https://thefirstage.org/forums/ Thu, 14 May 2026 07:17:57 +0000 MyBB https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1971.html Thu, 26 Feb 2026 01:39:22 +0000 Kaelan]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1971.html Zone felt unreal. Kaelan kept waiting for symptoms. On the drive back to the airport, he monitored himself obsessively checking his pupils in the rearview mirror, palpating the lymph nodes at his jaw, tracking his heart rate on the portable wallet-sync patch still adhered beneath his collarbone. He half-expected nausea, vertigo, and a metallic taste blooming across his tongue any minute but nothing came.

Nazariy sat beside him in the transport van. He did not marvel at the paved roads or the returning traffic. He didn’t ask questions. He simply watched. At the checkpoint, Kaelan insisted on a radiation scan. Twice. The portable dosimeter passed over his body in smooth arcs. Elevated exposure, yes, but not catastrophic. Within tolerable limits for short-term presence. Kaelan reasoned that his bone marrow would survive. His genome, for now, remained obedient, but he was going to do advanced testing on himself weekly for the next six months just in case. By the time they boarded the jet to Moscow, Kaelan’s anxiety had thinned to a manageable hum. He could think again and strategize. He had done it. He had walked into Chernobyl and walked out unconsumed. And he had brought something with him.

Moscow rose in glass and light. After the skeletal silence of Pripyat, the city felt obscenely alive, with traffic highways like glowing arteries and towers piercing the clouds like spears. Paragon dominated the research district. The skyscraper twisted upward in elegant defiance of gravity, its surface reflecting sky and garden alike. Kaelan allowed himself the smallest flicker of pride as he watched Nazariy’s reaction. “This,” he said quietly, adjusting his coat, “is where real work happens.”

They crossed through the main entrance. Replica technologies stood in illuminated cases like relics of a benevolent future: bionic limbs with synth-skin seamless as flesh, retinal implants displayed in rotating holographic projection, testimonials glowing in soft blue script overhead. The AI assist chimed gently as they stepped inside. “Welcome to Paragon Group. How may I assist you today?”

Kaelan ignored it. He didn’t need assistance. He belonged here, and a glance at the scanner’s direction should flag the system of his arrival within seconds. The human receptionist recognized him immediately however. Clearance codes transferred with a subtle flick of his wrist against the security panel, and the elevators opened without delay. Nazariy’s reflection multiplied in the mirrored walls as they ascended. Like the various high clearance divisions, the Genome Division required deeper clearance. So did Ascendant, and Kaelan had both.

Before anything else, he routed himself through Medical. Full panel bloodwork. Bone marrow scan. Rapid cytogenetic screening. Gamma burden quantification. Nanoscopic sweep for foreign bioactivity. He submitted to it all with clipped impatience, standing beneath white light while machines hummed around him. Hours later, preliminary results populated his tablet, but he only gave it a cursory scan before taking a deeper dive into the results once he could be alone. It was enough to feel clean, for now.

Nazariy, meanwhile, drew attention. Not alarm, but curiosity. He’d already informed Ephraim and the team of Nazariy’s imminent arrival as a research subject. Given that he had no birth certificate or any legal existence at all, Paragon had special ways to hand wave the paperwork.

“He’s with me,” Kaelan said simply whenever he was asked. That was enough for the underlings.

Temporary residential quarters were arranged in one of Paragon’s internal housing levels similar to the controlled accommodations used for certain research participants. It was comfortable, but most important, it was  ontained.

The room had reinforced walls and discreet monitoring systems embedded behind panels as well as adjustable climate control, private washroom, and fresh clothing laid out. Real food would be delivered on a schedule.
Not a cell, but not entirely freedom either.

Kaelan watched Nazariy take in the space. The clean lines. The absence of rot. The quiet hum of climate filtration.

“You’ll be comfortable here,” Kaelan assured him. “Safer than the Zone. No Shaykra. I promise.”

Testing protocols were already drafting themselves in his mind. Controlled exposure trials. Dermal response mapping. Electromagnetic field analysis during spore activation. Genetic sequencing. Whole genome comparison against baseline human markers. Epigenetic irregularities. Possible chimerism screening. Proteomic profiling.

And the spores.

He had secured many viable samples from the concrete smear. Stored in negative-pressure containment in Genome Division.

If the black responded to Nazariy biologically, pheromonally, thermally, or electromagnetically, Paragon would find the mechanism. And if it was something more…

His thoughts flickered briefly toward Ascendant Division. Toward the gap between channelers and non-channelers. Toward Project Visakanya. Toward severance.

What if this wasn’t fungus? What if it was a superintelligence interface? Kaelan clasped his hands behind his back, watching Nazariy from across the room.

“You’ll rest tonight,” he said, voice measured. “Tomorrow we begin.”

He felt that thrill from the concrete slab in Chernobyl again. The moment the black recoiled from him but embraced Nazariy. This wasn’t just discovery. It was leverage. And for the first time since Shayka stripped him to shivering bone, Kaelan felt something stronger than fear.

Control.

Until then, he had to meet personally with Ephraim and explain everything man to man.]]> Zone felt unreal. Kaelan kept waiting for symptoms. On the drive back to the airport, he monitored himself obsessively checking his pupils in the rearview mirror, palpating the lymph nodes at his jaw, tracking his heart rate on the portable wallet-sync patch still adhered beneath his collarbone. He half-expected nausea, vertigo, and a metallic taste blooming across his tongue any minute but nothing came.

Nazariy sat beside him in the transport van. He did not marvel at the paved roads or the returning traffic. He didn’t ask questions. He simply watched. At the checkpoint, Kaelan insisted on a radiation scan. Twice. The portable dosimeter passed over his body in smooth arcs. Elevated exposure, yes, but not catastrophic. Within tolerable limits for short-term presence. Kaelan reasoned that his bone marrow would survive. His genome, for now, remained obedient, but he was going to do advanced testing on himself weekly for the next six months just in case. By the time they boarded the jet to Moscow, Kaelan’s anxiety had thinned to a manageable hum. He could think again and strategize. He had done it. He had walked into Chernobyl and walked out unconsumed. And he had brought something with him.

Moscow rose in glass and light. After the skeletal silence of Pripyat, the city felt obscenely alive, with traffic highways like glowing arteries and towers piercing the clouds like spears. Paragon dominated the research district. The skyscraper twisted upward in elegant defiance of gravity, its surface reflecting sky and garden alike. Kaelan allowed himself the smallest flicker of pride as he watched Nazariy’s reaction. “This,” he said quietly, adjusting his coat, “is where real work happens.”

They crossed through the main entrance. Replica technologies stood in illuminated cases like relics of a benevolent future: bionic limbs with synth-skin seamless as flesh, retinal implants displayed in rotating holographic projection, testimonials glowing in soft blue script overhead. The AI assist chimed gently as they stepped inside. “Welcome to Paragon Group. How may I assist you today?”

Kaelan ignored it. He didn’t need assistance. He belonged here, and a glance at the scanner’s direction should flag the system of his arrival within seconds. The human receptionist recognized him immediately however. Clearance codes transferred with a subtle flick of his wrist against the security panel, and the elevators opened without delay. Nazariy’s reflection multiplied in the mirrored walls as they ascended. Like the various high clearance divisions, the Genome Division required deeper clearance. So did Ascendant, and Kaelan had both.

Before anything else, he routed himself through Medical. Full panel bloodwork. Bone marrow scan. Rapid cytogenetic screening. Gamma burden quantification. Nanoscopic sweep for foreign bioactivity. He submitted to it all with clipped impatience, standing beneath white light while machines hummed around him. Hours later, preliminary results populated his tablet, but he only gave it a cursory scan before taking a deeper dive into the results once he could be alone. It was enough to feel clean, for now.

Nazariy, meanwhile, drew attention. Not alarm, but curiosity. He’d already informed Ephraim and the team of Nazariy’s imminent arrival as a research subject. Given that he had no birth certificate or any legal existence at all, Paragon had special ways to hand wave the paperwork.

“He’s with me,” Kaelan said simply whenever he was asked. That was enough for the underlings.

Temporary residential quarters were arranged in one of Paragon’s internal housing levels similar to the controlled accommodations used for certain research participants. It was comfortable, but most important, it was  ontained.

The room had reinforced walls and discreet monitoring systems embedded behind panels as well as adjustable climate control, private washroom, and fresh clothing laid out. Real food would be delivered on a schedule.
Not a cell, but not entirely freedom either.

Kaelan watched Nazariy take in the space. The clean lines. The absence of rot. The quiet hum of climate filtration.

“You’ll be comfortable here,” Kaelan assured him. “Safer than the Zone. No Shaykra. I promise.”

Testing protocols were already drafting themselves in his mind. Controlled exposure trials. Dermal response mapping. Electromagnetic field analysis during spore activation. Genetic sequencing. Whole genome comparison against baseline human markers. Epigenetic irregularities. Possible chimerism screening. Proteomic profiling.

And the spores.

He had secured many viable samples from the concrete smear. Stored in negative-pressure containment in Genome Division.

If the black responded to Nazariy biologically, pheromonally, thermally, or electromagnetically, Paragon would find the mechanism. And if it was something more…

His thoughts flickered briefly toward Ascendant Division. Toward the gap between channelers and non-channelers. Toward Project Visakanya. Toward severance.

What if this wasn’t fungus? What if it was a superintelligence interface? Kaelan clasped his hands behind his back, watching Nazariy from across the room.

“You’ll rest tonight,” he said, voice measured. “Tomorrow we begin.”

He felt that thrill from the concrete slab in Chernobyl again. The moment the black recoiled from him but embraced Nazariy. This wasn’t just discovery. It was leverage. And for the first time since Shayka stripped him to shivering bone, Kaelan felt something stronger than fear.

Control.

Until then, he had to meet personally with Ephraim and explain everything man to man.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1845.html Wed, 28 May 2025 00:37:25 +0000 Jay Carpenter]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1845.html The Long Way Home


The car dropped Jay off at the curb. Medsi hospital rose in modern lines of glass and chrome, its facade glowing with lighting that bled softly into the icy sleet. Not quite elite, but high enough up the ladder that you needed real clearance or money to walk through the doors without a sideways glance.

The lobby was quiet at this hour, a lull between the late-night accidents and the pre-dawn emergencies. A security drone floated overhead, trailing a soft green light as it scanned his face and credentials. Dominion crest visible on his coat again, now that he’d removed the over-layer, he stepped to the triage counter.

A woman in hospital blues looked up. Her eyes flicked to the swelling hand he kept cradled against his chest.

