I pull my arms over my head and stretch, a small moan of relief leaving me as my stiff muscles loosen and my spine cracks, then lean back over, one elbow on the table. Resting my head on my hand, I blow a loose strand of hair from my face and resume reading, my tired eyes taking in the words written on the ancient page. Covering on my mouth with a palm, I try and stifle a yawn, unsuccessfully, my eyelids falling shut as it escapes me. Sitting back against the chair, hearing it creak slightly, I rub at my face, smooshing my features, then give my cheeks two quick slaps.
Going in for attempt number two, I widen my eyes and endeavour to focus, rereading the most recent passage. Following the flowing, curved Sanskrit, each rolling into the next, I parse the sentences twice over, learning what they contain and matching them with my current knowledge. The chapter before me an advanced teaching on runic structure, on how to multi-layer and synthesise, I trace the borders of a diagram with a finger. I memorise its multiple runes contained within, their points and paths, then jot them down in my open notebook.
They join the others I've taken to learning, each separated and grouped by purpose and contents, drawn atop multiple pages and spread across half the notebook. When added together, and as long as I draw them correctly, the functions should bleed together and work as a whole, helping me to carry out my plan. A tired mind diminishing comprehension, a second yawn leaving me, I close the heavy tome with a thump; the image of a purple-haired woman, a lengthy spear in her hand, embossed in the leather.
Storing my notebook and my writing tools away in my ring, I stand from my seat and tuck the tome under arm. Shuffling out, I push the chair back in and turn away, moving across the room, the carpet softening my bare steps, and wind through bookcases, stopping before the one I need. Lowering its protection spell, a faint glow of sorcery confirming, I lift the book and slide it back into its slot, homed between 'Birth of an Inverse Realm', and 'Surviving the DMV (Demons Marvelling at Verity)'.
Reactivating the spell, I walk away, back through the maze of wood, paper and timber, the comforting smell of the library making me sleepy, and open the left door, leaving. Heading down the corridor, its dark length silent, I make my way back to my room, my bed calling me, when I turn a corner and spot an ajar door, a small, warm light visible beyond. Wondering who's up, I move to it and carefully widen the gap, the hinges silent, and peak my head through, laying eyes on the sitting figure of Stephen, his back to me.
Curious as to what he's doing, but choosing to leave him to his peace, I go to pull back, when his voice sounds, breaking the quiet, "It's alright, Sarah, you can come in." Permission granted, I open the door and enter the large room, stepping around his red sofa, apologising,
"I didn't mean to disturb." Falling back into an armchair, its cushioning catching me, I sprawl out, my legs stretched out and my head sunken into my shoulders, and ask, "What are still doing up?"
Catching sight of the Cloak levitating off to the side, I nod at it in greeting, getting a small bow back, as Stephen, a cup of steaming something in his hands, retorts, "I could ask you the same thing." He raises a brow at me, roaming his sight over my lazed, pyjamaed form, amusement in his eyes, as I reply,
"I've been in the library for half the day, reading up on runic magic for a few projects I have in mind." I return his judgement, staring at his own striped pyjamas and snorting. He rolls his eyes at me as he sips his drink with one hand, his other flicking out, a small gleam of magic emanating, conjuring a full cup atop the table, handle turned to face me. Peeling myself from my position, I listlessly reach out and take it in hand, thanking him. After slurping the drink, smiling over the rim as I taste proper, English tea, its heat burning my tongue, I query, "And you?"
He simply responds, looking into the distance, "Thinking." Eyeing him, noting his strangely evasive answer, I don't push. He sits, staring into nothingness, his eyes unfocused for a still moment, before snapping back. Glancing at me, spotting me watching him, an inquisitive expression on my face, he sighs, but doesn't explain. Instead, after another sip, he sidesteps and inquires, "What are you working on?" Frowning at him in concern, but nodding uncertainly, understanding his position and responsibilities, his troubles caused by any number of things, I answer,
"A couple ideas I had, but focusing on two. Mostly, I've been thinking on how to stifle the perception of Wanda's patron, perhaps through some kind of artefact?" He narrow his eyes at that, thoughtful look appearing on his face as he theorises, then presses,
"You have a plan?"
