1. "But surely, as someone learned in the Cycle - a Euthanatos, I believe he said - we can rely on him to decide for *himself* the validity of his right to exist? Unfortunately, I do not know you or your motives, but as these," Astarial gestures around at the late attackers, "also wanted to ensure his-their death I must understandably distrust them; and as also I owe a debt to him for aid given, I must prevent you from taking any such action." He glances about at Martin, Gabby, etc., places his lens in his eye. "I do not think I will stand alone. We -will- stop you." "No. You won't." Shane takes a step back, left hand in pocket, right by his side. He speaks the name of a spirit of breaking. Those who can sense mind magicks will feel magickal energies gathering. Running Bear listens to the entire argument, still as a stone. He turns and walks to the captain. "Your sabre, please." The Captain looks surprised, and starts to say something, but Running Bear shakes his head emphatically. "The sabre. Please." Reluctantly, the Captain draws his sabre and hands it over. Running Bear takes it and moves calmly towards Shane. "If a man is determined that a corse of action is just, and is willing to bear the consequences of that act, then I will not stop him." He holds out the sabre hilt-first. "Here is a weapon." He points to the stretcher. "There he sits. Beheading should be enough, not so? Quick, if not clean." His eyes narrow. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps this man is afraid, or selfish. It happens to good men as well as bad. Perhaps sending him on is the correct course." "Then again, perhaps not. But you are convinced, so end him. We will not stop you." The Captain looks flabbergasted. "What! You are going to let this man *murder*-" "He does not think it is murder. Let him make the descision. Why should he not? If he is willing to do this, there must be good reasons. He is, after all, willing to bear responsibility." The cyborg clicks disapprovingly. "This unit advises against. There is no data to predict what change of condition this action will have on current difficulties." 2. The motorcycle seems to ride straight out of the center of the shape, and there's a squeal and a smell of burning rubber as the tall, slender rider tries to turn to avoid crashing into the bar...too late. The bike topples and skids, grinding his leg against the floor and tearing off fabric and the flesh underneath before it leaves him behind, sprawled like a broken doll. With a bone-jarring *thud*, it slams into the bar, gouging the woodwork. The smell of gasoline is pungent and heavy. The man is wearing a biker's outfit: heavy leather jacket, jackboots, leather gautlets with metal spikes and a spiked collar. His head is covered with a shiny black helmet, painted to look like a firery bird with spread wings. Airbrushed onto the back of his jacket is the legend: WARLOCKS, with a fist upraised. Seeing the phoenix on the helmet, Rowan sprints for the downed individual. Very gently, she turns him over onto his back, and removes the helmet. Moving quickly, she examines his knee critically. "Well, laddie-buck, ye've made a royal mess o' yer knee, ye ha'." Gently, she rips his trousers, leaving the knee well open. "Glad I'm wearin' shorts, 'r I'd make a right mess o' me clothes," she mutters to herself. She transfers the injury to herself, then proceeds to carry on a most colourful discussion with herself, while her knee heals. The man, who has pulled off his helmet, looks at her dazedly. He watches his knee heal, then looks up at her. "I thank you." His eyes narrow with sudden recognition, and the hard, cold light in his eyes softens a bit. "Rowan? Dear god, is it really you?" He reaches out to touch her face reverentially. "No trick. No illusion. You're real. You're really here." His eyes wide, "Oh, my love, how I have missed you." "Oh, boy," Gabby mutters. 3. The Captain looks flabbergasted. "What! You are going to let this man *murder*-" "He does not think it is murder. Let him make the descision. Why should he not? If he is willing to do this, there must be good reasons. He is, after all, willing to bear responsibility." The cyborg clicks disaprovingly. "This unit advises against. There is no data to predict what change of condition this action will have on current difficulties." Quickly Gabby steps in between Running Bear and Shane "Stop, reverse, put that back. -Bad- move. You're misjuding Shane's personality if you think that approach is going to work." "This is not an "approach", dreamchild. This is not a game. If he thinks this is what he must do, then he must do it." "Damn you, he's already -said- that's what he has to do, he's trying to give us a chance... magick is about -belief-, and there's a hell of a lot of us who believe that Garret -should not die-. If someone has to fight Death to do it, I'm sure Rhiannon's up for a game of chess. We need time! If he created the rift, killing him before you fix it might trap or destroy all of you. And as for beheading him, his body was dead when he got here and we've just taken the time to piece it back together. The -only- purpose behind handing him that sword would be the hope that forcing him to take that life into his hands would cause an emotional reaction and make him change his mind, and I tell you it won't work, so just stop it, all right?" "No. *You* listen. It is entirely possible that this man is completely correct. This is not about magic, or wishes, or fairy tales." She flinches, as if he's physically injured her. "This is about what is right, and what must happen. I am prepared to accept the judgement of fate in this matter." Quietly, "He said there was another way." Running Bear looks at her with the faintest flicker of annoyance. He turns back to Shane, holding the albino mage's eyes with his own. "Well?" She whirls, eyes blazing, and slaps Running Bear. The dry *crack* of her hand against his face echoes throughout the room. He rocks back on his heels, but doesn't fall. Gabby can see her handprint blooming on his cheek like a red flower. His eyes tear up from pain, but his face shows no other change. "Are you done?" he asks. "Perhaps you