Write Away!

Monolog

2009-03-30T20:58:00.000-07:00

What the hell are you thinking? That I'm some kind of fucking parasite? I provide a simple service. I organize and run the largest criminal syndicate in this country. Do you even know what that means?

Of course not. You probably think all I do is have my underlings set up schemes to steal from people so that my cut keeps me in a decadent lifestyle. That perspective is shortsighted... and borderline retarded. If the head of an organization does not contribute, it gets replaced. I have to provide a service to the people under me, or they won't have me. I perform a useful service to the city too, of course.

Oh? You don't think a criminal syndicate can do some good? You're not really aware of what the fuck we do around here, are you? Yes, we bring drugs into the city. There's a market for it. Simple economics will tell you that you can't outlaw a good, you can only affect availability and price. We control that market. We keep it... quiet. There's no dealer hanging outside the high schools. Little old church ladies don't see a bordello across the street from the library. The good people of this city only have to see the seamy realities of life if they want them, and only when they want them.

And it's not easy. Last month, this kid was caught selling dope in his own school. Tragic story, of course. He was found dead of an overdose in his family home. I mean, of course the DA was curious about where he'd gotten the drugs. Of course the kid was willing to cut a deal. Which... made him a narc, an independent, a kid-pusher, and not part of the family. I think you take my meaning here.

Since I keep things quiet and give the local government plausible deniability, I'm providing a service. If I go away, crime rates appear to go up; nothing gets hidden. Out of sight is out of mind.

Different proposition for the folks working under me. Most of them just want to make a shit-ton of money, and to hell with the consequences. Not an uncommon mentality in this day and age, but one that tends to destroy the business. Sure, our various rackets are pretty easy to rebuild. Drugs just require a new batch, a hitman gets replaced, a prostitute finds a new corner, and shit rolls on. But the benefit of organization is fronts.

You know, a front? I rent an office, file taxes, everybody gets social security, health care... all the benefits of living in society, instead of against it. Income gets laundered. Legbreakers can tell their parents they're working collections for that bright and shiny new firm. Proud parents, happy psychopaths.

Some people, of course, don't give a shit. They think it's gotta be all about the cash. Young shits who never had anything to live for. Old fucks who never saved for retirement suddenly doing the math. I can give 'em the carrot of easy money. But they'll always need more. They could own Ohio and think they should also buy Michigan. They could take over France and Italy and still think it was a smart idea to invade Russia in winter. They will not learn from someone telling them.

So, them... they get the stick. They gotta get burned. Maybe I don't stop a police raid that'll catch 'em with their pants down. Maybe I just have a fellow in jail give 'em a bit of a talk. Probably with lube. People need to understand they are not invincible, even if they are, for a moment in time, powerful. People are some dumb shits tho. Some can be scared straight, or at least back on our crooked little path. Others... too dumb to live.

Sheesh. You know, I lose about a third of my manpower that way? I get some that make it to retirement, but, boy... they are some rare ones. I've been paying some of them to do workshops for the young shits and new hires. Don't know if it helps or not, but anything that makes a kid think "Hey, I have a future if I don't fuck up."

Ah well, I'm rambling. Tends to happen when I have to kill some time. Heh, get it? Ah, right, it's not all that funny when you've got cement drying around your ass. But, hey, you tried to shoot me in my own home, in front of my kids. That's your ass, you know?

Now, sure, you're dead. Give or take a few minutes, right? You get to call in one favor though. You get to tell me what drove you to this point, where you thought you had to kill me. Maybe I gotta whack one of my boys, since someone's stepping on some toes, eh? Maybe your family's in peril, and you're not even really my enemy. I'll saddle up a posse and rescue what I can of your people. Maybe you're just an idiot who picked the wrong house to burgle... but you got through my security somehow.

You tell me how the fuck you ended up here, and maybe you get to go to your imminent grave satisfied that your death wasn't in vain. You make it a secret you take to your grave, and I will find if you have any living relatives, and I will involve them. Oh do not give me that look. You waved a gun at my fucking children. You don't tell me, and you can find out how little it helps you in this world and the next.

2009-03-23T19:22:00.000-07:00

Every day, you must learn a new thing. You grow old when you fail to learn more. Learning keeps you young, keeps a sense of wonder about you... but some lessons age you anyway.

If I tell you the sensation I had was a headache, you will think of a migrane, a throbbing sensation localized in the head, likely to the point of incapacitating the sufferer. I felt like my nervous system was on fire. It wasn't still on fire, but every nerve wanted to let me know that they'd all felt the worst pain ever a few seconds ago.

I found out later that you can never truly remember the pain of that sort of telepathic assault. It was a feedback loop. My 'captor' had brought in a mind-reader to help sort out my language problem. He probed from outside, trying to get a sense of what he was dealing with. And evidently, not only did he feel the same pain of my bruises that I did... I could feel him... feeling my pain. It's a feedback loop. Whenever someone capable of telepathy comes across someone else, they usually need some sort of device to dull their powers. I would call this "Psion's Friction".

I opened my eyes, and walked out of the cell... again.

"Ah, you recovered! Excellent." The tech-girl spoke.

"Ah. Yes. You... figured out my language?" I asked, knowing somehow that wasn't the way I understood her.

"No. You'd only gotten as far as showing me the dictionary before you passed out and Claudia had me call her friend an ambulance."

"Claudia? The lady... with the bow?"

"Yes. I'm Lacey." It sounds like Lay-See, and I could just about see how it'd be spelled... in a language I never actually learned.

"How... okay, first, pleased to meet you, Lacey. I'm... call me John. I understand your language?"

She'd gone back to her workbench. "It would appear so, yes."

"After I passed out... I learned your language? What happened?"

"Oh! Of course you wouldn't be familiar... um, we brought in a customs agent. He's a mind-reader, and one familiar with minds that don't share a common language reference."

I can't say I was thrilled at the notion of a place where the government employed mindreaders... but it at least made sense to use them as customs agents. If you had to use them. But then, if you didn't, wouldn't someone else? I was getting sidetracked. "He taught me your language then. Not sure I like having my brain messed about that way... something could go badly. Is that why I passed out?"

She kept her eyes on... some sort of novelty arrow she was messing with. Like she was winding floss inside a thimble and occasionally tightening something with an allen wrench. "No. That sort of power is probably impossible. No, you learned his language, while he was trying to read your mind. And you both... sort of short out after a bit. pfzzt." She finished with the arrow-thing, and moved on to some other device. "Brightside, you don't short out like meltdown circuitry. Brain goes shutdown, reboots. Bit like hangover, perhaps."

"Wow. Okay, I know I got every word you said... I think I understand you, but..." How the hell do you ask someone holding a soldering gun if they're talking crazy or if it's just your new language having some growing pains? I've never seen an ettiquette guide for this. Maybe this world would have, what, a 'Miss Manners' for superheroes? Manner-Lass! Okay, not by that name, sure. "Are you understanding me clearly?"

For the first time, she paused in her work to consider what I was saying. She resumed even before answering. "Yes, as clear as anyone. Your accent is, of course, unplacable. You pause oddly, but some of that is likely the circumstances. Most people, when dealing with matters fully outside their experience are given to caution and rigorous testing of thought process. You act very human, and appear to be in lousy health. Likely some sort of desk job, by my analysis."

