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| >> Campfire Creative >> Other >> Fantasy >> ID #1576704 |   |
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[Introduction]
  The Night Welcomes You Dear Recipient, If you are in possession of this letter, it has come to the attention of our organization that you have displayed the abilities necessary to join us in our campaign against the shadows that blight this world. The Night is a highly specialized police force trained to eradicate the most dangerous beings and entities that threaten our nation and its allies, the existence of which is paramount to the safety of the world. Should you agree to join our lofty organization, we would compensate you handsomely, provide training, and ensure that you are boarded with those with whom you share your particular gifts. We urge you strongly to consider joining for the good of the nation, the world, and humanity against the shadows of evil that threaten our freedom. The Night Every government has one. Trained in secrecy, outfitted with the world's most advanced technology, and hidden from the eyes of its citizens, these organizations fight against the monsters that crawl the surface of this earth. Their greatest strengths, however, are the natural gifts that God has granted them; their magickal abilities, with them since birth, discovered by the government and cultivated during their training. Vampires, Werewolves, Warlocks, whatever evil stalks the night, these organizations are there to destroy them and return their nation to equilibrium once more, moved by a dark patriotism and a need to keep their loved ones safe from the darkness of the world. The Night, under the control of the United States government, is the first and most powerful of these organizations, from which the others have taken their cue. When a worldwide crisis takes place, it is the first on the scene and its membership list can boast the most powerful set of magicians in the world. And no organization is more respected for its valor and dedication to the good of humanity. So, when members of the Night start disappearing and reported cases of monster attacks go through the roof, the remaining members must rescue their friends and fight the bad guys all at once. And, in the end, their valor might be tested beyond their bounds, for the good of humanity might mean more than anyone had ever imagined. ***** The Rules:  Note the rating. That alone should explain what I am going for with this campfire. This should be dark and violent, and, above all, it should be a general mindfuck. It should really play around with our concepts of good and evil, patriotism, humanity, and valor. It can be violent, sexual (but not risque or anything), psychotic, what have you.The general idea is that our characters are idealists, the lot of us, and this campfire will test that idealism to its breaking point. The magick and the monsters are almost less important, although I would appreciate creativity and stuff from those, as well. I won't be as picky about time limits so that people can really think about what they're writing, but I will attempt to cap it at about 5-7 days.Be mindful of not creating gods for yourselves, please. And your character obviously does not know everything you as a writer knows...it's more fun that way. No breaking the fourth wall, now. But I trust everyone knows this general understanding.Other than that, just write your best and have some fun with this. This is a chance to completely torture a poor, innocent little character and break their spirit completely. That's actually the point. Until they get pissed and go after us like rabid animals, having fun is all I can ask. Then it's staying alive.*****
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 Quaddy  Jordan hated furloughs. There was nothing more to say about it. She liked time in the barracks well enough, she supposed, time to reconnect with her comrades and those few members of Alpha Squadron that were actually close enough to be friends, but furloughs just sucked. Poking, prodding, meetings...there was nothing less relaxing than an assigned furlough in the Night. Returning to the field after the two-day marathon always seemed like a release to her, even if it actually meant weeks on end sitting or lying stock still with a weapon pointed at a single point miles away, waiting for some monster to walk into her trap. There was hardly any time for fun to be had at all. Compared to the needles and the couch sessions, not to mention the 'interviews' with HQ, putting her life on the line for the good of humanity was a veritable dream. Which it was, of course. Jordan had joined the Night because of her abilities, she'd stayed because of what she did with them."Report." Jordan slid the pack from her shoulder and allowed it to drop to the floor, turning the movement into a passable salute. Military protocol had never been her forte. She followed it well enough when absolutely required, but in her movements there was no evidence of fervent discipline in any form, despite the wishes of upper command. More than once, she'd been told to report and threatened with court martial for shoddy paperwork or perceived insubordination. It had gotten to the point that they'd been forced to consider discharging her, even going so far as to question her before the entire military council. The President himself had ended up intervening on her behalf and only after she'd proven to be the only sniper in the Night with a perfect kill record. It was a grudging relationship between herself and HQ. As long as she kept shooting, she kept serving. And she lived for the kill. "Liszt, Jordan M., Alpha Squadron, personnel number Z26-20. Reporting for furlough," Jordan drawled, Georgia peach accent dripping sweetly from her Cupid's bow mouth. The man lowered his eyes to the identification tag tucked into her dangerously deep decolletage, struggling to keep from staring at Jordan's taut curves as her breath caused her chest to rise and fall. She wore the uniform, of course--the Night wore a uniform like any other soldier in the field, featuring the gray and black of urban camo--but had tossed the jacket over one shoulder, leaving just the black wife-beater she wore underneath. Lowering her hand from the salute, Jordan smirked a little as the Sergeant raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to toss a rebuke her way, obviously glad to be able to look back up at all. When he stared at her for a minute, brown eyes full of that quintessentially Marine loyalty, Jordan realized he had recognized her. Instead of issuing the reprimand, the Sergeant closed his mouth and nodded, allowing her to pass. "Proceed to identification platform, Liszt. And remember to salute until ease is granted from now on." As Jordan lifted her pack and headed toward the barracks, she chuckled softly and saluted mockingly, sauntering her way toward the back wall of the building, emerald eyes glinting with something akin to irony. She could feel the Sergeant staring at her as she walked away, consciously allowing her gently rounded hips to swing seductively and with more than just a hint of invitation. Running her hands through her raven-blue waves, kept loose in yet another snub at regulation, Jordan wondered if the Marine would come a-calling some time during her furlough. He'd been the kind of man the Corps used in their recruitment ads: handsome in the way that furthered the female obsession with men in uniform. She'd certainly made it plain that she would accept any advances. And being in the field hardly allowed for the kind of fun he could bring. Jordan looked up at the monstrous door in front of her, gulping slightly at the enormity of it. She'd never come to barracks through this particular door. No one really knew where Night barracks actually was. They could be anywhere from the mouth of Mt. Vesuvius to miles underground in the Lascaux caves. The only way to get there was through various doors throughout the nation, housed in buildings that were otherwise wholly unremarkable or heavily protected. Night HQ was even harder to find, for it changed positions every six months to somewhere so classified only the President, the head of the Night, and the Joint Chiefs knew of its location. For Jordan, coming back from a mission in DC, her entrance was at the Pentagon, one of the few easily recognizable for what it was. Dropping her pack on the ground, Jordan pulled her ID badge from between her breasts