would like to slap me again? Or hit me? Or kill me? It changes nothing." "You cold-hearted bastard," she says, her voice sounding calm. "Maybe you don't care if he dies, and if he takes you, and all of you," gestures at the Garrets, "and the pub reality and all of us in it with him. I could say that if you care so little for your own existence, you should offer yourself in his place - I doubt anyone would miss you. But a soul for a soul requires a soul, and the Weaver seems to have sucked yours dry." "Even if," she struggles to keep her voice level, "even if it -is- time and fate for the Garret of this world to die, it can wait until the rift is sealed, and all of you are safe. Even you, even the tin man. For love of Garret, we," gestures to the Pub populace in general, "will save what we can. And if you can't understand that, then at least shut up and stay out of the way. You are not wanted here." 4. Running Bear wobbles uncertainly towards the collapsed man, and then crumples to the floor himself. All the Garri seem shellshocked, the Professor is slumped over his laptop, his eyes wide and glassy, and 101011 looks like some sort of bizzare modern art. "Uhoh." Gabby passes a hand in front of Captain Corven's eyes, checking reaction. "You all right?" she says quietly. No reaction at all, at first. He looks as though someone's hit him over the head. Again. "Remind me to take a first aid class when I get back to land..." she mutters to herself. Then he groans. "Ugpphhhh..." He blinks and looks up at Gabrielle groggily. "Why is it," he says distinctly, "That we've only known each other ten minutes, and I've already passed out twice in front of you?" She smiles. "Perhaps I just have that effect on you. Is it a sign?" He smiles a rakish smile. "I hope so, Gabrielle. I hope so." "Does the rift do that to you every time it gets bigger, or is this a Bad Development?" He shakes his head and looks instantly sick. "every time. It's...I can't describe it." "How... has anyone figured out how to stop it?" "W-we have a w-working theory." says the Professor. "W-we need...someone to go through, uh, the anomalie's physical location in New Orleans, and set up a resonating field from the, uh, inside. We can obscure the, uh, time signatures on each of us. Without, uh, us to anchor it, the... anomaly should fall apart." Astarial peers suspiciously at the new arrival through his monocle... "It's worse." Dropping his monocle, he shouts: "SEIZE THAT MAN!" Rushing out from behind the bar, with blood-red wand in hand,"We must obliterate him! He's a Diabolist, a pawn of the demon lord Jeroth. Destroy him before his corruption spreads further!" The other Garri just look at him groggily. The captain turns tiredly back to Gabby. "Has everyone around here gone stark raving mad?" he asks. The biker on the floor groans and stirrs. After a moment, he lifts up his hands and begins fumbling with his helmet. After a few minutes, he manages to get it off. Half of his head is shaved and covered in strange spiral tattos. The other half is long, down to his shoulders, and dyed bright green. The face is hard, like desert earth, and the left eye is white and blind. A long scar runs from his forehead, down across the eye, and under his chin. A number of metal earrings hang from his ears, most of the small metal hoops, but there are also occult symbols. He looks around, dazed, and tries to move, letting out a cry of pain as his injured leg shifts. "Am I the only sane one here? Look at him! It's as plain as the moons in the sky, damn it all to the forty-seventh... well, maybe not, but it isn't exactly doubtful." With a *ka-chunk*, 101011 jerks back to life. "AlL SyStEmS ONLINE..." It swivels and surveys the new arrival, and the mad elf-creature waving a blood-red wand at it. "Request download of events." "Events! Events? Another one of you has just arrived, ::gestures:: see? Now as it happens, this one happens to have sold his soul to a particularly unpleasant and powerful demon. You're supposed to be protecting this reality, aren't you? How about making a start by removing him from it before we get a personal visitation from his infernal masters?" "Weaponry offline. Request to be re-armed." The man looks calmly at Astarial and inclines his head suddenly, making his earrings tinkle. With a bit of difficulty he stands. "Well. I am here, wherever here is. And it seems I am to die." He shrugs, as if it's not really all that important. "I had something rather more permanent in mind. But then, that *is* the sigil of Jeroth, an Infernal Lord of Corruption branded into your aura, is it not? And I somehow doubt that's accidental." He looks offended. "I hardly know you, and you're broadcasting my private buisness to a roomful of strangers. I can't say I think much of your manners, whatever-you-are." Astarial props the thicker end of his wand on his shoulder; with a hum of charging, it activates. "I should also perhaps point out that this little device is on a hair-trigger, set to go off if I should be attacked in any way. Just in case." "And attacking you is supposed to accomplish exactly what?" Crow asks with mock-politeness. "Me going out in a blaze of glory? Please. Does this look like a comic book to you? Am I wearing spandex? Am I to cackle manaically for your enjoyment, and lecture on my grand plot to rule the world?" He waves his hand negligently. "If you're going to shoot me, shoot me, although I shouldn't think destroying an unarmed man without a single protective charm on his person particularly heroic. But for god's sake, at least stop boring me." 5. "Rowan! Get back, he's a demon!" Gabby yells. "Well, he's sold his soul to one, at least. But in any case, would you mind stepping away?" says Astarial. "This little device isn't the most accurate of weapons, but probably necessary in his case. Sometimes they come back if you don't burn the body and cut the heart out." The man flips his long green hair back and looks at Astarial. It's not a particularly friendly look, although it's not really hostile either. He looks at Rowan. "I would at least do this right, my love. Go away from me. Please. I will not see you die again." Rowan grins, a rather