"Um, yes." I blinked a bit in surprise. "I do a lot with business and computers. Contract accounting, generally."

"Yes. Well, you also outran Claudia, and caught up with a man who robbed a bank with superspeed. Then countered the psionic who tried to figure out your language. This suggests you are remarkably dangerous, and likely unpredictable. To ensure you are not a threat, I have already made provisions for everything I have learned about you to be transmitted to the world at large if anything happens to me or Claudia. I will not tolerate any threat to my family," She turned around, brandishing something like a cattle prod with a pulsating glow at the end that might have looked pretty if it weren't aimed in my direction. "Do you understand me?"

"Very clearly!" I backed away. "Just don't shoot. I'll go back in the cell, whatever you want."

"Good." She put the baton away. "Oh hell. My meds." She took a pill and seemed to calm. "I get a bit... emotional off these. I... it's nothing personal. But you're clearly an alien that passes as human, likely from the rifts we've seen around town." She picked up the baton again and... sharpened a shaft with it. I'd just been threatened with an arrow sharpener. "See, I also wanted to be sure you weren't still reading minds. If you were, and were a threat, you'd know I wasn't bluffing about telling the world about you. And that I was bluffing about the 'weapon'." She smiled.

"Um. If I were a threat, and had read you properly, wouldn't I want to show fear anyway? To delay, if nothing else?"

Lacey shrugged. "There is a reason I take these pills and do not make the tough decisions. I do better with machines than politics and people. Still, you do not object to the threat of scans and tissue samples of your person being used against you?"

"Well, I wasn't planning to take over your planet. I wasn't planning on coming here either. Um, I had to trust Claudia with my life, just being... you know, not from here. This changes nothing. And if it turns out I carry some cripping disease, or if you guys have some nasty bug I can die from... medical data could save lives."

Just Ice

2009-03-20T16:42:00.000-07:00

The hand gripped his shoulder from the gloom surrounding our table. It was gloved, in a hot, sweaty room, on a day that I remembered as warm... many beers and cards ago. The voice hissed from the darkness for what I realized was the second time.

"Tell them."

"What?" The man in the grip of that hand was no friend of mine, though it was not the first time we had played together.

"Tell them... what you did." A pause, and then a further rumble, "To her."

A photograph fell to the table, near the pot. Some pretty girl, backpack and youth suggested a college kid. None of us knew her, but the man in the clutches of that dark hand seemed to recognize her after a bit. "She... how did you get this? What do you want?"

Even now, details stand out as I think back. I did not see the fingers clench, but I knew their grip tightened as the flesh of their victim's shoulder whitened. "I want you to tell them... what you did... to her. Now."

"Alright, alright. She's a... a hooker. Paid her a few times and... fuck. Aaah!"

The thumb of the hand had moved slightly, I think probing a nerve. The next nerve was struck by another photograph. This showed a naked corpse... repeatedly stabbed. I couldn't tell if it was the same girl as the first photograph. One of the other players turned from the small circle of light... I heard retching. Maybe he puked, I don't know.

The fingers relaxed their grip, and I saw an arm shoving the... he wasn't really a victim, if this was true... the guy. He was shoved face down over the photograph, struggling with the hand on the back of his neck until his cheek touched the picture. All the fight went out of him. Not that there'd been much to begin with. I think... he could have moved the table, or kicked at the dark figure holding him... but he wasn't afraid of being caught anymore, I guess. He just... just didn't want to look.

None of the rest of us moved. We just watched the life drain out of this guy, and he started sobbing. The voice came again. "Tell them. You have to say the words or it'll never ever end."

The guy blubbered out a confession, of course. I knew from the moment that second photo appeared. Whatever excuse he had, I can't say I was really listening. No, that's not right. I didn't want to. He was saying it felt so good, like, better than sex, the power... and... I was glad the voice cut him off.

"The rest of you have a choice. Do you stand with him, knowing what he's done... or do you walk away, knowing what I will do?" The guy was hauled back in his chair, and I heard a click as he was cuffed to it. "Think about... if you have a sister, or a cousin... some family you never see, and she was... selling herself. Perhaps drugs were involved. Maybe she had a child to support. And someone cut her face, her breasts... cut her hamstrings when she tried to run, and stabbed her crotch when she tried to crawl. Left her to bleed." The guy sobbed once. "Would it be fair to leave him to my... tender mercy?" The hand grabbed the guy's hair.

The guy who gagged was the first to leave. I... I was the last. I had to know... "What will you do?"

"Castration, and then, if he chews and swallows it fast enough, he'll live to get medical attention."

I nodded, a little bile rising in my throat. "That seems... mild, by comparison."

Another photograph fell. A woman, heavily bandaged, in the hospital. "She lived."

I thought for a moment. About friends, and years past. "You're doing it here? Do you... need anything?"

"If he chews? Just ice."

Waking up is hard to do...

2009-03-08T22:30:00.000-07:00

I came back to consciousness with a ringing in my head, bruises on my groin, and as a result, my will to live was conspicuously absent. After a while, curiosity overwhelmed misery and I examined my new surroundings. 6' by 10', small toilet, cot attached to wall... one door. Ah, great. A cell.

I tried to remember any useful advice for this sort of situation. The closest I remember is the medical advice of a softball coach. "Walk it off." I question his medical expertise, but, it seemed unlikely that anything was going to involve either of my heads hurting any worse. I was, of course, as wrong as you would expect. But at least everything seemed intact; if a bit loudly complaining.

The door was unlocked, rather to my surprise. A strange woman looked up, waved, and went back to... it looked like she was soldering something to an arrow. A nearby groan alerted me to another cell, like my own, but containing my old "friend", the bank thief.

I limped over to the woman. She looked me over, and produced an ice pack. Knowing the language barrier, I bowed low. She seemed... rather unmoved by my presence otherwise. Skinny, pale... goggled... something of a lab geek. I suspect she could also kill me with any of a dozen implements she had within easy reach.

I had questions, but... well. Some difficulty posing them. I pointed to my head, made "beep beep" noises and mimed the impact of the truck. Then pointed at my groin, shrugged, and put the ice in my lap, trying for a facial expression asking a question, rather than implying constipation.

The woman... I'll call her Labbie for now, seemed to understand. She held up a metal sphere, with a cord attaching it to... another sphere. Ah, bolo... oh. Right, that would rack me pretty good. I nodded my thanks.

Trying to find out what was going to happen to me after this... proved a bit more difficult. I did succeed in making enough of an ass of myself that this stone-faced mystery girl smiled... for three seconds. Then I had the best idea I had since coming to whatever hell I'd landed in. I gave her my cellphone.

The idea was, that these things have to be easy to use. And one of the functions in this one was a dictionary. She could possibly figure out what english was, and maybe be able to start teaching me the local lingo.

After a few minutes of going through the menus, she seemed to realize something, and tapped... I swear it was her belt buckle; before talking into space, fairly excitedly. After a bit, she stopped, nodded, and swallowed... some pill. I noticed over the next little while that she got less excited, although she didn't really slow down her speech.

Of course, I didn't spot details like that normally... but if you can't understand the words, and your life might be on the line? You find things that do make sense. A pill to curb hyperactivity, for an adult? Had to be a psychoactive medication... which meant I could be in trouble if she forgot to take her meds again. Or maybe that just meant she'd be really calm if she decided I was in dire need of dissection.