and slid it through the scanner, the first of many tests that would prove Jordan's identity. The picture on the card showed Jordan at eighteen, when she'd first joined the Night some five years ago, but the only change was the addition of more womanly contours to her cheeks and the length of her hair, which was somewhat longer. She was still desperately beautiful, with a ferocity to her features that the uniform only deepened, giving Jordan an air of danger. The kind of woman that all but the bravest--or stupidest--men avoided, afraid that she'd somehow de-man them if they didn't live up to her sexual standards. It served her well, because it was a reputation that had the virtue of being in every way deserved. "Jordan Liszt, please place your hand on the scanner." The computer voice was friendly in the way that all service machines were, meant to reassure the listener, but without any inflection that was reassuring at all. Jordan placed her hand hesitantly on the blue-green field of the scanner, knowing and anticipating the burn that scanned all the way down to the deepest layers of skin. Wincing and pursing her lips to keep from whining in discomfort as the laser moved from the tips of her fingers all the way to her wrist, Jordan pulled her stinging hand off the field and blew on it as soon as the light flashed green, indicating that she had passed. Jordan wondered what would happen if someone actually failed to pass the scan test. She'd never seen it happen, or even heard of such a case. "Jordan Liszt, place your eye before the retinal scan." The second test of the Night was easier than the hand scan because it lacked the pain of the first, but the bright laser still caused everyone's eyes to water uncomfortably and, for some, left their vision blurry for hours afterward. In Jordan's case, with high cheekbones and a heavy-lidded bedroom gaze, it proved difficult to open her eye wide enough to the specifications of the exam. One time, she'd been forced to re-do the scan four times because not enough of her iris was showing. A near squadron full of Marines and Shadows (clearly some desk-bound general had thought of that name for members of the Night) had appeared behind her and taken her in for questioning after that particular debacle. When the light showed green after the first scan, Jordan let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding stood and waited for the final, most important part of the identification process. Something that no one but a member of the Night would be able to pass. "Jordan Liszt, please demonstrate your most powerful Gift." Sighing, Jordan raised her stinging hand and reached out with her mind through the door and to one of the many locking mechanisms, twisting it and pulling it free of its latch. Jordan's ability as a sniper was only augmented by her magical abilities, which she had discovered during years of marksmanship classes and perfected under the tutelage of the Night, who boasted the most powerful and skilled individuals in the world. A telekinetic with the ability to remote view, Jordan could shoot a can from a fence thirty miles away without a thought and her ability to whisper into the minds of fellow magick-users kept her connected with the world when she was stuck in a gillie suit for weeks on end. Her magick and her hard won firearm mastery fed into one another, making her an unstoppable force with a gun. It was the secret to her perfect kill record, the reason for her continued stay with the Night. The reason the President had had to forcefully continue her stay with the organization, despite his and every superior's distaste for her personally. "Welcome, Private Liszt, to the Night." The doors swung open slowly, each lock twisting and lifting one by one. With a gaze back at the Sergeant standing at the end of the hall, Jordan smiled and blew him a kiss before stepping into the corridor in front of her. Night barracks stretched out before her, a comforting site despite Jordan's best wish to be annoyed by this particular return home; it looked much like a college dorm and, in fact, was almost exactly like a dorm, each room housing up to four soldiers. As a member of Alpha squadron, Jordan was entitled to her own room closest to the washroom and mess, something she made no secret of enjoying. Privacy was a hard thing to come by in any military organization and, despite her best wishes that it not be so, the Night continued to be connected to the military. Having her own room allowed Jordan to relax alone, do some reading, or (much more likely) invite someone over for a little bed sport without bunk mates complaining. Walking further into the corridor, Jordan heard the door swing shut behind her as she left DC and walked further into the unknown. Reaching her door, Jordan pulled a key from her pack and slid it into the locking mechanism--a simple lock this time, without scanners or demonstrations of power--before slipping into her room. It was sparse, the only furniture a bed, desk, and dresser, with a lamp in the far corner, but Jordan had added a few of her own touches. Guns--in regulation holsters and racks (the only time Jordan paid any attention to protocol)--lined every wall and were tucked into every corner. A small bookshelf, full of tomes about marksmanship and monsters, with a few choice pieces of erotica thrown in, sat next to her bed. Jordan never was one for shame. It was something that endeared her to the grunts and gunnies of her acquaintance, who largely regarded her as a "hard-drinkin', hard gamblin', chain smokin', free screwin'" one of them, even if their superiors regarded her as something akin to a very large nuisance, a horrible example, and a downright distraction for anyone near her. The biggest difference, other than the very obvious magickal one, between Jordan and the rest of the military was her lack of protocol. She liked regulars well enough, but Jordan had never liked the idea of lumping the Night in as a military organization. And while she appreciated the close contact between her organization and theirs (especially when it involved Sergeants like the one standing in that corner of the Pentagon back in DC), Jordan had always thought that the Night was special, sent not to promote squabbling and wars between humans, but to save them from the evils of the world. Forcing them to salute and march in columns seemed bloody ridiculous. So, in protest, she didn't do it. And until she could no longer shoot straight, she would continue not to do it as a member of the Night. "Liszt, report immediately. You're late for your inoculations." The voice of her immediate superior, Lieutenant Brian (second lieutenant, as Jordan wanted to remind him), barked through the speaker just to the right of her bedroom door. Jordan rolled her eyes and threw her bag onto the bed, pausing only to throw her hair into a simple ponytail before she headed for the infirmary, not even enough time to change into some clean clothes. Like she wanted to walk around barracks in a dirty uniform. Wonderful. Just back and already her arms were set to be a pincushion, and not even in some decently clean clothes. Surprisingly, Jordan didn't mind wearing the uniform. It suited her purposes well enough and made it even more shocking when she dolled herself up, which suited her purposes even more fully than the uniform did. But walking around in travel-stained clothing was not on her list of things-to-do. Sidling through the halls, Jordan waved at the people she knew well enough to be friends, making a mental note to visit them if she had a chance this weekend. She hadn't seen some of them in weeks--she'd been stuck on top of a building in DC, waiting for the alpha of a particularly vicious werewolf clan to step into just the right spot--and trading tales was the best part of a furlough. It was a guarantee that everyone in your squad would be there, if only for two jam-packed days of excitement and pincushionry. If Jordan hadn't been ordered to the infirmary immediately--and even she didn't disobey a direct order--she might have stopped to say hello to them then. The door to infirmary, solid white with translucent glass panels, stood out against the brown wainscoting and tan walls of the rest of the building, and slid open when she waved her hand before the scanner. "Z26-20, Liszt reporting for inocs." "About time. You're late, as usual, Jordan." Navy Corpsman Nathaniel Mitchell crossed his arms, blue eyes narrowed in annoyance. He was one