mad grin, eyes sparkling dangerously at she looks at him, winks with the eye they can't see, then looks to Gabby and Astarial. "Dinna worry. I dinna think they'd kill me, 'r Padriac'd stop their drinks." She turns her head back to look at him. "Now, yer knee's healed, ye can a' least stand, 'fore they decide ta welcome ye wi' fireworks." Then, as if what he said just got through, "Me love? No' see me die again?" He looks at her. To Rowan's sharp emotional radar, the struggle inside him is obvious. His mask of flippant sarcasm and arrogant skepticism slips away, for just a moment, and Rowan gets the distinct, painful impression of someone lost, alone, hurting. Then it's gone. "Yes," he says softly, reaching out to touch her hair. "You died." Not hearing the quiet exchange, "Um, is killing one of them going to do something nasty to the others?" asks the Nocker. "Very probably," replies Captain Corven faintly. With Gabby's help he manages to stand. He grabs for his sabre, remebers he doesn't have it, curses, pulls his pistol, and presses it into Gabby's hand. "It's on stun," he says in a low voice. "If the fellow gets too aggressive, knock him out. I'd do it myself, but I can't see straight." Astarial looks exasperated. "Do you mind?" "Well, yes, actually," she quips. "I'm not fond of guns." Shakily she regards Astarial. "We can't let you kill him any more than we can let Shane kill ours. There's too much at stake. Can you agree to just freeze him or something, for now?" "I'll just hold him, for now. But it may well become necessary to kill him, for certain. The risk of disrupting this anomaly, however great, may not be quite so great as that of allowing a Diabolist to escape." Back into Latin, "Just hold him long enough to for us to seal the rift and -then- we kill him." "Someone could deign to actually talk to me," says the new arrival in irritation. "It's rude to discuss someone in the third person in their presence." He looks wryly at Gabby. "You really should put that away, you know. You're likely to shoot your own foot off, the way you're holding it." He gets up, and offers Rowan a hand. "I call myself Crow. It's as good a name as any for you to call me." 6. Professor Corven cranes his neck to look at Martin's diagram of the anomaly. "It's, uh, hollow. I wonder what's inside..." "According to our Garret, his killer." Lady May's remote turns its head from the brainlocked blonde. "If this is correct, then I'm willing to send a remote in. If Elga here was after Garrett, then the one trapped can only be Vachon." The Professor looks up from the field generator. "Ac-according to my, uh, sums, we...we may have to send...uh, someone inside. I don't think I can, uh, set up the field without a...reflecting signal...from the inside." "Couldn't we just send a probe?" asks Martin. He shakes his head emphatically. "We may need to...recalculate on the fly...and, uh, while we could do-do that by remote, I'm-I'm afraid our signal might, uh, be obscured by the, uh, temporal disturbance. It's...it's best to actually send in the, um, equipment with, uh, someone to manage it." Another instance of Lady May's remote walks up to the prof and sits near the first. "No problem, then. I can download enough of myself in this model to count as double presence, and its weaponry is heavier, too." The professor nods tiredly. "I-I've finished modifying...a field generator, uh, to the required specifications." He gestures to a peice of machinery about the size of a large stereo system. "I j-just need to finish, uh, work on the second, for out here." Frederic looks at the 'cat'. "I wouldn't try any tricks with the puree maker in there, anyhow. At least not until the anomaly starts to resolve." Lady May's remote, metallic as it is, manages to look grumpy. The professor shudders. "I'd, uh, rather not know." The rift expands, and the Professor is dazed, and Kao-liang assists him. "I...Time...a-all of it. P-people...places...e-events...so-so *much*..." He blinks a few more times, and lifts his head slightly, looking a bit better. "It hurt." Gently, still trying to work out the ch'i blockages, he asks quietly, "Did the impression tell you anything about the new arrival? Or did it give you an idea what's inside the anomaly? If your reaction is what happens to people inside it, if only briefly, it might be rather difficult getting anything done in there." "I s-saw a woman. Screaming." he looks to the Captain, who nods in confirmation. "M-maybe we should s-send a probe." Frederic bends over the machine and peers at it. "Tell again, what prevents you from sending a true probe? I mean, this location being a catastrophic point in the spacetime, like that." He quickly displays some colored shapes in the air above his palmtop, arranged in a bizzare polyhedron with 5 points. "But it's static, more or less. Now, if you send somebody in, you will allow the phenomenon known as Pub-time to leak through. And Pub-time is nothing if not dynamic. I'd say this would be unwise. Or you'd have to filter the Pub-time, so sending one of Lady May's remotes actually is a good idea, since she does not use pub-time." He blinks. "Oh, damn. I, uh, knew I was leaving out an, uh, variable." He runs a hand through his spiky black hair. "S-sorry. I've, uh, been shot, and I can't remember when I last, s-slept. You're r-right. I'd, uh, be grateful for your help, Lady May."" "I'd suggest to use a stressed sub-quantum lattice as a filter on our side. Professor Garret nods and boards the Eidolon, returning with another piece of silvery metal equipment similar to the first, trailing wires and circuitry. 