After a while, she stopped talking, and smiled stiffly at me. She brought up a computer display of an analog clock. She drew a couple lines on it... if it were like the time I was used to, she was saying it'd be about half an hour before... whatever it was we were waiting on.

I nodded, and pointed to the symbols around the edges... and held up fingers to match, if they were the same as the numbers I was used to. She nodded, patted me on the head, and went back to whatever she was doing to the arrows, effectively dismissing me.

Who watches...

2009-03-07T00:23:00.000-08:00

The corpse was still warm. The fire probably had something to do with that. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this was the same vigilante serial killer that had been touring the country. I could see the writing on the wall as well as anyone.

"Oh, gods. Boss. Whew. Um. We've got a tentative ID on the victim..."

"Right, the Fire Chief? Caught taking bribes to gloss over safety regs last month... charges dropped, of course."

"Uh, yeah. How'd... how'd you know?"

I stared at the kid. I pointed to the wall, where the motive was written... possibly with the victim's blood, or the killer's bile. I'd later find out it was trace amounts of naptha, so the words would scar themselves in the wall when the fire started. The kid was better than average. He didn't move his lips too much as he worked through it.

"You, uh... you think it was the same killer as... as the police chief?"

"Yep. Doesn't take a genius kid. Same guy or group. I'm still not sure it's just one guy. It's like some kind of a movement... or organization. Big on poetic justice, hoisting by their own petard." I saw the kid's eyes glazing at the advanced concepts. "They kill the corrupt with the things they're corrupt about."

"Huh. So... how'd they find out the guy was corrupt?"

You have to love nepotism. If this guy didn't share genes with someone in city hall, he'd have to study to ask people if they wanted fries too. "Watching the news." Hmm. I wonder... "If you think that's a way to narrow the field, better start working that angle. How many people could there be who pay attention to the news?" I didn't bother holding the edge of irony out of my voice. If he caught it at all, he'd think I meant it the other way.

"Oooh. Good idea. I'll get right on that." And the kid took off. Ahh, the silence. If he didn't give up hope... he might just finish that errand sometime after I retire.

I toasted the CSI flaks with my coffee and surveyed our handiwork. I wasn't too worried about catching the guy responsible for this death. A really careful vigilante that targets white-collar crime? Nah, I had bigger fish to fry.

Like arranging for this little pissant aide of mine to shoot his uncle the mayor. Poetic justice is a lot more fun than procedure.

Not necessarily relevant.

2009-02-28T21:28:00.000-08:00

"Okay, doc, I'm sure you've had to operate in far worse conditions than this." MacKenzie said, closing the blinds to the small hotel room. "Bright side, you shouldn't have to do any surgery. But you're the most discrete and well-trained that I could find..."

The doc looked a bit pityingly, "I'm here as a favor. I won't say to whom; neither will you. But usually, if a man needs a veterinarian, and there's no animal, he's trying to get a bullet wound treated and has seen far too many crime dramas... and not nearly enough first aid training. If you don't need me for surgery, what do you need?"

MacKenzie finished fiddling with the blinds, locking the door... and turned to the doc. "Well, I'm the patient."

"Naturally."

"Right, right... um. Ok, this isn't easy for me. I'm not..." The small, swarthy man stopped fidgeting, and flexed... growing a couple inches, a couple breasts, and a very fine figure. "Human." He... she? MacKenzie spoke with a softer, more melodious voice... though all of the anxiety remained.

"Holy... shit! How... what?" The doc dropped his case, composure, and into a chair.

"Yeah. I know. I'm some kind of shape-shifter. I guess." She held up an arm and bent it in ways no bones can tolerate, and grew a few thumbs, then a lot of hair, and finally shook it back to a more photogenic appearance. "As far as I know, my folks were human. I had a very happy childhood for the first twelve years... but that's beside the point."

"I..." The doc blinked a bit. "Okay, you're... maybe human, but not... okay, why me?"

"Well, I've got an itch, and I was wondering if it could be some kind of allergic reaction... or if I need to take an antibiotic... or antifungal. I mean, I guess it could be some form of jock itch."

"I mean," through gritted teeth, "Why me? If this isn't some trick or hallucination, you are not human, and should be studied for..." He stopped and blinked a bit. "I just answered my own question, didn't I?"

"I'd rather avoid dissection. It's pretty much the definition of a last resort. I suggested a veterinarian, because... well, I could be some form of alien, and you'd be the closest thing to a practicing xenobiologist. Of course, I also happen to be something you or anyone with a PhD would love to molest in the name of science. So, in addition to you needing to stay on the good side of our mutual friend, I'm going to make sure I leave here looking like this." She posed, showing off her altered physique. "And a private investigator friend of mine will have some nice photos to show to your wife."

"This is just to keep you honest, alright? Nothing personal, just... I am putting my life in your hands, and, well, if you can't handle a patient that can cripple you for life, you've no business working with horses either." The 'woman' removed her t-shirt and jeans. "Now the affected area is right here." She gestured to a patch of skin with an assortment of welts.

"Ah. I... erm." The doctor leaned in to look. "You are probably the second most distracting patient I've ever... hmm."

"I could turn into someone else? Still going to leave like this. Or I won't fit in the dress I picked out."

"Well, I don't know what it is just by looking. Let me get some swabs of this, a bit of blood..." He sighed. "Christ, this is why I never went into biological research."

"Blackmail from shapeshifters?"

"No." He ticked off items on his fingers, "I don't know: what you are; what can cause this; what can grow on you; what you're allergic to; or even if there's a medication that is safe to use on you."

"Ah." She wiggled her way into a tight red dress. "At least you're handling this pretty well."

"Er, I suppose? I'm just trying to ignore the implications for now. But... why are you getting dressed? I need to swab those welts if I'm going to study anything."

MacKenzie handed the doc a large envelope. "Blood drawn early this morning. There's a urine sample there too. And you can probably guess what's on the cotton swabs in the little baggie." The vials of fluid clinked within as the doctor opened the envelope.

"Ah, good. Hopefully that will be enough blood. Um. Right. You know how to get in touch with me if symptoms progress. Not sure what I'll do, exactly, but as long as you don't melt, I suppose I'm better than nothing. How do I get in touch if I find anything?"

"I left a number in there too." MacKenzie primped a bit in a mirror, adjusting the length of her hair. "After you've had a chance to check the bloodwork, I'll submit to a more thorough examination."

The doc looked at her, and at the envelope. "Ah. Yes. I... guess you thought this out in advance."

"I had to. Like I said, I really do not want to end up dissected. And, hey, if you tell... well, it's about as believable as saying you had a sasquatch in for arthritis."

The doc left shortly after MacKenzie. And waved at the PI with the camera.

Three days later, the doc called the number.

"MacKenzie." A man's voice answered. "Good news?"

"I guess. I assume you're certain you provided the samples. Everything came back pretty normal. Type A- blood, human. Normal cholesterol levels, even."

"Right... I assume it's not my diet that's the issue?"

"Well, it'll be more important later. See, the white cell count was normal too. Can't be an infection or an allergic reaction if the immune system isn't involved. Have you encountered any nausea?"

"Not really, why?"

"Morning sickness. See, the urine did come up positive on a pregnancy test. And the swabs have rather a lot of estrogen." The doc droned on a bit about other things he tried to test with what he had. "I really hope you don't expect me to be a midwife..."