“Emergency?” she asked, almost automatically. “Do you have clearance or are you paying out of pocket?”
“Clearance.” Jay replied, voice rough from the cold. He reached into his coat, withdrew a slim card, and let her scan it.

Her expression shifted. Not friendlier. Just more efficient.

“Take a seat. Someone will see you shortly.”

Jay nodded and moved to the low row of waiting chairs along the far wall. He might have gone to the Facility, but the place still gave him the creeps, and getting in at this hour would be an even bigger pain in the ass than a quick dash into an actual hospital.

He sank into the seat and leaned back, wincing as the motion jostled his hand. He didn’t look at his wallet nor at any unread messages there. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the slow drip of water off his coat onto the clean tile floor, and tried to relax. It went horribly.]]> The Long Way Home


The car dropped Jay off at the curb. Medsi hospital rose in modern lines of glass and chrome, its facade glowing with lighting that bled softly into the icy sleet. Not quite elite, but high enough up the ladder that you needed real clearance or money to walk through the doors without a sideways glance.

The lobby was quiet at this hour, a lull between the late-night accidents and the pre-dawn emergencies. A security drone floated overhead, trailing a soft green light as it scanned his face and credentials. Dominion crest visible on his coat again, now that he’d removed the over-layer, he stepped to the triage counter.

A woman in hospital blues looked up. Her eyes flicked to the swelling hand he kept cradled against his chest.

“Emergency?” she asked, almost automatically. “Do you have clearance or are you paying out of pocket?”
“Clearance.” Jay replied, voice rough from the cold. He reached into his coat, withdrew a slim card, and let her scan it.

Her expression shifted. Not friendlier. Just more efficient.

“Take a seat. Someone will see you shortly.”

Jay nodded and moved to the low row of waiting chairs along the far wall. He might have gone to the Facility, but the place still gave him the creeps, and getting in at this hour would be an even bigger pain in the ass than a quick dash into an actual hospital.

He sank into the seat and leaned back, wincing as the motion jostled his hand. He didn’t look at his wallet nor at any unread messages there. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the slow drip of water off his coat onto the clean tile floor, and tried to relax. It went horribly.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1611.html Tue, 30 Apr 2024 10:03:29 +0000 Nox]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1611.html
Getting out of bed hurt like hell.  His body was healed but the scars that remained from the prior healings by the girl were still taunt and dense.  Everything about them was wrong, from the way they looked to the way they felt.  His side hurt.  His legs and arms hurt.  But not from the post healing.  Nox stretched each place realizing he was going to have to go back to the basics.  A lot more yoga, and strength training and a lot less of his other things -- except his mind was still sharp.  Though he was fading with the medication running through his veins still.

By the time a nurse finally came into check on him, Nox was seeing things in the shadows.  A pair of glowing eyes stared back at him and beckoned him to follow.  The nurse was in a flurry calling the doctor. "Doctor, the fever is gone.  The ultrasound is clear."

"Can I go now?" Nox interrupted.

They hushed him and started looking through his records, and such and spoke in hushed tones.  "At least stop the medication." Nox said, trying to get things situated.

They rushed out of the room disconnecting the IV from his arm. "Stay in bed, a little while longer." the nurse instructed Nox.

But he didn't listen.  The shadow beckoned him to follow when he was alone.  There were worse things to do.  He reached into the sticky slime of the horde and grabbed the power.  He at least had a weapon to protect himself from wherever this nightmare was taking him.  If he were seeing it at all.  Nightmares were hard to see, harder to kill and Nox had never been beckoned by a monster to follow it before.  Where was it taking him?]]>
Getting out of bed hurt like hell.  His body was healed but the scars that remained from the prior healings by the girl were still taunt and dense.  Everything about them was wrong, from the way they looked to the way they felt.  His side hurt.  His legs and arms hurt.  But not from the post healing.  Nox stretched each place realizing he was going to have to go back to the basics.  A lot more yoga, and strength training and a lot less of his other things -- except his mind was still sharp.  Though he was fading with the medication running through his veins still.

By the time a nurse finally came into check on him, Nox was seeing things in the shadows.  A pair of glowing eyes stared back at him and beckoned him to follow.  The nurse was in a flurry calling the doctor. "Doctor, the fever is gone.  The ultrasound is clear."

"Can I go now?" Nox interrupted.

They hushed him and started looking through his records, and such and spoke in hushed tones.  "At least stop the medication." Nox said, trying to get things situated.

They rushed out of the room disconnecting the IV from his arm. "Stay in bed, a little while longer." the nurse instructed Nox.

But he didn't listen.  The shadow beckoned him to follow when he was alone.  There were worse things to do.  He reached into the sticky slime of the horde and grabbed the power.  He at least had a weapon to protect himself from wherever this nightmare was taking him.  If he were seeing it at all.  Nightmares were hard to see, harder to kill and Nox had never been beckoned by a monster to follow it before.  Where was it taking him?]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1570.html Thu, 18 Jan 2024 14:36:25 +0000 Visha]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1570.html Lyaeus]]

She’d been in her bedroom for days.

Her skin was buzzing, and it made her unsafe. Even Ephraim wouldn’t see her when she was like this. Visha lay curled up on her bed, the little owl of the bracelet Seven had given her pressed tight in the hollow of her fist. She ran that wonderful night over and over in her mind, re-lived it a thousand times. She’d promised to see him again, though she had no wallet contact to give him. But even Catch wouldn’t spring her loose when security was locked down this tight.

Her arm still throbbed from all the blood draws. They’d needed that to fix what she’d broken, she knew, but she hated it every time; fought like a desperate animal, and pleaded, and screamed, and begged. To no avail.

Time began to lose all meaning. She didn’t even watch her favourite shows, feeling it a cruel and mocking reminder of how much she wanted to return to the glamour and mystery of Kallisti.

When Ephraim was finally ready to see her, she didn’t know how long it had been. Visha sat up. She was covered from toes to throat, but she folded her limbs tighter around herself. In contrition or sulkiness, it was hard to say. Her alien eyes peeped over the top of her knees, silent. But the news wasn’t good. He explained she was going to be visiting a doctor, and her heart sank to her ankles at the prospect. She didn’t argue, though. Especially when Ephraim used the C word. 

Cure.]]> Lyaeus]]

She’d been in her bedroom for days.

Her skin was buzzing, and it made her unsafe. Even Ephraim wouldn’t see her when she was like this. Visha lay curled up on her bed, the little owl of the bracelet Seven had given her pressed tight in the hollow of her fist. She ran that wonderful night over and over in her mind, re-lived it a thousand times. She’d promised to see him again, though she had no wallet contact to give him. But even Catch wouldn’t spring her loose when security was locked down this tight.

Her arm still throbbed from all the blood draws. They’d needed that to fix what she’d broken, she knew, but she hated it every time; fought like a desperate animal, and pleaded, and screamed, and begged. To no avail.

Time began to lose all meaning. She didn’t even watch her favourite shows, feeling it a cruel and mocking reminder of how much she wanted to return to the glamour and mystery of Kallisti.

When Ephraim was finally ready to see her, she didn’t know how long it had been. Visha sat up. She was covered from toes to throat, but she folded her limbs tighter around herself. In contrition or sulkiness, it was hard to say. Her alien eyes peeped over the top of her knees, silent. But the news wasn’t good. He explained she was going to be visiting a doctor, and her heart sank to her ankles at the prospect. She didn’t argue, though. Especially when Ephraim used the C word. 

Cure.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1245.html Thu, 25 Jun 2020 02:11:36 +0000 Daiyu]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1245.html
The new doctor was suppose to be different. The others whispered about her during recreation time. She didn't know the name, but at least the change would be something new. 

Mara waited in the therapy room, as always. Her scrubs were clean unlike some of the others. Her slippers were soft. Her hair was loose today, but her eyes sank the longer she wait. She sat so still, hands on her knees, she may have been in the midst of meditation if it wasn't for the drip of drool beginning to pool in the corner of her mouth.

With a jerk, her eyes yanked to the shadowy corners and she smiled as she pat her knee. Her pets would keep her company until the doctor came.

@"Meera Alam"]]>
The new doctor was suppose to be different. The others whispered about her during recreation time. She didn't know the name, but at least the change would be something new. 

Mara waited in the therapy room, as always. Her scrubs were clean unlike some of the others. Her slippers were soft. Her hair was loose today, but her eyes sank the longer she wait. She sat so still, hands on her knees, she may have been in the midst of meditation if it wasn't for the drip of drool beginning to pool in the corner of her mouth.

With a jerk, her eyes yanked to the shadowy corners and she smiled as she pat her knee. Her pets would keep her company until the doctor came.

@"Meera Alam"]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1069.html Tue, 22 Jan 2019 17:47:58 +0000 Lih]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1069.html
The door was open.

There was a moment’s pause, then the man strolled in. Walking, slow and steady, a silver tassel slung casually over his shoulder. His face was set and hard. The new desk plate, displaying the golden cursive of Meera’s name, was bright and fresh.

He looked around, felt the electric expectation in the air. He saw the office: the small window with bars; the stained, paper-covered desk; the single potted fern in the corner; the sickly, fluorescent bulb… all the rest.

Eiji shook his head to himself as he sat in the wooden chair. They’d spent a couple of days in the relative stark administrative offices of the Guardian, orientating Eiji, but it had felt much longer to Eiji. The hospital administer had insisted on conducting extensive interviews first, reviewing his medical and military history with the Belgian doctor, and Eiji had become a little bored with either sitting in as a silent observer or waiting around. He had expected some hard interrogations, but the doctors so far had been very low-key and relaxed.

Eiji had been looking forward to beginning actual treatment at the Guardian, but there seemed to be no particular direction to what they were doing. The belgian doctor moved with a purpose, but he didn’t share it with Eiji. Eiji wasn’t really sure what they were looking for, but when he pressed for answers, the doctors had a habit of replying in riddles. 

Eyes wide. Waiting. Waiting.

Then Meera appeared before him.

A slow smile dug its way across Eiji Lynx’s face. He’d seen some badasses in his time, and many of the best were in the air force’s ranks. 

But he’d never seen such a casual display of utter cool. He liked his new doctor already. This stern office, the cool stride, light damn it, she’d won him before they had ever started.

“Eiji Lynx. Glad to meet you.”

Eiji Lynx]]>
The door was open.

There was a moment’s pause, then the man strolled in. Walking, slow and steady, a silver tassel slung casually over his shoulder. His face was set and hard. The new desk plate, displaying the golden cursive of Meera’s name, was bright and fresh.