7. "This is not an "approach", dreamchild. This is not a game. If he thinks this is what he must do, then he must do it." Gabby turns to Shane. "Sir, kindly disregard that offer and let us return to discussing before someone's forced to do something stupid?" Running Bear looks at her with the faintest flicker of annoyance. He turns back to Shane, holding the albino mage's eyes with his own. "Well?" "So be it." Shane takes the sabre from Running Bear's hand, then slowly walks to where dead Garret lies. With each step the glow from around his knife ebbs and the sabre gains the aura. "Wait, -please-! You said arrangements could be made!" Astarial produces another strange device from one of his pockets. "Take one more step towards him," he says, almost regretfully, "and I strike you down." "And nothing changes," says Running Bear. "This is Dammas. Let it be. He will, or he will not." (to Shane) "You must destroy the heart as well. If you would do this, do it well." "You mean the stone?" "No. I mean his physical heart." The new arrival looks at Shane speculatively. Gabby hovers indecisively by Garret's body, not sure who would be more distracted by her presence if she tried to interfere. The Captain tugs at her insistently. "Gabrielle, there's nothing you or I can do. Please. This is far, far out of our league." 8. Frederic looks at the new arrival with some distaste, but waves a hand toward the lynch-mob-in-making. "Hold it a while. We do not know whether we need him alive or dead to keep the fault to do more nasty things." "My thanks," says the man on the floor faintly. He looks at Frederic curiously. "Allies in the strangest places." he comments to himself. "Heh, I'd say that. Anyhow, you just have to wait a bit before your station resumes its scheduled airings. Just behave so Lady May here doesn't eat you." Saying that, Frederic points at the metallic cat which does not look really frightening at all. Crow looks rather dubiously at the metal cat. "A piece of modern sculpture wants to eat me? And people think I'm nuts." "I suggest you explain Astarial he can't really scrouge all alternate timelines from such as you. However, it seems to me he's quite bent on consigning you to nothingness.. "Tell me about it. So who are you, why am I here, and what other philosophical questions do you know the answers to?" A priest shakes his head at Astarial. "And you would send him screaming to the eternal fires of purgatory rather than spend another moment trying to discover _why_ he has strayed from the path?" "Absolutely, although the emptiness of eternal unbeing is more what I had in mind. Justice pays no mind to the twistings of cause; it is the fact of a crime and that alone which determines. And on this the law is clear: 'None shall communicate with, summon, cause to summon, traffic with, cause to traffic with, permit to remain or cause to permit to remain the Infernal, as here stated in this Act; the prescribed penalty under the authority of the Quaesitors of the Clave is the destruction of the body and the soul consigned to Eternal Oblivion, that neither they nor their future selves may spread Corruption's taint.'" Lady May's remote stands on all four and walks towards Astarial. "Hail that. Here's a law almost to my liking. Too wordy but it's got the right bits in it." Crow makes a very loud, very rude noise. "That's the short version. You don't want to hear the long version. Not that 'Kill all Diabolists on sight.' wouldn't do just as well, but these things are produced by civil servants, after all." The remote jumps on a table, so it doesn't have to stare up at Crow. "Now do I get to devour him?" The remote's eyes glow a tad brighter. "Um, no?" answers Crow brightly. He looks over Lady May. "That is a pretty gnarly shape. Are you a bygone? Besides, you don't want to eat me. No meat at all, and I'll give you diarrhea." "Perhaps it is not the fate of his victims' immortal souls you should be worried about, but that of your own," says the priest to Astarial. "I think my soul would be more blackened were I to let a minion of Corruption go free to wreak more harm." "Ooooh? you are tainted too? That's good. Whom should I start with?" chimes the remote. Crow points at Astarial emphatically. "Him! Him! Getting eaten could only improve his lousy disposition." Somewhere in the background, Frederic groans. 9. "Wait, -please-! You said arrangements could be made!" "Yes. Someone must die in his place, or must fight death for him. In the latter case any contest that can have a clear winner and that has been declared as such a battle will do." "Maybe I can do it?" Illyana asks, her hands in her pockets. "After all I can no die." "I don't think that would count - they'd have to -really- kill you to balance the scales, and I'm sure there's some way of doing that. But a contest, maybe?" She looks at Shane. "If Death can't personify itself to come here for a battle, can we count you as its representative? A no-magic fencing competition? I still think Rhiannon should play chess..." Martin, Karieta, and Aetna take up positions to guard Garret's body. Martin's fist clenches, but he takes no further action. "Shane, if you feel special arrangements have to be made, you make them. Otherwise, don't touch that body." "I'm afraid I must agree with Martin. You are not the arbiter of death here." Karieta's eerie blind gaze fixes upon Shane--and she does *not* move out of the way. Aetna contents herself with a simple growl of warning. Crow looks at all of them, a cold, calculating look on his face. Then it vanishes and is replaced by one of vast amusement. He saunters over and peers over Shane's shoulder at the body. "Handsome devil," he comments. "Is there a particular reason why you want to chop him to bits so badly?" "It is his time to die, I have a debt to pay." "Sounds *awfully* serious, and not much fun. Did you like him? I mean, when he was still moving around?" "He was a friend of mine." "Really? Do you normally go around skewering your friends? Must make it hard to get a date." Martin's gaze fixes on Running Bear. "And how is it that you think you know what is right and what is wrong?" "The way the wind blows. The voice of a stone." replies Running Bear cryptically. The Captain throws up his hands. "Mad. I'm a madman in another life." Martin shakes his head. He looks down, for a moment, then up at the Dreamspeaker. "Running Bear." He says, "There have to be reasons. I don't mind whose paradigm they come from. I don't care if they're scientific, religious, magical or spiritual, but they do have to be internally consistent and make some kind of sense. Heck, even properly explained would be a start." Running Bear shrugs. "Now, why should we give this decision to him to make?" Martin indicates