Jordan's closest friends--the two had grown up together in Georgia--and understood Jordan better than she understood herself most of the time. "And you're wearing that? Sergeant Billingsley must have had a time of it when you reported." "Was that his name? Good to know. He was cute." Jordan plopped onto the table without being told to and held out her arms, pleased that she had learned the man's name. It would make it easier to track him down when push came to shove. "Hack at me, Doctor!" Nate sighed and picked up her chart. "You're due for almost all of them. Five today. I wish you wouldn't put them off for so long, Jordan. Coming back to barracks every once in a while to get your inoculations wouldn't kill you. They can't need you that much--there are other snipers in this blasted organization, you know--and you've got to come back to get your shots more often than every two months." Wiping an alcohol swab along her forearms, Nate continued. "And I don't think Billingsley's wife would appreciate your sentiment about her husband." Jordan scoffed. "Like I care. If he comes to me, clearly his wife isn't doing the job. Plus, it's not like you're helping a friend out. I've been stuck in the field for weeks and you don't even give me a hug!" Laughing, Nate opened his arms and pulled his friend into a tight hug. For all his banter, he did worry about her. She never did take the proper things seriously and it would probably get her killed one day. "You are something else Jordan Molineau Liszt. Now, I've got five needles to jab into you today. So think about something else and don't stare at the pointy thing." "When's my appointment with the shrink? I know I don't have to meet with HQ, thankfully. No captures for me. Just a confirmed kill, which they hardly need me to report. Bastards, the lot of them..." Jordan leaned back against the wall, picturing Sergeant Billingsley with his uniform puddled about his feet. "What was that about, anyway? Who'd they get?" Nate checked his syringe, full of anti-lycanthropy serum, for air bubbles before sticking it into Jordan's arm, directly into the vein. "Some blood mage. Iain McCleod, head of the dance club Briar Rose. And your appointment is for 0830 tomorrow." "Iain McCleod? That asshole? Really?" Jordan whined, pouting just slightly in petulance. "I was hoping to get my hands on him." "He's too big to kill, Jordan. McCleod was the head of an entire circle of blood magicians whose activity lately has gotten the attention of even civilian police organizations. We've got to know what they were planning for us. Whatever it is they're doing, there's a lot of power involved. Powers-that-be are thinking those bastards might have gotten enough power to scry for the location of HQ. Which, to put it lightly, would suck." Jordan made a face. "Understatement. But, hey, if it means some action for me, I hope they find something. It's been three weeks since I got that were-jackass and my trigger finger is itching something fierce." Matt - Nomad They called him in weeks ago but he hadn’t received the message. They were angry at first but it was hard to be angry with someone like him, particularly when he was doing his job. Now he was being called back for a furlough rather than just a report, that was ok. He grinned, trundling through the walls of Headquarters, wondering what new drugs they were going inject into him this time. Since he’d been so late in responding to their order he supposed that they’d probably have to add in a few of the ones he’d missed and what not. He knew that when people saw him they would never have associated him with something like the Night. His eyes were bright blue and mischievous, his mouth was lined by laughter and the five o’clock shadow was hardly military. His sandy hair was unruly, looking permanently like a long-haired cat that had had its fur brushed the wrong way, not that he didn’t try to tame it, it just never worked for very long and he’d been in the field for a while now so it was no real surprise that it had grown unmanageable. Furthermore, whilst his uniform was tidy with the well pressed trousers and polished boots, he looked oddly amusing in it, as he was playing dress up and had loaned an outfit rather than earned it. It was mainly to do with the contagious energy that poured off him, he was too happy, it seemed, to bear a badge or wield a gun or kill another living being. Yet, at the same time, he was one them. The lean, broad shouldered jester was just as ruthless and patriotic as any other member of the force. There were no exceptions to that defining trait. It was just harder to spot. He walked with his hands in his back pockets and his grin in place as he ambled towards the taller, broader, burlier and obviously more serious man that was acting as guard of the Big Black Door. He wasn’t sure how the Door had become more than just a simple door but he supposed it was probably something to do with the fact that it was the replaced for one of the first things he had ever destroyed. Even if it was an accident. The Shiny Silver Door he’d dusted when he’d first arrived had been too easy to ruin, this one was supposed to be stronger, he wasn’t going to test their theory. They’d probably have him pay for it himself. “Report.” His salute wasn’t graceful or perfected but it was respectful, his grin was lost as he declared his name, rank and number for the grim faced guard. It was a matter of discipline, he knew that respect came from giving respect, or at least it did within the Night, and therefore he gave it where it was necessary. It was hard though. He was in such a good mood. “Farran, Gull P. W. S. Alpha Squadron, personnel number A3-362.” “Farran, continue to the identification platform.” “Sure thing, Sir.” He saluted again, breaking into a grin as he waved goodbye. He saw the corners of the man’s mouth twitch and he knew that he had made things a little more interesting for his fellow man. He trotted over to the door, thoughtfully proceeding to the platform, noting any of the slight differences from last time, trying to figure out why the concealed cameras had been moved from the corners to the sides and why there was an extra light added when it wasn’t even switched on. It was the Massive Door next. Badge. Scanner. Swipe. He nodded contently to himself as he heard the beep of success. “Gull Farren, please place your hand the scanner.” Scanner. Hand. Burn. He didn’t enjoy this bit too much, though he supposed no one did and he felt the bubbling of his cold blood as the laser inspected his palm. What was the point in even testing his hand, it wasn’t like he had any distinctive marks on his fingers or anything, those had been removed in various instances before he’d even become part of this business. “Gull Farren place your eye before the retinal scan.” He grimaced, this bit was worse though. The bright light made his eyes water and he had to blink a few times to clear the blobs of black from his vision. The blue of his eyes seemed pale for a moment as he stepped away and the lights flickered briefly. Scowling at the machine he waited for the final order. Test. They preferred ‘tests’ after all. “Gull Farren, please demonstrate your most powerful Gift.” Gull sighed this time, a teasingly bright smile lighting up his face. He stared directly ahead, his eyes shifting from the bright, unnatural blue they appeared to dark grey and with it the lights died, the screen splintered, the walls of the room seemed to tremble and the door before him broke open. He looked around, blinking with his blackened eyes, deciding that he probably ought to put things back together if he wanted to avoid a reprimand... then again, maybe this would teach them a lesson. They really shouldn’t reply so much on electrical, electro-magnetic or plasma-energy. It just made things too easy for people like him. Then again, he didn’t know many people like him so maybe that was ok. But imagine if he turned coat. They’d be fucked if they wanted to keep him out. They could deal with the mess. It was just too easy if they continued like this. Oh but he just didn’t want to seem vindictive. It wasn’t really him. His eyes blurred into the bright blue of before but the colour bled into his pupils and sclera. The room began to vibrate and the temperature soared upwards until a bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. He couldn’t fix the machine, he didn’t know how it worked, but the walls were intact and gleaming, the door was in on peice albeit