're both dancing with devils. You know the caliber of loathsome treachery that embodies the Techs. Why not give our way at least a chance? You don't have to join us. Just agree not to fight us. Vote NO against this insane proposal and refuse to be Chorus puppets!"
The Adept Anne sighed. "Well!"
The Reverend didn't make any further reply, but simply waited for any last concerns or proposals to be put forward.
At this point, everyone present was surprised to see the red granite table glow, just slightly. The point of emanation originated from the Euthanatos, Igor, and spread with fingers of light barely perceptible within the stone, touching each of the magi present.
"Do not think that even subtle uses of Magick go unnoticed HERE," the Reverend calmly informed the Euthanatos.
The Russian turned toward the Reverend, with an impassible face. "I don't know anything about the topics discussed here. If I can't judge the ideals, I can at least sense the worth of the people supporting them." Those words were all the explanations he gave, before lapsing into complete silence again.
The elderly Son of Ether filled the silence. Addressing Gert once more, he said, "One more question. A small technical matter." His tone is matter of fact. "What preparations have you made with respect to Resheph?"
Gert turned his head, as if thinking. Finally, he replied, "Resheph? You speak in riddles Etherson. Is this a name or a term you use?"
However, Jack did not answer, merely watching the Verbena quietly. Unanswered, Gert shrugged and seem to forget the question entirely.
After a quiet lull, Reverend Joy addressed the Tribunal. "It seems we've all said what we're going to say. Now has come the time to vote. Please - place your hands upon the table, palms downward. Here is my proposal, - that we together form an alliance with the express purpose of defeating the Verbena. We shall inform our Traditions of this decision and all Verbena chantries that do not acknowledge the righteousness of this decision shall themselves come under pressure from our brothers and sisters. Consider this a dwell upon the answer, a yes or no."
One by one, all present placed their hands upon the table as directed. Interestingly, it was Besie and not Gert who voted for the Verbena. Gert kept his hands folded, scowling as he watched the Tribunal members. A sound of ringing invisible chimes sounded announcing what decision the Tribunal had come to.
The chimes sounded low with a mournful tone, meaning that the Tribunal had decided upon war.
"I want a polling!" Gert promptly demanded.
In the order of their seating, a coloured light emanated from the table, weaving either a thread of positive white light, that of disagreeing dark green or the neutral tone of purple. Those voting yes included the Dreamspeaker, Order of Hermes, Celestial Chorus, and Akashic Brotherhood. No votes were cast by, not surprisingly, the Verbena, but also the Cult of Ecstasy and the Virtual Adepts. For all their rhetoric, Helen, the representative from the Hollow Ones, who had been allowed to vote had abstained as had the Euthanatos and Son of Ether, both indicated by purple spots on the portion of table in front of them. War had been voted for by the slimmest of margins.
Gert glared at of all people, the Euthanatos. "You'll live to regret this," he spat, storming out of the room.
Besie lingered a moment. "Please, don't fight us. You'll only doom yourselves." Then she quickly left before anyone had a chance to reply.
The Reverend folded her hands. "I would have rather this had been a more unified decision, but accordingly, by the convention of the Tribunal of 1856, I declare that all members of the Traditions in this room, including in this instance, the ones who call themselves the Hollow Ones, shall be bound to take forceful action against the Verbena in order to halt this abomination. We, as instigators, will take the first action and we expect and require that any and all of you aid us in whatever request we make to prosecute this war. We must act quickly, lest the Verbena take the time to strike out at us. Gert has said that the Sun Child walks tonight. Hopefully, that shall not be true of tomorrow night as well. Unless anyone has anything to add, I declare this Tribunal adjourned."
Igor looked at the people still seated around the table.
"They will strike at me first, I presume. Gert was angry and feels betrayal from me. He tried to buy my vote with money and blackmailing, and as I reponded with honesty instead of fear or greed to this issue, it was sufficient to tip slightly the balance toward war. I was warned the Choristers," Igor gave a small nod to the Reverend. "would seek me out and destroy me unless I had the Verbenas' protection. I know nothing of you, you know nothing of me. I wish no harm to anyone and would like nothing better than to be as little involved in this as possible. Though my life is in jeopardy now from the little I understand of what happened tonite. I will help as best as I can if I am assured that the Choristers will leave me alone after this."
It seemed like talking too much was very unusual for him. He waited for any reply, hesitant and quite uneasy about this diplomatic exchange.
The Reverend returned to Igor a thin lipped smile. "Our Euthanatos brother here has nothing to fear from us. As long as the peculiar practices of his `Tradition' do not offend our sensibilities, then we shall not bring him or those of his way any harm - especially given his promise to aid us. And now, if you good people do not mind, I have much to do."
With that, the Reverend got up and left the table.
Friday June 9th, 1995 4:00 a.m.
Lily woke up with a start. Reaching over, she automatically felt for Igor, but all he touched was an empty pillow, cold and hard.
"Igor?" she called out.
Igor turned and her head followed the sound. He was standing by the window, looking out, watching, waiting - a victim of too many dark visits in the night. But back then, he had been one of the visitors. He knew enough now to fear what the night might bring.
"Igor? What's the matter? I thought you said we'd be safe here?"
Igor didn't answer her. Satisfied that they weren't coming - at least yet, he walked back to the bed, putting his finger on Lily's lips to tell her to be quiet.
"But I thought you said we'd be safe," she whispered softly.
"Yes, I hope we will," was all that he answered.
"Igor? Why did you make us move today?"
What could he tell her? That all the world was trying to kill him? Perhaps, but sometimes the truth, when it was that uncomforting, was better left unsaid. Since the Tribunal, Igor had learned that the very night they were meeting, the demon that had been named the Sun Child, had been walking on the other side of "the Hill." But instead of Technocrats, the thing had fallen on the chantries of the Sons of Ether, who were first in its path. It had left nothing but death and ashes, just as the Verbena had said. Now, there was war in the mountains. The Celestial Chorus had tried to assault the Verbena node on Tuesday, only to loose more than half their number. Some of these were now prisoners of the werewolves, who no doubt intended to sacrifice them to the Sun Child. He had thought to approach Reverend Joy, but she had been badly hurt in the fight and was said to be near death. Akashics, Dreamspeakers, Hollow Ones, even other Verbena from elsewhere, acknowledging the Tribunal, were gathering to try to defeat the werewolves and Verbena, but none it seemed had the match of their pet demon. Wednesday afternoon, Igor had been accosted by dark clad men, who declared themselves Euthanatos Magi. They blamed Igor for getting them into this mess, saying that if he hadn't attended the Tribunal, then they would not have been bound by its decision. They tried to kill him but Igor fled, dropping one of their number as he disappeared into a darkened theatre, and crashed through the exit on the other side. And the Verbena? Igor had no doubt what Gert would do to him once they met again. Igor looked at Lily.