Scooching closer, I lean forward and quietly reveal my thoughts, interested in his guidance, "I was considering requesting assistance from his bird nephew, in his aspect as the Keeper of the Secret Books?" Stephen smiles at that, then holds up a finger to me, asking me to wait, as he finishes his drink and places it down. I watch in confusion as he stands, smoothing down his pyjamas, then raises his hands and pauses. Drawing in a deep breath, his rotates his arms inwards, holding them palm apart at the centre of his chest.
He closes his eyes, concentrating, as a deep, soft dot of magic forms between his hands, its light weirdly contained to its body, tight controlled. Opening his eyes, Stephen forcefully presses his palms together, a cupped clap sounding, then slowly exhales, the breath silent. He parts his hands, the frame of an expanding orb connecting his palms, unfamiliar symbols coating its surface, and releases it, leaving it floating. Connecting his thumbs and index fingers, forming a circle, he draws them apart, the orb responding to his action and growing in size.
My skin tingles as the magic passes over me, reaching the boundaries of the room and stopping, enclosing us within. Stephen, examining the spell, seemingly satisfied, turns to me and explains, "You speak of Thoth, correct? That's not a bad approach; as the second child of Gaea and Demiurge he's enough power to block the perception of Chthon." I stare around the room, not responding for a second, as I observe the visible magic, gleaming what I can of its function.
Going by the fact that Stephen is freely invoking the names of great powers, then I hazard that it's shielding us from their attention, somehow. An obvious barrier, perhaps working as a block against higher consciousness? Or, even more in depth, a bubble reality, separating us completely from the local universe? Ideas and inspiration run through my mind, a slight smile growing on my face as I consider, when Stephen continues, wondering, "How are you going to get him to agree?"
I look back to him, my smile dropping as his question accurately getting to the heart of my major worry. Shifting my sight back to the magic, I voice my unsurety, "No idea, honestly. I know that family's troublesome, what with most of them being straight evil and all that, but I have no knowledge as to how they deal with each other." Glancing back to him from the corner of my eye, finding him staring, I turn to him, musing with hope, "Maybe he'll want to simply work against the release of Chthon? You know, from the good of his godly heart?"
Stephen huffs in humour, saying, "Doubtful, but stranger things have happened. From what we know of that loose pantheon, Thoth acts as more of a mediator, maintaining a certain balance of power between Order, and Chaos." He moves to his seat, the Cloak trailing behind as he sits, draping itself over his shoulders, where he resumes, "That's not to say that he allies with evil, or even assists it; he just more opposes it through subjects and bestowed items."
Disappointment grows inside me at his description, my half-formed plan being shot down before it can even truly begin, when he states, "That said, I might have something that can convince him." He strokes his beard, a calculating glint in his eyes as he looks off, before fixing his gaze back on me, "Leave it to me for now, I'll work something out. We can't have Chthon taking advantage of the war now, can we?" Relieved, I bow slightly in my seat, careful not to spill my tea, and thank him sincerely.
Stephen then asks, "And your second project?" My heart lightly drops as he brings that up, having regretted revealing it the moment I said it. Calling upon my growing acting skills, having a lot of opportunities lately to push it, I wave his question off and evade, telling a fragment of another plan,
"Ah, I've been browsing for suitable materials. I was gonna see about tying Thoth's power to some kind of amulet, to possibly prevent Chthon from sharing Wanda's senses." Stephen stares, his eyes piercing and clear, and says,
"Is that so?" I nod, the motion calm and normal, then force a yawn. Covering my mouth and turning away, I offer an apologetic look to him, before releasing.