still open. Why was it that creating things took so much more energy than destroying them...? Gull’s good mood was dampened, he lifted his small pack from the space at his feet and passed through the door without so much as a twitch of a smile. His eyes were only just returning to normal. He wondered if any of his friends were around. Maybe Jordan or Shank. He wouldn’t mind seeing some familiar faces. The thought brightened him up almost instantly and he almost forgot to stop at his room, his feet wanting to carry him straight on to find out who was around. “Ah home sweet home.” He grinned widely, letting the door swing open into a room that he was sure made people feel like they were stepping into the old English world that he had left behind. In the corner sat a dark wooden, four-poster single swamped in bold, highly patterned duvets, pillows, sheets and blankets. Technically, the bed itself was regulation but he’d removed the bed legs so that the iron frame was on the ground, added another mattress so that the bed was higher and comfier and then built a classic frame around it to add a sense of symmetry and simplistic luxury. If he was expected to spend weeks out in fields, sheds, caves, forests, ships, tanks, military bases and other uncomfortable places, he was bloody well going to have somewhere luxurious to come back to. Three walls were white, the back wall being deep red with a tromp l’oiel fireplace painted to the right of the bed. On the other side of the painted flames was a desk made of the same wood as the bed. Above it was the beginning of three shelves which contained books on everything he could find, physics, mythology, martial arts, languages, karma sutra, geography, dark magic, philosophy, classic novels: the list went on, as did the shelves which continued from the space above the desk all the way round the right-hand wall and the wall where the door stood, only stopping when they met the wardrobe. He toed off his boots and let his feet mesh into the soft Indian carpet. His room couldn’t be less Night-like. But that didn’t matter... This wasn’t meant to be. He had missed his sanctuary. He checked the time piece on the desk, humming under his breath as he realised he still had half an hour before he was needed anywhere... He could see who was about. Or he could clean himself up, wash himself of detritus. Decisions. He decided on the latter, people would wait if they were around for inocs and he really wanted a hot shower. * By the time he ended up in the white panelled walls of the infirmary where he was due his needles, he was feeling decidedly refreshed. His hair was clean, pushed back of his face, although still wild like wind-muddled wisteria; his skin was free of grubbiness and he’d brushed his teeth with minty toothpaste for the first time in three weeks... that natural oil stuff just wasn’t as good at leaving teeth feeling clean. So as he greeted the grumpy looking Navy Corpsman Nathaniel Mitchell, he was feeling quite confident. “You’ve lost weight Gull,” Mitchell was one of those friends of Jordan that he’d taken to actually liking, he was honest in a no-nonsense kind of way, and genuinely gave a crap about most of the people who came in, plus he had a sense of humour and that was something which Gull couldn’t help but appreciate. “Well, three and half weeks battling a Hell Mouth will do that to you.” He agreed. Hell Mouths were a term that related to the use of dark magicks to either raise demons, dead, or give that kind of power to those who didn’t naturally possess it. Usually caused by a black magician. And anyway, he knew his face was a little more drawn than before he left and he realised that he couldn’t really afford to considering how lean he already was, but it was only a few pounds, not the end of the world and now he was back he could make sure he fed himself up for a bit. “Take more of the nutri-bars next time, you’re probably only just passable right now.” “Eh. So poke me with the pointy things, pass me and let me go eat.” He smirked at the slight quirk of Mitchell’s eyebrow that showed his suppressed amusement. “You’ve got nearly as many as Litsz, four inocs and a booster for the anti-lycanthropy...” Gull shrugged, he had already rolled up the white sleeved shirt so there was easy access to the elbow vein and he’d drawn a large black circle around the spot that he had decided he should have the injections. “Try not to cry too loud this time.” Mitchell teased as he readied a large needle against the energist’s pale arm. Rolling his eyes, he focused on the way that the tip of the infection pierced his skin and the prickle that told him that it was the booster rather than the actual inoculation. They tended to throb rather than tingle. He kind of liked the tingle. * The ache in his arm that followed inoculations was normal but that didn’t make it any more pleasant and he certainly wasn’t feeling as vibrant as before. He had three hours before his meeting with Josalinn Meadows, resident empath and psychologist. She was the only one that had survived his dislike of mind-doctors long enough to earn a grudging respect. He may not like that fact that he had to talk to her about what he had done, how he was performing, whether he was still coping, but at least she took all the mischief and mind games he played on her lightly. Having a few hours to kill though was nice, he was definitely going to go bang on people’s doors, maybe go to the mess hall, he was sure that it was busy. neohuman The old, blue ’64 Ford Pickup rumbled down the freeway, going about 90 on the slick asphalt. The beast of a truck- just like its driver- looked dilapidated with age and ready to fall apart, yet stubborn and unwilling to go down without one hell of a fight. The cool, fresh air smelled of wet dirt. Siegfried had always loved that smell, which brought him back to the best memories of his childhood. He breathed deeply of the wind passing outside of the passenger seat window, which occasionally caught and tossed his long blonde ponytail about like a playful kitten. He watched the wooded plains pass quickly by below as he brought his silver Zippo lighter to the cigarette between his lips. He shielded the flame from the wind with his hand as he lit it and breathed in the smoke. “Thanks again for the ride, Dad,” Siegfried said to the old man driving the truck, as he took the cigarette from his lips and exhaled. “Don’t mention it,” replied Dad- also known as Major Krigor von Krowe, respected senior agent of the organization called the Night. Wrinkled, scarred, and bitter, he wore a perpetual scowl on his cracked lips- a lifelong poker face against rivals that would aim to exploit any weakness they could find in his calloused demeanor. Long, silver hair blew in the air from his scalp like strands of gossamer. His ice-blue eyes gleamed with the sharp sight of a seasoned predator, yet also held a deep, haunted look that spoke of many restless nights reliving the hurt of memories. Krigor glanced at his son, who was now idly rubbing a finger along his eyebrow piercing as he smoked. “So how the hell did you total your bike, anyway? That thing was a brand new Harley.” “Ah shit, here we go…” Siegfried groaned. “You’d think you’d learn to be more careful. Just because you can shrug and walk away from accidents that’d kill most people, doesn’t mean you can be reckless and drive like a damn idiot.” “Dad, I’m not a stupid teenager anymore,” Siegfried slid Krigor a sarcastic glance over his sunglasses. “What, did you think I was speeding down the streets of downtown LA and dodging cars just for the fun of it? A spy for a very ancient, very dangerous vampire family almost got away with vital information on the Night’s defensive procedures two nights ago. If I hadn’t sped like a bat outta hell, and taken risks no other agent could have survived, the Night could be left completely open to an attack from any number of the prissy Goth-wannabe bloodsuckers.” “That doesn’t give you a right to be so careless, boy,” Krigor growled. “How many civilians actually saw you just stand up and dust yourself off after a fatal accident, anyway? You’d be damn lucky if none of those rubberneckers got video of it and put it on that ‘Yourtube’ site.” “It’s ‘Youtube’, Dad. And since when do you care about that? How many times has the Night had to make up some lame-ass excuse to feed to Fox News over something you did in broad daylight? Anyway… there are always weird things like that turning up on the internet, and