Thinking he had something else in mind, she started to pull out of her top, revealing one small milk white breast that Igor could just see in the dim light from the window.
"No," he said, kissing her. "I have to go."
"Why?" she asked.
Igor dropped a wad of bills onto the table, almost all of his ready cash. "I'll be back," he told her, hoping it was a promise he could keep. "Wait for me and don't go out."
He hoped that by the time the money ran out, all of this would be over. He couldn't flee, he realized. Blood would follow him, and thereby - her. He would have to make his reckoning with this thing, find a place here that would accept him. And to do that, he would have to prove himself - or flee.
Igor walked out into the night, listening to the bark of sea lions from the wharf. Exiting the cheap hotel, he squashed a cockroach and then marveled at how it ran off, little worse for having been stepped on. He hoped that he would prove as resilient.
(I liked the last move... : I was surprised to see you made Igor react the way I expected. Like moving elsewhere, and avoid direct confrontation with "Magi". Also, a technical note, I guess we are now entering in a part of the story where Igor interact with a lot of "pregenerated" characters and plots. So, I'll tread carefully and probably submit smaller moves. Like I can't possibly know much about the Sun Child and therefore, can't make Igor interact with him on my own. I'm sure if I was to play out a storyline involving the Sun Child or Gert, it would clash with information you already have generated on those characters.)
Friday June 9th, 1995 5:03 a.m.
The madness was back. The magick, the sphere, the traditions and probably paradox also. He couldn't discard them as he used to, because this time, it was real. The madness was trying to kill him. It was a new game, with rules Jay barely taught him. He would probably turn himself over to an asylum when this was all over, but somehow, he doubted he would be safe even there right now.
No more simple Cloak & Dagger rules here. He had to learn. Right now, he felt totally handicapped. Not a feeling he was used to.
The Reverend might have shed some light, though Igor doubted it, based on her attitude toward "Euthanatos" magi. But if those people who knew the rules couldn't even save themselves, what could he do to face this insanity or even survive it. So, bravely, but with his usual self-confidence seriously lacking, Igor dived into the madness.
The sun wasn't even up. Empty streets, the wind master and king of Santa Cruz for now. Passing in front of a dirty sidestreet, the Russian noticed three hungry looking homeless lying on the ground, trying to catch some sleep. Sorry looking things. Old shredded clothes were their only covers.
Sighing, the Euthanatos mage sidestepped toward them and took a few seconds to bring an end to their miseries. His knife silently sliced the carotid artery. He doubted they even woke up while their bodies emptied of blood. Good night boys.
He walked out of the alley, as quietly as he walked in. After twenty steps or so, his intuition made him turn around. Now, over the bodies stood a tall and lean man. Igor was at a loss to explain his sudden appearance. They looked at each other intensively for a few moments. This was no man. This was a creature of the darkest night. Igor felt a potential for great danger coming from the man. But luckily, right now, the danger wasn't aimed at him.
Smiling, the man knelt beside the bodies and gently dipped his finger in a growing pool of blood. Bringing the finger to his mouth, he delicately tasted it. The act almost seemed natural. Then, suddenly, violently spat at the ground. "Tainted...", the man hissed.
Igor simply nodded. If their lives hadn't been tainted, there would have been no need for his work. Impulsively, Igor whispered a few words to the man before turning away and walking on... "You should fear the Sun Child. He walks at night and his weapon is fire. It is fighting the werewolves' war for them."
As he left, Igor wondered about what the words would mean to the mysterious man who wasn't a man. He also wondered why he bothered saying them at all. He shrugged and walked on.
Friday, June 9th, 1995, 6:23 a.m.
It was a cold morning, under the rising sun. The cemetary was depressing. Old tombstones laid shattered. The grass was rare, the ground looked like a wasteland. Even the wind died.
Igor felt like a fool. What did he hope to find here? This place was dead and only his hallucinations pretended to the presence of someone else.
People were out, trying to kill him, and he spent one full hour in an empty cemetary, waiting for God knows what.
But as he turned to leave, he saw the man walk out from behind a monument.
"Didn't mean to keep you waiting, but you are hard to locate. There is a powerful arcane shrounding you.", he explained.
Gibberish, Igor thought, but nodded absently just the same.
As the man walked closer, a pained smile appeared on his lips. Igor had a very peculiar feeling of Deja-Vu just then. He had
to ask...
"I want to know the rules of the game."
The man shook his head sadly before he replies, whispering..."It is too late for me to teach you what you need to know. The game is afoot already."
This was not what Igor wanted to hear. He wanted to know the tricks that would make this easier to deal with. He HAD to know...
"What can I do then?"
Again, the man shook his head...
"To the Sun Child itself? Nothing. To the people who control and feed it? Many things. Some of them useful, most of them not. But their lives are dynamic, even if seriously misguided."
Igor tried to make some sense of this reply, before making a comment of his own.
"But you can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs."
The man smiled at that and replied in an emotionless voice:
"Magi's avatars are notoriously stubborn and persistent. They stick to the wheel no matter how hard you try to push them out. If you end some of the lives of the misguided ones, you are probably only postponing dealing with them. Someone else will have to do it some other time."
Igor didn't reply this time. The scope of this discussion quickly moved away from the little he understood of life and death.
"Anyway you can help me?", Igor desesperatly asked, one last time.
"Live, watch and learn. If you are worthy to be one of us, you will come through in order to continue your work in this incarnation. If not, let's hope you learn better next time."
And the man walks away, behind the tomb, never to come out again.
Friday, June 9th, 10:35 a.m.
Watch and learn. That's the only thing I got out of this discussion I had with Death itself, Igor though morosely.
But still, here he stood, on top of a very tall building, sharing the rooftop with seagulls and mtallic chimneys.
From here, he could see most of the town, up to hill, and all of the beachfront. Let's watch and learn then. And concentrating, he let his perception, his awareness expand, like Jay taught him, so long ago.
Slowly, he became aware of everything around him, in a globe that grew bigger and bigger, faster and faster. His awareness invaded the whole building, riding the sunlight and flowing in electric wiring. Here, a man signed a contract. There, some people were exercising on bikes. A secretary typed an important letter in this other place.
Where his sight didn't bring him, he rode light, electricity and heat. Soon, the restaurant on the other side of the street. Then, the main building five hundred meters away. The beach front. He let his intuition guide him, toward what, he didn't know. He just watched and learned.