"No. No... I... shouldn't need you for that. Just... I'm going to need some time to digest this."

"I'll bet. Figure the reason it turned into a rash is that it had to go somewhere when you turned male... hopefully, you can work it back into a better spot for the remainder of gestation. Anyway, you know where to get me if anything comes up." And the doc hung up the phone.

The veterinarian grinned, and dumped the unopened vials from the envelope into a trash bin. "Sheesh. No payment, threaten my marriage... and I'm supposed to risk these samples in a lab? Suck my malpractice." After lighting the contents on fire behind his clinic, he touched his wedding band thoughtfully.

2009-02-13T11:23:00.000-08:00

"So, that's when you first realized the world had superpowers and started using them yourself?"

"Hell no. From my perspective, my adrenaline kicked in, traffic slowed for the two... well, three idiots in the road, and I tuned out the sounds of the city to run."

"Ah, yeah. Most people have trouble remembering details in a fight, or traffic accident."

"Nah. It's hard to observe everything. You never really forget, and you never know what was going on the way someone watching from the sidelines might. But that's my opinion."

"Your opinion as the... Overlord of humanity?"

"Heh. Sure. But anyway, from my perspective..."

-----------------------------------------------------

I ran down the street, and thought "Oh, wait, I might be getting in the way of that trained policeperson... or whatever. Then again, that means I'm ahead, and... gaining." I learned a few things in the next few minutes. I learned that having no combat training, and jumping a guy who's running for his life... is as bad an idea as it sounds.

I tried grabbing his shoulder and pulling him backwards to the ground. He grabbed my arm and pulled forwards... and I tripped, he dragged me bodily for a bit, and then his bag got under the wheel of a passing car. He let go of it and started punching me in the face.

I grabbed his wrist, tried to get my feet under me, tried to throw him off balance... tried not to fall under the cars that I suddenly realized weren't actually stopping where they could be dented...

Then a bolo whipped around us, calling a merciful end to the pummelling, and adding bruises to my bruises that used to be ribs. The man I was now bound to, after a moment, stopped, and screamed in my face. Which seemed rude, but it made a lot of sense when the minivan caught me in the rear.

2009-02-04T01:48:00.001-08:00

Getting down from the roof of a building is not fun. I'm sure there was supposed to be a ladder going down to the fire escape. Finding the spot where it had once been bolted in place justified the belief, but did nothing to create a way down that didn't involve landing on a dubious metal balcony in a concrete chasm.

Still, my cellphone didn't seem to be able to get 911 on the horn. So... jump, attract attention, or try to break into the stairwell without any tools. Last I checked, my fingernails don't hold up against steel. And attracting a rescue would involve someone asking how I got up here. Yeah, raving about a hole in the sky dropping me here might get me on a talkshow, but only after a holding cell of some sort.

Basic fire safety, if you have to drop, lower yourself, hang by the arms... and pretend it's not going to hurt.

*clang*... *creak* Creak? Did this just creak? *crack* Oh... shiiiit.

The building started backing away from the inevitable accident. The one across the alley decided to come over to give me a hug. Some primitive tree-climbing instinct sent me scurrying for the ladder, and wrapping my limbs in the bars. The railing struck the far building, and bent in the space I had been standing. This didn't last long, before the whole mess started to... slide.

I realized the fire escape had peeled away from its building. I realized it was now falling... kinda slowly. And loudly, with a sparking, screeching sound like a woman stepping in battery acid. No, that was me. The metal jungle gym was going for an iron version of fingernails on a chalkboard. I held on, afraid to let go and have the whole mess crush me. It leaned, groaned... and I shut my eyes, trying to keep my grip as the mess slammed into a window, and twisted, before sliding again.

Of course, when my perch came to a stop, it had landed partially in the road. I opened my eyes to see a semi... honking, and practically close enough to touch. I let go of the ladder, falling a foot, banging my knee, and running for the sidewalk. As I looked back, I realized the semi was stopped. It went around my inadvertent roadblock, and the driver gave me a very enthusiastically rude gesture.

As the adrenaline had a chance to wear off, I realized something else. "Shit... I'm alive!" I decided to tell a fellow in a suit who had seen the whole thing. "I'm alive!" and he didn't quite share my smile. He did smile and nod before backing away slowly. Stuntman antics and exclamations of existance don't really go a long way in establishing one's sanity, I guess.

The collapsed fire escape then emitted a very loud CLANG! and shifted a foot. It did not turn out to be an inattentive driver. A man in... I can only describe it as drab ruddy spandex was lying flat on the sidewalk, clutching a sack. A woman in some form of harness and worn combat armor... form-fitting if not entirely flattering... emerged in hot pursuit, bearing... a bent stick? No, a bow. She paused at the sight of the man, the iron wreckage... and me, walking over, waving.

She spat, and said something like, "Tu, mordith. Ka elka domrith?"

I blinked. "Um. What? I'm sorry about the fire escape. It fell."

"Du queth? Raw eel melbert."

"Ah, shit. How can... um. Oh!" I dug out my wallet, and pulled my ID.

The woman snatched it, and studied it. She arched an eyebrow. "Des merleg farlo. Du... um. Desk breath." She tapped something at her ear, and spoke very quickly. After a bit, she nodded. She pointed at my chest, and then two fingers walking along her arm, and then pointed at her chest.

I shrugged and nodded. Took back my ID, then gestured at the fellow on the ground. She grinned, and pulled out a pair of handcuffs from... somewhere. I could see that there were a number of little pockets on her outfit. Handy.

Wait, if she has handcuffs... one of these two was probably a criminal of some sort. Had to be the guy. If she just wanted to rob him, he was already about as unconscious as you can get. So, he had to have been running full tilt, away from her...

And then he opened his eyes, and, seeing her, sat bolt upright, and jumped over the metal mess in the road. The woman started after. I... could have stayed put. But you don't get help from people who you don't do anything for. It could mean the difference between being dropped off with the local authorities and making a friend who could help me find a safe place to stay. Following also meant I didn't get left behind.

I couldn't believe how far that guy'd gone before we'd even gotten through the improv fence. Didn't seem hard to gain ground though. Traffic slowed nicely, nice to know there's good drivers in... wherever I was.

2009-01-26T18:26:00.000-08:00

The creature's spasms ceased, and the hole in spacetime above it shrank to nothing. Its insectoid features reflecting hideously in the moonlight.

Unfortunately, it wasn't actually dead. I found this out when its reaction to "being tapped with a stick" was "throw the bastard across the lawn".

I turned to my partner after he helped me to my feet. He shrugged. "Well, Bill, this would be why we're told to be fucking careful with these things."

"Right, right. Not trained xenobiologists. But I wasn't gonna shoot something that might have acid blood or something."

"Nah, you were just going to poke it and pray that wasn't part of a mating ritual."

"Har har." I looked around. "Bill, where the hell did that thing go?"

Bill pointed halfway up the nearby apartment building. "Doesn't fly real well, but it jumps." It was, in fact, climbing onto a balcony, and tapping on the glass door. "Get ready."

"Why?" A scream, and the creature unfolded on legs that suddenly seemed capable of kicking through a horse, and with a buzz of wings, steered for a roof across the street. "Oh. I suppose that was inevitable. Car?"

"Both of us. We'll need air support to follow it, but..."