real or not, most people don’t believe any of it.” There was a silence, as Krigor shifted, knowing that his son had turned his own argument against him. “That was a nice bike,” he stated, taking the offramp to a small town called Kenston. “Yeah, brand new,” Siegfried nodded, flicking the cigarette butt out of the window. “The latest Harley Heritage Softail. Custom paint and everything. I’ll miss that girl…” he sighed. “They don’t make anything like they used to,” Krigor said, in what he probably thought was a way to bring up the previous argument from a different angle. “Do you know how long I’ve had this truck?” he rubbed a calloused hand adoringly across the dashboard. “Again with the truck?” Siegfried sat up, annoyed. “I don’t give a shit about your truck, dad. It’s falling apart, it has no heater, the radiator always leaks, a damn spring in the seat keeps poking me in the back, the handle on my door is broken, and it smells like cheap beer and old man. I don’t see why you don’t just buy a new truck. It’s not like you can’t afford it.” “Nah, I could never replace the old girl…” Krigor said, his eyes gazing off a bit into memory. “We’ve been through too much together. She’s helped me run down too many baddies. You’ve seen those bullet holes?” he pointed to a scattering of bullet holes in the part of the body just above the front left wheel. “Some damn warlock with the Cult of Asmodeus way back when thought he could surprise me. What a pussy… Claimed to be an all-powerful magician, but I knew he wasn’t much of a threat when he had to resort to guns when it came down to a fight.” Siegfried chuckled. “Yeah… some of these idiots have no idea what they’re messing with. I got a call about a suspected necromancer cult once, in a graveyard trying to re-animate corpses. It turned out to just be some punk kids playing with some fluffy-assed magic book they had bought at some new-age shop. They had a Ouija Board with them, for chrissake, but when I showed up they put on the whole ‘dark and mysterious’ act and told me I was ‘messing with forces I couldn’t possibly comprehend.’” “Heh. So what did you do?” “What, you think I would’ve showed off my power to a bunch of dumb kids? Nah, I just told them they were trespassing, and I’d have to arrest them if they didn’t leave. I also confiscated the Ouija Board. I still don’t know how they get away with selling that shit to kids.” Before much longer, they were there: an abandoned factory in the middle of Kenston, Bumfuck, Nowhere, America. Krigor and Siegfried both got out of the truck and looked up at the large, faded sign at the top of the building, which read ‘Swimzy Condom Co.’ “Lovely,” said Siegfried. “So, I’ve been wrong all these years. The Night’s officers do have a sense of humor.” “Well, it’s inconspicuous, isn’t it? Come on.” The doorknob lay in the dirt near the steps leading up to the buildings. The half-rotted doors clattered open and shut in the breeze. The two men moved through the dark, dusty building, their every step causing the sound of creaking wood to echo throughout the silence. Huge cobwebs hung from conveyor belts, and this building clearly hadn’t been disturbed in years. “How many agents use this entrance?” Siegfried asked. “Not many. It isn’t well known. But I make it a point to know every entrance, and how it can be defended in case of an emergency. Someone’s got to look out for these youngsters.” The two of them descended a creaky, unstable flight of stairs into a lightless basement, at which point Krigor produced a small keychain-sized flashlight from his pocket that, despite its size, lit up the whole room before them. There was a large hole in the middle of the floor, which looked as though someone had simply broken through the concrete and then started digging. The top of a ladder stuck out over the edge of the hole. Climbing down, they then found themselves in a narrow, underground cave. A long tunnel stretched before them into darkness, and Siegfried couldn’t help but feel slightly claustrophobic. Moving through this tunnel, he noticed horizontal niches carved into the walls. In each of these, a skeleton was laid beneath a burial shroud, its arms crossed over its chest. There was something odd about the skeletons, as well. Their canine teeth were far too long, and far too sharp… “Jesus. What is this place?” asked Siegfried. “In the 70’s, these tunnels were used by a family of vampires, that terrorized the world above,” Krigor replied. “A number of Night operatives, including myself, put an end to them. Now, it’s been made into a new entrance to the barracks.” “Oh. I thought I sensed something odd about this…” Siegfried idly placed a hand on the handle of his Kimber Pro Carry pistol. At last, they came to an enormous steel door. Krigor tried the handle, but it seemed to be stuck. He pushed as hard as he could, and shoved his shoulder against the door, but still couldn’t get it to move. Finally, he stepped back, drew his Magnum revolver, and aimed at the lock. “Whoa, Pops!” Siegfried stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Easy. I don’t think the Night’d appreciate that. Here, look.” He walked over to the right side of the door, where there was a small panel on the wall, which was very hard to see in the darkness. He pulled his I.D. card from his front pocket and swiped it through, and punched his identification number in the keypad. Bright, red lights above the door lit up, bathing the tunnel in a soft crimson glow. Several metal clicks echoed through the tunnel, and then the huge doors swung open. A guard in black body armor stood on the other side, holding an assault rifle. Seeing the ranking marks on Krigor’s uniform, he stood straight and saluted him. Krigor gave a brief salute in turn, and then said “At ease.” The guard dropped his arm back at his side. “Major von Krowe and Agent von Krowe, welcome. We didn’t think anyone would be coming this way. You’re eleven minutes early for today’s furlough. Passing through the next door will take you directly to the Alpha Squadron barracks. For security reasons, the door will then close behind you, and opening it again will only lead you into an empty classroom. Major von Krowe, from there, please proceed to-“ “Officers’ Quarters,” Krigor finished for him. “I know.” “And Agent von Krowe, please proceed to the entrance hall. There, the sergeant will walk you through the process.” “Excellent. I can’t wait to get started,” he said sarcastically. This prompted an amused smile from the guard. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Hey, at least you don’t have to stand around in a dark vampire tomb all day.” Krigor and Siegfried started towards the next door, but then the guard stopped Siegfried with a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, before you go,” he said, “take the piercing out of your eyebrow. They changed the dress code last week… no piercings.” “Ah, dammit,” Siegfried grumbled, unscrewing the piercing and putting it in his pocket. “What about my hair and tattoos?” “The tattoos are fine,” the guard said, “and your goatee and ponytail are still okay. Until next year’s dress code meeting, that is.” “Great. Thanks.” They passed through the next door, and found themselves no longer in an abandoned condom factory, but instead stepped into one of the most technologically-advanced, highly-guarded, top-secret military installations in the world: Alpha Squadron barracks of The Night. Everything was clean, pristine, tile floors and polished metal walls. Siegfried always felt he needed a surgical mask just to breathe in this place. Another huge steel door stood before them: this one brightly-lit, the access terminal in plain view, with a camera in one corner and a machine-gun turret in the other, both aimed at Krigor and Siegfried, programmed to follow their every movement. Siegfried had seen firsthand what that sort of gun could do to a man (or, in this case, a demon half-breed). He didn’t even get his gun out of its holster before he was shredded to confetti by the computer-aimed turret. A black-uniformed sergeant stood before the doors. “Report,” he said to the two men who approached. “Major von Krowe,” Krigor recited in a gruff, bored tone, saluting as he pointed to the I.D. card hanging from his neck. “Krigor, G. Alpha Squadron, number X01-01. Reporting as assistant supervisor to Shadow Leming.” “Ah, yes, Major von Krowe,” the sergeant said, looking down at the portable computer terminal he held in his hand. “The Shadow should