He looked around, felt the electric expectation in the air. He saw the office: the small window with bars; the stained, paper-covered desk; the single potted fern in the corner; the sickly, fluorescent bulb… all the rest.

Eiji shook his head to himself as he sat in the wooden chair. They’d spent a couple of days in the relative stark administrative offices of the Guardian, orientating Eiji, but it had felt much longer to Eiji. The hospital administer had insisted on conducting extensive interviews first, reviewing his medical and military history with the Belgian doctor, and Eiji had become a little bored with either sitting in as a silent observer or waiting around. He had expected some hard interrogations, but the doctors so far had been very low-key and relaxed.

Eiji had been looking forward to beginning actual treatment at the Guardian, but there seemed to be no particular direction to what they were doing. The belgian doctor moved with a purpose, but he didn’t share it with Eiji. Eiji wasn’t really sure what they were looking for, but when he pressed for answers, the doctors had a habit of replying in riddles. 

Eyes wide. Waiting. Waiting.

Then Meera appeared before him.

A slow smile dug its way across Eiji Lynx’s face. He’d seen some badasses in his time, and many of the best were in the air force’s ranks. 

But he’d never seen such a casual display of utter cool. He liked his new doctor already. This stern office, the cool stride, light damn it, she’d won him before they had ever started.

“Eiji Lynx. Glad to meet you.”

Eiji Lynx]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-966.html Fri, 10 Aug 2018 22:55:19 +0000 Daiyu]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-966.html
She was playing chess with an older man named Slamet when excitement rippled through the wing. 

The patients with-it enough to notice the disturbance moved across the floor, slippers padding swiftly, to huddle around the window in the door. A woman was screaming in the hallway. Hysterical new patients weren't uncommon.

But this was different. This was the cook. 

Daiyu's eyes flared wide.]]>
She was playing chess with an older man named Slamet when excitement rippled through the wing. 

The patients with-it enough to notice the disturbance moved across the floor, slippers padding swiftly, to huddle around the window in the door. A woman was screaming in the hallway. Hysterical new patients weren't uncommon.

But this was different. This was the cook. 

Daiyu's eyes flared wide.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-661.html Wed, 07 Feb 2018 15:02:00 +0000 Morven]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-661.html
The girl was the worst casualty, spilling blood faster than they could pump it in. The power webbed through Morven in the same touch that found a line for the IV, her concentration split to the task; fumbling, twelve hours deep into a relentless shift. The team worked seamlessly around her. Barking orders and feedback from the machines. But the weaves were unravelling as fast as she could form them, the damage raging at a swifter pace than she could work. Monitors began a shrill warning; a drill on her focus. Somewhere distant she could hear her name pointed in question, the words muffled. Darkness misted in the edges of her vision like the night she had collapsed at Soren's feet.

You're going to lose her.

She drew deeper, could feel the sweetness begin to hurt as it surged and the flows strengthened. But even then she could still feel her slipping away, each touch of the power a drain, like the girl simply didn't have enough energy to support the work. No, no, no, no, no. There was sudden stillness around her, like the world had suddenly frozen. Morven chose not to acknowledge it. Her shoes slid in the blood underfoot as she tried to get a better grip; as if that would help anchor her; help the weave stabilise and penetrate. A colleague caught her elbow, pulled her hands gently away. Everything blurred when he glanced at the clock hanging overhead and called it.

"Time of death, four fifty-three am."


***

By now the red glow of sunrise was a memory, and Morven should have been home hours ago. Instead she'd only just snapped the gloves from her hands and clocked out, pausing momentarily at the door the nurses sneaked out to for a cigarette. Numbness cocooned her against the worst of it. The grief. The anger. She'd always had a temper; one liable to get her into trouble one day. But she'd swallowed it down to inform the family of their loss; absorbing those pale faces, the broken sobbing as worlds imploded, all the sharp edges embedding inwards. Knowing her failure was part of it.

She weathered it with the solemn professionalism she fought so hard to maintain during all her years training. Realised for the first time how tightly she had to hold on just to keep herself together.

Now, though, now she wanted to ram her fist into the fucking wall until the bloody pain eased out the knot in her chest. She choked the urge down instead, running her hand over the tight braid of curls at her crown; breathed in deep like Lyall suggested whenever the wolf bit chunks from her humanity. It didn't work, but it was better than grazed knuckles she'd have to explain later

A beep at her belt drew her gaze down wearily, then. By now her eyes burned raw with fatigue, but her brows still daggered low when she comprehended the message. The tight ball of kindling in her chest burst into abrupt flame.

Marcil was in theatre.

He must have been prepping for it even as the girl's life was bleeding out in Morven's hands. That little fucking shit! Her jaw set hard, and despite her exhaustion she began fumbling for her car keys, threading through the parked cars in blind haste until she found her own. She needed to get to the university hospital. Sage Parker was her patient and the bastard had no fucking right.

"Miss Kinnaird?"


She twisted from her car to find two suits approaching up the path. Government, clearly. Wonderful. Just wonderful. "Aye, that's me, and I've no time spare for words, not right now. Find me when I'm off duty."
Her palm rested on the door.

"Your shift ended at midnight, Miss Kinnaird, and we have already been to your apartment. We need to speak to you. It's a matter of some importance. This way, please."
The taller of the two, hair cropped short to his scalp, offered a tight smile. The fine lines about his eyes deepened, but his gaze was slate. A man running through the motions of pleasantry. Morven's lips pursed as he presented an ID holo formalised with the Ascendany's orange stamp. She could almost hear the low growl that'd be burrowing in her sister's throat had she been here. Her gaze moved to the shorter man, his face utterly impassive. Fuck.

"This needs to be quick. Understood?"


***

A nondescript office in the hospital complex housed their meeting. The smaller of the two men hovered by the door, hands braced in front of him. The other sat opposite her, caught amidst the glow of several screens pointed inwards, all shining with the hospital's logo revolving about as slowly as he chose to speak. He introduced himself and his colleague formally. Pointed out coffee steaming in a cafetiere, should she desire it (a nice way of saying she looked like shit; his flat lips almost quirked a smile). A jug of water too, if she preferred. Morven dampened the urge to bounce her leg under the table, the sheer leisurely pace with which he directed proceedings galling to every fibre of her desperate to be in theatre.

While he spoke he fiddled with the tech in front of him. Inserted a stick. Prodded a few keys. The glow against his pale skin faded, replaced with something darker, waiting. Finally he laced his hands in front of him and leaned in, the twin dark of his eyes meeting her own. He did not smile, not a hint; she counted the lines on his face while she waited for him to speak. Then, finally:

"Do you have any idea why we're here, Miss Kinnaird?"


Aye, she had an idea that the rumour of one too many miracles brought them to hound her doorstep. She'd known this would happen eventually, but keeping the secret had been secondary to making good use of it. Still, she cursed the ill timing. It made her feel more belligerent than she ought, even knowing that noncooperation on her part would only make things worse. Her lips pressed thin, but she didn't answer him. Silence reigned on the small hope she was wrong; she'd kick herself sharply if it turned out she spilled the secret freely when they were here for something else. Unlikely, but she hated regret.

He sighed. "It is required of all Custody citizens to register if they believe themselves in possession of Ascendant power. For the good of the Custody, and at the behest of Ascendancy himself. We believe you to be one such person, and yet you have not registered."


"Aye, I'm one of them. Aye, I haven't filled in the forms. Doesn't seem to me history's ever shown it to be a wise move. But I suppose you're not here to give me the choice."


He patiently swiped at the screen in front of him, ignoring the jibe. She could see the reflection of the registration form blinking in his eyes, that bloody orange text she'd stared at numerous times back in London -- when she'd first made the decision not to submit her life into the government's hands. Preliminaries began the interrogation. Her name. DOB. CID. When he asked her occupation her stony expression swiftly urged him to move on. Still he made her waste the breath saying it. Asshole.

"How long?"


"Since I was nineteen."


"And how did you first discover your ability?"


"That's not on the fucking form."
The words snapped out before she thought to control herself. The glare burning up in her eyes was as much frustration at her slip as irritation at her predicament. Sage's face flashed with every blink. The glint of skull. The glisten of brain. All those fucking wires weaving in an out; his parents' twisted love. How many times had she warned him? And he had promised to wait for her okay before he proceeded. Either he broke that promise or Marcil twisted him into it. He was a kid, and she knew how eager he was to jack back into the ether. The protectiveness swept over her again, and for one stupid moment she thought about re-purposing the fire in her veins. Just enough to get out of here. Deal with the consequences afterwards.

Her hand stayed, but perhaps only because she could feel how slippery the power had become; she'd wrung herself nearly dry trying to save the girl. A short sigh heaved out from her chest, a note of defeat. Trapped and cagey as an animal. She rubbed her face. Blinked out the tired burning. Tried to concentrate. Then leaned over to pour herself some of the coffee. Jerk awake her senses.

He watched her do it, stoical.

"My sister and I hiked a lot in the Cairngorms when we were younger. Tough terrain. Isolated wilderness, A real tough fucking show if you don't know what you're doing, and when you're really deep there's nowhere to go for help if you fuck up. One time my sister injured herself. A deep gash, flash o' bone in it. I bandaged her up and in the morning we hiked back out. Drove to the hospital in Inverness. But when the nurse peeked a look, the wound might have been healing a week already. No bone to see. Just an ugly scar now. That was the first time, I think. Not that I really ken the significance at the time."


She'd killed a man that night, but the guilt had never weighed on her. Even now, skirting around that little detail, her gaze was clear of it. He nodded, checked his screen.

"Summarise your abilities, please."


Her hands wrapped the cup. This time there was no hesitation. "I can ascertain injuries at a touch. Heal some of them, or aid it to happen more swiftly. Easier if I can see it, not impossible if I can't. Sometimes there's nae even a scar."
She paused, deliberating whether to add the new snippet tonight's tragedy made clear. In the end it all poured out. "Though it takes a certain amount of strength on the part of the patient, I think. I can give a boost of energy. Like adrenaline. Short lived. Sometimes that helps, with the minor things. I can ease pain too. And other, more mundane things. I assume you don't know the intricacies of it. How it's made up."
She shrugged. "It's easy to move things with it."


Less mundane things, too, but she wasn't stupid enough to talk of how the same power could shove a man backwards like he was a marionette; how easily bones snapped and cracked and twisted until that marionette barely resembled a man at all. How ropes of it could coil and tip that wretched twist of limbs into the rush of savage summer floods, never to surface again. She blinked, arms resting on the desk in front of her.