<Ok, here Igor is using a coincidental effet (as it is only perceptions, no actions. He is using Correpondence 2 coupled with Forces 1. He is expanding his perceptions, mostly using his intuition to know where to concentrate. So, he will use Awareness to try to "Feel" anything out of the ordinary, any shifting of reality or anybody that "feels" different somehow." It might give some useful infos, maybe not. Up to you... now is your turn! :) >
Friday, June 9th, 1995 11:19 a.m.
As the sun climbed higher, even along the coast, the wide cooling kiss of fog began to burn off, the fog retreating farther and farther out to sea, looking like a dull hazy wall on the horizon. Sitting on the rooftop of the Dream Inn, having bribed a custodian into letting him stay there to "take pictures", Igor continued to scan landward. watching, seeing, trying to "feel" for any sense of strangeness in this, a very strange place.
Igor turned his eyes to look down onto the Boardwalk. Other than the huge old Casino building that dominated this viewpoint, the assemblage of summer humanity looked like nothing more than muliticoloured ants, climbing and scurrying in the busy pursuit of quick pleasure, pathetic and insignificant. Still, the more Igor watched them, the more details he noticed. It was like his eyes were being drawn closer, the details of hue and texture, even expressions were being made clearer to him. Impossibly, fixtures and scenes that should have been obscured to him were at once made evident. The Big Dipper roller coaster twisted and snaked like it was alive, people riding its tracks oblivious to the doom it threatened. Dull paint peeled and flaked off of the haunted castle ride, revealing dark symbols of damnation. Distantly, he could hear what appeared to be muffled cries of terror and despair from within. The cave train ride disappeared into a tunnel only to reappear later, it's occupants blighted and cursed. And nowhere was this madness more apparent than in the carousel, whose calliope tune grew tinnier and thin, grating on his ears. The sunlight reflected off a hundred mirrours and fake jewels imbedded into it's thick poisonous yet colourful lead paint trapping his eyes. He was ensnared in an insane maze of light, a maddening trail leading nowhere but towards the darkness within himself, a darkness so final and complete that he could have never guessed at what despair lay clutched around his heart. Somewhere he thought he could hear a maniacal laughter while a bleached white face leered at him with a carnivorous grin. Igor breathed in deeply, the taste of salt in the air bringing him a ladder of reality that he climbed back to consciousness. Just in time too as he just barely caught himself from a dizzying fall over the edge to a death on the asphalt so far below him.
Shaking his head, Igor turned away from the Boardwalk and the deathly delights it had promised him. He breathed deeply of the ocean air, but every now and then as the wind shifted, a taste of charnel air wafted his way, carrying with it the screams of sleepers on the roller coaster, who had paid for their delicious terror willingly.
Igor, unused to what this new focus had revealed for him, took a moment to recollect himself and, taking precautions not to look at the strange madness of the Boardwalk, scanned the horizon around him. Santa Cruz, jewel like under the sun, shifted - turning grey and colourless while screaming clouds raced insanely overhead. Mournful figures clad in rags wailed in the nearly empty streets below. Then they were gone, existing only as a sad memory while Igor tried to make sense of what he was seeing. So often did his vision shift, that even what he had grown to know as "reality" began to take on a strangeness. In the distant hills, cold fires burned, captured in water, stone, tree and earth. They burned cleanly and evenly, soothing his mind like a balm of clean forgiveness. He knew he was seeing an emanation of the powerful werewolf nodes he had been told existed throughout the mountains, but this sight, so powerful in its kind brilliance, was the last he saw as he drifted off.
Friday, June 9th 3:51 p.m.
Igor was walking back on Leibrandt, grateful for the poorly lit street that was favoured by prostitutes and drug dealers alike. Spanish voices called out to the fleeting shadow that they thought they'd seen, but after blinking their eyes, the denizens of the Flats convinced themselves that there had been no one after all. Despite the gunshots and sirens around him, Igor walked toward his unseemly destination, the Tide Motel on lower Riverside - where he and Lily had been hiding out.
Speaking of Lily, Igor was surprised to see her talking to a young man with a lean sinewy yet hungry look about him, like a wolf. Her fingers traced a quick seductive trail across the young man's cheek, which was followed by a smile as if she had drawn it there. It was obvious she was plying her trades once again.
Igor walked up to them, and neither noticed, busy trying to overcome their mutual language barrier and settle on a price. Though neither he nor Lily seemed to posses any competent Spanish, it was obvious that the illegal didn't have much cash but was offering Lily a sack of joints and some heroin as a trade. Lily was holding out for cash, despite her own hunger for the goods.
"What are you doing here?" Igor said, grabbing Lily's arm.
The young man voiced a protest. Two other youths nearby sauntered wearily over, not too close, but in a way of sizing Igor up that suggested they might be willing to take on a piece of him if he appeared too weak in their eyes. Igor flashed them a gun and all concerned parties stepped back, respectful and afraid.
Lily seemed surprised, but not in the least apologetic.
"I was trying to get us some more money," she explained. "Don't worry. I was doing it for us."
Igor suppressed laughing. He had never thought of it in terms of an "us," but that reality had found it's way into his thinking - which explained his current feeling ofcould it really be something as petty as jealousy?
He didn't answer but dragged Lily after him. Once he was gone from sight, the Mexicans forgot that he'd even been there.
Saturday, June 10th, 1995 5:45 a.m.
Igor had gotten over his feelings of jealousy. After all, Lily had been trying to help in the only way she knew how. Feeling a little something like remorse, Igor had gone out to buy her drugs. After she'd shot up, feeding her first need, she fell into a swoon, swaying and gazing at the television as if each infomercial offered the true word of God. Numbed and focused on her heightened senses, she was still a world apart from him and Igor felt truly alone.
Later he caressed her as she fell to sleep. He knew in his heart that Lily was trapped in a world of pain whose only surcease came with either a needle or in his arms - but more likely the former.
Igor raised his gun, the silencer already added, tracing small touches with the cold metal around the area of her temple. He knew what it was that he should be doing, but some great weakness inside him held him back.
She came to for an instant and smiled at him, a loving look like nothing he'd seen. He was sure it was drug glazed. People like Lily knew only their need first. Everything afterwards came only through a narcotic haze - even something like love. Any true feeling of love for Lily had long ago been replaced by need. Right now Igor was satisfying that need, so she gave to him as much a shadow of love that she had to give him. She'd be loyal to him as long as he fed her needs, for protection, substance and perhaps his own emptiness to make her feel needed as well.