"Yeah, fuck. Think this one's safe?" We jogged to the car, and I started giving our report on the terminal.

"Eh, if it's like an earth bug, and it can't mate, probably. If it likes eating people while it's a larvae, and this one's a pregnant female..."

"Ugh. Well, one good thing about this nightmare." We had to stop at the intersection as a herd of 6-legged wildebeest ran through the crosswalk. "I don't have to edit for political correctness."

We caught up with the perp in a mall... the failing CD place, dancing with a set of headphones on its thorax. It seemed terribly disappointed when we didn't understand it trying to speak to us with a bebop beat.

Okay, but...

2009-01-24T15:53:00.000-08:00

"Okay, but... I want to know why."

"Fair enough." The Overlord paced... in jeans, tennis shoes, and a t-shirt proclaiming that he'd conquered the world, and all he got was that lousy t-shirt. Quite a change from the Ming the Merciless attire from our last meeting. "I want an honest history to survive me. I'm not going to be remembered by future generations as the man that ended war, made colonization of space possible, and crushed corruption in government. I'm the guy that, with god-like powers, conquered the world and told everyone to do things my way."

"Yes, but... why do you want to be remembered that way?"

The Overlord... rolled his eyes. "Look, religious wars have started over the memory of less impressive feats than mine. I don't walk on water, I hover and fly. I don't grand my soldiers the strength to win a battle they've trained for... I give them training and close air support with beams of death. Lightning bolts from above. I... want to avoid being a religious figure after I'm gone."

"You're concerned that your legacy might be... worshipped?" I arched a brow. "A conquerer with low self-esteem?"

A chuckle from the man. "Not exactly. I just practise what I preach... and um, what have I got to compensate for? I can destroy anything. I can command anyone. I can create, slowly, some incredible things. With help."

"The space elevator."

"Yes. The modern world couldn't create the technology to build one without the economy of scale provided by a larger investment in space-based economics. Production, research, mining... but people weren't willing to invest in that sort of hope when it would only benefit a few. We needed it too badly to get to where we could learn to build one."

"So you just waved your hands and wished one up for us?"

"Oh, come on. You must have seen the footage. That was months of backbreaking labor by any standard."

"But that sort of effort isn't what you want to be remembered for?"

"Not really. I hated having to do it. I'm the only one in this world with these abilities. You cannot acquire them here, so far as I know. I want people to know that everything I've done, they can find ways to accomplish. Not easily. Never with ease... but... I had to leave the world better than I found it."

"So, even though you performed a miracle... you want to be remembered for the atrocities?"

"It'd be better. I came at the planet like old testament. I slaughtered those I considered without honor, and condoned further murder. I made mistakes, and I've done what I could to repair them with the time I have..."

"You keep coming back to time, and looking out the window. Is this a bad time?"

"Of course it is. Being in charge is always bad. But... I actually am running out of time. I can't guide this world forever."

"Aren't we all?"

"I don't have years. So, I've been trying to get things in place for my departure."

I blinked. "Sir?"

"Yes, I'm going to leave in the near future, that's why I'm trying to leave a good set of memoirs."

"Well... damn. Is it... cancer... or?"

"What? Oh, no. No. I'm not sick. I... it is complicated. I've done most of what I wanted to do here. And there's some friends I want to catch up with."

"Some friends... not on earth? Aliens?"

"Not exactly. Alternate reality. It's where I acquired my abilities."

I blinked. "You..." Thoughts spun rampant in my head. "You're going to tell the rest of your story?"

"Well, you already had the rest of it done. Fine work, really. Your thesis on my moral philosophy was spot-on. That's why you were hired and given free run of the records."

"Well, the official records. And... I thought I was hired to replace that sycophant you slew on my first day?"

"You have access to everything. Your judgement will be final. He was supposed to be your research assistant, and he tried to cut you out of the job. I agreed to subject his proposed manuscript to the ultimate test... and, well. That didn't work out very well."

"You..." I blinked. "That little shit." I winced.

"Your feelings of guilt over very human opinions are another reason you're here. You keep yourself honest. You didn't like him, his methods, his goals, and he's dead, and you still feel bad when you admit this isn't an entirely bad thing." The Overlord shrugged.

He continued. "The only thing you don't already have my full authorization to look into, is how I acquired this level of ability. Simply because I never told anyone, or wrote it down."

He grinned at me. "I'll show you exactly what it was like." And then the room went dark.

Meanwhile, in the present

2009-01-23T14:03:00.000-08:00

The Overlord hired me as his chronicler... after killing my predecessor.

"This? This is the way you represent me? After everything I've done, everything I've said... what the hell makes you think this is even close to the job you were hired to do?"

"B-but... sir? I... I played up all your triumphs... all-"

"And where do you talk about the issue in Turkey? Or the Chinese war?"

"W-well... you won... eventually." I'd never before seen a man actually snivel. I wanted badly to walk into the room and slap him. Perhaps it would save his life, but... I didn't.

The Overlord slammed the manuscript to the floor before the nearly prostrate biographer. From a gloved hand, a wash of energy pulsed, and the stack of paper blackened, caught fire, and then exploded with a blast of ash. The biographer winced, and threw himself prostrate.

The Overlord continued, "I gave you a task. You were to write a book that would last the ages. To give an honest chronicling of my work... good, and bad. You swore that you could do this. You swore an oath to me that you would do your utmost." The look of contempt on his face would have, if the snivelling fool on the floor had dared to look upon it, shredded hope itself.

"I... I... I feared your displeasure, my lord... I thought... I..."

"Bullshit. You took pay, and you tried to kiss my ass, in spite of being commanded to be honest." He gestured towards the fresh carbon-scoring left by the manuscript. "What are you worth now?"

The biographer looked around, and I could finally see his face again. The panic, the fear. His eyes scanning the room for exits, but... even if he managed the miracle of getting out of the room, where can you run from the man who runs the planet?

"S-sir... I." He starts to try the one thing that might have saved him earlier. He displays, if not backbone, at least some firm cartiledge. "I can edit this. I... I just need some time. I... I was afraid, sir. I was afraid if I d-did as you asked, you would strike me down." His face contorted as though admitting the fear that I could smell from here gave him the flavor experience of lemons dipped in ass.

The Overlord exhaled... a sigh, tinged with frustration. "There are only two things that could have explained that pile of shit you handed me. Either you were thoroughly incompetant in your research or you were perverting your purpose intentionally. So you admit that fear has caused you to dishonor yourself."

The man blanched. "I... No! S-sir... I could n-never..." At this point, I found it hard to watch.

"Ah." Spoke the Overlord, that gloved hand's fingers flexing slightly. "So, you call me a liar. If you act with honor, and try to fulfill your obligation with drivel, then you simply do not trust that I would ask you for what I want you to provide. And I would have to be lying when I said I wanted you to be honest. Is that what you are trying to say?"

I found myself looking at the shoes of the biographer. They looked almost new. I wondered if he'd bought them for this interview, or if he simply never walked much in them. I knew that I didn't really want to see his face after his next response.

"Sir, I would n-never call you a liar."

"In word or in deed?"

"No, no, I-" and there was another pulse of energy. The shoes were marred with ash, and were another blast pattern on the ground a moment later.

I sighed, and self-consciously straightened my suit, before approaching the Overlord.