"Are you able to show us any of this?"
That, from the man at the door.

"Do I look like a fucking show pony, gentleman? Ask the next question."


***

Hours passed in that damn office, unpacking and unpicking her words; the bare bones of the registration form, and much more besides. They were interested in the healing, she realised; its strengths and limitations, so far as she understood it. She'd never paused to consider that it wasn't something everyone with the power was able to do, and even now did not really care. Impatience was sharpening her to a blade's edge, battling the sheer fatigue weighing heavy as a cement shroud. Sage might be dead by now. Or they might be sealing up the incision and wheeling him to recovery. And she hadn't been there for any of it. Despite vowing, and meaning it with her very marrow.

She rubbed her face again, asked him to repeat another question stuffed in her ears like cotton wool. Sometimes he paused after she'd finished explaining something, eyes wavering as he read text on the screen, but by now she'd stopped noticing -- or wondering what the fuck it was he clearly referenced. The coffee pot was empty, even the dregs stone cold. Her thoughts were a strange collision of jittery and sluggish as she checked her wrist watch for the third time that minute. He'd been quiet the whole time, perhaps reading through to make sure he had not missed anything. Finally he stood, jerking down the hem of his jacket. When the stick uncoupled from the screen, the holos flickered and brightened to their usual screens. "Thank you for your time, Miss Kinnaird. We will be in touch."


Morven stood too, slicking back her hair once more, blinking rapidly. He offered his hand as he passed her, but she ignored it. Moments later they were gone. She was not far behind.

She needed to get to the university; she needed to find Marcil.]]>
The girl was the worst casualty, spilling blood faster than they could pump it in. The power webbed through Morven in the same touch that found a line for the IV, her concentration split to the task; fumbling, twelve hours deep into a relentless shift. The team worked seamlessly around her. Barking orders and feedback from the machines. But the weaves were unravelling as fast as she could form them, the damage raging at a swifter pace than she could work. Monitors began a shrill warning; a drill on her focus. Somewhere distant she could hear her name pointed in question, the words muffled. Darkness misted in the edges of her vision like the night she had collapsed at Soren's feet.

You're going to lose her.

She drew deeper, could feel the sweetness begin to hurt as it surged and the flows strengthened. But even then she could still feel her slipping away, each touch of the power a drain, like the girl simply didn't have enough energy to support the work. No, no, no, no, no. There was sudden stillness around her, like the world had suddenly frozen. Morven chose not to acknowledge it. Her shoes slid in the blood underfoot as she tried to get a better grip; as if that would help anchor her; help the weave stabilise and penetrate. A colleague caught her elbow, pulled her hands gently away. Everything blurred when he glanced at the clock hanging overhead and called it.

"Time of death, four fifty-three am."


***

By now the red glow of sunrise was a memory, and Morven should have been home hours ago. Instead she'd only just snapped the gloves from her hands and clocked out, pausing momentarily at the door the nurses sneaked out to for a cigarette. Numbness cocooned her against the worst of it. The grief. The anger. She'd always had a temper; one liable to get her into trouble one day. But she'd swallowed it down to inform the family of their loss; absorbing those pale faces, the broken sobbing as worlds imploded, all the sharp edges embedding inwards. Knowing her failure was part of it.

She weathered it with the solemn professionalism she fought so hard to maintain during all her years training. Realised for the first time how tightly she had to hold on just to keep herself together.

Now, though, now she wanted to ram her fist into the fucking wall until the bloody pain eased out the knot in her chest. She choked the urge down instead, running her hand over the tight braid of curls at her crown; breathed in deep like Lyall suggested whenever the wolf bit chunks from her humanity. It didn't work, but it was better than grazed knuckles she'd have to explain later

A beep at her belt drew her gaze down wearily, then. By now her eyes burned raw with fatigue, but her brows still daggered low when she comprehended the message. The tight ball of kindling in her chest burst into abrupt flame.

Marcil was in theatre.

He must have been prepping for it even as the girl's life was bleeding out in Morven's hands. That little fucking shit! Her jaw set hard, and despite her exhaustion she began fumbling for her car keys, threading through the parked cars in blind haste until she found her own. She needed to get to the university hospital. Sage Parker was her patient and the bastard had no fucking right.

"Miss Kinnaird?"


She twisted from her car to find two suits approaching up the path. Government, clearly. Wonderful. Just wonderful. "Aye, that's me, and I've no time spare for words, not right now. Find me when I'm off duty."
Her palm rested on the door.

"Your shift ended at midnight, Miss Kinnaird, and we have already been to your apartment. We need to speak to you. It's a matter of some importance. This way, please."
The taller of the two, hair cropped short to his scalp, offered a tight smile. The fine lines about his eyes deepened, but his gaze was slate. A man running through the motions of pleasantry. Morven's lips pursed as he presented an ID holo formalised with the Ascendany's orange stamp. She could almost hear the low growl that'd be burrowing in her sister's throat had she been here. Her gaze moved to the shorter man, his face utterly impassive. Fuck.

"This needs to be quick. Understood?"


***

A nondescript office in the hospital complex housed their meeting. The smaller of the two men hovered by the door, hands braced in front of him. The other sat opposite her, caught amidst the glow of several screens pointed inwards, all shining with the hospital's logo revolving about as slowly as he chose to speak. He introduced himself and his colleague formally. Pointed out coffee steaming in a cafetiere, should she desire it (a nice way of saying she looked like shit; his flat lips almost quirked a smile). A jug of water too, if she preferred. Morven dampened the urge to bounce her leg under the table, the sheer leisurely pace with which he directed proceedings galling to every fibre of her desperate to be in theatre.

While he spoke he fiddled with the tech in front of him. Inserted a stick. Prodded a few keys. The glow against his pale skin faded, replaced with something darker, waiting. Finally he laced his hands in front of him and leaned in, the twin dark of his eyes meeting her own. He did not smile, not a hint; she counted the lines on his face while she waited for him to speak. Then, finally:

"Do you have any idea why we're here, Miss Kinnaird?"


Aye, she had an idea that the rumour of one too many miracles brought them to hound her doorstep. She'd known this would happen eventually, but keeping the secret had been secondary to making good use of it. Still, she cursed the ill timing. It made her feel more belligerent than she ought, even knowing that noncooperation on her part would only make things worse. Her lips pressed thin, but she didn't answer him. Silence reigned on the small hope she was wrong; she'd kick herself sharply if it turned out she spilled the secret freely when they were here for something else. Unlikely, but she hated regret.

He sighed. "It is required of all Custody citizens to register if they believe themselves in possession of Ascendant power. For the good of the Custody, and at the behest of Ascendancy himself. We believe you to be one such person, and yet you have not registered."


"Aye, I'm one of them. Aye, I haven't filled in the forms. Doesn't seem to me history's ever shown it to be a wise move. But I suppose you're not here to give me the choice."


He patiently swiped at the screen in front of him, ignoring the jibe. She could see the reflection of the registration form blinking in his eyes, that bloody orange text she'd stared at numerous times back in London -- when she'd first made the decision not to submit her life into the government's hands. Preliminaries began the interrogation. Her name. DOB. CID. When he asked her occupation her stony expression swiftly urged him to move on. Still he made her waste the breath saying it. Asshole.

"How long?"


"Since I was nineteen."


"And how did you first discover your ability?"


"That's not on the fucking form."
The words snapped out before she thought to control herself. The glare burning up in her eyes was as much frustration at her slip as irritation at her predicament. Sage's face flashed with every blink. The glint of skull. The glisten of brain. All those fucking wires weaving in an out; his parents' twisted love. How many times had she warned him? And he had promised to wait for her okay before he proceeded. Either he broke that promise or Marcil twisted him into it. He was a kid, and she knew how eager he was to jack back into the ether. The protectiveness swept over her again, and for one stupid moment she thought about re-purposing the fire in her veins. Just enough to get out of here. Deal with the consequences afterwards.

Her hand stayed, but perhaps only because she could feel how slippery the power had become; she'd wrung herself nearly dry trying to save the girl. A short sigh heaved out from her chest, a note of defeat. Trapped and cagey as an animal. She rubbed her face. Blinked out the tired burning. Tried to concentrate. Then leaned over to pour herself some of the coffee. Jerk awake her senses.

He watched her do it, stoical.

"My sister and I hiked a lot in the Cairngorms when we were younger. Tough terrain. Isolated wilderness, A real tough fucking show if you don't know what you're doing, and when you're really deep there's nowhere to go for help if you fuck up. One time my sister injured herself. A deep gash, flash o' bone in it. I bandaged her up and in the morning we hiked back out. Drove to the hospital in Inverness. But when the nurse peeked a look, the wound might have been healing a week already. No bone to see. Just an ugly scar now. That was the first time, I think. Not that I really ken the significance at the time."


She'd killed a man that night, but the guilt had never weighed on her. Even now, skirting around that little detail, her gaze was clear of it. He nodded, checked his screen.

"Summarise your abilities, please."


Her hands wrapped the cup. This time there was no hesitation. "I can ascertain injuries at a touch. Heal some of them, or aid it to happen more swiftly. Easier if I can see it, not impossible if I can't. Sometimes there's nae even a scar."
She paused, deliberating whether to add the new snippet tonight's tragedy made clear. In the end it all poured out. "Though it takes a certain amount of strength on the part of the patient, I think. I can give a boost of energy. Like adrenaline. Short lived. Sometimes that helps, with the minor things. I can ease pain too. And other, more mundane things. I assume you don't know the intricacies of it. How it's made up."
She shrugged. "It's easy to move things with it."


Less mundane things, too, but she wasn't stupid enough to talk of how the same power could shove a man backwards like he was a marionette; how easily bones snapped and cracked and twisted until that marionette barely resembled a man at all. How ropes of it could coil and tip that wretched twist of limbs into the rush of savage summer floods, never to surface again. She blinked, arms resting on the desk in front of her.

"Are you able to show us any of this?"
That, from the man at the door.

"Do I look like a fucking show pony, gentleman? Ask the next question."


***

Hours passed in that damn office, unpacking and unpicking her words; the bare bones of the registration form, and much more besides. They were interested in the healing, she realised; its strengths and limitations, so far as she understood it. She'd never paused to consider that it wasn't something everyone with the power was able to do, and even now did not really care. Impatience was sharpening her to a blade's edge, battling the sheer fatigue weighing heavy as a cement shroud. Sage might be dead by now. Or they might be sealing up the incision and wheeling him to recovery. And she hadn't been there for any of it. Despite vowing, and meaning it with her very marrow.