Igor put the gun away. He realized how flawed he'd become. He might as well turn the gun on himself as shoot Lily. Perhaps neither of them deserved the redemption of death. In the shadow of love, Igor and Lily clung to each other in the empty morning.
Saturday, June 10th 1:34 p.m.
"You stay here. This time, make sure you do it." Igor's words were unneeded. Lily had enough heroin to put her through the day in a hazy bliss. She wasn't going anywhere and didn't even need his reassurances that she need not work. Right now, she didn't care - about anything.
"Bye lover," she smiled, casually unstrapping her arm, the needle still imbedded in it. Igor walked back and plucked it free, holding a towel to the trickle of blood until it closed. Her body, used to the routine, stopped bleeding almost immediately.
Igor walked out into the midday heat and blinding sunlight that was only relieved when he donned his shades. Buying a sandwich whose contents he dared not question, he chewed absently, not bothering to taste the mystery meat in his meal. He had to decide upon a course. Those of his order he had met seemed as much bent on his destruction as would the Verbenna. He hoped that these were only a few voices, but he had to admit, he knew nothing of the Santa Cruz - what had the Reverand called him? - Euthantos? Is that what he was? If there were others of his "order", how would they accept him now? Would they accept him? Or should he try to seek refuge with the acolytes of the temple? What would their reaction be - death, as Gert had suggested, or refuge as the Reverend had hinted at? Or should he walk a different road, ignoring the Mage War? After all, what business of it was his that a demon had come? He had a mission to fulfil - a purpose. But then, what if fighting this darkness was part of that purpose and that he was just walking away? How could he tell? He had several choices and paths ahead of him, but what came hardest were these first few steps. Tentatively, Igor took to the street, walking towards some unknown destiny.
Wednesday, June 14th, 13h24
Igor finished counting up the money he accumulated during the past 5 days. Green bills, stacked neatly on the small table, teased him with their silence. Sleep depravation was taking his toll on his face. Bloodshot eyes closed for a moment as Igor tried to find some feeling of inner peace. Distantly, the lonely cries of seagulls reached him thru his tiredness. The madness was here. The madness was in himself. Strong and subtil, teasing his senses toward eternal oblivion. He became a thief. A thief of fate, a thief of life and a thief of chance in these past few days. Memories came to him, took possession of his mind, drowning his sanity into a colored recollection.
Joey asked him to bodyguard him while he met some potential sellers at the Boardwalk Casino which, though now operating mostly as a huge video arcade, still kept it's name from when high rollers dropped heavy bills there a lifetime ago. Igor watched the crowd - all the rush, the excitement. People moving, talking. The droning sound. Bells and whistles. Machines eating money and defecating some undigested coins once in a while. Impossible to think there. Just what the doctor ordered: a break from all this introspection.
Joey, seeming like the weasel was back on his feet only a few days after his encounter with the wolf-demons. Probably didn't remember anything about the encounter.
Igor needed the money. Took the job. Easy money. All he had to do was walk Joey from the Casino over to a back room at the Silver Bullet and then make sure Joey got to his cab after his illeagal card game. Joey need hardly have bothered. Instead of making a killing in the game, he'd come out nearly skinned and didn't even have enough to pay Igor. When Igor made like he was going to kill Joey, Joey offered him a sack of crack for Lily and promised to get Igor five bills by the weekend. As a sort of consolation prize, Joey offered to introduce Igor to the game he'd just been skinned at. Against his better judgement, Igor accepted - seeing little choice beyond killing Joey, which would have netted him nothing beyond satisfaction. He stayed at the Silver Bullet for a few hours after Joey left.
But the madness came at him again. Lazily, he sat down and watched the cards being slipped out to him. He didn't take any extras and when he layed his cards down - a straight flush - there was a collective gasp and the pile of money was pushed his way. (gain $10,118)
(ed out: slipped a coin in those huge moneyvore metallic creatures. Tainted coin. The monster spilled his guts and died there, poisonned by Igor's coin. The russian stayed there, stunned, while bells assaulted his ears, and security guards rushed at him. He almost shot them, but realized they were there to protect him. The irony made him smile. They were the one who needed his protection. Pathetic fools.)
He tried to work himself back into the strong, solid pattern he knew. Helping people discard their useless lives and start anew. But he was assaulted by doubt and guilt. He was corrupted and tainted. And after every death, he thought he could hear, in a corner of his mind, a faint and harsh voice whispering... "I will fucking get you, Ivan.."
<Coincidental Enthropy Effect>
Igor knew it couldn't be coincidence. The insanity was here. Sarcastically, he bought a lottery ticket for the next day's drawing and felt depressed as he lazily watched TV with Lily while his ticket's numbers appeared one by one on the screen. Lily went crazy. Igor gave her the ticket and she came back with some more green bills (gain $1000 & one point of Paradox). She didn't leave.
Thoughts about the Demon crossed his mind once in a while, but he quickly discarded the idea of doing anything about it. It would have been acknowledging the most severe part of the madness. Let insanity deal with insanity.
What he needed right now was to belong. To feel a clear purpose instead of this jumble of conflicting choices. In the other room, he heard Lily moving in her sleep. The buzz of a fly intruded on his thoughts for a few moments. Did he belong to the madness and the "Euthanatos"? Maybe he was only fighting his nature. This thought took control of his beliefs more and more lately. He needed to belong and he desesperatly needed to tame the madness. He was only postponing what he needed to do by concentrating on petty and mundane day to day affairs. He was a coward. Now was a time to do something about the Insanity. Men dressed in Black, Euthanatos, tried to kill him before. They might succeed if he was to go to them. But he needed to know. To understand. To know he belonged... somewhere.
Wednesday, June 14th, 15h12
As usual, Igor was surprised to see the light and naive carelessness of the humanity around him. From confused tourists to roller-blading residents, they all acted as if they had nothing better to do than to enjoy a warm summer afternoon. Behind this cheerful facade, the Russian could feel the empty depth in their souls and the black madness invading their hearts.
In front of him stood the Unity Temple. It stood silently and solidly like an ancient sentry from an almost forgotten past. He quickly walked inside into the church. Smells and sounds he remembered. Colorful people from all over the world. An Asian girl brushed past him and gave him a shy smile that hinted at a welcome. Igor scanned the hall around him, trying to find a face he recognized from the previous meeting. There was a dormant sense of danger permeating the place, making the Russian uneasy and nervous.
At the far end of the room, meditating in a prayer, he found an acolyte he met just before the tribunal, inside these same walls.
As he approached, the young man seemed to sense Igor's arrival and turned toward him. The look he gave Igor wasn't as much a greeting as a suspicious and guarded appraisal.