Draining the last of my tea, I voice, fatigued, "Sorry, it's been a long day." Placing down the cup, clinking it on the table, I get up from my seat and roll my shoulders, "I leave you to what you were doing; I'm gonna go to bed." Standing over him, I smile tiredly, "Thank you for your help, really." Turning, my gaze lingering on him for a moment, I move, making for the exit. I manage to reach the door with his eyes following, stepping through the magic and just past the threshold, when he speaks,
"Sarah." He calls, a note of something in his voice, causing me to stop, my back to him, "You know where I am." Glancing down at the flooring beyond, I silently sigh, then walk away, leaving him,
"Night, Stephen."
The cold of rising sun shines down on my body as I lie on the dusty earth, peeking through the gaps of the bush hiding me, binoculars held against my eyes. An illusion settles around my body, blending me into the wheat-coloured, dry grass as I survey the distant, fenced base. I stay still, patiently watching for several hours, memorising patrol patterns and guard changes, the layout of the base, until I'm ready. Confident of success, the morning just starting, I lower the binoculars and rub my eyes, then store them away.
Checking my conjured, small blade and adjusting my amulet, I spin a portal on the ground beside me, the other side showing the sky, and forcefully roll left into it. My stomach flips as I round the edge of the portal, my body staying in contact with the earth as I exit, continuing to roll. Coming to a stop, I close it behind me as my illusion adjusts, then wait and perceive the surrounding Chi, finding everything calm, no person having noticed me. Pushing myself up into a crouch, I sneak to the edge of the fence, reaching my chosen entrance.
Widening the gap in the damaged links, I step in and enter the base, laying foot on grass and quickly sprinting across it, passing sand-coloured military trucks. I place myself against an open-ended warehouse, my hands against its chilled, corrugated walls, and focus on my perception. Kneeling slightly, I move along the wall until I reach its end, resting against it as I wait, hearing the nearing steps and feeling the sluggish Chi. As the soldier rounds the corner, red beret atop his bed, I whip my hand out and press it against his neck, disrupting his Chi and knocking him out.
I grab him as he falls, holding his weight and lifting him, and carry him back, laying him on the ground. I study his features, the multi-tone camo of his uniform, then lower my sight to his brown, leather boots and nod, happy with my capture. Placing his unconscious self in my ring, freezing his time, I change my illusion, replicating his appearance, then stand and turn. Adjusting my mindset and atmosphere, taking on the attitude of a normal, if not tired, soldier, I step onto the concrete road and start on my way.
I make subtle shifts in my movements as I walk, keeping a certain level of distance from the others I can feel, staying away from the barracks and engineering. Passing an open garage, sparks flying as a person works on some welding, I keep my head straight, giving the impression I'm busy, and swivel down another path. Finally exiting the collection of warehouses, two rows of three, I clock sight of my target; a lone standing building, two guards armed with rifles standing in front.
Inhaling a small breath, I relax my face as I near, not too serious, but not too friendly, and approach in silence, their attention shifting me. As the one on the left raises his voice, talking in his language, I cast out my senses, noting the positioning of those in range, then flash forward. I'm on them before they can raise their weapons, colliding with the talking one, gripping the other in a telekinetic grasp, and holding them up against the wall. Silencing them with strength and magic, I put them both to sleep with a disruption, then store them away with their fellow.
Waiting a moment for any reaction from the base, but hearing no alarm blaring or any response from the personnel, I step to the door. Noticing the electronic lock, I follow the wall to the closest window, its panes protected by bars, and look inside. Its interior now in mind, I summon a portal and step through, closing it as I enter out into the structure. Cracking my neck, running my sight over the armoury and spotting what I'm here for, my disguised face smiles as my normal voice sounds, full of success,
"Piece of piss."
I survey the spread parts of the disassembled rifle on the workbench with satisfaction, a few gun-nut youtube videos helping me to take it apart, each piece now carefully cleaned and organised by order of removal. Prep complete, I pull off my jumper and throw it over my out-of-the-way stool, then gather my lengthy hair and tie it up into a messy bun, my bangs framing my face. Summoning my notebook across the bench, placing it near me, I draw on the ambient magic, leaving it in a ready state.