She rubbed her face again, asked him to repeat another question stuffed in her ears like cotton wool. Sometimes he paused after she'd finished explaining something, eyes wavering as he read text on the screen, but by now she'd stopped noticing -- or wondering what the fuck it was he clearly referenced. The coffee pot was empty, even the dregs stone cold. Her thoughts were a strange collision of jittery and sluggish as she checked her wrist watch for the third time that minute. He'd been quiet the whole time, perhaps reading through to make sure he had not missed anything. Finally he stood, jerking down the hem of his jacket. When the stick uncoupled from the screen, the holos flickered and brightened to their usual screens. "Thank you for your time, Miss Kinnaird. We will be in touch."


Morven stood too, slicking back her hair once more, blinking rapidly. He offered his hand as he passed her, but she ignored it. Moments later they were gone. She was not far behind.

She needed to get to the university; she needed to find Marcil.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-660.html Thu, 01 Feb 2018 21:22:00 +0000 Daiyu]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-660.html
She couldn't think of anyone to write.

She used to write her stories. She longed to do so again, but it was best to forget the nightmares that plucked at the fringes of her sanity. She missed her little pets. They said she shouldn't snuggle with them at night. They said her pets weren't real.

They felt real. They kept her warm at night.

Mara tapped a pencil on the paper. They wouldn't give her a keyboard to write. She had to use her own fingers. She didn't mind. The eraser end of the pencil was marred with bite marks. The other end was worn down to a nub. The graphite slid across the paper in a pleasant, swooshing sound. Daiyu wrote in her native language. She was too tired to work with English.

She yawned and began the letter.



Jet,

My name is Mara. You might remember my other name. Daiyu. We are cousins. How are your family? How is Melany? She was always very nice to me. I have not seen my family in a long time. I don't live in China any more. I live in Moscow now. I have been placed in the Guardian sanatorium, but all they do is give me pills and lock me in a room. Father and mother left me here after my novel was published. They want my money. I'm not insane. Can you help?

Sòng Daiyu (Mara)

Edited by Daiyu, Feb 1 2018, 09:23 PM.]]>
She couldn't think of anyone to write.

She used to write her stories. She longed to do so again, but it was best to forget the nightmares that plucked at the fringes of her sanity. She missed her little pets. They said she shouldn't snuggle with them at night. They said her pets weren't real.

They felt real. They kept her warm at night.

Mara tapped a pencil on the paper. They wouldn't give her a keyboard to write. She had to use her own fingers. She didn't mind. The eraser end of the pencil was marred with bite marks. The other end was worn down to a nub. The graphite slid across the paper in a pleasant, swooshing sound. Daiyu wrote in her native language. She was too tired to work with English.

She yawned and began the letter.



Jet,

My name is Mara. You might remember my other name. Daiyu. We are cousins. How are your family? How is Melany? She was always very nice to me. I have not seen my family in a long time. I don't live in China any more. I live in Moscow now. I have been placed in the Guardian sanatorium, but all they do is give me pills and lock me in a room. Father and mother left me here after my novel was published. They want my money. I'm not insane. Can you help?

Sòng Daiyu (Mara)

Edited by Daiyu, Feb 1 2018, 09:23 PM.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-662.html Fri, 12 Aug 2016 21:42:00 +0000 Daiyu]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-662.html "My name is Mara. My name is Mara."
A voice tilted thick with foreign accent muttered to the darkness of her room. The light from the hallway leaked around the edges of the door, framing a ghostly rectangle. "My name is Mara."


Something stirred in the shadows, and Mara, or Daiyu as they told her, pat the narrow strip of mattress alongside her hip. A small bounce and she curled up on her side to make room. The creature was soft as fur and warm as a sun kissed rock. She draped an arm across it and let her head relax on her pillow.

Sleep took her into the land of dreams, carried there by her faithful pet.

----

A nurse woke her in the morning. She had to be shook awake, like always. For months her doctor thought her deep sleep was the result of some side effect, but changing drugs and brain scans found no such evidence. Daiyu simply slept hard.

"Your medication this morning miss Daiyu." She left a cup next to a plastic water bottle. Everything was plastic in this place. Nothing dangerous. Nothing she could harm herself with.

"My name is Mara."
She told the nurse as she deposited the tablet on her tongue.

"I'll see you later, Daiyu. Walks this morning. And your doctor appointment is after." The nurse left.

Daiyu-Mara slipped from bed, toes curling on the cold floor, to retrieve a sweatshirt and dress herself. She rubbed her eyes as she did.]]> "My name is Mara. My name is Mara."
A voice tilted thick with foreign accent muttered to the darkness of her room. The light from the hallway leaked around the edges of the door, framing a ghostly rectangle. "My name is Mara."


Something stirred in the shadows, and Mara, or Daiyu as they told her, pat the narrow strip of mattress alongside her hip. A small bounce and she curled up on her side to make room. The creature was soft as fur and warm as a sun kissed rock. She draped an arm across it and let her head relax on her pillow.

Sleep took her into the land of dreams, carried there by her faithful pet.

----

A nurse woke her in the morning. She had to be shook awake, like always. For months her doctor thought her deep sleep was the result of some side effect, but changing drugs and brain scans found no such evidence. Daiyu simply slept hard.

"Your medication this morning miss Daiyu." She left a cup next to a plastic water bottle. Everything was plastic in this place. Nothing dangerous. Nothing she could harm herself with.

"My name is Mara."
She told the nurse as she deposited the tablet on her tongue.

"I'll see you later, Daiyu. Walks this morning. And your doctor appointment is after." The nurse left.

Daiyu-Mara slipped from bed, toes curling on the cold floor, to retrieve a sweatshirt and dress herself. She rubbed her eyes as she did.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-664.html Mon, 08 Jun 2015 19:05:00 +0000 Jensen James]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-664.html
The whoosh of glass doors opened for him, and the sterile expanse of a hospital lobby loomed ahead. This wasn't his first time in the Guardian. He was brought here the night Jessika found him by his old apartment, the night he first realized he could save a life on the brink. He came by ambulance, or so he was told after the fact, so his view of the emergency room was rather one-sided. Someone bumped into him so hard he stumbled aside. Two men labored by, one was clutching his arm painfully, the other pointing the way to triage.

Jensen unzipped his jacket as he watched their fate. The triage nurse directed them to a station to fill out forms, he assumed. The injured man hung his head, holding his arm close, while his friend did the work. They were in for a long wait as it seemed the entire waiting room was full of the sick and injured.

Nerves crept up his spine. He'd wanted to do this alone, if it would even work. He'd been able to use the Gift for the gravely injured but was unaware if it would work on the ill. He walked through the waiting room, heart sinking as he passed within arm's reach of chair-after-chair of the suffering. His pace slowed as he peered down upon the form of a little boy about four curled up in his mother's lap. He and Jess took Gabe, their oldest, to the ER once with a high fever. Jensen thought he was going to die of fear, but before he could do anything about this poor child, his mother glared and pulled her son closer. Jensen kept going. He needed to be alone, at least at first, with a patient to see if it even worked. He wasn't sure what he was going to imagine would happen, but he knew the waiting room wasn't the place to find out.

He approached the triage nurse. "Excuse me,"
she looked up as he spoke. She looked tired. "I'm here to visit someone,"
he said. She blandly looked down. "What's their name, and are you family?" He didn't know the name of anyone in the ER, and even if he were to venture a random guess, and by coincidence matched someone, he could not claim to be family without lying. "No, I'm not family,"
he said, dejected. She shook her head and didn't even look back up at him. "Nobody gets in," she proclaimed and Jensen's already sunken heart was ready to give up, "Unless they are family, a doctor, or a member of the clergy."

He gasped. The clergy.

"I'm clergy. A pastor."
He said it before there was time to process the claim. How often had he visited members of the church in the hospital? Hundreds. Why hadn't he thought it before? He should have worn different clothes. The nurse's look was skeptical, but Jensen quickly drew out a wallet and showed her some credentials... granted they were woefully out of date, and unlikely to be acknowledged in the CCD.. he hoped they would suffice.

She shrugged, dropped a visitor's pass on the counter, which he gladly scooped up, and spun away to tend to the next person. He hurried off before he could change his mind.
]]>
The whoosh of glass doors opened for him, and the sterile expanse of a hospital lobby loomed ahead. This wasn't his first time in the Guardian. He was brought here the night Jessika found him by his old apartment, the night he first realized he could save a life on the brink. He came by ambulance, or so he was told after the fact, so his view of the emergency room was rather one-sided. Someone bumped into him so hard he stumbled aside. Two men labored by, one was clutching his arm painfully, the other pointing the way to triage.

Jensen unzipped his jacket as he watched their fate. The triage nurse directed them to a station to fill out forms, he assumed. The injured man hung his head, holding his arm close, while his friend did the work. They were in for a long wait as it seemed the entire waiting room was full of the sick and injured.

Nerves crept up his spine. He'd wanted to do this alone, if it would even work. He'd been able to use the Gift for the gravely injured but was unaware if it would work on the ill. He walked through the waiting room, heart sinking as he passed within arm's reach of chair-after-chair of the suffering. His pace slowed as he peered down upon the form of a little boy about four curled up in his mother's lap. He and Jess took Gabe, their oldest, to the ER once with a high fever. Jensen thought he was going to die of fear, but before he could do anything about this poor child, his mother glared and pulled her son closer. Jensen kept going. He needed to be alone, at least at first, with a patient to see if it even worked. He wasn't sure what he was going to imagine would happen, but he knew the waiting room wasn't the place to find out.

He approached the triage nurse. "Excuse me,"
she looked up as he spoke. She looked tired. "I'm here to visit someone,"
he said. She blandly looked down. "What's their name, and are you family?" He didn't know the name of anyone in the ER, and even if he were to venture a random guess, and by coincidence matched someone, he could not claim to be family without lying. "No, I'm not family,"
he said, dejected. She shook her head and didn't even look back up at him. "Nobody gets in," she proclaimed and Jensen's already sunken heart was ready to give up, "Unless they are family, a doctor, or a member of the clergy."

He gasped. The clergy.

"I'm clergy. A pastor."
He said it before there was time to process the claim. How often had he visited members of the church in the hospital? Hundreds. Why hadn't he thought it before? He should have worn different clothes. The nurse's look was skeptical, but Jensen quickly drew out a wallet and showed her some credentials... granted they were woefully out of date, and unlikely to be acknowledged in the CCD.. he hoped they would suffice.