"I want to see the.. Chorister", the word tasted funny on the Euthanatos' tongue, "overseeing the temple. I heard the Reverend was dead."
The acolyte looked at Igor for a long time before replying.
"Your presence is not welcome here. But we will grudgingly respect the truce. Why do you want to meet the guide?", there was almost a physical sense of menace. Igor felt the answer needed to be truthful and the reason, a valid one.
"I want to know who I am. I need to meet other Euthanatos.
Hostility radiated from the acolyte, but to his credit, he kept it under tight control. He simply nodded once.
"I heard they tried to give you the dreamless sleep. Who knows, they might succeed this time and we be rid of you.". Obviously, such a thought held an appeal to the acolyte. Igor held his gaze steady and calm.
The acolyte walked away, leading the way and Igor silently followed, deeper into the entrails of the temple.
Wednesday, June 14th, 1995 3:21 p.m.
Igor was led not up into the tower as he'd had been the one time he'd previously come, but instead outside and then back into another building, cunningly hidden by plants and the church itself. This building seemed to operate partly as a dormitory and partly as a series of offices, one of which Igor was led into.
Expecting the usual Spartan lack of imagination of a Soviet bureaucrat, Igor was somewhat surprised at how different the Choristers concept of an office truly was. Smell was what hit him first. As soon as the door slid, not swung open, a heavy perfume of thick spice, like ginger and jasmine, eased past him on the breeze exiting from the room. Ducking through the short portal, Igor was forced to bow as he walked through, scanning the bright room with his eyes. Behind him, the acolyte that had brought him closed the door.
Looking around him, Igor noted that the room contained a large fountain which spilled over black slate rocks, creating a liquid chime of sound while brightly feathered songbirds danced around the plants that seemed everywhere.
"Come in," a voice called out to him.
Igor scanned the room, making out no one at first and then finally seeing a man dressed in a grey robe with a cowl thrown back. The man sat on a cushion and urged Igor to do the same.
"Yes, my dark brother. Tell me what brings you."
Igor didn't sit down but continued to scan the large room, noting the softened sunlight that entered through white lensed skylights overhead, cooling the light to a point past warmth.
"Who are you?" Igor asked the man.
"I am Brother Louis," the man answered. "And my answers will come whether you are comfortable or not," he said, again indicating the cushions, "but you might find yourself more at ease with them if you yourself are comfortable."
Igor sat down, pulling his cushion around so he could watch both the Chorus acolyte and the doorway. He felt terribly uncomfortable in that room. There were too many places for an ambush, too many hidden corners.
(to be cont.)
Wednesday, June 14th, 1995 3:27 p.m.
Igor brought his attention to bear on Brother Louis. The priest had a lean and athletic look to him. His smile was without malice, but a hint of amusement hung on the corner of his eyes. Igor felt uneasy in his presence, in this room, but not threatened. Not yet.
It took a few moments for the russian to gather his thoughts into a coherent mass. Coming to the temple was a very impulsive decision. But Igor always trusted his intuitions as they usually felt right after he decided upon them. Now, though, his doubts were still strong while he sat, in front of the priest, trying to find the right question to ask.
Brother Louis kept silent and took the opportunity to return Igor's calculating stare. He appeared completly a ease with the situation, even if his curiosity and surprise at the Euthanatos' presence was strong inside him. <Awareness intuitively used to read the Priest's aura and get general feelings>.
"I thought I knew who I was. Now, the insanity is everywhere and nowhere stronger than inside me. I don't know what is real and what isn't anymore. I'm here because you are one strong link to the madness I am trying to tame."
The words were out before Igor fully realized what he was saying. He was spilling his guts to a complete stranger, something he knew he could never be forced to do. Instincts cried out at him against saying anything more. Get up and leave now. Leave the madness behind.
But the Priest's stare glued him solidly in place. The dam was open, it was too late. Words materialized, out of his control.
"Where can I find the answers I seek?"
Silence fell on them once again. Only songbirds teased it, but their presence was far... more than a world away.
Brother Louis studied him for long minutes before answering him.
"Your soul is in turmoil. You were badly prepared for the responsability you now bear, dark brother. It saddens me to feel your confusion and your fear."
The Priest kept silent for a moment before sighing softly.
"We are guides and the One puts strange challenges in our path. The hardest tasks are also the most important. Our order strongly despises what you represent. And some think we would take a huge step forward if we were to be rid of your kind. But if the ascension was about taking the easy path, we would have achieved it ages ago.", a smile borne of some private memory underlined his last sentence.
"I cannot tell you who you are, but I can guide you the first few steps. You will have to walk the rest of the way on your own feet, maybe with the help of someone else eventually. Maybe alone like many of us.", a cloud of sadness marred his friendly features for an instant.
"What is real is what you believe in. You are not sure what is real because you are not sure anymore what to believe. Therein lies a flaw and your greatest weakness."
"Reality is not a marble path. It is a troubled and endless sea. Each of our souls contain a shard of eternity. Some are stronger and they are able to navigate. Some are weaker and they can only follow the current."
"You, me and many others have a shard of eternity that is brighter than usual, so we can decide which reality we want to navigate upon. And each has his own vision of which way to go to reach the shore. Ages ago, many orders of navigators formed, each believing they taught the best way to reach the shore."
"Beliefs often contradict each other. People warred over what they believed was best and each order decided to guide Humanity personally toward the shore of Ascension. And of course, each having his own definition of what the Ascension was."
"With time, one faction, the Technocracy, gained power and control over Humanity and is guiding them along their path toward ascension. A path of death and desolation. Toward the death of all human creativity and individualism. The other factions banded together to fight this overwhelming menace to their own ways."
"My beliefs are real. So are yours".
With that, he took in his hands a delicate dried rose.
"I believe this rose is fresh and alive."
Slowly, the rose changed, gaining color and vitality. He placed it on fresh earth, where it grew roots and thirstily planted them in the soft ground in search of water and minerals. The red rose was resplendissant, vibrant with life.
"My order believes Humanity will reach ascension when all our souls unite into the One. We are parts of a whole. When we are one again, then, we will ascend. We are here to guide each part toward unification."
"Yours believe in change. Stagnation is not constructive. The way toward ascension is evolution. If you recycle the stagnation and the bad, it will be used to create something new with more hope of bringing something positive to Humankind, bringing us one step closer to the Ascension."
"I do not believe your order is evil like some do. I believe you are misguided and your ways bring too much sadness and destruction. But for now, our orders are actively fighting the same enemy, so we keep our disagreement quiet until we are at a leisure to discuss them without dooming us all."