just now be finishing up with lunch. Please wait for him in the Officers’ Quarters.” He typed a few buttons on his terminal and the huge metal doors unlocked and slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss. The grizzled old man limped through the doors, the tail of his long trench coat brushing along the floor, his heavy steel-toe boots clicking against the tile. The doors slid closed and locked behind him. The sergeant turned to Siegfried, who was already saluting at attention, completely still with eyes staring straight ahead. He had tried being a troublemaker, back in his 20’s, giving half-hearted salutes and sarcastic backtalk. But all that had ever done was cause trouble for him and his father, and he had found that everyone always turned out much happier if he played by their rules and did the song and dance of the obedient little soldier. Never mind the thought that always played in the back of his mind that The Night was more of a weaponized freakshow than a military branch. Other soldiers were trained to kill; members of the Night were born to kill. They were trained in stealth, firearms, explosives, and tactics, but the weapons in their blood were always the most useful of all, which no one could ever have trained them to use but themselves. “Report,” the Sergeant ordered, alert and sharply-dressed, cleanly-shaven and standing with perfect, disciplined posture. “Sir, von Krowe, Siegfried R., Alpha Squadron, personnel number B76-25. Reporting for furlough, Sir.” “At ease,” the Sergeant said, and Siegfried dropped his salute and held both hands behind his back. “Someone may ask you to trim that goatee, and maybe do something about that hair.” “I was told it was not in violation of dress code, Sir,” Siegfried replied sharply, not missing a beat. “Technically, no, but if someone asks you to cut it, you do it. Understood?” “Yes, Sir.” Siegfried nodded obediently, yet his eyes sparked with an annoyed glare towards the sergeant, who seemed not to notice. “Good,” the Sergeant said, typing a few keys on his terminal to make the doors open again. “Please proceed to the identification platform, where the A.I. will walk you through the security procedures to enter the barracks proper.” Siegfried strode through the second set of huge metal doors, down a clean and polished hallway where three more cameras followed him as he walked, up a short set of metal stairs to the identification platform, and stopped to stand before yet another pair of huge metal doors. He sighed and rolled his eyes. He once again took his identification card out of his pocket, and this time, stopped to look at it before swiping it in the scanner beside the doors. It showed him at the age of 21, when he had decided to stop trying to fit in as a normal, contributing member of society, and take after his father in the only place he knew he would ever really belong. In his picture, he stood sharp-eyed, attentive, and expressionless, a fresh young soldier seeking to prove himself to his father and his superiors. He had no facial hair back then, and he sported a clean flat-top. No piercings, no tattoos, no individuality. “I looked like a dork,” he chuckled, and swiped the card. The scanner beeped softly. “Siegfried von Crow, please place your hand on the-“ He slapped his hand against the scanner, causing the annoyingly artificial friendliness of the voice to cease. “It’s ‘von Krowe’, you stupid machine,” he hissed, even as the scanner burned his hand like a hot stove-top. “It rhymes with ‘how’. Unlimited technology, funded by the highest levels of government, and it can’t even get my name right, even though my father’s a damn veteran here. And why can’t they make a scanner that doesn’t burn like hell?” The scanner flashed green to signify that it was finished, and Siegfried pulled his hand away at once, shaking it as he bit his lip. “Dammit I hate furloughs.” “Is there a problem, son?” asked a passing officer from somewhere behind him. Siegfried turned around to see an old man in a Marine officer uniform stopped in the middle of the hallway, looking up from a clipboard. “No, Sir,” Siegfried turned and saluted quickly. “I’m okay, Sir.” “Well… okay then,” the officer replied, looking back at the clipboard and walking away. “As you were.” Siegfried turned back towards the scanner, which almost seemed to have waited until it had his attention again. “Siegfried von Crow, please place your eye before the retinal scan,” it droned softly. For a brief moment, Siegfried reached for the sunglasses in his coat pocket… but of course that wouldn’t work. The laser needed to scan his whole eye, unobstructed. So, he held his right eye open with his forefinger and thumb up to the retinal scanner. Its bright light caused his eye to ache and water. The light turned green, and he pulled away, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. “Siegfried von Crow, please demonstrate your most powerful gift,” the computer stated the requirement for the third and final test. Siegfried sighed, “It’s ‘von Krowe.’” He rolled up his sleeves, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, their irises had gone completely white, and taken on an unexplainable chilling, eerie quality. “Spirits of my ancestors, doomed sons of the von Krowe bloodline,” he intoned, his voice seeming to echo beyond worlds, through the curtain of the empirical world to all that lay behind it. “You who ever watch and listen, you who are ever vigilant to guard we who yet remain young and fit enough to break the curse of the Leszy, I call you now to my assistance.” At once, he felt a presence beside him, only a vague blur in his peripheral vision, which disappeared completely in his direct sight. He shivered involuntarily, and his arm hair stood straight on end. Like many people, he never did feel comfortable calling his relatives. “I watch and listen, my son,” said a faint whisper, which could have easily been a sound from the ventilation system, or an odd echo down the hallway, or simply a trick of his imagination. “What is it you need of me?” “My honored ancestor, you who share the dark curse of my blood and my name,” Siegfried went on, “please help me, for I have need. Open the door before me. Undo the locks, release the mechanisms that hold it shut, that the path before me will be free and unimpeded.” “As you wish,” said the strange, possibly-non-existent whisper, “so shall it be done, in the name of the Leszy, that sacred spirit that damned us all.” The presence left, seeming to flow forward through the door. Siegfried waited. Soon, there was the sound of the door’s locking mechanism clicking, and the large doors slid open. “Welcome, Siegfried von Krowe, to The Night.” “Thank you, my honored ancestor,” Siegfried bowed as his eyes returned to their normal sky-blue color. “You honor me with your aid.” Quaddy “Gull, you sunnovabitch, how’ve you been?” Jordan grinned, a series of white teeth gleaming with something between genuine pleasure and an unequivocal invitation. She sat, arm carefully balanced against the back of a couch (both to protect the sensitive needle wounds and to look as comfortably casual and nonchalant as possible), legs stretched out in front of her. Long gone were the boots, replaced by a ridiculous pair of fuzzy pink socks that Jordan secretly loved more than she probably should, and the uniform, though that had merely changed into black pants and a white tank top. She’d even managed to get in a shower and black hair lay plaited down the middle of her back. It was leaving quite a wet stain, but Jordan was too studiously uncaring to do anything about it.Farran grinned back and gave a quick shrug. “Oh you know, same old, same old. Fighting bad guys, saving the country, blowing shit up. You?” Jordan smiled, making a show of studying her fingernails. “Same. Killed an alpha couple weeks ago, but there haven’t really been any interesting assignments for a while. I’ve literally been trapped on top of a building in New York this entire time. Had tons of fun fucking with the Mets, though.” Her grin turned mischievous. It was a well-known fact that Jordan hated the New York Mets. In fact, it had become something of a joke over the last few years, especially when she’d managed to seduce their ace pitcher and completely (by accident, of course) destroy his rotator cuff. Coming from Georgia, she was, of course, an avid Braves fan. Except for Chipper Jones. Jordan couldn’t fucking stand Chipper Jones. Gull shook his head. “You crazy Yanks