The Overlord dresses himself like a b-movie villain. Boots, gauntlets, a robe... it works, but mostly because he can personally kill with a mere gesture. On anyone else, it would be a costume. For him, it serves a purpose akin to the standard radiation symbol. A warning... to watch your ass.

He stood facing away from me, I knew he was trying to compose himself... to give a proper impression. Not a good sign, but then, what had him shaken wasn't the killing he'd just done... it was that he'd been betrayed, his ideology denied by someone tasked with studying him.

"Sir?" I spoke, and stood next to the latest burn mark... trying very hard not to tremble.

The Overlord turned, poise restored, ready to act in his chosen role once more. "Alright, you actually witnessed this. What are your thoughts, John Reynolds?"

I closed my eyes. I won't deny I was afraid. It did help to close out the sight of the killer before me. That and the acrid scent of swift death, certain to haunt me every time I burn food cooking from that day on... I didn't really need the extra dramatics to say what I thought of what I'd just seen, but... maybe I did.

"I saw a man commit suicide. I saw a man murdered. I saw a dozen errors of judgement." I opened my eyes. "And I participated... I could have stepped from the entryway at any point. I wanted to slap the man, and tell him what he was doing wrong. Tell him to apologize. To say that he lacked the courage to act with honor..."

"You did not."

"Nor did you. But you were wrong on one point, Overlord."

The ghost of a smile touched the mouth in the middle of the goatee. "Oh? And how is that?"

"He was incompetant as well as dishonorable."

An eyebrow arched in response.

I continued. "It's simple, really. If he were any good at research, or reading people, he would have known the proper ettiquette, and could have figured out the danger. As it stood, the only way that could have gone worse would be if he pulled a blade and screamed 'sic temper tyrannus'."

That got a chuckle from the killer before me. "True... alright, and how could that be worse?"

"That's an insultingly simple question. He's just as dead, but everyone who helped him get here would be under suspicion. As it stands, they just showed bad judgement recommending a sycophant."

"You can do better."

"Probably, sir. Well, no. I know I can acquit myself more honorably, and while I'm scared shitless being in your presence like this," I gestured to the mark of my predecessor, not even smoke signalling it as any different from the one representing the death of his work. "I know my best course of action is to grit my teeth, look death in the face, and speak clearly. I am not, however, as gifted in prose as that fellow once was."

The Overlord nods. "Fair enough. Know that I do not expect you to work alone on this. For one, you will be stuck going through his original research. Had you stepped forward to intervene, you could have used him. He might even have been grateful enough to be properly managed. Why didn't you act to preserve him as a resource? You're going to be going through a dead man's notes now."

I sighed. "I didn't... I..." I closed my eyes again. I must not falter. "He should have known better. If he didn't by this point in his studies, after a decade of your rule, I couldn't believe he'd be worth keeping. His style isn't irreplacible. His research isn't irreplacible, most of it's a matter of record. The work itself was incinerated, suggesting it wasn't really salvagable." I pulled myself upright in the chair that I didn't remember sitting in, let alone slouching. "I didn't like him, in that moment, and I didn't want to take care of someone who... who obviously couldn't be made to learn."

As I wiped my eyes with a tissue I found in my hand... I felt a pat of reassurance on my shoulder. I trembled... and hated myself for it at the time.

The Overlord looked at me with... sympathy. I felt sick. He spoke, "Yes. It's... hard, the first time you make a decision like that. There is always regret. The life and death decisions... you cannot take back. There are no halfway measures of restitution. Otherwise, it is like any other choice... there are regrets on all paths. There is never a perfect choice."

I shook my head. "You said that before... an early interview." I blew my nose and the tissue... vanished. I think that was very nearly as disconcerting as the death I'd witnessed.

"What, you think such a simple truth changes much over time?"

"Right. There was... one other thing. I didn't... look at his face, at the end. I'd already decided I wouldn't stop him from digging his grave, but... I couldn't look at his face while he committed suicide in front of me."

"Makes sense. I'm not sure it works. The sound, the smell... something will bother you no matter what."

"Ash on the shoes... for a brief moment."

"If you'll pardon the humor then, you may have given yourself a morbid fear of tap-dancing."

I stared at the bad movie villain crouched next to me as though he'd just spat a dead puppy at my grandmother. He shrugged. "Don't worry. If you recover from this, and retain interest in the job, it is open to you." He patted the back of my hand then. "You need to go now." And pointed me towards the door.

I walked out... the secretary directed me to a cot in an infirmary. I guess I was a bit shell-shocked. I cried myself to sleep. I don't know if it was because of the man who died... whose name I didn't really know... or that I'd gotten through the interview... or even just the fact that I survived.

A cab took me to my hotel, where I spent most of the day in a total daze. I knew I was going to go back, and work for that man. I couldn't hate him... he was a monster, but... gut-clenchingly fair about how he... he murdered a man. Right in front of me. I was going to take a job that had killed the man before me.

I grew very familiar with the toilet as I threw up when I dreamed of the dead man... as I write this, I want to remember forever... that two days ago, this is exactly what I wanted.

And a dump of my notes. Feedback is appreciated.

2008-06-10T22:16:00.000-07:00

Superhero plot outline, and whatever notes may come.

Basic story of book 1 is to introduce the superworld, by throwing the hero into it, and having him try to adapt. The overarcing story is that the world is headed for disaster as the extradimensional source of power for the supers is drifting closer and will result in them destroying the world in myriad ways. Book #1 only hints at the disaster in the form of the mad scientist opening holes to other realities, trying to get out. Book #2 will have a well-intentioned serial killer trying to slay all the superheroes to stave off the impending disaster. Book #3 will have the actual disaster, but the critical events will take place when the lower-powered/ranked heroes get the mostly-suicide mission to save the universe from the outside. The hero's ability to emulate, reflect, and deny superpowers is revealed to be the only real shot at saving this world. He'll choose to go back to his native reality after having basically doomed the supers to a steady decline into normality... if they survive not having super-powered immune systems while their universe is being moved.

Of course, this incident is going to leave the hero with rather godlike power, and he's going to take over the world. Should be a good tyrant for future novels.

The Hero, as yet unnamed, is a Temp. He needs to be charismatic, manipulative, and a little devious... but he's going to be hideously ignorant. Consider springing several traps on him as he counts on something normal that's not so in a world of supers. His number one redeeming flaw at present is loyalty. He may not always do what is right, but he'll always do right by a friend, and put his ass on the line for any of them.

Claudia Bowman, credit Tia for the name. Not a big-league hero. She's not strong enough, fast enough, or smart enough. But she does have excellent aim, and a beneficial partnership with the prozac egghead.

Prozac Egghead, temporary name. Claudia's her best friend. She takes drugs to keep her mad scientist nature from megalomania. She's a bit unique among the "reformed" mad scientists, as she largely prefers the drugged existance, working almost like a tactical supercomputer... to being the woman who killed and/or wounded her friends and family with an as-yet undescribed incident. Being a useful robot helping a friend to save lives beats feeling the crushing guilt every time she thinks about building something.

Mad Scientist: Escaping. Man, all I have for this guy is the motivation to escape the universe. Shit. I want to hunt him down by his parts acquisitions, but won't be very successful until he grabs the alien spacecraft's engine. But it occurs to me, he might run up his credit to the limit because he knows he's not coming back.