Shane. "Because he cannot seem to make it himself?" Running Bear says, looking at Garret's body. "Because death is not a thing to be mulled over and accepted only if one feels like it? Because it is possible that his continued existence makes our difficulties worse? Because this is suffering?" He shrugs and glares at Gabby. "Or perhaps it is simply that I am cruel and heartless, and care nothing for anyone except my own person. I am, after all, not wanted here. Yet I am here. We are all here. Wanted or not, we must deal with the current situation. We have debated enough for ten tribes of Navajo. Noise aplenty we have made, and nothing has changed. I am prepared to let someone do something. Even wrong action is sometimes better than inaction, and there is more than the life of one man to consider, no matter how well-loved he is." He shrugs. "Do, or do not do. I have told you my reasons, I will not repeat them. I do not wish to be struck again." He turns and walks away, sitting down at a table near the Professor. 10. "Rowan, get away from him, he's dangerous..." Gabby pleads. Rowan's voice softens a bit, 'though she doesn't turn back around. "Gabby... trust me, aye? First, I canna see him 'n pain like tha'. Second, if'n th' connection 'twixt th' lot o' 'em 's th' way they keep sayin' 'tis, then this 'un's pain'll transfer. Di'ye wish tha'?" "Of course not," she says, with a quick look at Captain Corven, who smiles rakishly at her. "I'm touched by your concern, Gabrielle, although i can't help but feel I'm not worthy of your attention." "Namely, he is a spreader of corruption, who apart from having sold his soul to infernal powers is also quite probably involved in sacrificing babies, ritual cannibalism, mutilation, torture, rape, soul-stealing and any other perversions you might be able to think of." Astarial says. "And is in desperate need of killing." Rowan sighs, rolling her eyes in annoyance. Looking directly at Crow, she asks, "Di' ye participate 'n a) sacrifice wee 'uns, b) ritual cannabalism, c) mutilation, d) torture, e) rape 'r f) soul-stealing?" She looks expectantly at Crow. He looks away. "Don't ask me these questions, Rowan. You don't want to hear the answers, and I don't want to give them to you." (to Astarial) "You want to kill me, fine. Leave her alone." "Dinna worry. I dinna think they'd kill me, 'r Padriac'd stop their drinks." She turns her head back to look at him. "Now, yer knee's healed, ye can a' least stand, 'fore they decide ta welcome ye wi' fireworks." "*I* wouldn't, but this device works automatically. And you weren't kneeling directly in the firing line when I set it.", he says irritatedly. "But if he were to leave and take you with him - you would be better off dying here. It would, at least, be quick and clean." Crow looks at Astarial in disgust. "You really don't know me, whatever you are. Not that it matters." "'Tis yer device, an' ye set 't. So, 'f 't kills me, 'twill still be ye tha' set 't, aye?" Looking very tired, she turns to look at him. "'F tha' happens, I'll end 't meself. I've been through Erebus..." "I don't want to hurt you again," he says softly. "Why is that so hard to understand?" Crow looks at her. To Rowan's sharp emotional radar, the struggle inside him is obvious. His mask of flippant sarcasm and arrogant skepticism slips away, for just a moment, and Rowan gets the distinct, painful impression of someone lost, alone, hurting. Without the need for thought, one hand flies out to touch his jaw. She whines quietly in distress, at his distress. Head cocked to one side, she looks at him, green eyes sad and confused. He bites his lower lip and stands very, very still at her touch. Then it's gone. "Yes," he says softly, reaching out to touch her hair. "You died. I killed you. I had to." She blinks. "Ye had to?" Silence. "Why?" No hatred, no condemnation. Just a question. Unconsciously, she leans a little toward the hand touching her hair. Green eyes, still sad and confused, look solemnly into his, waiting for the answer. "Yes," he says softly. "You don't remember? Or maybe you never knew..." he shakes his head and continues, still looking into her eyes. "You told me what would happen. If I went to the cauls. But I was drowning...I had been drowning for a long time. You thought you could save me...I wanted you to, but it was too...hard. Especially after the others of my Tradition discovered what I'd been doing...you did too, and I knew it made you angry, but I couldn't stop...I tried, and the rage would build until I had to do it all over again." His eyes narrow. "Cut. Burn. Hurt. Make them scream. Make them hurt. It was them or me, don't you see that? And what I did to them didn't hurt nearly as bad as what hurt me inside. It seemed...fair, in a way. They were really responsible for making me what I was, weren't they?" His voice has become low and pleading. "So I went to the cauls, and they peeled me inside out, ripped out my guts and shoved them in backwards, and after that, I didn't feel much of anything. That was when they took me home...to you." He shrugs. "I've seen it a hundred times now. They want all of you, body and soul, and for one of them to feel love for another...it's not allowed. They took me home, and they told you what I had become. And you tried to hurt them. You tried to hurt me. I stopped you. I stopped you forever. Didn't even know I'd done it until it was over, and you were on the floor...choking on your own blood..." He looks away again. "And everything that was really left of me died with you. Which, of course, was the idea." He looks back and smiles. It is not a pleasant smile, although it is not directed at her. All the blades are pointing inward. "I mean, how can you hate yourself any more than you already do when you've killed the only person who really loved you?" His face becomes less bitter and more intent. "There are few people in life to whom I owe truth. However you are here, you are still Rowan Silverhair, and despite the fact that I am a walking mockery of the person you said you loved, I still love you more than *anything*," his voice becomes fierce and vehement,"including my life, my soul, and my magick. Love requires truth. It demands it. And the truth is, I am an evil man, I have done evil things, and if you let me live, I will do more evil still. If you value your soul and your life, then tear me open yourself and scatter my entrails to the four winds, because I cannot be anything other than what I am now. Not anymore. Not even for you." Karieta turns to him--her blind gaze oddly cutting, and challenging at the same time as she looks at him neutrally. "You can. There is a way. The question is whether or not you will do it--for yourself, and for the one whose love forced you to kill her." He swings and snarls at her, his lips drawing back from his teeth. "You understand nothing. You can still lie to yourself, cling to your warm, fuzzy god and think that this is the best of all possible worlds. Pah! It's a childs dream, sound and fury, signifying nothing. Your redemption is pathetic. I, at least, will not lie to myself." 