Taking my headphones from my ring and sliding my Stark-gifted phone from my pocket, I connect that two and open a music program, scrolling through until I find my favourite band. Thankful that they seem to exist in this universe, somehow, I tap on their fourth album, A Fever Dream, and put my headphones on, then press play. As the initial notes of the first song sound in my ears, I interlock my fingers and stretch out my arms, feeling my digits crack, then shake them out, ready to get to work.
Opening my notebook, I flick to the first page I need and infuse it with the waiting magic, then gradually do the same to others, until entire sections of the book are emanating sorcery. Closing it, I place my hand on the light blue cover and focus, then slide it to side, drawing the created runes from the pages, watching as they trail after me. With a small swirl, a shift of trajectory, I bring them to a centre, then lift them up and pull away, leaving them floating and bobbing, orbiting around each other.
Lifting a hand to the runes, I concentrate, arranging them into the desired pattern, devised after numerous alterations. Reaching out, I pinch the chief rune, the one that binds and links them all together, that maintains the sequence, and pull, bringing it two me. That done, I grab the barrel of the rifle, the heart and central part of the gun, and touch the rune to it. I watch with bated breath as it integrates, carving in, uncertain if it'll succeed, when I feel the magic respond, the union complete.
Releasing a breath of relief, I start to the rebuild the rifle, parts sliding back in and clicking into place, adding the appropriate runes as I do, until, ten minutes later, its whole again. Wiping the sweat from my brow and unsticking my hair from my face, I smile at a job well, then lift. The weight of the massive gun, it's length a bit over two meters, settles in my grip as I hold it, hoisting it up and placing its stock against the pocket of my shoulder. I look down the top of the barrel, through the handle, the scope detached and sat on the table for later, then lower it and run diagnostics.
Slotting the empty mag in the side, I grab and pull the bolt back, testing if it moves correctly, then slide it into loaded position. Secure in the knowledge that the rifle isn't loaded, I lift it again and depress the trigger, feeling the resistance of the spring, the two-stage mechanism, and hearing a crisp click. Happy that it all seems to be working, that I didn't fuck it up, I place it back on the table, its bipod angling it up. Humming to the music, moving slightly as I dance, singing along under my breath, I smile, a disgusting sense of accomplishment in my chest, thinking,
Step two complete.
The street of Saddle Horn Circle, Missouri, is a quiet one, with single story, wide homes set on large sections of grass-full land, separated from their neighbours by a good distance. One house, with its dark, wood-frame exterior, stands before me, a single light shining through the window, illuminating the lone occupant. Standing in the small woods behind the house, the trees hiding my presence, I stare at the homeowner, watching as the old man goes about his nightly routine.
He stands, his back to the light, in his kitchen, washing a dish in the sink, having finished his dinner a few minutes ago. His eyes, looking through his thin reading glasses, focus on what he's doing, a subtle, repetitive nodding of his head revealing his tiredness. Turning off the tap, the rising steam fading, he places it on the rack and dries his hands, wiping them on his clothes, then moves away out of view. With his sight blocked, a wall between us, I creep from the dark and quietly approach, crossing his garden, and come to stand beside his locked sliding door, waiting.
I track his movements, feeling him walk through his home and stop in a final room, then wait. He shuffles about, moving between dressers and changing into his sleepwear, until he sits on the side of his bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Sliding his glasses from his face with a careful pull and setting them down on his nightstand, he rubs at the bridge of his nose and breaths, then shuffles back. Laying down, his head on his pillow, he pulls the quilt over himself, tugging it over his shoulders, and closes his eyes.
His breathing evening out and slowing as he peacefully falls asleep, unknowing to my presence a few meters away, I cast a simple unlocking spell on the glass door. After the lock softly clicks, allowing me entrance, I gently slide open the way, parting the net curtain, and enter. My foot-falls tread silently on the linoleum flooring as I cross it, passing through the doorway and turning down his carpeted hallway. Faint snoring reaches me as I draw near his room, his open door showing his sleeping form beyond.