"And I'm sure people of your order would say something similar about the Choristers."
"Those are the few steps I could walk with you. For the rest, you will have to find another guide who knows the way better than I do. But eventually, you will have to walk alone. There are paths only your own soul know."
"One last step I will take with you is to guide you toward one of your own order. He might be the one who will next walk with you, or he might not."
Igor was overwhelmed by the concepts brought into being by the Brother's words. Somehow, much of it "felt" right. It might be a hope to tame the insanity. The little coherence his thoughts gained just before this meeting was surely gone. Now, all that subsisted was a jumble of chaotic thoughts, feelings and questions.
When the russian finally got his thoughts under control again, he was outside the temple, staring at people who walked past him. He remembered an address. The memory couldn't be his, but it was there. No name was associated with it.
Thursday, June 22nd, 1995 1:32 a.m.
Igor awoke, but in reality, he was still asleep. Like many half-wake dreamers, he reached over to the nightstand and scrawled a name onto the paper. Lily shifted in her own sleep and Igor turned to cradle her once more, the burden of the name lifted from his dreams.
Thursday, June 22nd, 1995 11:11 p.m.
Igor walked up, only glancing at the blue facade above him. A bubble machine was churning out a soapy cloud of dancing ephemeral balls, which reflected the street light as the twirled away and died. Igor walked inside, noting that to his right there was a gelato store filled with punks eating Italian ice while the other side held a sort of store - now closed. Bypassing these doors, he paid the small cover and headed down for the dance floor, the music bashing his ears and incredibly growing even louder as he progressed forward. Inside, a punk band was belting out a mournful obscenity while dancers and onlookers tossed either cheers or beers at them. Fortunately, the band was protected by a chain link fence, but enough bottles were thrown with enough force to break, showering the band occasionally with beer and bits of glass. Dancers jumped the fence and then hurled themselves back into the pit of dancers while others whirled like crazed Dervishes, spinning and bashing into their fellow pitmongers. Before he could enter the stage area though, a burly bald man with large flabby yet quite strong arms pushed Igor to one side. Another, a purple haired woman with enough studs in her nose to make her magnetic, flanked the two of them, pressing what felt like a gun into Igor's ribs.
"He's packin," the man told the woman. "He reached inside and pulled out Igor's gun.
"This is neutral ground," the woman told Igor in a tone that suggested he was stupid for not knowing. "You can pick up your piece on the way out. Next time - don't even try to come here with it. Dig?"
"Dig what? But I understand you what you say," Igor replied, in his best stupid-Ukrainian accent.
It worked, they let him go with only a minor macho shove and a couple of supposedly tough glares. Igor straightened his jacket and entered inside. For a weekday night, the place was packed, punks, goths, hipsters and gang-bangers mixing with better dressed elites, surf nazis and casual college summer stay-overs.
Igor walked over to the bar and signalled the bar tender, a older man with, a black pony tail and flame tattoos scrawled over his face and muscular shoulders; and that was only what was showing. Igor wondered what lay hidden. He waved again, but the bar tender continued to ignore him. Finally, Igor produced a fifty-dollar bill. That brought him over, but it didn't add any polish to the man's style.
"What ya want!" he growled, as if a paying customer was his biggest annoyance.
"Information," Igor shouted in order to be heard, laying the bill on the bar. "Can you help me?"
The bar tender didn't even look at it. "Depends. And I don't take shit money. Buy a drink and I'll think about answering your question."
"What have you got?"
"Black's."
"I'll take one," Igor shouted.
The bartender put up a bottle and popped the lid. The brand was Black's Beer, and it had a skull and crossbones, only the skull's top was a brain. Several statements could be seen scrawled in red on the label, like "Once you drink black, you never go back," or "If you don't like the taste, you can shove it up yours," or "Nine inches full of wetness or 12 fluid ounces."
"That'll be fifty dollars," the bartender told him.
"This better be damn good beer or you'd better start having a real good memory soon," Igor told him, taking a swig. The beer was warm, burning and saying it tasted like fermented yak urine would have been complimenting it.
"How is it? the bartender asked, grinning.
Igor spit it out in answer. The bartender grinned.
"Do you have a name?" Igor asked him.
"They call me Pony. I don't know why."
Igor showed him the name he had scrawled on the note. It said "Spook."
The bartender's grin vanished. "He's dead," he told Igor.
Igor didn't believe him. "How did he die?"
"He drank too much beer," Pony said, nodding at Igor's bottle, and turning to walk away.
Igor grabbed his arm. "Hey! Your answer falls well short of fifty dollars. Either you'd better have some good cognac, which I doubt, or you'd better start telling me something I want to hear."
Pony produced a bloody meat cleaver from under the bar. "You'd better let go, Ruskie. I don't have any Ruskie claws in my collection but it seems you're giving me the chance."
Pony nodded to some large bottles of whiskey behind the bar; an odd assortment of pickled fingers, hands and what looked like toes lay inside the bottles. A sign proclaimed that anyone could volunteer to buy a drink from the "Private Reserve." Igor didn't wonder that Black's was preferred, despite it's taste.
Igor let go of Pony's arm. So much for fifty bucks.
Another man, dressed in a jean jacket with long blond hair, having watched Igor for a while leaned over, "Say, you gonna drink that beer?"
Igor shoved it over.
"Thanks. Don't worry about the fingers-n-toes-n-shit. Just don't play poker with Pony or Bitchy. Or should I say, just don't loose." The man held up his hand. He was missing three fingers.
"I kind of miss them," he explained. "But I come here to say hi to them and see how they're doin." He pointed with his mutilated right hand to one of the bottles. "Hi guys! Daddy misses you."
"Who you lookin for?" the man asked.
"You know someone named Spook?" Igor asked him.
The man shook his head. "Nope, but I tell you what. Take a seat over in the corner."
"Why?" Igor asked him.
"Cause Pony don't like you and it would be better for your health."
Igor thought about this. He wasn't afraid, but then there were other things going on here. He sauntered over to the corner. All the tables were empty but as soon as Igor appeared, three tough looking characters got up and invited him to sit down, which he did.
"Don't turn around," a voice told him. Igor felt something press into his neck. It was cold, and made of dull processed metal. It felt like a silencer.
A hat was thrown on his head. It didn't fit, which was the point and Igor felt himself spinning. When the hat was removed, he was in a dark room with a bright light shining in his face. Someone was facing him, but he couldn't see more than a dull outline.
"Someone tells me you're looking for me," the man told him. "Don't make any sudden movements and keep your hands where I can see them. I've got a special something pointed at your gonads and if you care about any future progeny, you'll sit still and answer my questions." The voice had a slight touch of an Hispanic accent.