11. A slim, attractive man is sitting alone at a table. The most striking thing about him is the cloak that he wears; it's made up of diamonds of black and grey silk. Occasionally a glimpse of the inside shows the same pattern, but in grey and white. As she steps away from the rift, Gabby turns and notices him. "Glory be. A Sidhe." The tone is hardly flattering, although concern about the fabric of reality might account for that... or maybe not. "You say that as if it were a bad thing." The tone is amused rather than provocative. "Yes, I'm Sidhe. House Liam, for what it matters." "I'm afraid I don't know one house from the other," she says, hand on her hip. "Does it make a difference?" He coughs politely, looking around at the multitude of Garri. "Have you noticed how this sort of freak space-time multiplication disaster never seems to involve beautiful women ?" "Actually there were a bunch of identical females in the Cafe a while back, but Syn wasn't really in a position to judge their attractiveness..." Gabby says idly. "Before my time." He chuckles. "Maybe it's time for a Gabriel/le convention ?" "You're a Gabriel? I'm sorry." And she honestly does seem to be considering it a difficult name to carry, not just harassing him. "Don't be. I don't mind it." He shrugs. "The Biblical connotations can get a bit confused sometimes. One of my clients who had problems with religious mania thought I was the Angel Gabriel come to tell her her baby was going to be the next Messiah. I suppose it was better than the hard facts." "Those being?" "Ugly. They usually are in my line of work." "What sort of work do you do?" He leans close, and stage-whispers as if it were a dreadful secret. "I'm a psychiatric counsellor. I work with the terminally ill and the victims of severe trauma." She laughs harshly. "I've seen enough of those in my time. Just what everyone needs, a counselor who can actually see and fight the dragons that are chasing them. And then helpfully prevent them from ever seeing the dragons again." "Can do. We're the good guys, of course." He smiles mockingly. "Some of us at least try." She snorts. "I'm sure." "You think you can do my job, you're welcome to it." "Which job? The one where you get to stand around looking important, flaunting a lot of jewels and fancy titles and fairy tales and argue over who's Duke of what and whether or not the scribe recorded the speech at the latest ball correctly? No thanks." "My dear..." "I'm not your dear anything. Your kind sucks the life out of others and gets away with it and then complains about how -humans- are bringing about the end of the world. I suppose you carry iron to 'defend the Dreaming'?" "No, I carry it to kill the parts of the Dreaming that would destroy us all." "Those being?" "Well, the most radical elements of the Unseelie Court, of course, but what I pay attention to is the monsters. " "We need the monsters..." "There are some very ugly things hidden in the Dreaming. As ugly as the ugliest parts of human nature." "..most of the time." "The ones I concern myself with are the nastier end of the spectrum. Their idea of a day's entertainment can take a very long time to heal. If it's reparable. I'm not above having fun with people myself, but I don't break my toys. And I make sure they enjoy the ride." She cocks her head at him. "Tell me, have you ever heard of the Sabbat?" "Should I have?" She sighs. "And I have never blamed anything on humanity as a whole. I happen to rather like humans, which is why I do what I do. You want arrogant playboy Sidhe, look somewhere else." "It wasn't the playboys that did the ravaging. They only passed it off afterwards." "Are you talking about specifics here ?" "I did say I'd been to a lot of shrinks." "Vould you like to tell me about zees... zees 'shrinks' ?" He does a very passable impression of Freud. "Seriously. Call it professional interest, if nothing else." She shrugs. "What's to tell? They said I was severely depressed, and delusional, and possibly dangerous, and they kept me out of school for a long time." "I see." He shrugs. "Keeping people isolated from society isn't much good as a long-term treatment strategy. Only for the ones who are dangerous and incurable." "The worst of it was that they weren't isolating me -enough-." "Hostile influences ?" "Bad people. People who saw pre-awakened fae as a nice glamour source." 