I slip into his room, gliding over to the side of his bed, and stare down at him, taking in the top of his bald head and ring of white hair, looking upon his familiar face. Reaching out, I gently tap him on his wrinkled cheek and push my Chi into his body, preventing him from waking while I perform my task. After making sure he's okay, his Chi stable but aged, I draw back his covers a little and pull an arm from underneath. Sliding back his sleeve, exposing his flesh, I conjure a small blade and press it against his skin.
I apply pressure and slice down, creating a small wound, and wait for his blood to start leaking, a tiny trail beginning to leak down. Holding his arm up, I wrap it in my telekinesis and gently pull, drawing the blood from him and gathering it into a ball, its size increasing as I add to it. I leave it to steady in the air, to grow, as I remove a mason jar from my storage, its cool glass settling in my grasp. I open its latch, the top popping open and tapping its body, then reach out with a finger, pressing it against the bleeding cut, healing it with my Chi.
Lowering his arm, placing it against his side, I hold the jar aloft and carefully manoeuvrer the orb of blood into it, the liquid splashing against the side as I release my control over it. Quickly shutting the lid, I store and freeze it, then turn to sleeping man. Closing my eyes and bowing, offering him my thanks, I reopen them and summon Sun-Kissed, flowing it over his covered form and restoring him to perfect health for his age, then retreat, leaving the Dao fire to its work.
Step three complete.
Sitting on the roof of the Sanctum, hearing the hustle and bustle of the city, the horn of a passing car piercing, I pull my phone from my pocket. Taking a sip of my orange juice, the ice touching my lips, I open my contacts and swipe, finding who I'm looking for. The fingers of my hand flash over the keypad as I write out a quick text, sending my question across, 'You busy?'. Placing the phone down on the wood surface of the small garden table next to me, screen side up, I lean back into my chair and stare at the Sun, the glowing image of Apalla flashing in mind.
Shaking that memory away, I get comfy and set about to wait, closing my eyes and enjoying the heat, the chill of the wind over me creating a pleasant contrast. As I start to fade away, the atmosphere a bit too comfortable, I'm brought back by the vibration of my phone, its slight rattle on the table. Reaching over, I pick it up and hold it above me, then open my eyes and unlock it, finding a notification, her response to my message. Pressing it, the screen switching as the app opens, I read, 'Not at the moment, why?'
Tapping away, I ask, 'Can I portal to you?' The bubble of my text rises on screen, two grey ticks turning blue as it's read, before her own bubble pops up, three dots bobbing. It remains for a few seconds before disappearing, then reappearing, switching between the two a few more times, before, inevitably, she replies,
'Sure.'
Smiling, I drain the rest of my drink and stand, moving to the door down and taking the stairs, climbing down to the second floor. A few paths later, I stand at my workbench, the rifle where I left it, and pick up the scope. Holding it, I turn it over and check my work, examining it for any mistakes, thankfully finding none obvious to my eye, then place it on the gun and secure it, tightening the screws. My project now whole, I lift it and hold its length over my shoulder, its barrel extending up quite a bit.
Summoning the image of my target to mind, I spin out a hand and create a portal, a small apartment visible beyond, and step through, my heart heavy. I look about, running my sight over the limited furniture and mess, clothes and books strewn about, a pistol on the coffee table, and call out, "Yo, anyone home?" A noise further away, down the corridor, sounds, before she shouts back,
"Give me a minute!" I stand where I arrived, just out of view from where she is, content to wait, until I hear her close in. The blonde, jeans-wearing woman turns the corner to me, the smile on her face rapidly shifting to surprise as she lays eyes on me, stopping where she is and asking, incredulous, "Is that what I think it is?"
I glance at the rifle in my arms, its information revealing itself to me,
[Revelation
Name – Denel NTW-20
Type – Gun (Rifle, Anti-Material)]
Then simply reply, "Yep." Natasha gets closer, vetting the gun with an experts eye, pausing on the obvious runes imbued, then locked sight with me, interrogating,
"Where on the earth did you get it? No, more than that, why do you have it?" Staring down at her, my conscience begging me not to use her, I push through, telling, my expression solemn and my eyes sorry,
"I need you to do something for me."