She shrugged, dropped a visitor's pass on the counter, which he gladly scooped up, and spun away to tend to the next person. He hurried off before he could change his mind.
]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-665.html Mon, 05 Jan 2015 13:22:00 +0000 Calvin]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-665.html
Without these things though, Calvin had been forced to face his issues, and was having a hard time with it as he sat waiting. Even with Jensen's help, he was having trouble focusing. The result was terrifying. He seemed to feel so many emotions at once - sadness, anger, fear, anxiety, and regret cycled through his mind so quickly that it felt like they were all there at the same time. He felt overwhelmed and confused. He couldn't latch on to one - he didn't know why, but it somehow felt important that he knew what he was feeling. On top of that, he could feel the depression scratching at the back of his thoughts and begging him to go get alcohol. Tears started to fall as he felt more overwhelmed and he buried his face in his hands as he cried.

Calvin tried to rein in the tears. He didn't want to go in like that. He was sure that when he hadn't made a good impression when he set up the appointment. He had been drunk when he did it. He felt more shame at that. Regardless, the appointment had been scheduled and he was here to be treated for depression and substance abuse. He just didn't know if it would help or if this Alex even wanted to help him. He still didn't think he deserved it.

The tears went away and Calvin wiped his eyes. They were probably still red, but he didn't care. He was trying to fight this demon inside of him that wouldn't leave him alone, so he sat and waited for Dr. Pirozzi.]]>
Without these things though, Calvin had been forced to face his issues, and was having a hard time with it as he sat waiting. Even with Jensen's help, he was having trouble focusing. The result was terrifying. He seemed to feel so many emotions at once - sadness, anger, fear, anxiety, and regret cycled through his mind so quickly that it felt like they were all there at the same time. He felt overwhelmed and confused. He couldn't latch on to one - he didn't know why, but it somehow felt important that he knew what he was feeling. On top of that, he could feel the depression scratching at the back of his thoughts and begging him to go get alcohol. Tears started to fall as he felt more overwhelmed and he buried his face in his hands as he cried.

Calvin tried to rein in the tears. He didn't want to go in like that. He was sure that when he hadn't made a good impression when he set up the appointment. He had been drunk when he did it. He felt more shame at that. Regardless, the appointment had been scheduled and he was here to be treated for depression and substance abuse. He just didn't know if it would help or if this Alex even wanted to help him. He still didn't think he deserved it.

The tears went away and Calvin wiped his eyes. They were probably still red, but he didn't care. He was trying to fight this demon inside of him that wouldn't leave him alone, so he sat and waited for Dr. Pirozzi.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-666.html Sun, 20 Jul 2014 22:41:00 +0000 Giovanni]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-666.html In the Heat of the...Tunnel?

Giovanni awoke, unaware of where he was until the smell of a hospital entered his nostrils. The scent itself bringing back memories of better times. The last time he had really been in a hospital was when he had acquired the Sickness, yet it was still before he had endured the emotional trauma of murder and being hunted.

Murder. He was unsure of the word. Had he really murdered his brother, or was it self-defense? What about when he killed the Atharim man at Michael's place? Giovanni thought on these things as the silence in the dark room lingered.

Silence. A sense that hadn't been around since the ordeal in the tunnels. Ordine and Caos had been his constant companions since he met the bloodsucker, but had not stirred since he awoke, leaveing Giovanni time to think without being interrupted. Giovanni checked the clock - it was 6:00 AM, and the sun had not yet risen.

Ordine caught up with him first, causing Caos to begin his muttering as well. "Help..."


Giovanni groaned and sat up, moving his arm carefully. His shoulder was stiff, but there was little pain. The shoulder had been wrapped in bandages and another shirt had been place on the chair next to his hospital bed - maybe some Red Cross donation or something. A glass of water sat next to the bed and suddenly Giovanni's thirst flared. He picked it up, drained it in seconds and slowly stood.

Surprisingly, the room remained level and Giovanni sighed before putting on the shirt and venturing into the hallway. A young nurse approached him, holding a chart and looking concerned.

"Sir, you've lost a lot of blood, you should lay back down,"
the young man's tenor voice said.

"Please, I just want to go to the chapel to pray. It's Christmas season,"
Giovanni said softly, feeling surprised that he actually meant the words.

"Help..."


Apparently the young nurse was new or actually felt moved by Giovanni's plea. He helped him walk down to the chapel. Giovanni refused the wheel chair, but the young man stayed with him, ready to assist Giovanni at a moments notice.

They arrived at the Chapel. The place was clean and well lit. Several candles stood in front of an icon of Mary - Giovanni assumed they were votive candles for the sick. A statue of Jesus on the cross sat at the front with an altar before it. Several pews adorned the room. All in all, the room was plain, but functional.

Giovanni sat in the second row and pulled a bible out of the pew in front of him. The nurse stayed outside the room, allowing Giovanni to have some privacy. He had never read the book, so he opened to the first page, and began to read silently.

"In the beginning, God..."


Giovanni closed the book and put it back in its place. God was one of the last words he wanted to see right now. Giovanni thought of all the bad things he had done in the last three years, beginning with the incident with his brother. Surely God wouldn't forgive that.

Giovanni put his face in his hands, feeling completely lost. Even as a vagabond, he had never felt this deep sense of isolation and confusion. Giovanni wondered what direction he would take, feeling uncertain of which one was truly the right one.

"Priest..."


Ordine's voice had caused him to jump, and Giovanni spotted the man who had sat down in the pew in front of him. He wore all black with the exception of the collar at his neck. A crucifix hung from his next. He was relatively young for a priest, his hair only showing a little gray, but the concern in his eyes was clear.

"I did not mean to scare you, son, but you look troubled,"
the priest's voice was soft and soothing.

Giovanni frowned and said, "I'm fine, Father, just a little tired, that's all."


The priest's brow furrowed, catching the lie, but the priest didn't call attention to it. "If you need anything, son, just ask. I'll leave you to pray for now, and will pray for you."


The priest stood to head back to his office and Giovanni thought on the man's words.

"Forgiveness..."


Ordine's words didn't catch Giovanni off guard. His own thoughts had been on forgiveness since he had woken up. The priest was a catalyst for Ordine's reaction. Giovanni turned to face the priest, his back facing Giovanni.

"Father,"
Giovanni said and the priest turned around, a hopeful peace in priest's eyes. "Does...God really forgive sins?"


The priest looked Giovanni in the eyes, pure compassion emanating from him. "We serve a merciful God, son. He always forgives those who ask. Would you like me to hear your confession?"


Giovanni turned his eyes from the priest's gaze, feeling as if his whole life were laid bare before the priest. The priest cared - truly cared -and Giovanni felt a strong urge to confess. He wasn't sure he could though.

Giovanni looked back up at the priest and shook his head in a silent no. The compassion in the priests eyes remained, but it was laced with sadness. The priest nodded to Giovanni, and although it was clear that he thought it be best for Giovanni to confess, he didn't push Giovanni. Perhaps he realized that Giovanni had to come on his own.

"I will continue to pray for you,"
the priest said as he turned back to kneel before the icon of Mary. The priest lit one of the candles, crossed himself, and began to pray silently.

Giovanni stood and began to walk out of the chapel. He hesitated a moment behind the praying priest, wanting to confess everything, yet not ready to. He kept moving and approached the nurse saying he was ready to go back to his room.

"Forgiveness...?"
Ordine's usual statement was a question laced with sadness.

The nurse escorted him back and informed Giovanni that the doctor wanted one last look before releasing him. They arrived at his room and Giovanni sat back down on his bed and waited. He suddenly just wanted to leave. Choices lay before him, and he had no idea which one he should make.


Edited by Giovanni Cavelli, Jul 21 2014, 09:06 AM.]]> In the Heat of the...Tunnel?

Giovanni awoke, unaware of where he was until the smell of a hospital entered his nostrils. The scent itself bringing back memories of better times. The last time he had really been in a hospital was when he had acquired the Sickness, yet it was still before he had endured the emotional trauma of murder and being hunted.

Murder. He was unsure of the word. Had he really murdered his brother, or was it self-defense? What about when he killed the Atharim man at Michael's place? Giovanni thought on these things as the silence in the dark room lingered.

Silence. A sense that hadn't been around since the ordeal in the tunnels. Ordine and Caos had been his constant companions since he met the bloodsucker, but had not stirred since he awoke, leaveing Giovanni time to think without being interrupted. Giovanni checked the clock - it was 6:00 AM, and the sun had not yet risen.

Ordine caught up with him first, causing Caos to begin his muttering as well. "Help..."


Giovanni groaned and sat up, moving his arm carefully. His shoulder was stiff, but there was little pain. The shoulder had been wrapped in bandages and another shirt had been place on the chair next to his hospital bed - maybe some Red Cross donation or something. A glass of water sat next to the bed and suddenly Giovanni's thirst flared. He picked it up, drained it in seconds and slowly stood.

Surprisingly, the room remained level and Giovanni sighed before putting on the shirt and venturing into the hallway. A young nurse approached him, holding a chart and looking concerned.

"Sir, you've lost a lot of blood, you should lay back down,"
the young man's tenor voice said.

"Please, I just want to go to the chapel to pray. It's Christmas season,"
Giovanni said softly, feeling surprised that he actually meant the words.

"Help..."


Apparently the young nurse was new or actually felt moved by Giovanni's plea. He helped him walk down to the chapel. Giovanni refused the wheel chair, but the young man stayed with him, ready to assist Giovanni at a moments notice.

They arrived at the Chapel. The place was clean and well lit. Several candles stood in front of an icon of Mary - Giovanni assumed they were votive candles for the sick. A statue of Jesus on the cross sat at the front with an altar before it. Several pews adorned the room. All in all, the room was plain, but functional.

Giovanni sat in the second row and pulled a bible out of the pew in front of him. The nurse stayed outside the room, allowing Giovanni to have some privacy. He had never read the book, so he opened to the first page, and began to read silently.

"In the beginning, God..."


Giovanni closed the book and put it back in its place. God was one of the last words he wanted to see right now. Giovanni thought of all the bad things he had done in the last three years, beginning with the incident with his brother. Surely God wouldn't forgive that.

Giovanni put his face in his hands, feeling completely lost. Even as a vagabond, he had never felt this deep sense of isolation and confusion. Giovanni wondered what direction he would take, feeling uncertain of which one was truly the right one.

"Priest..."


Ordine's voice had caused him to jump, and Giovanni spotted the man who had sat down in the pew in front of him. He wore all black with the exception of the collar at his neck. A crucifix hung from his next. He was relatively young for a priest, his hair only showing a little gray, but the concern in his eyes was clear.