"I heard you were dead," Igor replied.
"A vicious and exaggerated rumour," the man chuckled. "Now, who the fuck are you and what do you want?"
Thursday, June 22nd, 1995 11:52 p.m.
Igor suddenly wondered what he was looking for by going to the Klub. All he found so far is a bunch of kids playing tough and taking themselves seriously in their small social environment. Now they were playing cloak and dagger. Those kids watched too much american television. His danger sense told him that even though there was a potential danger, somehow, he didn't feel directly threatened by the figure sitting in front of him. <Mix Danger Sense and Intuition>.
Sighing loudly, Igor prepared himself to play the game.
"A chorister pointed me this way. Something about finding someone from my own tradition. But seems like I'm misled."... Igor tried to remember how the arch-cliche reply went... "I came to meet a man and I find a boy playing games.". On that cue, Igor stood up and turned to leave.
"Don't fuck with me. Sit down NOW!". Spooky didn't even move, though his voice betrayed a hint of insistence that replaced the cool composure and nonchalance he openly displayed moments before. Igor looked back toward the blinding light and gave Spooky his most unintimidated look.
"There is a war raging out there. If you can't prove you're a friend, I'll be happy to dispose of a potential ennemy. You better sit back down and tell me who the fuck you are and why you are running errant for some tight assed chorister before you convince me I won't get anything by being nice and patient." His last sentence had a tone of fatality to it. Igor felt the tendril of real danger caressing his soul. Unless Igor complied, Spooky's next move would not be talk, but action. The tendril was slowly becoming a tentacle, strong and alive with danger.
The tall Russian held the suspense as much as he dared before sitting down once again.
"Simple. I'm Euthanatos playing solo. Decided some companionship would be agreable, but unfortunately, we don't advertise our presence. So, went to the Temple and hoped they could point me the way. I am totally uninvolved in the skirmish so far. My favorite color is lavender and my favorite actor is Silvester Stallone. Satisfied?". His thick russian accept contrasted severly with his vocabulary.
"And the brothers sent you to ME? This HAS to be a joke.", a humourless dry laugh erupted from behind the bright lamp that was thrust in his face.
"Alright, I'll bite. I'm Spook Chavez. There's some out there that would pay you good money to hear that name and for you to tell them where I am. So, the challenge for you is to convince me why I shoudn't kill you right now. Being 'brothers' and all, I'll give you that chance. Start talking. What do you want from me?"
"I'm as close to being an orphan as you can without actually being one. I'm looking for someone who can teach me who I am. That's it. As for selling you... I'm sure my hide is worth a few bucks to a few people, so we're even on that score."
Igor calmy stared at Spook without showing any tension from having a gun pointed at him in the darkness.
Spook sat back a bit, regarding Igor.
"I take it you're the Euth who attended the Tribunal? I guess I have you to thank for pushing me into a war I'm not a part of?"
"I did attend the tribunal. I was... pressured by the... verbena? I was threatened, but didn't take sides in the debate. I think the Verbena went to great trouble to find an Euthanatos ignorant enough to be able to push him into their camp. I don't think my presence had any impact on the issue. I don't know the involved politics but I feel if not me, some other Euth would have been... advised to attend and the result would have been the same."
Igor stood motionless for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before talking some more.
"This ignorance of the politics of magicians is a serious handicap. Possibly a deadly flaw. Another reason why I chose to find someone to ally myself to. Possibly someone neutral in this conflict. Possibly someone with a strong link to who everyone seem to think I am. Might be you. Might be someone else. Your call. Don`t act too though. Don`t fuck around with me. Don`t blame me for something I had no control over and that is already done anyway. Let`s just see if we can find an arrangement we could both benefit from."
Spook chuckled. "Well, at least you didn't try to deny you were the one. I was just testing you," he admitted to Igor. "Truth is, I've been fighting the furbacks the moment I hooked up with the Hollows. It's not a war I would have wanted; but you made it official."
"So, tell me, what ARE your feelings about the war? Do you believe the Verbs should be stopped? Or do you just want to hide like you've been doing - afraid of everyone and everything. I need to know just what 'kind' of person wants to stand at my side. With the Hollows, I know where I am. You - I don't know you."
Igor looked amused by something Spook said, but quickly regained his ice-cold composure.
"I don't know enough of the situation and factions involved to have the slightest idea of who is in the wrong and who is in the right."
And after a moment of silence... "There is a difference between hiding and not getting involved." Slightly amused he added... "And you, Mister Spook, as I can see you are clearly getting involved at some level, on your own terms; I would have to conclude you are hiding. Though I don't see anything wrong with being prudent, you seem to think hiding is a mark of a coward."
Changing subject before Spook can react or reply... Igor went on, "As for what kind of person I am. I follow my own path. Doing what I feel needs to be done. I don't let myself be pushed around, and I don't push around people. I survive. I try to find out who I am. A noble aspiration for any human being. "
Spook put away his gun and he surprised Igor by smiling. "Well, the Ruskie's got cajones after all. Alright, you can stick around - for now. And I'll teach you what I know about being a Euth. After that, you'll have to decide for yourself what you want to do."
Igor nodded.
Friday, June 30th 1995 4:35 a.m.
"I almost had my ass kicked by one of those blood-suckers, last year. They are a tough bunch, lem'me tell you. Tougher than the furballs. No matter the appearances, I think the wolvers are more human than the vamps. You should have seen his eyes. Those eyes were not human. Not even remotely. Alien. In some ways more bestial than the baddest furball. It scared me to hell. Scared me bad. Since then, I do my best to avoid that bunch."
Igor tried once again to accept Spook's story, but it was so impossible... It sounded more like a bad horror movie than real life. But this is what joining the madness demanded. Have faith and believe. He wouldn't have made a good Christian. His faith was something very hard to dig up.
Unconsciously, Igor relayed the story to the back of his mind, somewhere in his memory, dimly aware that it didn't register as reality. All this world is so impossible, so crazy, so insane. He didn't even like the Hollow Ones. The name fitted them so perfectly - Hollow, without a goal or substance. They existed; but so empty inside. They went thru the motion of being alive, being rebels, but it all looked like so much make-believe. Spook seemed the only one with a substance. The only one worth talking to. He didn't simply exist; he was alive.
In the last 2 days, the Russian heard so many words, so many concepts... All chaotic and confused in his mind. Life and Death, Ascension and Stagnation, Reality and Dream, Physical World and Umbra, Entropy and Order. The scariest part was that it made some kind of obcene sense, it had an intuitive coherence. His life and his mind were a mess, but deep down, he felt his stagnation was over. A path was open. Hell, a thousand paths were open, all leading somewhere. He was lost, but he was learning to find his way.