12. "I mean, how can you hate yourself any more than you already do when you've killed the only person who really loved you?" She holds a hand out in response, holding it out, palm up, silently begging him to reciprocate by placing his hand, palm down, on hers. He stares at her hand for a long moment, and then places his own palm down on it, shuddering slightly as he does so. He looks as though he wants to say something, but without his laughing mask and his armor of cynicism and bitterness, he's too exposed. Too fragile. "If'n e'erythin' inside ye tha' was good was gone, if'n ye dinna ha' th' ability ta love, why di'ye still..." her voice softens, so that only the two of them can hear, "why di'ye still love me?" Her voice a little stronger, she says, "And why di'ye feel such sorrow a'losing me?" He winces hard, and swallows. "I...I don't have an answer for you. I don't know. I *shouldn't* care about you...or what I did to you...I've killed other people, and I never felt anything...not after the cauls. I made a woman scream for three hours once by making cockroaches eat out her eyes. I once nailed a man's arm to a counter, then convinced him he was an animal in a trap and watched him gnaw it off. I felt nothing. I didn't enjoy it. I didn't *not* enjoy it. If I can't care about doing those things, I don't know why I still care about you." He looks down at the floor and curses softly. "No, that's not right. I said I owe you truth, and that means all of it. I still love you because I can't let go of what we had...it would mean...letting go of the only thing I still have...that makes me human." "I wish you hadn't made me say that. I can't be this person for you any more. I can't care anymore. I'd go really nutty, nuttier than the Ka'lishaa. You can't do what I've done and care about it." Rowan offers the other hand, palm up. 'Though her eyes are still sad, and more than a little pained, she says calmly, "So, ye'll stay be my side 'til this 's o'er, then I'll send ye on. I..." she swallows. "I wish I could help ye change. I wish ye'd let me. But, if'n ye deny th' possibility fer change wi'n yerself, so be 't. When th' time comes, I'll end 't. An' mayhap ha' yer body purified, just fer good measure. Ye ken?" He places his other hand on hers, and his shoulders slump tiredly. He looks...worn, ill-used, like a man made out of rags and patches, worn through to the stuffing. "Yeah," he says softly. "Okay. It's...sorta right, huh? After what I did to you...it's...like it's *right* to be this way. You do what you think is right, Rowan. I still trust you." 13. "Just what everyone needs, a counselor who can actually see and fight the dragons that are chasing them." "More or less what I do. Half of it, at least. The other half is helping people live a life's worth in reduced time." She laughs. "For what purpose? So you can kill them and feel that you've done no wrong?" "No. Listen and remember, sweet nocker. I said that my work was with the traumatised _and the terminally ill_. I _do_ have professional ethics, Seelie or not." She seems slightly less hostile at the mention of terminally ill patients. "And what do you teach them, then?" "Whatever seems appropriate. The usual two questions are 'why me ?' and 'how do I go about dying ?' It's easy enough to do, but everyone seems to want to do it right, and I can't blame them." Warmth creeps into his voice, and it's hard not to like him. Some people have a talent for not liking... "The first question isn't really too hard to deal with. The answer is usually that there's no good reason, and death is arbitrary. Once they can accept that... it's surprising how much of a weight it takes off some people. The second one is harder, and really depends on the person. Everybody wants to _do_ something, to tell the world who they are, and I try to help them do that. Some of them end up writing out their life story, some of them like to paint. A lot of them, especially the teenagers, don't like the thought of dying without experiencing love." ...but it seems to be melting somewhat in the face of someone who just -might- be on a similar side. "I can often give them some tips. One little one just wanted to know that someone would look after her tiger for her." He gazes over towards Maxwell, a small chimerical tiger cub who's busy making friends with anyone who can see him. "He's beautiful," she says quietly. "Does he know?" "I've never been quite sure. He raises an interesting question, though. He's a creature of her imagination. Since he's very much alive, something of her must be too. There's a lot of her personality in him, along with everything else she imagined in him. I find that rather comforting." He smiles. "That was how I Chrysalised, in fact. She believed so hard in Maxwell that I tried to see him too. You can imagine how I felt when I did." "Chrysalis..." she repeats the word as if she's not entirely certain what it means, but wants to. "When you open your eyes and see the secret world for the first time." "That's what I thought," she says, looking down and fingering one of her pointed ears. He leans back in his chair, and shuts his eyes to conceal their brightness. "And then the third question. Does anyone care. I can at least answer that one." "Some shrinks will happily tell you that not only does someone care, but really, you're just like everyone else..." He shrugs. "I like to think I care about everyone _else_, too. But I do become very close to my patients. It hurts to lose them, and so all the more reason to help them leave something of themselves in this world." 14. "There's no such thing. If there's moral ambiguity, all it means is that you haven't researched your morals well enough." Crow's eyes get wider. "Man, this just gets better and better. So everything you do is right?" "No. But everything I do is either right or wrong. Not ambiguous." "That kind of black-and-white thinking is sloppy. Your morals are never going to cover everything, and what happens when they conflict? You're going to be forced to make a choice." "You redefine your morals appropriately so that they cover the situation in which they conflict without conflicting. It's a simple matter of growing your moral system as you progress." Crow looks at Astarial in flat, surprisingly honest amazement. "And you *really* think you don't work for us?" "And under what guidelines do you expand your morals, or are they purely arbitrary ?" Gabriel smiles, as a thought occurs to him. "In fact, I think you'll find there's _no_ self-consistent moral system that will tell you what path to take in _every_ situation. Godel's Theorem, applied to morality. No finite moral code can answer every moral question without contradicting itself on some issues, and nobody - not even you - has room for an infinitely long set of rules." Crow points at Gabriel. "Yeah, what he said!" "I am confident that my understanding of it is *sufficient* to the occasion, rather." "Considering the fact that you haven't bothered to even ask me how that mark got there, you'll pardon me if I'm not awed by your