The Weatherman; A world of superpowers would be able to control many things, and make businesses of them. Weather control isn't great for most super-fights. But the farming and city-conditioning benefits would be incredible. A hundred would do for most of the planet. A corporation would be quite natural. The Weatherman would be the CEO. One part Vader, one part Luthor. Atmospheric control would include the air you breathe. So not someone you want to piss off. We'll need a way to piss him off... not too hard, but it'll depend on why we'd need the key players to bother him. Have the first book's extradimensional portals involve atmospheric phenomenon.

Crocolicious; The sewers end up with a few flushed bio-engineered wormy things that produce super-drugs. The temporary kind that offers very short-term gain, addiction, and hideous side-effects. But that make sense if you're trying to defend your home turf against low-level super-gangs. The croc will probably be bio-engineered himself, and he'll have an assortment of symbiotes in him. He'll have short bursts of superspeed, strength, and possibly other abilities, but being a sentient 8' lizard is going to be striking. His personality will be based on the most successful form of human life he witnesses. Pimps. Looking ridiculously blinged out softens a bit of the fear of his alien smile. He probably isn't subject to laws, due to being non-human. And probably an endangered species. Walks semi-erect, actually leaning pretty heavily on the cane. This isn't a matter of weakness, just that even as an altered croc, he's got millions of years of evolution backing a mode of transit crawling on his stomach. Crocs don't normally have an option to rear up.

Love interest; I'm thinking of using a girl that goes to pieces, and back together again. Going to need a job for her. Croco? More likely he'd have an interest in her ability, but she'd not go for it. Hero's power could let her stay in one piece a bit better. She would make a grand assassin. Main reason for having this power is that she'd pretty well disintegrate when the power levels increase in book 3.

world details:
Moonbowl. Low to zero gee soccer. Flying and non-flying divisions. Flying can use spray-jets of compressed air to adjust momentum. Or flight. Idea is that non-supers can compete against supers on fairly equal terms. Good reactions don't necessarily come with good teamwork or quick thinking and what amounts to 3-D pool inside the table. 3-D pool with defense.

I'm figuring a reason for team diversity won't just be about maximizing the chance of a useful talent, or minimizing a detriment, in varying circumstances. Some types won't work well together. Mostly, not a lot of redundancy with psionics. If you read minds by accident, or pick up emotions, you learn to put up with it. But if you have multiple telepaths, each one picks up the others picking up other things. And you get feedback. A stubbed toe multiplied among each, bouncing pain along nerves at the speed of thought multiplied each bounce. The phenomenon will be known as Psions Friction.

Need a lot more ideas to flesh out the world, and encounters. The drug use angle gives a good distraction encounter. I'm also having the main character meet claudia through thwarting a super-speedy bank robber.

Tinfoil hats for signal attenuation. Improves the clarity of the mind-control signal.

Mad Science devices lose potency over time, reducing viability for mass-production. Leading theory suggests such artifacts utilize non-fundamental laws, which change. The runner-up theory is in favor of motion through the cosmos changing the ambiant radiation from nearby stars... this is somewhat complicated by the concept of sunspots, and the radioactive spectra of the usually unstable power sources.
Of course, it's just a bit of lampshade hanging on the usual trope of world-saving plot devices not being particularly recyclable. It would also give a very convincing reason for any tech-dependant hero to have a tech-savvy sidekick that doesn't mind rebuilding the same devices every time they lose potency or become erratic. It also foreshadows the meta-universe both the superworld and the hero's world flow through.
Also, in an RP sense, it would allow for both ritual magic-created items and mad tech to share the same core rules.

Musings on heroism

2008-06-10T22:14:00.000-07:00

The thing about being a hero... it's not about ability. It's not about bravery. It's about opportunity.

There are times when you look at a situation, and you see a way to help. And you choose to. To help.

There are many opportunities. It's not about running into a burning building to save a child, although that certainly counts, if you succeed. It's seeing the things that are within your power to change. Cheering up a friend. Helping a child with their homework. Living as an example of how people should be.

Of course, there is a difference between offering someone a helping hand, and using shackles. Not everyone wants to be saved. Not everyone has my ideals. Not everyone shares my definition of salvation.

But if you have the power to remake the world...

And enough arrogance to believe you have the right to make some changes...

How far do you go?

How far is enough?

---Overlord John Fortner I, from an interview in year 2 of His reign

Chapter Two

2008-04-23T04:21:00.000-07:00

The Temp
Chapter Two

"Two types of people in the world wear spandex. The deluded, and those who set a bad precedent by looking good."
--Karl B. of TEMP-4-HYRE

A lot of thoughts go through your mind when the unusual happens. "Am I seeing things?" Easily tested. I could hear traffic on the street below. I could feel pebbly office rooftop under me. My vision isn't swimming... and, yep, standing up produces no difficulty other than a bit of back pain from the drop.

Pity. Insanity would be more convenient. Could I have been drugged and just now sobered up miles and days from where and when I was? Unlikely. Drugs or even allergic reactions tend not to result in furniture being hauled. The chair was, in fact, here.

Unless this is the same building. It's not like you ever get to see the roof of the office... the three-story office outside town that now appears to be eight stories downtown... and with the rooftop access door painted shut.

Which is something to keep track of when I try to figure out how I'm going to get down from here.

That takes precedent. I'm not going to be able to figure out how I got here. I saw it, and I am no wiser. Hopefully, I'm just somewhere else. Someone invented a teleporter and inadvertantly popped a hole between... 100 ft off the ground downtown, and twenty at the office. Well, if they just developed it, no reason they would have the aiming down yet.

Unless it's not a teleporter.

Is this even my world? I looked around. Well, there were taller buildings, but with very reflective windows. Dumpster in the allyway, cars on the street... rusted fire escape starting a floor down. "Yep. Definitely my day for ten foot plummets."

Chapter One

2008-01-30T07:35:00.000-08:00

The Temp
Chapter One

"Microscopic cog in a catastrophic plan?
That's my job description."
--Karl B. of TEMP-4-HYRE

In any job, you tend to find the things that make it... bearable. Maybe it's the smile you get from that friendly coworker. Maybe one guy can actually tell a joke, and it's not the same one every day. Maybe your day is a little brighter because you found the really good parking spot open.

The best I could say was that I wouldn't be here long enough to get really jaded, but that's a stretch. Two years of looking for more... stable work, possibly including a dental plan; no results. Still, I suppose there's the fringe benefits. Like getting paid to be trained in a digital filing system just like the last one, but with a slightly different color.

Speaking of questionable benefits, the only break in the tedium here was Karl. I was in a quiet corner of this floor's grey cubicle farm, I think just to make sure no one got too attached to us... or saw us. Or really knew what we were doing, to be honest.

Karl... what can I say? He's the kind of guy who thinks too highly of himself, who doesn't seem to listen well, and doesn't really have a great sense of humor, but compensates with extra effort. Of course, he's not so irritating that you can hate him. Or I couldn't. Which was probably why I was stuck with him at every other posting.

"Now, see, that is how a little beauty should be built. Mmm-mm. Probably purrs like a kitten too." He tapped a page of his computing magazine when the trim blonde overheard his unsubtle utterance. It took a special sort of man to conceal his misogyny with technophilia.

I slid a nine of diamonds onto a ten of spades, clearing a path to victory. A glance told me the script I'd written to finish the week's work hadn't hit any big snags yet. It was, oddly enough, exactly the sort of thing that made "working" with Karl acceptable.