The latino shifted slightly, his pose, his eyes half lost in remembrance.
"You know... there is almost a temptation in being immortal. Hell, gimme 300 years and I'll do a good job of setting the world right. But I heard the price they pay is way overbudget for most of us. But I think about it, sometimes. Until I remember his eyes. Then I know I'm not willing to pay the price."
Spook talked like a man who needed to talk. Who was desperate for it. Many times, Igor had the feeling Spook was talking more for his own benefit than the Russian's.
"Death is necessary. Most of the people, even the mages, are too scared by it to face it like they should. They flee it, rebel against it, and generally avoid it at all cost. Some even go as far as protect other people's lives. This leads to stagnation. See an homeless without hopes, without dreams. He is a walking dead. He doesn't do anything constructive and some of the universe's energies are diverted his way, to keep him alive. But the wheel must turn. If he was to die, his death would free energies that could be canalized into something constructive, into a step forward toward Ascension. This poor soul would eventually come back, or reincarnate, into someone new, with new hopes and new dreams. Someone who might be the next Einstein or Leonardo Di Vinci. Someone to give a little push forward to this whole mess we call life and earth. But right now, he is manacled to this hopeless life and too scared to free himself."
Spook sighed loudly. A sigh filled with some despair, with some cruel disapointment.
"We promote growth and evolution. We have the guts to face death and do what is necessary. And we don't get thanks. We get war and dark prejudices. Without us, the world would be even farther away from the Ascension, but they don't realize that. Our vision of ascension brings everyone closer to it. When we feel the necessity of freeing someone who's life is a burden to himself and the universe, we call it a "good death". Not many receive this gift. Not nearly enough. Many get useless deaths, while others get useless lives."
Spook's words found a nest inside Igor's soul. His words described something that was a part of Igor's inner sanctum. It felt right. It put words and a meaning to many events in the Russian's life. Good Death. Yes. That is what it was. Before, he knew what was needed, now he learned to feel good about it. Somehow.
The Russian closed his eyes and absorbed Spook's words, as the Latino droned on, almost endlessly, all through what was left of the night.
Sunday, July 2nd 1995 2:44 a.m.
Lily slept by his side in a drugged stupor, her head lying on Igor's lap. In the gloom of the room, Igor could barely make out Spook's shape, sitting his back against the wall. The Russian could clearly smell the blood though. Spook received a nasty cut from a werewolf on his last foray. He insisted on calling it a scratch, even while the blood freely dripped from the blood-stained scarf he used to try to keep the wound closed. Pride will be the death of this man, Igor silently thought. He would survive it with an impressive scar probably. Arm wounds were rarely fatal even if some of them are bleeders.
"Those fucking wolves. I hate to admit it, but we're slowly loosing some ground."
That was a major understantement when they were effectively under siege, holed up in the Klub. Things turned out pretty bad for the Hollows and the other mages in the past few days. Some traditions honestly tried a move to stop the Verbenna and the werewolves, but to no avail. Their enemies quickly recovered the initiative and managed to take the offensive. Devastating. Most of the traditions were holed up somewhere, unable to come out for air. Some others almost wiped out. The Choristers suffered badly the Russian heard. The Reverend Joy was killed during a viscious attack. The Hollows' ranks were now so thin, you could pratically see through them. Bitchy, their leader, managed to keep with him a few loyal subjects. But it was clear to everyone involved that it was only a matter of time... and of tass.
Igor learned of tass. Solid magick. If you could drain enough power from it, reality was warm butter under your will. Anything went. The Hollows had an impressive store of Tass. And the Tass seemed to be the only thing that kept the Verbenna and the wolves from sucessfully breaking into the Klub. So, as long as they had Tass to spend, Igor had faith they could keep the bad guys outside. But after that...
"We're really trying here. Good people are dying for God's Sake!"
Spook's temper flared. His anger and fear was palpable in those words. He could recognize a bad situation when he fell in one.
"What are the other traditions doing?", Igor calmly asked.
"How the fuck do I know. Jacking-off probably. We haven't even heard from the Choristers since Friday. They are jellied-brained, but at least, they were dependable. Nothing.. not a word. Maybe they turned and fled. Maybe they joined the Verbenna in their crazy dreams of power and conquest."
No, not the Choristers. Igor remembered too well the Reverend and the brother he met the last time he went down to the Temple. He had a strong feeling those people were not turncoats or traitors to their cause. They were the heart behind this war. They were the minds of the efforts. If they didn't contact the Hollows, things must be pretty bad on their side also.
"This demon of theirs. Hell, it's worse than a nightmare. I can't see how they fail to realize the size of their mistake. Folly of grandeur. But never that. That's plain and destructive self-destruction. Even a child could see it."
Igor kept silent, listening to the Latinos' ramblings. He knew so little, his options were very limited. How do you fight an enemy you know nothing of?
Lily slept calmly on his lap. A childish smile illuminated her face. Igor envied her during those times. Her ability to simply dissociate with reality. Cease to be affected by it. Fly and be free.
That's one of the options he knew he didn't have.
"Let's find a way to stop them.", said the Russian, stating the obvious. But he was out of ideas and wanted to keep Spook talking. You didn't get answers by asking him, you got answers by making him talk.
"What the fuck do you think we've been trying to accomplish in the past week, you fucking pea-brain! We tried everything. We tried raiding their node and disrupt their control; we tried banishing the thing; fighting it; throwing everything we had and it just shrugged it off. The wolves are on the march also and we lost many of us just trying to get close enough to take a look. We tried with our best, and it didn't work. Now, we don't even have our best available anymore. We only have what's left. And you think you can come up with a way to stop them? Shit... you couldn't even find your own dick before I started to put some meat into that brain of yours.", Spook suddenly stood up and left, angry and pissed off. Feeling helpless.
'Feeling helpless is the worst part', the Euthanatos mage thought. 'Nothing to do. Nothing to even attempt. Just staying alive, hiding in this hole. I think the hollows would give anything just to have word from the Chorister. An idea... something to try. Something to hope for. But left alone, they don't have enough hope to fill a glass. And the fear... Permeating the place. Feeding the shadows that stalked the Klub. If fear was power, you could probably blast your way out of here, and still have time for a drink.
Igor knew he shouldn't have tried to tame the madness. Now the madness was getting ready to devour him.
With those thoughts in mind, he slowly let himself drift into a dreamless sleep.
Igor Stepanovich, Chapter 2
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