investigative abilities. I've been here for-what, five minutes?" "You carry the mark of a demon lord, you're dressed like a Diabolist, you haven't volunteered any alternative explanation, and you've to all intents and purposes admitted it from your own mouth. How much more 'understanding' are we supposed to need?" He goggles. "Diabolists have a *dress code*!?" "No, but only a Diabolist would have that atrocious a style of dress." "Here, let me measure the length of his nose for you. That might tell you more about his worthiness," says Gabriel. Crow *howls* with laughter. "Oh, you are *good*. I may have to take notes." He looks down at his clothes. "Funny, I thought I was dressed like this to fit in with my gang. The Never-Born don't give a shit *how* you dress, in fact, the older ones seem to like suits and ties." "That was a rhetorical question." He shrugs. "To be honest, your ignorance on just about every topic is so far stunning in it's breadth and depth. I'm still not impressed." "As I'm not trying to impress you, I dare say I've succeeded brilliantly," says Astarial. "You _are_ trying to impress. You've been waving your dick in the air for the last half-hour or so. Give over," says Gabriel. Crow looks like he *really* wants to add in here, but he takes a look at Astarial's face and wisely decides that the pithy comment can wait. Kao-liang shrugs, and interjects, "Of course, if some people are accused of being evil, they won't volunteer an alternative explanation and might even talk as though they're admitting it - they like feeling martyred and that no one understands them, and it also garners them attention." Crow makes a face. "This kind of attention I can do without." And then he smiles. "People this self-confident about killing people always eventually end up with us. Becuase sooner or later they jump the gun, and they turn out to be wrong, and it breaks them. Sad, if it weren't so damn funny." "And that," he says, "is where atonement comes in. When someone is premature and makes a mistake that they cannot correct." "Ah, see, you believe in atonement too, yet you'd rather kill someone than offer it. Not that I'm saying I want it, you understand, I'm just pointing out the inconsistencies in your own supposed morally unambiguous, self-consistent, well-researched code of ethics." "There is no inconsistency. Atonement, in the beliefs of my people, is offered to those who do wrong through misjudgement, or blindness, or in the blind fury of passion, and so forth. Not to those who choose to be evil of their own will." "How do you know how I ended up here? I don't recall faxing you my life story. Maybe I'm just a hapless pawn, manipulated by forces beyond my control?" 15. Rhiannon starts, looking up for the first time in a long time from the sleek black bird on her arm, which flaps its wings and calls "Kaaah!" She cocks her head, an intense *listening* look on her face, as the bird climbs back up her arm to perch on her shoulder. Then she blinks and slips across the pub with her characteristic inhuman grace towards the professor. "Pardon," she says, with a small curtsy,"If't be nay an incovenience, I have need of the stone." The professor shrugs and fishes the bright green object out of his pocket, and drops it into her outstretched hand. He looks closely at her face, and for some reason, says "good luck." She nods sharply in acknowledgement, and moves purposefully towards Garret's prone body. Shane, fortuanately, is engaged in a threat exchange with Astarial, and Rhiannon simply slips past him. The stone drops like a tear from her hand into the empty space in Garret's face, where he removed his eye. Her hand moves upward to touch his forehead lightly, and she bends and brushes his lips briefly with her own, making the crow call and flap its wings to retain its balance. A soft wind moves through the pub, as if God had been holding his breath. Reality drops away like a piece of deception coming undone. The sun blazes forth from a sky as blue as azure, and the sand underfoot is molten gold. The green suguaro stretch forth their spiny arms as if preparing to dance, and the rocks are red as wounds and shadows caught under them could be scaled lizards, or scorpions, or just hidden things. Garret trudges towards the meeting rock, the hot sun is a wash around him, and the wind fingers his shiny black hair. His face is weathered, and wisdom, hard-bought, peeks out from the creases. Garret trudges toward the meeting rock, the shadows are a wash around him, and his black hair is still as death in the absence of wind. His face is smooth and clean, and wisdom, hard-bought, peeks out of the depths of his eyes. The two halves of a broken mirror stop at the meeting rock, neither one touching, but knowing each other nonetheless. A onyx bird perches there, its feathers the color of ash, the color of the black egg from which the mythical phoenix never hatches. "I am tired," says Garret, and the shadows dance at his voice. "I am tired," says Garret, and the sun dims. "I know this," says the desert, speaking through the bird. Silence winds between them and binds them in its coils. The desert is a mandala now, lines burned across the face of creation, molten blood pulsing quicksilver underneath the sand. Everything is there, the bone and sinew of creation, awash in darkness, burning with light. "This is not right," says Garret, and the darkness swallows the sun. "This is not right," says Garret, and the sun is born from the belly of darkness. "That which is, is right," says the desert, speaking through the bird. The mandala is gone. A silver line stretches across the sand, and its gulfs are infinite. A thousand years pass. Another thousand. Footprints appear and dissapear, the line is erased, crossed, drawn again. Nothing changes. "As you will," says Garret, melting into twilight. "As you will," says Garret, melting into dawn. "I am the will of all things," says the desert, speaking through the bird. A man lies on the polished wooden floor of the pub. A dead bird is at his feet, its feathers the color of ash. The sea is in the single eye he opens, and his hair is the night sky that embraces him as he sits up. "Rhiannon?"