Most of these places were models of inefficiency. I mean here I was; a mediocre programmer, hired on to manually edit a few thousand database entries as a temp. This was apparently because having an actual programmer take fifteen minutes of billable time would be a ridiculous extravagance. But spending a few weeks salaries to have a couple of schlubs type everything? Fine and dandy. Of course, the whole issue was that the new OS had a nice little database that would almost work with most of the company's clientele. This means they had to switch away from the old, custom-built form that'd been cobbled together a decade ago to almost meet the actual needs of the actual clients and users. As a bonus, any problems can be blamed on us so nobody useful gets fired.

You can just... feel the pride I take in my work.

"Yeah, Karl. I'm sure it's a bit beyond your reach though." I put on my best polite face. After all, without Karl securing admin rights on these computers, I couldn't build, test, or run my little 'make life easy' script. I'd would have been stuck having to do mindless scutwork by hand... for days on end... from rush hour to rush hour... Yeah. Friendship is one of those things with ill definition. Some people make you feel better. Some people make your life better. Karl annoyed me, but I'll take that over losing my paycheck (and sanity) any day of the week.

"Hah, not for long-John." Name puns aside, he was probably right. I don't know how he did it, but the smarmy, oily SOB never seemed to lack for companionship. It was probably his most stunning and irritating quality; or at least from my green-eyed perspective. "Holy... awww, man. This is just screwed up."

I looked, his screen showed a popular news site. "They're talking about how military recruitment is up, to 'secure our oil', and on the same page, they're hawking a new model of giant roadhog car. God damn it."

"Well, Karl, it's been like this for a few years. Care to take a crack at solving all world crises at once?"

"Shit, what, you think I gotta way to face down a superpower? Heh, that'd do it. Superpowers! Get a few people who bullets don't work on, and see if they get pushed around by an army!"

"Yeah, as their every house gets bombed, and someone figures out their families and friends aren't so bulletproof. You still have a war then, you've just got a new resource to fight over." My system beeped at me, as the little program hit a snag and wanted coddling. Ah, yeah, accents over the letters, that could be sticky in the new setup. I pulled up the online manual for the new database, praying this was covered somewhere.

Karl grunted an affirmative. "Uh-huh... but what if you were the only one? Say you were the 'unenviable soul' with the power to stop an army cold in time to seduce some sweet young thing for a long night."

"Might work better than this project. I need to track down someone with a clue, looks like Spanish names are going to be a wee problem here." I tapped the screen, "Seems this handles Russian alphabet just fine, but not accents. Like the designers never heard of western Europe. Good time for a break too. Need coffee?"

"Have coffee. Need cream."

Today had the hallmarks of a bad day. I was doing my job properly, I found an error, and I was actually able to find the person responsible for making the problem go away. That didn't, of course, always mean providing a solution.

I hesitated, and continued past Rob's office. I'd only spoken with him for a half-hour the day we were "brought onboard" and given security tags... much like those given to deer when someone wants to track migration patterns. He seemed competant, harried, and a little oily. Probably made management within the last year, and hadn't had time to overcome all his competance.

I decided to appeal to his better nature. Closest thing I had to a superpower was memory. I'd seen Rob's coffee habits. I took a cup, and Karl's creams, plus two more and a couple sugar packets. I took the coffee offering to Rob's tiny office, and closed the door behind me, quietly taking a seat.

This had the desired effect. Rob looked at me, at the coffee and its accessories to caffination, and sighed. "You want something."

"Very astute. The database doesn't like the sorts of emphases common to spanish names. This may cause some issue with the half of the company in California."

"That's not possible. I tested it... are you sure it's not a unicode issue? Just a different spot in the character map?"

"That should give me a different character, not a crash. Like the font doesn't have an entry in the table."

Rob mulled this and his hands started groping for the keyboard. He figured out what he was remembering as he pulled up some manual or support site. And read. And winced. "Fuck. So that's why these bastards charged another couple thou for that upgrade. I fell for it. Shit shit shit shit shit."

"I'm guessing it's not in the budget."

"Thanks to hiring you guys to make this work." His face grew a bit ashen. "I'm going to have to tell the veep about this. We can save the project, but my career's taking a bullet."

I grinned. "You can have your cake and eat it too, Rob. Just chuck this fool's gold database and give me a week to hack together something out of an open-sourced backbone. Then my partner assembles a nice script to convert the whole database in one day and we've got some time to debug before anything has to go live."

He thought about it. "Nah, I don't have the budget for a decent programmer. And I had to go with this POS because the veep recommended it."

"How would he know if you didn't use it?"

I knew this calmed him down, his managerial paranoia came back. "You want something from this. You know I don't have the budget to spare at this point."

"Sure you do. Your restriction precludes quality programmers, but you get to hire us temp schlubs for twice the price of doing it efficiently. So someone's making decisions based on hearing a bargain, not having a bargain. Ideally, I'd ask to be paid as a 'consultant', but I'm hardly above keeping the original contract for the database conversion as well as providing an improved database solution in the same timeframe."

Rob scowled. "Double-billing... if you weren't already a temp, I'd fire your ass." He looked at the cooling coffee, his computer, and a few charts hanging on the wall, then sighed. "And then I'd have to hire you back as a 'consultant' to get this job done and save mine. Fabulous." The last word was growled. "Right, time to play politics. I'll get back to you in a couple hours with an offer."

"I'll have an estimate and schedule for you within the hour. If it helps, I've done this project before. Everybody hires temps." I paused halfway through the door. "Also, think, your job is to ensure things can be done in spite of your organization. Mine's to get things done for any organization that pays me. And if the work gets done, and all debts are paid..." I left the rest to his imagination.

It's the easy way to seem wise; let the other fellow fill in the blanks with an answer closer to their heart than any guess. Of course, I don't actually know a good way to tolerate politics... other than profiting from it. Uncomfortably, that explains a lot about the world.

I threw Karl his creams. He growled at me. "'Bout time. You brought the cream, and you look like the proverbial cat. Stop grinning and spill. You got the courage to ask out that girl in blue down the hall?"

"Nah, blackmailed Rob into double-paying us for replacing this POS with a real database. Same one we used for his competitor should save us a lot of time." I tossed him my pen-drive from my keychain. "You get to handle the grunt work this time."

"Wait, what?"

I went over the episode in Rob's office.

"Damn, John. I didn't think you had the balls."

"Come on. I've been watching you pull these stunts. I saw an opportunity. And we'll see if any of my skills have been rubbing off on you." I paused. "Unless he fires me. Then I'm off to contract elsewhere."

I rubbed my neck idly as a gust of fresh downtown air wafted up. That probably meant the A/C was about to kick in.

Then my chair dropped a couple inches on one side. "Damn, the wheel broke..."And the chair didn't exactly stop as it tipped back, back... and I was looking up at the ceiling. The ceiling was receding. Wind still rising past me. I saw a glowing electric ring of purple separating the view of acoustic tile and fluorescent lights from... sky.

Then it hit me. The rooftop. Right across the shoulders. The chair took the rest of the impact. I think the look on Karl's face peering over the edge was almost worth the pain. Then the purple hole in the sky let out a flash of light and shrank like a tv picture turning off. Leaving me bruised, on a downtown rooftop staring at sky and skyscrapers.

"That... can't be good."