"I did not mean to scare you, son, but you look troubled,"
the priest's voice was soft and soothing.

Giovanni frowned and said, "I'm fine, Father, just a little tired, that's all."


The priest's brow furrowed, catching the lie, but the priest didn't call attention to it. "If you need anything, son, just ask. I'll leave you to pray for now, and will pray for you."


The priest stood to head back to his office and Giovanni thought on the man's words.

"Forgiveness..."


Ordine's words didn't catch Giovanni off guard. His own thoughts had been on forgiveness since he had woken up. The priest was a catalyst for Ordine's reaction. Giovanni turned to face the priest, his back facing Giovanni.

"Father,"
Giovanni said and the priest turned around, a hopeful peace in priest's eyes. "Does...God really forgive sins?"


The priest looked Giovanni in the eyes, pure compassion emanating from him. "We serve a merciful God, son. He always forgives those who ask. Would you like me to hear your confession?"


Giovanni turned his eyes from the priest's gaze, feeling as if his whole life were laid bare before the priest. The priest cared - truly cared -and Giovanni felt a strong urge to confess. He wasn't sure he could though.

Giovanni looked back up at the priest and shook his head in a silent no. The compassion in the priests eyes remained, but it was laced with sadness. The priest nodded to Giovanni, and although it was clear that he thought it be best for Giovanni to confess, he didn't push Giovanni. Perhaps he realized that Giovanni had to come on his own.

"I will continue to pray for you,"
the priest said as he turned back to kneel before the icon of Mary. The priest lit one of the candles, crossed himself, and began to pray silently.

Giovanni stood and began to walk out of the chapel. He hesitated a moment behind the praying priest, wanting to confess everything, yet not ready to. He kept moving and approached the nurse saying he was ready to go back to his room.

"Forgiveness...?"
Ordine's usual statement was a question laced with sadness.

The nurse escorted him back and informed Giovanni that the doctor wanted one last look before releasing him. They arrived at his room and Giovanni sat back down on his bed and waited. He suddenly just wanted to leave. Choices lay before him, and he had no idea which one he should make.


Edited by Giovanni Cavelli, Jul 21 2014, 09:06 AM.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-667.html Wed, 11 Jun 2014 13:44:00 +0000 Calvin]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-667.html A New Home

Calvin opened the door to the cab as it pulled up at the hospital entrance. He paid the driver, giving him a generous tip for the assistance in walking to the cab. The driver helped him into the hospital and a nearby nurse moved ro get a wheelchair. Before she could, Calvin asked for crutches instead, preferring them to the wheelchairs.

The first thing that Calvin noticed was the smell. Hospitals generally have a sterile smell, and with his heightened sense of smell, Calvin was able to smell other chemicals used to keep things clean.

He also picked up the scent of those in the waiting room. If was a part of his gift that he could "smell" the emotions of other people. There were too many scents to count and Calvin had difficulty differentiating the scents, but he could pick up worry, sadness, fear, and anxiety. The effect was like walking into a candle or perfume shop - all the scents mingled together and gave Calvin a headache.

He approached the front desk and the woman behind the counter spoke, "How can I help...you."


She covered her surprise well. Calvin noticed the slight pause as she noticed the color of his eyes. He hadn't even thought about hiding them, but afterall, he couldn't hide them forever. Calvin explained that he needed stitches in his foot and she gave him some forms to fill out, telling him to let her know when he was done so.she could get them without him having to walk on his injured foot. He thanked her and sat down to fill out the forms.

The memory of the last time he was in a hospital forced itself back into his mind as he began to write his name...

Calvin was going out to feed the cows when the phone call came that his wife and son had been in a car accident involving a drunk driver. He immediatly got in his truck and drove to the hospital. He had only arrived when the doctor came out to inform him that they didn't make it. Calvin asked to see them beginning to cry. The doctor took him into the room, and he saw his wife laying on a hospital bed. She appeared to be asleep, but when he took her hand it was cold and there was a large gash on her forehead. He kissed her and said goodbye, continuing to cry. He moved to his son and kissed him on the forehead, remembering that only a few days ago, Benji had caught his first ball. He picked him up and feeling his son's broken body was when he had really realized that they were gone. He put his son down, and began sobbing uncontollably

...Calvin snapped out the memory and and thought Mary, Benji, I hope I will see you again someday.


Calvin reached for the wolves. Being on the outskirts, he was able to sense some wolves farther away. He just sensed them, not comunnicating much except a brief introduction. It brought him some comfort.

He wiped away a tear that had formed during the memory, turning once more to fill out the hospital form.


Edited by Calvin, Jun 11 2014, 01:49 PM.]]> A New Home

Calvin opened the door to the cab as it pulled up at the hospital entrance. He paid the driver, giving him a generous tip for the assistance in walking to the cab. The driver helped him into the hospital and a nearby nurse moved ro get a wheelchair. Before she could, Calvin asked for crutches instead, preferring them to the wheelchairs.

The first thing that Calvin noticed was the smell. Hospitals generally have a sterile smell, and with his heightened sense of smell, Calvin was able to smell other chemicals used to keep things clean.

He also picked up the scent of those in the waiting room. If was a part of his gift that he could "smell" the emotions of other people. There were too many scents to count and Calvin had difficulty differentiating the scents, but he could pick up worry, sadness, fear, and anxiety. The effect was like walking into a candle or perfume shop - all the scents mingled together and gave Calvin a headache.

He approached the front desk and the woman behind the counter spoke, "How can I help...you."


She covered her surprise well. Calvin noticed the slight pause as she noticed the color of his eyes. He hadn't even thought about hiding them, but afterall, he couldn't hide them forever. Calvin explained that he needed stitches in his foot and she gave him some forms to fill out, telling him to let her know when he was done so.she could get them without him having to walk on his injured foot. He thanked her and sat down to fill out the forms.

The memory of the last time he was in a hospital forced itself back into his mind as he began to write his name...

Calvin was going out to feed the cows when the phone call came that his wife and son had been in a car accident involving a drunk driver. He immediatly got in his truck and drove to the hospital. He had only arrived when the doctor came out to inform him that they didn't make it. Calvin asked to see them beginning to cry. The doctor took him into the room, and he saw his wife laying on a hospital bed. She appeared to be asleep, but when he took her hand it was cold and there was a large gash on her forehead. He kissed her and said goodbye, continuing to cry. He moved to his son and kissed him on the forehead, remembering that only a few days ago, Benji had caught his first ball. He picked him up and feeling his son's broken body was when he had really realized that they were gone. He put his son down, and began sobbing uncontollably

...Calvin snapped out the memory and and thought Mary, Benji, I hope I will see you again someday.


Calvin reached for the wolves. Being on the outskirts, he was able to sense some wolves farther away. He just sensed them, not comunnicating much except a brief introduction. It brought him some comfort.

He wiped away a tear that had formed during the memory, turning once more to fill out the hospital form.


Edited by Calvin, Jun 11 2014, 01:49 PM.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-663.html Sat, 31 May 2014 19:38:00 +0000 Jon Little Bird]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-663.html Dreams of Fire

Awareness came to Jon for perhaps all of five seconds on the floor of the train. Long enough for the cold, dirty metallic floor to register its corrugated grit against his face. Long enough to wonder if he'd managed to do any good at all.

Long enough to see the bleak outline of a body bag.

“Sleep for now.”

Something pinched him. He was being rolled over onto a stretcher by a man in a hazardous material suit. It registered to Jon that he was helpless. He found he couldn't focus well enough to even sense the Great Spirit, and that it was incomprehensible for him to actually imagine wrestling it to his will at the moment. If he even still could.

One thing was certain. The situation was no longer under his control. But there was one thing he could do. Consciousness faded, and he stepped out of his body.

* * *

Faceless, formless, Jon found himself in that place with millions of glittering lights, a place with infinite space and none at all, that lay between the Spirit World and the waking world. But even before Jon came to any other sense of awareness in this place, he saw his spirit guide. The spectral white coyote materialized before him, waiting patiently. Or at least that's the way he perceived it; nothing had any shape or form here.

Okay. Here he could actually do something. He sought out one of the twinkling lights. It appeared before him, and like looking down into a snow globe he was able to see what was going on. Yes. A huge white wolf facing down a moose that had gotten itself surrounded by the rest of the pack.

Jon projected his “voice” into the ball. BEAR. IT IS JON LITTLE BIRD. I AM UNCONSCIOUS AND HELPLESS ON A TRAIN IN MOSCOW. CONTACT CAROLINE. SHE WILL BE ABLE TO FIND ME IN THE WAKING WORLD.


The dream winked out of existence. Next was finding Caroline. Unfortunately Jon failed to find her dream. That was odd. He'd expected her to still be asleep. Unfortunately, she'd be in for a surprise when she got a call from someone who sat on the Council of Native Americans, who happened to know Jon was in trouble. But she'd believe it, and she'd be able to trace his Wallet, or make some calls. And maybe get a hold of someone. Hopefully. It would hardly be the strangest thing Jon had asked her to do.

Jon stepped across the gap and into the Spirit World. There, quick as thought, he had his body, clothed as an Apache scout. He grimaced at the .38 lever action rifle in his left hand, and it disappeared. Then he remembered the situation he'd just left behind on a conscious level and felt his heart jump, and reached for the Great Spirit. The power flooded into him. For some reason that reassured him, even though in the next moment he reminded himself that his abilities here was simply a reflection of his thought, and all that he really knew of his condition in the waking world was that he was still able to project himself here. If even that was true. What if he was dead and was really a spirit here, now? His heart skipped another beat.

The glowing coyote leaped, bringing Jon's attention back to it. “I know you aren't really there,”
he said to the thing. “Either I made you, or someone else did to bring me here.”
No answer. Well, wasn't that silly, talking to an animal projection? He glanced around, putting other thoughts out of his mind. Marble columns and white polished marble steps. This was Washington. More specifically, the White House. Why had he come here? He turned around and found himself alone.

Jon sighed and shook his head. It was pointless to go back to his body if he was still out cold, and Bear would share what he learned when he could. Until then he was stuck waiting. Might as well see what he could learn while around the place.

With a thought, he found himself in the Oval Office. Quiet, empty, the place radiated elegant simplicity. Although America was no longer an empire, it was still a force to be reckoned with. And the man who occupied this office, though he had great power and influence, was still at the end of the day just another person hired to do a job. The strength of America was not in its leaders, but in its principles. In fact the personalities of its leaders were oftentimes its weakness.