and your baseball. Couldn’t be buggered to learn about it myself. It’s like a less slow version of cricket.” “Which sounds to me like a huge improvement on the game,” Jordan replied as Farran came to settle down on a chair adjacent to her own perch. “Plus, a cripplingly old guy shuffling around the diamond with a cane for three hours would still accomplish more than a cricket match, so the comparison his hardly true. Especially when a telekinetic mastermind is involved.” Laughing, Gull brushed a bit of his unruly mass of hair from out of his face, and slouched into the oversized cushions of his comfy chair. The two had been almost instant friends. Both had a certain disdain for the rules, for regulation, for being military, that the Night had never learned to understand or, even less, appreciate. But both were equally talented and equally devoted to their cause. Gull had been part of the Knights before transferring to America a few years ago. Hell, it was almost unheard of for the Night to recruit outside the US. Gull was the only one she could think of in the last few years. So when he’d gotten there, not long after Jordan, they’d become fast friends. And, to this day, Farran was (aside from Nate, of course) the person she was closest to in the entire damn organization. It didn’t hurt that she wanted him badly. She’d long ago figured out that the both of them were wild about each other, but something had always kept them apart. And it wasn’t necessarily the obvious problems of distance and work—the two were almost never thrown together despite both being Alpha squadron. No, something else had kept them apart. Jordan had only figured it out after she’d ended up in some random jarhead’s bunk, surrounded by a dozen drunken Marines all drunkenly competing to be the one to fuck her. It was Jordan that was keeping them apart. She was doing it her all by her own, damn self. She’d had an inkling for a long time that, deep down inside, Gull was something of an English gentleman. A traditionalist, to a certain extent (at least when it came to relationships). And he wasn’t the kind of man to get mixed up with the kind of girl that slept around just for the hell of it. Or because she was too drunk to do anything else. So, though they both wanted each other, both cared for one another, and, hell, were probably perfect for each other, Jordan went ahead and fucked it up night after night, random guy after random guy (and the occasional woman just for the hell of it). Mostly because she was afraid that, if she stopped, someone would know just how deeply she cared for Gull and use him against her. The ‘Bad Guys’, as she still had a tendency to name them in her thoughts, would definitely do something that messed up just to get into her head. But damn did it feel like a knife would get stuck trying to cut the air between them. Jordan caught Gull staring, his dangerous blue eyes hovering somewhere between her face and her chest as if not sure where to go. She smiled ruefully and pinched him. “Hey, jerkface, my face is up here.” Farran recovered instantly. “What? I can’t help it if you have an amazing rack! What kind of guy would I be if I didn’t appreciate their…awesomeness?” “Point.” Jordan chuckled. “I definitely have a most luscious pair of mammaries, if I do say so myself. Anyway, have you run into anyone else? I haven’t seen anyone since Nate used me like a pin cushion. Even had time to shower.” “I saw Shank on the way in. Told me he was going to the mess and then he’d be in to visit for a while. Apparently, he was part of the team that took down McCleod. Should make for a damn fine story.” Jordan could hear the envy in Gull’s voice, and it reflected her own sense of jealousy. She’d spent the last month with nothing more to do than shank foul balls and knock a few homers directly into the laps of little kids (she hated the Mets, but they were just kids…). On one memorable occasion, she’d let the pitcher of the Florida Marlins hit a grand slam just for the hell of it. That had been a fun night. But, fuck if it stood up to Shank! He’d gotten to take down fucking Iain McCleod! Jordan groaned. “Motherfucking bastard.” “Who? McCleod or Shank?” Gull was playing with some sort of plasma ball, tossing it between and through his fingers like a weird, magical version of Cat’s Cradle. “Both.” Jordan snorted. “I wanted him for myself, you know.” Gull looked up and nodded. “I know, Jordan. We all did. But, I mean, think about it. Someone had to take him down. His damn club was fucking up ley lines, corrupting them for miles around. You probably felt it on top of your little building. Hell, even the mundanes could probably feel it and they couldn’t pick up on magic if it bitch slapped them upside the head.” Mundanes was the word for people outside the Night, the ungifted, people who couldn’t do half (or any) of the shit that the Night did every day. The people they were paid to protect. Jordan pouted a touch petulantly, which childishness Gull had the kindness to ignore. “I know, but still…I never get to do anything fun anymore.” “Well maybe if you smartened up and started greasing a few wheels, someone would be willing to give you one, you whiney little baby.” Jordan and Gull both looked up to see their tank of a friend come sidling into the room, his voice thin and raspy after so many years of silence. Sam Shank wasn’t exactly built broad or big, but he was pretty tall. But Jordan always remembered him as being bigger than he was, mostly because of his demeanor. He was the kind of guy that would make officer one day, the kind of guy that wanted to be officer one day. And he definitely ambled, as if he was always in kind of a hurry. But he was a good friend despite all that. And he’d never tried to sleep with her, which earned him bonus points. Jordan thought he probably had an idea of how she and Gull felt about each other and had decided to be respectful instead of exacerbating the problem. And for that, Jordan would forever love him a little bit. “Shut up,” was all Jordan said, though the lightness of her tone belied her annoyance. “How were innocs?” Shank shrugged. “Just two. Some of us don’t wait for years.” “So, you got to take down McCleod! I mean, I know it was a team, but who else was with you? And how did you do it?” Jordan practically jumped up and down like a giddy schoolgirl. This time, both men studiously ignored the bouncing of her breasts beneath the barely adequate restraints of their bra and tank top fortress. “I take it this means Alpha Squadron gets the duty of cleaning up the mess Briar Rose made, right? Great! It’s about time I got to do something exciting with myself.” Matt - Nomad The room was warm and clean. White curtains with a yellow, sunflower trim were drawn. The light, although not real, trickled through the narrow crack between folds and gave the walls a natural glow. In each corner of the room were old fashioned lanterns that spilt a steady amber light along each side of the room. The whole place was cosy. There was one empty chair: a large, luxurious, hulking chair that looked like it wanted to swallow a human being. A small coffee table sat beside it and on the other side another chair, a less exorbitant chair with a pale occupant. The occupant was a woman. Her eyes were like dandelions, an unnatural yellow around black, petal-like irises and there was something about them that drew the mind back to a clock face. It was as if you could see the seconds ticking by in her eyes. She would look up expectantly every few minutes, with no anxiety, just looking. She waited: still and quiet until the door opened. Then, welcoming the visitor in, she offered them the overwhelming chair with a wave of her hand, the skin of which had acquired that translucent quality only found in those who spend too much time away from natural light. Yet when she smiled, her soft mouth was wide and her eyes were placid and dark and larger than before and the visitor would feel at once at home. Sitting in the room with an empath was something that Gull disliked immensely. No matter how many times he was made to visit, he still loathed the feeling of sharing a space with a human lie detector that could manipulate his emotions should they so desire. Emotion, he knew, was far too powerful a thing to ignore. For a psychologist it was no bad thing, to make the patient trust, to make them feel capable of such an action, especially in their line of work. She didn’t use her empathy on him at any other time, except his arrival. He knew that was because he was always tense when he first stepped through the door but he had learnt to throw off the charm quickly enough. He’d been friends with another sort of empath back in England and the man had taught him the trick – albeit the hard way – and he knew how to recognise the sudden drop in anxiety, the rapid increase or decrease of his pulse, the subconscious flood of another’s impressions upon the mind. She had merely smiled their first encounter when he’d demanded that she stop trying to force him to open up and since then Josalinn Meadows had let him talk freely, only using her gift to calm him when necessary. Now they sat in silence. “How do you feel about Shank taking down McCleod?” “Another one bites the dust.” He murmured, “It’s a good thing. Jealousy over the fact that he got to take out the biggest twat we’ve been after for a while but it’s more because I’m bored than anything else.” “You were on a Hell Mouth.” “Well there’s only so much they throw at you.” He grinned, “I hate Hell Mouths, always the same thing. Some little man raising demons that he can’t control. They always think they’re the smartest person in the room. When really, that’s me. Obviously.” Rosalinn didn’t change her expression, “You’re protecting your core self again. Fiercely protecting it. Do you want to give me a reason for that?” He looked at her with his sharp, blue eyes, the gleam of the amber lights caught in them like a malignant star, “Not particularly.” “You should just tell me the truth. You’re hurting yourself by trying not to think of what you want to admit. Why is that?” “The truth is mine Rosalinn. You just get to make sure I’m stable.” She did smile then, that smile that made her face seem instantly wider and less like a timepiece, “I know. But somehow I’d hoped that you might have told me what was bothering you. After all, you did bring them up.” It was true, he had. She’d been simply waiting for his usual jibes and jokes and he’d gone and brought up how he had been talking to Shank and Jordan. He placed the tips of his fingers together and the amber lights wavered a moment as he lit up a ball of static energy in his hands. It was a habit he’d always had. He liked to keep his hands busy, it kept his mind sharper. He rolled the energy over his palms, relishing the tingle and twinkle under his skin. “Sign me off Rosalinn.” “Only if you tell me, off record, what’s making your mind wander.” * McCleod had been messing about with the world’s energies for months, years even. It had been one of the cases he’d been on back in England – geopathic illnesses and stress had been eating away at the country. Poltergeists had plagued shops, spirits had been trapped on earth instead of passing on, flights had crashed out of the sky as computers were confused by degenerating power, people had gone missing after losing their sense of self. Mundanes had become sick. Even members of the Knights had been effected despite their natural defences. He had been a nasty son of a bitch, desperately seeking power, desirous of it, covetous of it. Going after McCleod’s gang became a worldwide event within the first four months of the ley-crisis. At first it had simply been a matter of effecting the supernatural and the mundane. Then it became the earth itself. Volcanoes erupted after thousands of years of dormancy, tectonic plates that had been moving together suddenly withdrew, destructive became constructive, parts of the ocean floor dropped away whilst others rose. Ecosystems, balance, natural harmony... it was all falling apart to his gain. His last mission in the UK had been Operation Tannhjolina. It had been a simple plan to try to take back the energy around the South-Western Ley points that lead from England to mainland Europe. They’d planned for weeks, plotted twenty four seven, had patrols and duties and slow-moving creepers. They’d had such a perfect system and yet some how it had all ended in disaster. He’d been one of the few to come out relatively unscathed – and only then because of luck rather than talent. Several of his oldest comrades had died trying to take down McCleod. He’d always imagined that he’d have followed that demon raising, power-hungry maniac to his own death. It had been the last, tenuous strand of fidelity to his mother country that had made him want to be part of bringing the Holina Ring down. That was now gone. People like Shank had got there first. He was jealous. He was almost angry. It had made him pensive and briefly wiped his usual good humour from his thoughts. Even though he knew that taking out McCleod was only the beginning, that the ring was so much bigger than just the one man... he still felt as slighted. * “You believed it was your mission? Here in the US? You thought that you could be of some use in that case.” Rosalinn hummed gently, “I see.” He grinned and pushed back his hair, “Yes. For a moment there I was furious with myself for not being there. But I know that that’s the way it works. Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I’m mad.” “I know Farran.” She smiled benignly, “You can go back to the sexual tension and banter with that girl of yours now.” He laughed then, standing and brushing his trousers down out of habit, “Sexual tension, where are you getting such ideas from?” “Defend your core, little Farran, you know as well as I do that it isn’t really sex causing tension.” “When you put it that way, you know, I could well fall madly in bed with you.” He teased, turning on his heel and heading for the door. She was still smiling, her pale, vapid smile, “Stay safe. I’ll pass you.” He was out the door in seconds without a second look. A slow, feline grin spread along her lips, the sunflower eyes narrowing with mirth. It was funny how these Agents worked. It was also funny how he always passed the test but never told any truths. * It took a while for him to pinpoint Jordan again. She’d been on his mind since he’d left Meadows in her yellow room. Strolling now, he had very little left to do for the furlough but he wasn’t complaining. He was actually quite relieved. If he could sleep, he knew he would have already curled up in his bed, tucking himself down, perhaps with some frivolous book. But he didn’t sleep easily anymore, never really had, and now he was too full of energy. Pacing the mess halls of The Night, he encountered various characters that he hadn’t been expecting. Not because they weren’t meant to be there – everyone on their level was called into these things – but because he had almost let their faces fade to the back of his memory. There were people he had begun to believe had been killed or promoted. Naida had been one of those people. She’d breezed past him. Beautiful, confident, isolated. She was still paler than he remembered, her eyes less focused, her manner less imperious. Nonetheless he had watched her go with that infinitely small sense of wonder at her grace. Jordan had it too to an extent but Naida’s gift was part of the sensuality that she oozed. Jordan was a different thing altogether anyway. He felt a pang of sadness for Naida though, something that wasn’t particularly common, but he understood loss, perhaps better than many Night members. It was why he was in the US now and it was the reason he lied to Meadows. To his surprise he’d also seen Major von Krowe, only for a moment and only through the glass-walled upper passage. But that meant Seigfried would be here and that made him grin. “You’ve realised how many of us are going to be back?” Ah yes, he’d been trying to pinpoint Jordan. It seemed more like she’d pinpointed him. He grinned and nodded, turning to greet her, “You’re stalking me.” “Naw, I just follow the smell of arrogance. And you’ve been stalking me for the past twenty-five minutes.” She teased, sauntering over to him with the small sashay of her hips that teased him like nothing else. Her eyes fixed and flashing with a coy mirth. “You caught me. I couldn’t get your giant ass off my mind.” He joked right back, “So what you seeking me out for?” “Shank got called away.” “And it’s too early to start a party?” “Something like that.” “Tea?” “You seriously never change do you?” He laughed and shook his mop of hair from his eyes. He didn’t like furloughs but it was good to see Jordan. © Copyright 2009 Quaddy, Matt - Nomad, neohuman, (known as GROUP). All rights reserved. GROUP has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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