Pens and papers flickered in and out of existence on the desk. Jon rifled through papers, reports and other various things. He had to be quick; often, he'd pick up a piece of paper and start reading, only to have it change while in his hand. Anything moved much in the waking world cast a poor reflection here. Jon frowned as something marked “Eyes Only” that mentioned something called SUBGRU and a debriefing on some operation vanished before he could make out more.

There wasn't much of use that he could find. His eyes rose as he saw an analysis of HR 6213, which was the Native American Medical Privacy Protection Act, something the Council of Native Americans had been trying to push through Congress. NAMPPA was a largely low-key measure that protected the medical information and health decisions of tribal members. Passage was important to Jon because, although it wasn't explicitly spelled out in the bill, passage meant tribes couldn't be forced to turn over those afflicted with the Sickness or even report that information, where Great Spirit alone who knew could, or would, target them. It also meant non-natives could come and get treated without anyone finding out. And, according to this report, Frederick Dawson wanted to know what impact a positive or negative stance would take on his reelection bid. According to this none of his opponents were likely to make it into a big issue if he supported it, and a veto might give the talking heads some easy fodder. A good find, and one that bade well for his cause.

“Jon.”


Jon turned his head, and found Bear, in human form. The great hulking man grinned across the room.

“You look good behind that desk.”


Jon smirked. “I don't like offices.”
He set the papers down. “I hope you bring news that I'm still alive. Something is keeping me from waking up.”


Bear nodded. “Caroline located you. You're in a hospital outside Moscow. They are going to let you go once they find you don't have The Sickness.”


Jon laughed. What irony, ending up helpless until the doctors determined he didn't have the symptoms that indicated the trait that allowed him to wield the power that caused him to fall unconscious to begin with!

Then the laugh died in his mouth. Only he'd be able to find out if he hadn't harmed himself in other ways. He'd lost control, that was what happened. And to do that with the awesome force that was the Great Spirit was to invite destruction. He should have known better.

“Thank you, Bear,”
he said. What a shame he could not simply have Bear or someone else spirit his body into this place, away from untrustworthy eyes. It seemed that if one could go into the Spirit World with his mind, it would be possible to just...poke a hole through from one place to the other. How much simpler things would be if he could step across the world as easily in the waking world as here! “Can you see if Caroline can get someone close to me that isn't CCD? I don't know who she'd call, but there must be someone in Moscow trustworthy.”


Bear nodded. “Of course.”
He paused. “Jon, you need to come back. It's the Sickness. Noah --”


Jon stared at his friend. He'd heard the crazy old man had gotten himself a council seat. “What has he done?”


Bear put up his hands. “It isn't like that. In fact he's been most helpful in teaching effective treatments. And he's keeping the council happy. But he's told me we need you.”
He shook his head. “The survivors...I've seen them do things.”


Of course. The problem was obvious. While Jon was bumping up against others who had the ability to wield the Great Spirit, at home the secret was boiling over and about to break wide open. And there wasn't anyone to teach them anything, the way Jon had managed to teach himself. And Noah would know what it took to keep them alive. It stopped when you learned control. Or you died. He'd thought he would have had more time before he had to confront the problem.

He nodded. “If I don't get out of Moscow soon, we'll get me out.”
He regarded the phantom papers as they popped in and out of existence on the desk.

He should have known better. Those two at the club, Nick Trano, Dane and Nimeda and all of the other people and situations he'd been running after...

What a fool I've been
. Jon had been chasing phantoms in Moscow, and a hospital bed was where it had gotten him. It was time to go regain the scent of the real prize.]]> Dreams of Fire

Awareness came to Jon for perhaps all of five seconds on the floor of the train. Long enough for the cold, dirty metallic floor to register its corrugated grit against his face. Long enough to wonder if he'd managed to do any good at all.

Long enough to see the bleak outline of a body bag.

“Sleep for now.”

Something pinched him. He was being rolled over onto a stretcher by a man in a hazardous material suit. It registered to Jon that he was helpless. He found he couldn't focus well enough to even sense the Great Spirit, and that it was incomprehensible for him to actually imagine wrestling it to his will at the moment. If he even still could.

One thing was certain. The situation was no longer under his control. But there was one thing he could do. Consciousness faded, and he stepped out of his body.

* * *

Faceless, formless, Jon found himself in that place with millions of glittering lights, a place with infinite space and none at all, that lay between the Spirit World and the waking world. But even before Jon came to any other sense of awareness in this place, he saw his spirit guide. The spectral white coyote materialized before him, waiting patiently. Or at least that's the way he perceived it; nothing had any shape or form here.

Okay. Here he could actually do something. He sought out one of the twinkling lights. It appeared before him, and like looking down into a snow globe he was able to see what was going on. Yes. A huge white wolf facing down a moose that had gotten itself surrounded by the rest of the pack.

Jon projected his “voice” into the ball. BEAR. IT IS JON LITTLE BIRD. I AM UNCONSCIOUS AND HELPLESS ON A TRAIN IN MOSCOW. CONTACT CAROLINE. SHE WILL BE ABLE TO FIND ME IN THE WAKING WORLD.


The dream winked out of existence. Next was finding Caroline. Unfortunately Jon failed to find her dream. That was odd. He'd expected her to still be asleep. Unfortunately, she'd be in for a surprise when she got a call from someone who sat on the Council of Native Americans, who happened to know Jon was in trouble. But she'd believe it, and she'd be able to trace his Wallet, or make some calls. And maybe get a hold of someone. Hopefully. It would hardly be the strangest thing Jon had asked her to do.

Jon stepped across the gap and into the Spirit World. There, quick as thought, he had his body, clothed as an Apache scout. He grimaced at the .38 lever action rifle in his left hand, and it disappeared. Then he remembered the situation he'd just left behind on a conscious level and felt his heart jump, and reached for the Great Spirit. The power flooded into him. For some reason that reassured him, even though in the next moment he reminded himself that his abilities here was simply a reflection of his thought, and all that he really knew of his condition in the waking world was that he was still able to project himself here. If even that was true. What if he was dead and was really a spirit here, now? His heart skipped another beat.

The glowing coyote leaped, bringing Jon's attention back to it. “I know you aren't really there,”
he said to the thing. “Either I made you, or someone else did to bring me here.”
No answer. Well, wasn't that silly, talking to an animal projection? He glanced around, putting other thoughts out of his mind. Marble columns and white polished marble steps. This was Washington. More specifically, the White House. Why had he come here? He turned around and found himself alone.

Jon sighed and shook his head. It was pointless to go back to his body if he was still out cold, and Bear would share what he learned when he could. Until then he was stuck waiting. Might as well see what he could learn while around the place.

With a thought, he found himself in the Oval Office. Quiet, empty, the place radiated elegant simplicity. Although America was no longer an empire, it was still a force to be reckoned with. And the man who occupied this office, though he had great power and influence, was still at the end of the day just another person hired to do a job. The strength of America was not in its leaders, but in its principles. In fact the personalities of its leaders were oftentimes its weakness.

Pens and papers flickered in and out of existence on the desk. Jon rifled through papers, reports and other various things. He had to be quick; often, he'd pick up a piece of paper and start reading, only to have it change while in his hand. Anything moved much in the waking world cast a poor reflection here. Jon frowned as something marked “Eyes Only” that mentioned something called SUBGRU and a debriefing on some operation vanished before he could make out more.

There wasn't much of use that he could find. His eyes rose as he saw an analysis of HR 6213, which was the Native American Medical Privacy Protection Act, something the Council of Native Americans had been trying to push through Congress. NAMPPA was a largely low-key measure that protected the medical information and health decisions of tribal members. Passage was important to Jon because, although it wasn't explicitly spelled out in the bill, passage meant tribes couldn't be forced to turn over those afflicted with the Sickness or even report that information, where Great Spirit alone who knew could, or would, target them. It also meant non-natives could come and get treated without anyone finding out. And, according to this report, Frederick Dawson wanted to know what impact a positive or negative stance would take on his reelection bid. According to this none of his opponents were likely to make it into a big issue if he supported it, and a veto might give the talking heads some easy fodder. A good find, and one that bade well for his cause.

“Jon.”


Jon turned his head, and found Bear, in human form. The great hulking man grinned across the room.

“You look good behind that desk.”


Jon smirked. “I don't like offices.”
He set the papers down. “I hope you bring news that I'm still alive. Something is keeping me from waking up.”


Bear nodded. “Caroline located you. You're in a hospital outside Moscow. They are going to let you go once they find you don't have The Sickness.”


Jon laughed. What irony, ending up helpless until the doctors determined he didn't have the symptoms that indicated the trait that allowed him to wield the power that caused him to fall unconscious to begin with!

Then the laugh died in his mouth. Only he'd be able to find out if he hadn't harmed himself in other ways. He'd lost control, that was what happened. And to do that with the awesome force that was the Great Spirit was to invite destruction. He should have known better.

“Thank you, Bear,”
he said. What a shame he could not simply have Bear or someone else spirit his body into this place, away from untrustworthy eyes. It seemed that if one could go into the Spirit World with his mind, it would be possible to just...poke a hole through from one place to the other. How much simpler things would be if he could step across the world as easily in the waking world as here! “Can you see if Caroline can get someone close to me that isn't CCD? I don't know who she'd call, but there must be someone in Moscow trustworthy.”


Bear nodded. “Of course.”
He paused. “Jon, you need to come back. It's the Sickness. Noah --”


Jon stared at his friend. He'd heard the crazy old man had gotten himself a council seat. “What has he done?”


Bear put up his hands. “It isn't like that. In fact he's been most helpful in teaching effective treatments. And he's keeping the council happy. But he's told me we need you.”
He shook his head. “The survivors...I've seen them do things.”


Of course. The problem was obvious. While Jon was bumping up against others who had the ability to wield the Great Spirit, at home the secret was boiling over and about to break wide open. And there wasn't anyone to teach them anything, the way Jon had managed to teach himself. And Noah would know what it took to keep them alive. It stopped when you learned control. Or you died. He'd thought he would have had more time before he had to confront the problem.

He nodded. “If I don't get out of Moscow soon, we'll get me out.”
He regarded the phantom papers as they popped in and out of existence on the desk.

He should have known better. Those two at the club, Nick Trano, Dane and Nimeda and all of the other people and situations he'd been running after...

What a fool I've been
. Jon had been chasing phantoms in Moscow, and a hospital bed was where it had gotten him. It was time to go regain the scent of the real prize.]]>